7 years,7 novels...and 1 blog with Ilona Fridl!

Hello all!

As you know, from time to time, I invite my fellow authors to come in here and do my work for me.  My friend and fellow romance writer, Ilona Fridl  has been a guest a couple times, but never quite like this.  Over the last seven years, this remarkable author has written and released SEVEN novels, all of them really, really, really good.  So today I'm having Ms. Fridl take over and give us an idea of what that much awesomeness looks like!  

Take it away Ilona!

Celebrating Seven Years-Seven Novels

Thank you, Sarah, for allowing me to crow a bit on your blog. I really don't want to turn this into a advertisement, so I'll just tell you about each one of my books that I love so much.

To my mind, The Wild Rose Press is one of the most supportive publishers in the industry and they should get more credit for the fantastic novels they put out. They are celebrating their tenth anniversary, so they must be doing something right. I've been with them for seven years and have had a novel out every year. The staff of editors, artists, and all the behind the scenes people are hard working and there when you need them. I'm so happy they discovered me! Lol

Anyway, here's a list of my children and some background on the books:

Silver Screen Heroes was actually my second story. I decided to write a series, Dangerous

Times, because that seemed to be what was selling. I always had been interested in the silent movie industry and I grew up around Hollywood, so I had been to places where all this happened. Just added a dose of gangsters and a cup of prohibition, and a suspense story baked to perfection! This was the start of the Shafer family saga with Zeke and Addy.

Golden North picks up with Zeke and Addy escaping the gangster family and going to Juneau, Alaska Territory to join Zeke's brother, Josh. Josh had purchased an old theater building and needed help fixing it up. Addy's cousin, Muriel, was a young widow of the crime family and ran up to join them when the family wanted her baby. Let's just say, that the crime family eventually finds them. This one is mainly Josh and Muriel's story, but two minor characters steal the show, Sheriff Amos Darcy and Detective Sarah Lakat.

Bronze Skies is the third book in the series, and it takes place

twenty years later with the next generation of the Shafer family. Tom Shafer is the son of Zeke and Addy. He is in the Army Air Corp when WWII breaks out. Pam Wright is his childhood sweetheart and, through her eyes, we see what it was like on the homefront during the war.

Prime Catch was a spin-off of the Dangerous Times series and features Sheriff Amos Darcy and Deputy Sarah Lakat. I loved those two characters from Golden North and wanted to give them their own story. In this one, they had to solve a series of murders at Alaskan canneries. They finally admit their attraction to each other.

Iris Rainbow was the first story I completed. It didn't fit the romance genre, so I put it out as women's fiction. Tim Olson and Teri Darden meet when they are young and foolish then circumstances split them up. They meet thirty years later after other marriages. This is set in California during the sixties, so I didn't have to research very much, because I grew up in the Los Angeles area in that time frame.

That Monroe Girl is the western I always wanted to do. It's set in Tombstone, Arizona Territory in the 1880s. Jake Spencer is a newspaperman and Cat Monroe is a girl from Virginia in search of her family. I have visited Tombstone before, so I had the advantage of visualizing the town in the story.

A Sacrificial Matter is my first novella. It was a visit back to Amos and Sarah after they opened their detective agency in Juneau, Alaska. Spiritualism was a fad during the 1920s and this one has a sinister twist to it. I want to write more mysteries with the Darcys, so stay tuned.

A little teaser about my work in progress, it's set in 1880s Waukesha, Wisconsin during the resort era. No title for it yet, but my heroine is disabled. Fighting a disability myself, gives me empathy for what she's going through.

If you want to see blurbs, excerpts, and reviews for these books, go to my website by clicking here!

I know I said, I didn't want to sound like an advertisement, but if you go to The Wild Rose Press site (CLICK HERE) and click Specials, my books are being featured two weeks at a time for a $.99 download.

Get to my Facebook page by clicking here!

If you go to Amazon by clicking right here you will have a list of my books and my author's page.

Ilona Fridl is a transplanted Californian to Wisconsin and lives with her husband, Mark, and her computer. She belongs to Romance Writers of America, and a student of Kathie Giorgio at AllWriters. She has written articles and short stories for magazines plus her seven novels.

Thank you so much for guest blogging today, Ilona!  I know some of your readers and mine are going to have questions for you!  READERS!  Ilona will be checking in through out the course of the day, so feel free to comment and ask questions below!

