It is a truth universally acknowledged that authors lead glamorous lives.
Not even close. At least I don’t. Fear not, there are some perks to living the life of an author. Prior to my gig as an author, I actually wore business casual clothes and drove to an office. Sometimes I flew all over the US and to some swanky places in Europe like London and Paris. Eventually, I gave up my marketing gig for the high life as an author. Now I have a different wardrobe. Depending on the season, it might consist of sweats or shorts, but my favorite is my Tinkerbell nightgown. Hey, don’t judge!
As a published author I live for the thrill of…. the UPS man. I love him because he brings my author copies of my books. I’m amazed at how athletic these guys are. I tell myself Mr. UPS is not running away from a scary looking woman decked out in the author height of fashion: A pink bathrobe over sweats (that would be moi).
You might feel sorry for authors. After all we dwell in solitude all the day long or so you might think. I assure you I have friends—you know, the imaginary ones who snatch the metaphorical keys and take over the scene. It’s quite irritating, so I frequently put them in character time out. The last time I did that they revolted. Never fear, I bribed them.
I admit I had my hands full when Colin and Angeline arrived on the scene. Now I knew a few things about the couple. Their families had been close all of their lives, but my budding couple had been at odds for many years after an unpleasant incident at Angeline’s debut. To be honest, they loathed each other until they found themselves in difficult circumstances at the annual house party. Here’s an excerpt from WHAT A RECKLESS ROGUE NEEDS.
Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, has no desire to wed, this season or any other. So when his father demands he give up his wild ways and take a wife, Colin refuses. But his father raises the stakes and threatens to sell the ancestral home if Colin doesn’t comply. Now Colin has no choice but to find a wife. Unfortunately, the only woman he wants is the one whose heart he broke years ago.
Lead to the Perfect Seduction?
Regardless of the ton‘s whispers, Lady Angeline Brenham won’t settle for anything less than true love. After rejecting more than her share of suitable suitors, spinsterhood looms before her—until the devilishly handsome Colin reappears in her life with a proposition. Angeline vows to keep her feet on the ground and her heart in check. That is, until one searing kiss melts her resolve and reignites a burning desire for more.
How about an excerpt from What A Reckless Rogue Needs:
As Colin drew nearer, recognition dawned. The candlelight burnished her brunette hair and shed a mellow glow over her creamy complexion. He felt as if she’d knocked the breath out of him. Hell, she’d literally done it when he’d tried to give her a chaste kiss beneath the Christmas mistletoe a few years ago. She’d always had a sharp tongue, and he’d remained wary of her with good reason.
Angeline curtsied and regarded him with a shrewd smile. “Bonsoir, mon ami.”
Their relationship had always been closer to adversary than friend, but he’d not seen her in a long time. There was no question that she’d grown even more beautiful.
Angeline offered her gloved hand, and he bowed over it. He flicked his eyes quickly over her generous bosom. Colin mentally reminded himself to keep his gaze a very safe distance above her low neckline. “I suspect you’ve had more than a few Parisian admirers.”
Her one-shoulder shrug was all Gallic. “The French have a proverb: ‘Beautiful grapes often make poor wine.’” A sly expression flitted through her green eyes. “So I avoid the grapes and drink the wine.”
“Clever,” he said.
Angeline clapped her hands twice. “Girls, repair to the drawing room. The marchioness is expecting us.”
He offered his arm to her. “Shall we?”
“I don’t know. You look as if you’re facing a prison cell rather than a drawing room.”
He said nothing, but he’d always dreaded visits to his father’s home. He’d been at Eton when his father remarried, and on his infrequent stays at Deerfield, he’d never felt he belonged. It wasn’t as if they were estranged; it was just circumstances. He’d always felt a bit awkward here, and as a result, he didn’t visit often.
They entered the drawing room to the delighted exclamations of Angeline’s mother—the Duchess of Wycoff—and his stepmother, Margaret, the marchioness. He noted the proliferation of gray in the duchess’s hair, and the fine hair on his neck stiffened. The scandal must have created a great deal of vexation.
“I daresay they make a handsome pair,” the duchess said.
Colin winced. When they were children, their deluded families had concocted the idea of a match between them, all because they were born only a week apart. But that had happened when they were mere babes, before his mother’s death and his father’s second marriage.
“Unfortunately, Colin and Angeline are about as compatible as two spitting cats,” the marquess said.
“Chadwick, please mind your words,” Margaret said. “Oh, look what you’ve started. The girls are hissing at each other. Bianca, Bernadette, you will cease.”