Sneak Peek Week! MISSING IN MANITOWOC #2

Hello all!  

I know on Tuesday that I promised you five days of previews of my new novel, which will be available on Amazon.com TOMORROW, November 1, and is available in print for in the Create space store RIGHT NOW BY CLICKING HERE.  Unfortunately, my beloved grandmother passed

away yesterday.  Thursday I was able to go see her one last time and she had a most amazing last day with family all around her. Her mind, though she was weeks away from her 99th birthday, was sharp.  Finally it was her body that wore out. She was actually a little miffed, I think, at God for not taking her on Wednesday when she collapsed in the bathroom, but God knew her family needed one more day with her. So tomorrow, Sunday, we put her to rest next to her husband of nearly 70 years.

That said, I am managing to give you a few more pages of MISSING IN MANITOWOC right now. I'm so excited to start on this journey with Nora Hill, a woman who has been tested by God in so many ways.  I hope you enjoy it too.

Again, this book will be available for kindle on Amazon tomorrow. I'm hoping all other digital platforms will also be ready to go today or tomorrow, and that includes Nook, Apple, Kobo...all of those.

Meanwhile, here's another few pages to whet your appetite!  Enjoy!

“Is that your Subaru?”

            I look at the mechanic in his coveralls. I wonder if his wife even attempts to wash the grease and oil stains out of the heavy denim union suit. Maybe she makes him leave it outside on the back porch.

            That’s what my mother would do. “Germaphobic” is a huge understatement for her dedication to avoiding all things filthy. Probably why she married a minister, thinking he’d never come home with anything worse than maybe a small purple stain from serving Communion too vigorously.

            She lived in a very tidy world, my mother did, until I came along. My two older sisters, born in her own image, never gave her a minute of grief. I swear, if you believe anything those three tell you, they were toilet trained immediately upon exiting the womb and never left a trace of themselves anyplace in the house.    Call it my creativity, call it a willful streak, call it Original Sin…I was that kid in every family who was always three degrees off. You know, the kid who always had a scraped knee. The kid who always spilled something at a family reunion or church pot luck. The kid who was always tearing a hole in her ‘Sunday best.”

 I never felt like I was born into the right family, you know?  At  my eight Christmas during the big family dinner with all the relatives there as witnesses, I asked if I was adopted. I mean, it’s a logical question. My sisters are seven and nine years older than I am. They are both tall and well built women. I’m short and frail looking. Kinda like one of those kids on those Christian Children’s Network commercials, the ones where kids are starving and have no clean water to drink, but a buck a week will keep them fed for a year.

So I asked the question. By the time I was eight I knew there was definitely something different about me that had little to do with my physical looks. It was clear, from the shocked reaction of those around the table, I’d struck an uncomfortable chord. True to my nature, however, I managed to spill an entire bowl of black olives on myself. So before anyone could think of a good answer to my question, the tension melted into laughter. Well, except for my mother. She dragged me into the bathroom to wipe the black, oily, juice off my Christmas dress.

My questions about why I’m so different from the rest of my tribe never have been answered. I dropped the adoption question that Christmas Day when Mom growled at me, “Don’t be ridiculous, Nora.” Some time ago I just accepted it. I’m that dirty kid every family has, the kid that is just never quite clean.          Or normal.

Since then I’ve put distance between my family and me. It’s better this way. At first, sure, they protested. I shouldn’t be traveling alone. I might get hurt. I wasn’t being safe. I would one day be found dead in a ditch.

“Dead in a ditch.” That’s my mother’s biggest worry for all of us. Didn’t return a phone call? “You might have been dead in a ditch for all we knew!” Came in late after curfew? “You had us so worried that you were dead in a ditch!” When I started traveling for work, that was her biggest, and only, concern. “Nora, you have to promise you won’t camp out in your car. I couldn’t bear it if you were found dead in a ditch.”

I promised her I wouldn’t camp in my car anywhere near a ditch. She didn’t see the humor in that.

 Sure she protested. I mean, I’m her kid, right? Of course she loves me. I’ve noticed, she has returned to her tidy way of life now that I’m not living there full time. She’s as happy as a clam. I don’t go home often. I don’t like to wreck her bliss.

            Wow, I’m off track. Now is not the time for these sorts of thoughts. Now is the time to get my car out of this garage and get out of this town before anyone recognizes me. Over the years I’ve changed my look, what woman hasn’t?  But I’m still me…no matter how hard I try to change the fact.

            “Yes, that’s my car.”

            The mechanic wipes his hands on his coveralls and stares at my car as if seeing something rare and strange. While Subaru Foresters aren’t that uncommon in most of the world, around here it is. It’s not a pick-up truck, and there isn’t a boat hitched to the back of it. I don’t have to dig too far in my memory bank to recall my high school days when everyone drove a pick-up truck. Everyone, of course, except for me. Back then, the Forrester was new, a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday. While not wealthy, my father was one of those rare people who just knew how to save a dollar and turn it into five dollars. Each of us girls, first Rose, then Lily, then me, got a new car on our sixteenth birthdays. Rose and Lily have long since traded their cars in for an upgrade, of course, but I’m still driving mine. Some call it loyal, some call it cheap. I call it not wanting to clean out the car and put my stuff in a new one.

            “Haven’t seen a Surbaru in a long time. Most people around here drive pick-ups and minivans. I do remember this one girl in high school…”  With that, the mechanic’s voice drifts off and he turns his attention back to me. He stares at me. Hard.

            I feel the start of a headache…the kind I get when I know something I don’t want to happen is about to happen.

            “Do I know you?”

            And that thing I didn’t want to happen is now starting. My headache is getting worse. We are about to get into an uncomfortable spot here. He’s recognized me.

            “Nora?”

            That’s it. I officially want to fall through the floor. I want to hide away and not continue this conversation. I’ve had this dialogue a hundred times with people who knew me growing up, but I have absolutely no recollection of them. I remember places, experiences, and feelings with super high-def clarity. I can recall names, lists and lists of names. But faces, faces I can’t remember at all.

            It’s not laziness on my part or a quirk I have. It’s not like those funny mental ticks we all live with, like how my brother-in-law never knows where his glasses are or how my oldest sister goes through the names of all of her kids before hitting the one she wants to yell at. It’s a medical thing. I have something.

My “something” has a name that’s a mile long: prosopagnosia. That’s what they call it on the health channel. Most people call it face blindness. Simply put, I don’t remember faces, even those of people close to me. If I see someone, and then they leave the room for five minutes or so, I completely forget their face.

            This includes my mother’s face and my father’s, when he was alive, my sisters’ faces, too.  Plus, while I can differentiate between male and female voices, I have trouble sorting out specific voices. Not uncommon to us face blindness folks.  Most of us have some other “thing” along with the prosopagnosia.  It’s like God sent us through the neurological cafeteria before we were born and wasn’t just happy with us having the main course.  I’m “face blind with a side order of distorted hearing.”  Others might have Asperger’s or autism.  There’s no end to the fun combo packs available.

            When I’m home, I’m able to sort out my mom and sisters out, so long as they’re sitting in a certain spot. It has nothing to do with their faces, but rather whether or not they’re  in their favorite chairs. Lily likes the green love seat. Rose curls up in my father’s brown recliner. Mother seats herself in the white wing backed chair, a chair so pure white only she could sit in it, by the way.

If my mother ever gets new furniture, I’m doomed.

As you can imagine, this causes problems at family gatherings and whatnot. I can’t count the number of times I hear the whispers, “Oh, that’s Nora…she’s terrible with people.”

I’m not terrible with people. I’m terrible with faces.

Then again, it’s almost better to be thought of as careless and rude, as some of my relatives do, than to be thought of as mentally deficient, as some of my other relatives do. Seriously, I think everyone in my extended family would just feel more at ease with me if I got a seeing-eye dog or a helper monkey or something. I know, ridiculous. But still, it’s family, right?

            “Nora Hill, is that you?”

            The mechanic is still looking at me and I really, really want to run away. I have nothing to say to this person who may be a friend, but right now is a stranger to me.  And since he recognizes me and knows my name, I’m already at a huge disadvantage.

            This is why I don’t like being around people.

5 things you should not say to an author who is selling books at a Farmer's Market.

Good afternoon!

Recently I ran across a really good list "Ten things you should never say to a writer."  Among them were such classics as, "I thought you were dead, " or "I wish I could just stay home and write all day and do nothing," or my favorite, "Why don't you write children's books?  There's lots of money in that."

We writers and authors get this all time. Writing is not like knitting or counted cross stitch. We don't hang our works in progress on a wall. We rarely give them as presents.  So it's hard for people to talk to us about writing because to most people it's a mysterious thing.  Still, there are some things you just shouldn't say out loud to someone who is trying to make a little bit of a living.