His father had spoken the truth. Beyond the annual house party and the spring season, Colin and Angeline had done their best to avoid each other over the years, though they had not been entirely successful. Despite her outward civility this evening, he knew her capacity for causing trouble, and he could not afford to be distracted. The fate of Sommerall hung in the balance.
Don’t miss Kelly’s review of What a Reckless Rogue Needs HERE
GIVEAWAY TIME
Make sure to leave a comment or questions for Vicky (plus your email). Vicky has 2 copies of What a Reckless Rogue Needs up for grabs 🙂
A little about Vicky:
Vicky Dreiling is a confirmed historical romance junkie and Anglophile. Frequent business trips to the UK allowed her to indulge her passion for all things Regency England. Bath, Stonehenge, and Spencer House are among her favorite places. She is, however, truly sorry for accidentally setting off a security alarm in Windsor Castle. That unfortunate incident led her British colleagues to nickname her “Trouble.” When she’s not writing, Vicky enjoys reading, films, concerts, and most of all, long lunches with friends. A native Texan, she holds degrees in English literature and marketing.
1. Sage can develop the skill to take energy from the earth, which is where their magic originates (as does all energy), though it has the unfortunate side effect of killing any living thing if too much is taken. Autumn Rose is the youngest known Sage to have mastered the skill.
2. Autumn isn’t known for abiding the law or her veganism and drank her first ‘human blood shooter’ aged thirteen. Taken for its non-alcoholic intoxicating effects, it isn’t particularly dangerous to a dark being, but the humans aren’t too keen…
3. When Autumn’s grandmother named her, Autumn’s parents objected to the choice, thinking their daughter would be bullied for having seasons as a first and last name (Autumn and Al-Summers), and even tried calling her ‘Rose’ for a time… until the grandmother threatened to cut them off financially.
4. As a young girl, Autumn Rose attended human nursery and was best friends with two girls called Tammy and Christy. Ten years later and after attending a Sagean school, the three girls were re-united after Autumn returned to the area, and were once again friends. Such a friendship meant Tammy and Christy were able to have some very unusual experiences with Sagean royalty…
5. If Autumn’s grandmother and parents were to die at any point, and having no other family left alive, it was decided before her birth that Autumn’s guardian would be Eaglen, a seer and vampire greatly admired by the Al-Summer family.
*****
THE DARK HEROINE:
DINNER WITH A VAMPIRE
The Dark Heroine, Book 1
The addictive, enthralling debut by online sensation Abigail Gibbs. The sexiest romance you’ll read this year.
One moment can change your life forever…
For Violet Lee, a chance encounter on a darkened street draws her into a world beyond her wildest imaginings, a timeless place of vast elegance and immeasurable wealth – of beautiful mansions and lavish parties – where a decadent group of friends live for pleasure alone. A place from which there is no escape… no matter how hard Violet tries.
Yet all the riches in the world can’t mask the darkness that lies beneath the gilded surface, embodied in the charismatic but dangerous Kaspar Varn.
Violet and Kaspar surrender to a passion that transcends their separate worlds – but it’s a passion that comes at a price.
As featured on BBC Breakfast, Sky News, Sunday Times, Guardian, Mail Online, Huffington Post and Sugarscape.
International sensation Abigail Gibbs draws us even further into the dangerous and romantic world of the Dark Heroines with AUTUMN ROSE, book two of her breathtakingly magical paranormal series.
Somewhere in a sleepy seaside town in England, Autumn Rose is living a seemingly quite life. But, buried deep under the surface are dark secrets. Autumn’s been dealing with a lot — her grandmother is dead and the whirling social scene of London in which she was brought up is a world away. To make matters worse, she’s shunned and condemned at her new school, all because of the swirling marks on her skin that prevent her from blending in.
At school, the appearance of a handsome young man sends her world in turmoil. He shares the same markings as Autumn, and knows many of the secrets she’s tried to keep hidden. His arrival at school thrusts her into the limelight, with the unexpected popularity bringing danger as her secrets threaten to come to light. And, Autumn keeps dreaming of a human girl who is about to be seduced by a very dark Prince. Time is her enemy, and she must figure out how to save the human before it is too late.
AUTUMN ROSE continues Abigail Gibbs phenomenal Dark Heroine series with an alluring story of romance, hidden secrets, and captivating magic.