Well, as many of you know I've been working some of the local Farmer's Markets this summer, getting my name out there, selling some of my books.  I've been sharing a booth with my mom, who does great framed art made out of costume jewelry.  You should check us out!

Anyway, in the weeks I've been sitting under a tent, trying to sell books among stalls off organic beets and home made soaps, I've heard a few not so fantastic reasons for people to not buy my books.

Let's be up front:  I get it.  Books can be expensive and if buying books or reading isn't your thing, I get that, too.  I'm not knocking your reasons for not buying my books at a Farmer's Market.  I'm knocking you for SAYING THEM OUT LOUD TO MY FACE.

I don't buy clothes every time I go to Kohls...okay maybe I do...and when I'm out and about I browse more than I buy.  I don't explain, I simply say, "Wow you have some lovely things. Thank you."  And I move on.

So I've narrowed it down to five things people have said to me that have made me laugh the hardest

or made me grumble the most.   Seriously, actual people have said this to my face and then walked away, never understanding the destruction they've just done.


5)  I don't...read.

Now like with most things it's not what these two separate women at two separate times said to me. It's how they said it. As if somehow reading was akin to selling drugs or prostitution.  These two women, again, two women who came up at different times, looked through my books, and said this, spoke with horror laced with condescension. And also, this attitude horrifies me as a former teacher, a parent, and human being.


4)  I'll wait until your book is in the library.

Okay, I love libraries.  As a person I love libraries.  As an independent writer who doesn't have a publisher to put my books everywhere, I don't care for libraries, second hand book stores, or yard sales. I don't make a dime off any of those.  And also, with the exception of the West Allis WI Public Library, I haven't been able to get my books in any place. I know not everyone buys books. I get that.  But telling me, the author, when I'm actively selling books right in front of your face that you're going to wait until they are free...well, why don't you just hit me with something large and pointy?


3) I'm writing a book too.  Here's the plot.

Most of the time the plot is terrible, involving family violence, space aliens, and some sort of time travel, medical emergencies, and oh yes, graphic sex.  

I really, really enjoy listening to you relate your graphic sex scenes to me in front of my booth at a Farmer's Market when there are lots of kids around.  Really helps my business when you're yelling things like, "HEAVING BREASTS" in front of the mom with eight year old twin boys.


2)  Wow, this is really great. I have some shopping to do and I'll come back.

This is just a lie.  Don't bother saying it.  We all know you're never coming back.


1)  Oh, so you're self published. How did you do that?  Can I do it?  Write the instructions down in detail.  For free.

I think I answered this several times before I realized something: Hey, I spent YEARS figuring out how to do this.  I went to classes. I went to conferences.  I paid many dollars to learn how to do it. I spent hours making mistakes and trying again.  I'm not saying I did it alone, I had help along the way and since I had help, yes I'm going to give you a couple websites to check out.  But don't sit there and spend an hour asking me how to publish your family-sex-space-alien-time-travel-medical-sex-drama because I'm not going to go into great detail. Unless you're a kid.  A serious kid, like the girl I met a couple weeks ago who is 13 and has finished two books.  I was that kid a hundred years ago, and I didn't know where to begin.  Kids I'll help out.  Adults, I'll tell you three things:  Smashwords, Amazon, and Createspace.

No go away, make room for serious customers!

Oh, by the way, if you're in the area, TOMORROW, Saturday, August 1, I will be at the City of Waukesha WI Farmer's Market from 8-12.  We between Madison and Barstow in the downtown area. come on over and say hi, and buy a book!  I can take credit cards now!

What if writing what you know doesn't give you joy?

Good afternoon!

Every creative writing teacher I ever had told me to "write what you know."  That was a problem for me because when I was growing up my life was so completely boring, nothing ever happened.  What did I know?  I knew about going to church every Sunday and I knew about stressing about math every day of my life.  I knew about my dad being my teacher and I knew my mother was unhappy most of the time, but she covered well and people loved her. They still do.

The highest drama I ever knew about what the time our neighbors shot over their limit of geese and they came over and gave us a dead goose, complete with feathers. My mom has a great story about how we got those feathers off the bird (we didn't, some students of my dad, a good farm family, did) but the drama of "will we eat this, won't we eat this" dragged on for many weeks until we had a drawing at the family Christmas. My aunt and uncle won it.  Family legend has it that they dumped it at the side of the road on the way home.

Writing what you know isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Would there be a Star Wars, a Star Trek, Lord of the Rings or a Game of Thrones if the authors had simply written what they knew about life from their own experience?

Would there be a "Gone With the Wind?"  "Wuthering Heights?"

Sure, we MIGHT still have Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, but I doubt even those books would be around if every author held to the law of "write what you know."

People don't always want to READ what they know.  Celebrities have best sellers all the time. Why? Because we can pick up Dennis Rodman's biography and empathize?  Not a chance.  We read to be entertained.  To gain some knowledge.  To escape from our lives and into the world someone else created. 

For me, I write to entertain, and to escape.  I'm in a period of my life where writing what I know gives me no peace, gives me no pleasure.  I turn to a world I built, a world away from my real life.  Sure, I draw on my own experiences, for my characters or for time and place settings.  I don't know the first part of being a musician in Nashville, but I've seen people who want to do just that.  I've thought about what it's like to chase a dream that's just out of reach, and I can translate THAT into any story line.

No one wants to read about my personal problems.  I'm not that interesting yet. I'm not a mega star.  I'm not in People Magazine. Frankly, few care about what I know in my real life.  People what to know if I can tell a story.

Yes.  Yes I can.

I can tell tales of my real life, I do, with my Elsie W books.  I put a funny spin on things because, even in telling the truth, I believe we have to laugh. Otherwise life is too dark and dreary.  But when it comes to fiction, that's another story. Literally.

So when you pick up the books with my name on them, no, I didn't really live any of that.  Sure, I've lived in small town Wisconsin. I've gone to a Rick Springfield concert. I've watched figure skating on TV. I've been to Nashville and a Renaissance Faire and Madison, Wisconsin.  But beyond that, I take a step away from myself and out into a beautiful, wonderful world of imagination where the problems aren't mine and everything has a solution eventually.

Writers often joke about being insane or raging at their work in progress.  Truth is, writing gives us joy.  Solving a plot problem can be the highlight of our year.  Frankly, if writing didn't give us joy, it's doubtful we writers would do it.  Oh sure, my hero, Dorothy Parker, once said, "I hate writing."  But she followed it up with, "I love having written."

So my friends, if you love to write, but you don't want to write what you know in your real life, it's okay.  As long as you're a good story teller, you can build worlds and races and histories and languages all you want.  You can solve everyone's problems...even if you can't solve your own.

10 Questions with Romance Author Ilona Fridl!

Good morning!

Yesterday I wrote a review of Ilona Fridl's new flashback romance, "Iris Rainbow."  Today, Ilona sits down with me (in a virtual world, I didn't really make the woman get up before 7 AM to answer my questions!) and answers my ten questions!

Ready?  Here we go!


1)  Tell us about the book! What would you like readers 

to take away from Iris Rainbow?

Thank you for inviting me to your blog, Sarah.  I wrote this to give people an idea of what it was like in the 60's. Teri is the same age I was at the time it took place. I always dreamed, as a teen, of falling in love with a rock star and this is my "what if" moment. I also was inspired by stories of young lovers who broke up and went to live separate lives, meeting again decades later and find they were still in love.

2) What, if any, book, movie, song or character inspired you to write?

The song, Your Wildest Dreams, by the Moody Blues really touched me. I thought, "Wow, that would make a hell of a story" and it did.

3)  Best/worst movie based on a book :

Best: Little Women. The 90's version.

Worst: Gone with the Wind. I liked the book better. (Sarah's comment:  Ooooh that's harsh!  I mean, I liked the book better, too, of course.  But WORST movie?  LOL)

4) Do you write with a soundtrack for whatever you're working on, or do you write in complete silence?

Music does help to create the mood, but I've worked both ways. For my WWII book, Bronze Skies, I listened to a lot of big band music.

5) When do you find time to write? What's your schedule like?

I try to write a couple of hours in the morning and afternoon. The rest of the time, I'm working scenes out in my head.

6) What are you reading right now? 

Well, I'm back writing in the 20's again. I'm reading "Life in the Twenties" by Nathan Miller. Look for another Amos and Sarah Darcy mystery!

7) Starbucks or Caribou coffee?  

Starbucks hands down! I LOVE their white chocolate mocha! Although, I like Caribou coffee ice cream.