Abigail Gibbs was born and raised in deepest, darkest Devon, England. She is studying for a B.A. in English at the University of Oxford and considers herself a professional student, as the real world has yet to catch up with her. Her greatest fear is blood and she is a great advocate of vegetarianism, which logically led to the writing of her first novel, The Dark Heroine: Dinner with a Vampire. She splits her time between her studies, stories, and family, and uses coffee to survive all three.
GRAND PRIZE:
$30 gift card to Starbucks, paperback of “The Dark Heroine: Dinner With a Vampire” (book 1) and some surprise Avon paranormal romance titles.
RUNNER UP: one runner up will receive a $20 gift card to Amazon
Mitch Mathews never believed in love—at least not the happily ever after kind. Then he met Simone Conners. Just one night with the sexy lawyer made him reevaluate his priorities and look toward a future he never planned. The only hang up is making her see it too.
She’s almost ready for a second chance.
What started out as a casual hookup with a rugged geologist has turned into something a whole lot more. Simone’s on the verge of handing over her heart, but fear over what Mitch will say and do when he learns who she used to be holds her back.
The past could destroy their future…
Just when Simone is about to take a chance on forever with Mitch, the mistakes of her past catch up with her. Suddenly it’s not just her safety on the line anymore, it’s his too. Forced into hiding, Mitch demands answers, and Simone realizes the only way to protect everything she holds dear is to delve into a past she’s spent fourteen years trying to forget. As they search for the truth, they discover secrets, lies and a rekindled passion that burns hotter than before. But they also uncover a conspiracy that threatens the very fabric of society. One that could cost them more than just their future…it could cost them their lives.
Excerpt
Get out of my way.”
“Why?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed to
thin points, and a vehemence Simone had never seen before reflected in their
depths. “You came all the way over here in the middle of the night to tell me
something. Go ahead and say it.”
Emotions bubbled up inside
her—anger, heartache, disbelief—but the one that won out was betrayal, even if
a tiny voice in the back of her head said she had no right to feel that way.
She whirled on him. “You have no idea what I was willing to do for you.
You have no idea what I’ve been
through. I came here to explain, but there’s no point now.”
She ducked under his arm and rushed
down the hall toward the door and freedom. Somewhere deep inside she knew she
was being irrational. She’d broken
things off with him. Whatever and
whoever he’d done since had nothing to do with her, and yet even though her
head understood that, her heart was having a really hard time accepting it.
Because for her, things hadn’t been over. And she doubted they ever would be.
“Hold on. What you’ve done for me?” He grasped her by the arm and swung her
around to face him in the entry hall. Moonlight spilled in through the
sidelights by the front door, illuminating his enraged features and
disbelieving eyes, the t-shirt molding to his muscular chest, the loose-fitting
jeans and his gorgeous, bare feet against the hardwood floor. “You’re the one
who ended things. You’re the one who said you didn’t care. As I recall, your exact
words were, ‘I don’t love you.’ So why the fuck would I believe you’d do
anything for me when I already know you just don’t give a shit?”
She wanted to lash out, to make him
hurt the way she was hurting, to tell him he was right, that she really did no
longer give a shit. But before she could get the words out, the glass in the
far sidelight shattered, sending shards flying through the entryway.
Simone screamed. Mitch threw her to
the ground face first and covered her with his body. Pain echoed through her
hipbones and hands and anywhere she hit the hardwood. But the sound of
something small and hard digging into the siding, the door, shattering windows
and pinging off metal echoed all through the house, distracting her from the
pain.
She pushed against him, but he held
her firmly to the ground. “Stay down,” he growled. “Those are bullets.”
About the Author
I was never one of those people who knew they wanted to be an author at the age of six. I didn’t have imaginary friends. I didn’t write stories in my journal or entertain my relatives by firelight after Thanksgiving dinner. For the most part, I was just a normal, everyday kid. I liked to read, but I wasn’t exceptional at it. And when my teachers complimented me on my writing abilities, I brushed them off. I did, however, always have a penchant for the unique and absurd. And as my mother told me all throughout my childhood, I should have been an actress—I was a drama queen before my time.
Years ago, my husband bought me Scarlett: The Sequel to Gone With The Wind. If you ever saw the book, you know it’s a long one. I sat and read that thing from cover to cover, and dreamed of one day being a writer. But I didn’t actually try my hand at writing until years later when I quit my teaching job to stay home with my kids. And my husband? After that week of reading where I neglected him and everything else until I finished Scarlett, he vowed never to buy me another book again. Little did he know I’d one day end up sitting at a keyboard all day drafting my own stories.