8) Who would play you in a movie about your life?

That's funny, because I took one of those tests on Facebook and it came up Emma Watson to play me in a movie. She would have to lose the British accent, though.

 9) What's next for you?

I have a western story in with my editor right now. My work in progress is another Alaskan mystery, re question #6.

10.) Anything more?

Many little demonic plots and characters dancing around in my head. Once you open the door to these people, they don't stop bugging you.

Thank you so much, Ilona, for sitting down with us all today!  And the rest of you...go and get Iris Rainbow and read it!

When all else is spinning out of control...I write!

Good morning!

When I was very young, I had a hard time in school. Not because I couldn't handle the homework, my grades, except in Math and Gym, were far above average.  If it didn't involve numbers or physical activity, it came easy to me.  And it wasn't because I didn't have outside interests.  I was in 4-H, Girl Pioneers, church junior choir, I took piano lessons, and, from about the time I was twelve, I had a job.  My parents were married...to each other...and they actually liked each other.  So why was my childhood difficult?

I never felt accepted.  I have always been socially awkward.  People who know me now will find that statement surprising because I can speak and be entertaining in front of large groups.  But I've never felt comfortable in my skin, and even less so among people. As a kid, I kept busy in activities to give the impression of being popular, happy, busy, whatever.  It was at that time I was given the opportunity to write a short article for a 4-H contest.  The winner would have their story printed in the hometown newspaper.  I was the only one who wrote a fictional short story...a story about an awkward girl and her horse battling the upper crust girls and their fancy horses at a summer camp...and I won the contest.  It wasn't the first thing I wrote, but it was the first thing I wrote that really put a light on how I felt about myself and my place in society.

Yes, this is me at 13. 

Moving into my teen years, my parents did something that cracked my insecurities wide open.  They took me out of the high school where 1) my father wasn't actually on the faculty...a first for me 2)  I had friends and a social circle that seemed to like me for just exactly who I was and 3) every student had aspirations to go on to college, so academics were not just for the geeks and weirdos like me.  The basketball players and football players had to hit the books just as hard.  They moved me to another high school where all three of those points were reversed and my world went into a tailspin.  I spent three years dreaming of running away form home, all while throwing myself into activities:  Drama, band, school newspaper, clubs, and a job.  Anything to keep myself out of the house, so that my mother would stop asking me if the girls in my class had included me in some social thing. (Here's a spoiler:  They never did.)  I had a couple good friends, but for the most part I walked up and down the halls of that school, fearful for my physical well being (bullying is real, friends) and wishing I speak out when it came to what I was feeling inside.  

It's no coincidence, for me, that I started writing what eventually

became "Lies in Chance" at this stage of my life.  I created Rock Harbor, a peaceful place where life's orphans and runaways could find a place to live and be happy.  I created Shara Brandt, a prettier, smarter, more talented version of me who had the strength to battle what came at her and I created Bryan Jacobs, a man with baggage of his own, but a love big enough to look outside himself and put Shara first.  (Can we just say that my on again/off again boyfriend wasn't exactly a dream date all the time?)  I also wrote short stories, wads and wads of them. I even showed my parents some of them.  My father, my English teacher, looked at them with a businesslike eye. My mother. hoping to find something in me that would make ease her mind about my social status, praised my scribblings far more than she actually understood them.  It didn't matter. Writing was a solitary action that threw me into a place where I had friends, ease, happiness, comfort, romance, and above all, control.

Isn't that why we write, to control our surroundings?  As authors, we build worlds, we create characters, and we control every minute of what happens.  With experience and discipline, most of us can push through the thrill of control and let the characters speak for themselves.  (I didn't hear a character speak until Ramona Simms

screamed at me during the writing of "Dream in Color."  She didn't like the life I was building for her and she had plenty to say about it.)  But we as writers first and foremost control the world we write.

So it's no real surprise, as I look back over the past thirty years, that there are gaps in my writing.  I didn't write much in college.  I liked college.  I found my social niche, and while I still had plenty of anxiety about my surroundings and being among people I didn't know well, I was better able to cover it with a cheery exterior and an ability to chat.  I wrote some  my first few years of marriage.  Those were rough years, but not out of control years. I had a job I liked, we had a couple we traveled with and even though there were job changes and losses, it was just the two of us.

When we had kids, I started getting a bit more serious about writing, not as a hobby, but as a business.  I joined a writer's group.  It was a motley group, but some of my best writer friends came out of that bunch.  I keep in touch with some of them even now, so many years later.  It was a safe place where I could hear criticism, but still feel like I was making my way toward something.  I had a job where I worked at home, which was great.

Maybe it was when I decided I needed a job outside the home.  I don't know, but for the last ten years I haven't felt like I was in control of anything, which has resulted in a very prolific writing period for me.  Four novels, two novellas, under my own name, two humor books under my pen name, all written, edited, and published pretty much on my own.  Control...from start to finish.

Now my kids are growing up, and after the past two years of heartbreak, white knuckled prayer, and breath-holding, I have two adults living in my house, both of whom are on the verge of leaving me.  After these past two years, I'm in no shape to let them go.  But I can't control time. I can't control what they're going to do. I have to pray that my husband and I have done our job and whether they chose to live at home a while longer or, in the case of my youngest, if they can't wait to be on their own, I have to try and accept what I can't control.

And then I lost my job.  

My response?  I just started a new book series, my Nora Hill mysteries, and I joined a writers' group again..(Had my first meeting last night.  It was like going back in time.  Same instructor, Kathie Giorgio, but now at her new studio, Allwriters.)   

See, when the world is spinning out of control, when all else is crumbling, when I can't control anything around me...I can write.  And in writing I can control what's happening and find a resolution to problems that aren't mine.  It's therapeutic, it's comforting, and, ultimately my hope is that it is entertaining for you all.

Sneak peak Saturday! A Hero's Spark

Good morning!  

I know I've been away a while...I'm working feverishly during this NANOWRIMO season to finish my newest novel, "Missing in Manitowoc."  HOWEVER, I thought I'd check in and just remind you all that I also have several other books you can read while you're waiting for that.  The newest one is "A Hero's Spark" which I published this spring.  Here's a tidbit of that!  Enjoy!

For more information about my books and my writing, check out my website: CLICK HERE!

COLLIER

What woke him, Collier didn’t know, but even in the haze of deep sleep, he knew he wasn’t alone in the loft. Someone latched the door quietly and stepped closer to the bed before turning on the overhead light.

            “Who’s there?” he called out as the light flashed on, momentarily blinding him. A woman’s scream pierced through the shock of light and he squinted in her general direction. He recognized the black hair immediately. Surprise mingled with confusion.“What are you doing here?”

            “I could ask you the same thing.” She held her bulky shoulder bag in front of her like a shield. “Who are you?”

            Collier shifted to sit up. She froze. “Don’t move. I’ve got mace in here.”

            “Calm down. I’m not going to move, since I’m pretty much naked here.” Collier grinned. “But you and I both know you don’t have mace.”

            The angry light in her eyes quavered, giving way to uncertainty. “How would you know what I have in my bag?”

            “Well,” he kept his voice calm, sensing she was more afraid than dangerous, “because if you had mace in there, you would have started spraying it the minute you realized there was a man in the room. That’s what I hear from most women, anyway.”

            She blinked away the uncertainty, her face settled into a mask of defensiveness. “Oh, and you know most women, do you?”

            “No, Miss, I don’t. But I’m pretty sure most women wouldn’t ask any questions before mentioning they have mace. So relax, put the bag down and tell me what you’re doing here.”

            “I’ve stayed here before.  I’ve worked with Shara.”

            “You’re trying to be mysterious. Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?”

            “Okay, well, I’ve lived here almost my whole life, and you’re a stranger. That’s enough mystery for me to call the cops. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

            “My uncle said I could stay here and Molly Hunter brought me here.”

            She seemed less likely to want to kill him, but her countenance remained stony. “Who’s your uncle?”

            “Archibald James.”

            “The lawyer?”

            “You know him?”

            “Everyone knows about Archibald James.” She relaxed. “Okay, maybe you’re not a mass rapist.” She sat in the rocker. “But still, you can’t stay here.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because, I’m staying here.”

Collier chuckled. “I was here first. And, I’m not wearing pants.”

            “I’ll close my eyes. Get dressed, and get out.” Her tone was clipped, cold. Collier again sensed she was covering fear.

            “Why should I get out? I got here first. I was sound asleep, and you woke me up.” He gave her a small smile, hoping to soften the deep furrows in her brow.

            She shrugged. “Not my problem. You can’t stay here.”