The luxury of staying home when the weather turns nasty, of working in PJs and bare feet, and the fact that daydreaming is not only permissible but encouraged, are a few of the reasons middle school teacher Lynnette Austin gave up the classroom to write full-time. Lynnette grew up in Pennsylvania’s Alleghany Mountains, moved to Upstate New York, then to the Rockies in Wyoming. Presently she and her husband divide their time between Southwest Florida’s beaches and Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. A finalist in RWA’s Golden Heart Contest, PASIC’s Book of Your Heart Contest, and Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Contest, she’s published five books as Lynnette Hallberg. She’s currently writing as Lynnette Austin for Grand Central Publishing. Somebody Like You, Nearest Thing to Heaven, and Can’t Stop Lovin’ You are the first three books in her Maverick Junction series, contemporary romances set in Texas.
*****
Can’t Stop Lovin’ You
Genre: Contemporary Western Romance
Publication Date: February 4, 2014
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing (Hachette)
Format: Somebody Like You, Nearest Thing to Heaven, and Can’t Stop Lovin’ You are available in print and digital versions.
Can’t Stop Lovin’ You is the third book in the Maverick Junction series.
Which to choose? The cowboy or the Big Apple? CAN’T STOP LOVIN’ YOU pits handsome veterinarian Brawley Odell against hometown girl Maggie Sullivan. Maggie views the invitation to design heiress Annelise Montjoy’s wedding gown as her golden ticket out of Maverick Junction, Texas. At every turn, though, she bumps into Brawley, her high school sweetheart. He’d left her for college and a career in Dallas. But, now, country right down to the tips of his cowboy boots, he’s returned to take over old Doc Gibson’s practice while Maggie dreams of escape to New York City’s fashion district. Brawley’s never stopped loving Maggie. Can he talk her into hanging around long enough to give him a second chance? Long enough to talk her into designing a dress for her own wedding-to him?
While I was writing CAN’T STOP LOVIN’ YOU, I decided to head to New York City and the Fashion District. I wanted to experience the excitement with Maggie, see what she was seeing, hear what she was hearing. I fell in love with it—but enough to choose it over Brawley Odell? Hmmm. I’m not giving that away. No spoiler here. J
Less than one square mile in area, the Fashion District is a beehive of activity and energy. Just like Hollywood, it has its own walk of stars—Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Oscar de la Renta, Caroline Herrera. Fans of Project Runway will find Parsons School of Design here, along with the iconic bronze sculpture, The Garment Worker. As an author, it’s not always possible to visit the locations in my books. But when I can, it always adds to the experience—for myself and, hopefully, for my readers.
Once upon a time, a handsome prince walked up to the Tastee Freeze window and asked the lovely princess—who was working there to earn money to redecorate the castle—for a chocolate milkshake and a date. She said yes to both, and they lived happily ever after.
Okay, maybe I embellished a little—the princess didn’t actually live in a castle—but it’s no wonder I write romances with their happy endings. My prince and I are still together.
We had one beautiful son whom we lost in 2006. Aaron brought untold love and happiness into our lives. He was one of those brave firefighters who run into the flames as others are fleeing.
Dave and I both grew up in Pennsylvania’s Alleghany Mountains. From there, we moved to New York, then to the Rockies in Wyoming. Presently we divide our time between Naples, Florida’s beaches and Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
I have a Master’s in Educational Leadership and taught middle school language arts before leaving it to write full-time. My books have finaled in Romance Writers of America’s national Golden Heart Contest, PASIC’s Book of Your Heart Contest, and Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Contest. My books written as Lynnette Hallberg include Enchanted Evening from Kensington, Moonlight, Motorcycles, and Bad Boys,Chantilly Lace and A Pretty Face, and Night Shadows from The Wild Rose Press, and Just A Little White Lie from Carina Press.
I love books and have closets full of them as well as two well-supplied ereaders. Nothing makes me happier than losing myself in my characters’ worlds. Besides reading and writing, I enjoy traveling. I’ve visited all fifty states with the exception of Alaska and have traveled extensively throughout Canada, Mexico, Europe, Africa, and Central America—always on the lookout for new characters or a new story.
So glad you stopped by, Lynnette Austin
P.S. The beautiful horse I’m sitting on is Beau, courtesy of the Chunky Gal Stables, located in the scenic Chunky Gal Mountains of Hayesville, NC.
Aloha! Now that I’ve told you all a little bit about my home of Hawaii, I thought maybe you’d like to know something about me.
I was actually born in France though I’m American. My family moved to California when I was still a baby. I grew up in San Francisco, but I’ve been living in Hawaii for years now and consider Honolulu my home.
My best friend Kim is like a sister to me. She’s the reason I ended up here in Honolulu.
I used to be a bit of an adrenalin junkie. I’ve been skydiving and bungee jumping and I owned a motorcycle until I crashed it, breaking several of my bones in the process.
I have a cat named Eli. I named him after Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin. I named him that as a joke because Kim had a cat named Whitney.
My favorite author is Sir Conan Doyle. I love a good mystery.
Speaking of favorites, I love to travel. My favorite trip was a recent trip to Iceland. In some ways it’s very similar to Hawaii, since it’s a volcanic island. We don’t eat puffin in Hawaii, though!
I have a small scar on my eyebrow. I got it when I was 10 from a skateboarding accident. The hill didn’t seem that steep at the time….
I’m an excellent tennis player. I played competitively through college and considered going pro, but decided against it. I love the game, but probably not enough to play at that level.
I’m secretly afraid of spiders. I don’t like telling people that because it seems a bit silly.
I think I mentioned in the last post that I don’t have a green thumb. Plants look at me and die. I hire someone to come take care of the yard once a week, for fear that I’ll kill everything green.
That’s it for today, but I’ve still got several posts coming up this week. Aloha!
Jessica Stone is an American writer currently living in Shanghai, China with her family. A lover of travel, she writes contemporary romance set in exotic locations around the globe. Her interests include classical history and literature, live music, and craft brewing.
Lucas Kent didn’t expect trouble to follow him to Honolulu. But danger, like love, is often where you least expect it.
Alicia Baker is a directionless diamond heiress nursing an obsession with detective novels when a real life investigation falls in her lap.
When Alicia finds out Lucas is a murder suspect, she tries to fight her growing attraction to him to solve this mystery. With the enemy hot on their trail, Lucas struggles to find his friend’s killer before the killer finds them.
I’ve brought along my new release from Evernight Publishing, ‘A Little Mysterious’. This is a very steamy book, despite the poetic blurb, and my new release from Hot Ink Press, ‘Forever Blue’, which is so hot it might be called forever red. Both are 18+ books and I’ve brought along sexy excerpts today.
He’d been sent off course…he thought he was lost…until he found Daisy.
His vampire abilities were special. He belonged to an elite group. Moving home, they are set off course by a storm that lands Dhruv alone, hungry, and desperate in a strange town.
A story of lust, love, and coincidence.
*****
The character, Dhruv, is sexy, dangerous, and mysterious.
Here’s an excerpt it’s steamy. We need to warm up winter somehow.
“Let’s sit for a while. You can tell me about yourself.”
He watched as she placed her bag down on the pebble path, then sit down on the park bench. He sat close and breathed her in. She turned to him. There was hunger in her eyes. He knew that look. She desired him. It was strong and matched his hunger. He sighed. She was so pretty and he wanted to fuck her right then. Take her on the pebble path.
He let himself think about stripping her naked and licking her all over. He imagined stroking her stomach and then her clit. She would be wet for him, and his fingers would slide into her creamy pussy. She would moan and writhe under him, coming over and over, as he fucked her all night.
I need to feed, but not from her. I need her in a different way. I need to fuck her so hard I can’t think any more.
“Daisy…”
His voice was low and deliberately soothing. He took her hand, watching her face, waiting to see the look in her eyes that meant she was afraid of his cold touch. It didn’t come. As he took her hand, and traced his fingertips around the palm of her hand and over her fingers, she closed her eyes in pleasure, leaning toward him. Dhruv bent his head and kissed her.
Copyright Elodie Parkes 2013
*****
‘Forever Blue’ has a different kind of hero, whilst Dhruv is alpha, Jasper in ‘Forever Blue’ my December 20 release is a sweetheart. He’s still incredibly sexy and masculine. Something strange has happened to him and it changes him.
Claudie loves living in the countryside and close to the forests. She’s a filmmaker and works for the wildlife trust. One night she steps onto her patio and sees a man sheltering there. She confronts him and he runs away.
Jasper has watched Claudie for a year. He fell in love with her, but he has a secret, one that might mean he can never approach her.
Will love and fate find a way?
Excerpt:
She looked up into his gorgeous face.
He was propped on one elbow, and smiled at her again. He traced his fingers down her stomach to rest tantalizingly just above where she wanted them to be.
She lifted her hips to him, hoping his hand would slip down and he’d feel how wet she was, how much she needed him.
He closed his eyes as he leaned toward her face and kissed her tenderly. His fingers slid along her wet pussy and then he pushed them into her.