            “It is your problem. I’m not leaving.” He grinned. “We could both stay here. It’s a big enough bed.” He patted the spot next to him.

            She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course that’s what you want.” Her eyes flashed hot and angry.

            “It’s not what I want, Ma’am. I want to go to sleep. But if you have other ideas, well, I am from the South. We believe in accommodating women whenever we can.”

            She stared at him, and Collier doubted his humor was warming her attitude. Clearly, some sort of battle waged behind her emerald eyes.

Her face slacked into exhaustion. “I need to stay here.”

            Collier’s curiosity made him push the point further. “Well, I’m from out of town and have no place else to go. From what I hear, Miranda Pierce, you live in Rock Harbor which means you do have someplace else to go.”

            “Don’t call me that.”

            “Isn’t it your name?”

“Call me Mira.” A shadow crossed her face. “I’m not going to that house tonight. You can’t make me.” her voice held the echoes of a willful child. “And how do you know my name…oh, wait…”

            “Molly Hunter.”

            Mira nodded. “She knows everyone and everything in this town. Steer clear of her if you want to keep anything private.”

            “She didn’t strike me as a person who spread gossip.”

            “She doesn’t. She just knows everything. The potential is always there.”

            An interesting read on the lovely Miss Molly. “So the two of you aren’t grand friends then?”

            She leaned back in the rocker. “I try not to make attachments. It’s easier to leave if there aren’t any attachments.”

            “Sounds like someone who wants to run away.”

            “I’ve always wanted to run away. I feel like I’m running away from something every day of my life.”

            Collier wanted to be annoyed by her cryptic statement, but watching her face, he sensed it was probably the one completely truthful thing she’d said. Collier tried to assess her age. “You’re what, thirty? You’re old enough to go out on your own. What’s stopping you?”

            “I’m twenty-eight, thank you.”

            “Oh, that’s a huge difference.” Collier nearly laughed aloud at the wounded expression on Mira’s face.

            “I can’t leave because it’s complicated. But I can’t go home tonight.”

            The glimmer of true fear returned in her eyes. Collier relented. “Fine. Just go…go in the bathroom for a minute, let me get my crap together and I’ll go sleep on the hay downstairs.”

            “You want a blanket or something?”

            Her friendly tone annoyed him. “What, now that you’ve won the bed, you’re worried about me?”

            The softness melted from her face and her jaw line hardened. “Not really. I couldn’t care less about you having a blanket, so long as you’re not in here.”

            “Suits me fine. I’d rather sleep with horses than up here with you. Less shit to deal with.”

            “Oh, very nice. They teach you that language in the South where men are supposed to be so mannerly?” She glared at him as she stomped into the small bathroom and slammed the door.

            “No!” Collier yelled as he pulled on his jeans. “I learned manners just fine, because where I come from the women aren’t complete bitches!” He stuffed a few things into his duffle bag and slammed the door behind him, startling the horses in the stalls below.

            There was a blanket hung from a hook near a stack of hay bales. Collier spread the blanket over the bales and stretched out on the hay, thankful his years on the road in the Renaissance Faire circuit had toughened him. Staring at the ceiling, he watched the light that glowed from between small cracks in the loft floor. When the light switched off, he closed his eyes. Still, she is pretty.

            Pretty bitchy.

MIRA

           

            Mira waited for Collier to settle downstairs. Within a few minutes, everything was still and quiet. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots, letting them drop to the wooden floor with a loud thud. Collier’s muttered curse made her smile. She wasn’t sure why annoying him gave her pleasure.

            She stretched out on the bed, still warm with his body heat. She pushed her face into the pillow and inhaled his scent. It wasn’t unpleasant.

            Closing her eyes, Mira saw him again, sitting in the bed, shirtless, the sheet and blanket pooled at his waist.

            Also not unpleasant.

            She shook her head. Now is not the time to be thinking about a guy. No matter how good he might smell.

            She picked up her boot and tossed it in the air, giving it more velocity so that when it hit the wooden floor it sounded like a thunder clap. The sound of the horses below whinnying and rustling in their stalls didn’t cover Collier’s curses, this time spoken at volume she knew was meant to reach her ears.

            Mira smiled, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

Remember kids, you can purchase A Hero's Spark and any of my other books in print or Kindle form by clicking HERE!  If you're a Nook user you can get my books by clicking HERE!  And if you get your reading kicks on any other type of device, you can get my books by clicking HERE!