His thumb was against her clit, pressing deliciously. Claudie purred against his lips as they kissed. She rocked against the palm of his hand to have his fingers deeper inside her pussy. She held his shoulder muscles and moaned into his mouth. Her orgasm was building rapidly and she thrust her hips to his pumping.
Against her mouth, he whispered, “Come for me. I’m crazy about you. You feel so good.”
The words filtered through her lust numbed mind as she dug her fingernails into his back when she came, gasping at the intensity of the orgasm.
Jasper removed his fingers gently and lay between her legs.
Claudie ran her fingertips up and down the sides of his body. “Thrust into me.” Her voice made throaty from his nearness, his cock between her thighs, and the way her clit still pulsed.
“Oh, I will.” Jasper whispered into her ear.
A shiver of pleasure ran down to her breasts as he licked her ear. He trailed his tongue down her neck to suck as he slowly pushed his hard thick cock into her pussy. The feel of him, inch after inch, slowly filling her until he gave a final hard thrust was delicious. She held him tight and reached to suck at his neck the way he sucked at hers.
They both softly moaned as they sucked and in unison brought their mouths together to kiss each other slowly, tenderly and then hungrily.
Jasper thrust his cock in and out of her fast and hard. Then he slowed down and raising himself on his knees, he lifted her hips and looked into her eyes.
Claudie’s eyes were only half-open. They were heavy with lust. She felt drugged with sex, but she saw his eyes, and thought they were full of tenderness.
His thrusts were slow as he held her hips and his cock grazed her swollen clit. His hands possessed her hips and he fucked her until she came again moaning his name. Jasper held her under her bottom and pulled her hard onto his cock.
Claudie heard him groan, and then he pounded his cock into her as he came. She opened her eyes to see him come. His eyes were closed and his head thrown back a little. He looked erotic, beautiful, so sexy, and she sighed with pleasure. He’s so gorgeous. I think I’m falling in love with him, or falling in sex with him. I might love him soon. Her thoughts made her smile.
Jasper opened his eyes and gazed at her. He still held her under the bottom. His cock pulsed in her pussy. He smiled. “I’m falling in love with you.” His voice was soft and low.
Copyright Elodie Parkes 2013
About Elodie
Elodie Parkes is a British author writing romance, erotic, contemporary, and often with a twist of mystery, paranormal or suspense. Her books are always steamy, cool stories and hot love scenes.
Elodie lives in Canterbury with her two dogs. She works in an antique shop by day and writes at night, loving the cloak of silent darkness that descends on the rural countryside around her home.
A poet and fiction writer, my work has been published in Poet Lore, Crystal Clear and Cloudy, and Flying Colors Anthology. I am a past attendee of Pikes Peak Writer’s Conferences and the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, and a member of Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop in Denver, Colorado. In addition, I am/was a licensed professional counselor and psychotherapist, who for many years counseled perpetrators of domestic violence and sex offenders, and provided psychotherapy for individuals, groups and families. I hold a master’s degree in contemplative psychotherapy from NaropaUniversity in Boulder, Colorado.
I was born in Kentucky but soon after my parents moved to Detroit. Detroit was where I grew up. As a kid I visited relatives in Kentucky, once for a six-week period, which included a stay with my grandparents. In the novel’s acknowledgements I did assert the usual disclaimers having to do with the fact that Then Like The Blind Man was and is a work of fiction, i.e., a made up story whose characters and situations are fictional in nature (and used fictionally) no matter how reminiscent of characters and situations in real life. That’s a matter for legal departments, however, and has little to do with subterranean processes giving kaleidoscopic-like rise to hints and semblances from memory’s storehouse, some of which I selected and disguised for fiction. That is to say, yes, certain aspects of my history did manifest knowingly at times, at times spontaneously and distantly, as ghostly north-south structures, as composite personae, as moles and stains and tears and glistening rain and dark bottles of beer, rooms of cigarette smoke, hay lofts and pigs. Here’s a quote from the acknowledgements that may serve to illustrate this point.
“Two memories served as starting points for a short story I wrote that eventually became this novel. One was of my Kentucky grandmother as she emerged from a shed with a white chicken held upside down in one of her strong bony hands. I, a boy of nine and a “city slicker” from Detroit, looked on in wonderment and horror as she summarily wrung the poor creature’s neck. It ran about the yard frantically, yes incredibly, as if trying to locate something it had misplaced as if the known world could be set right again, recreated, if only that one thing was found. And then of course it died. The second memory was of lantern light reflected off stones that lay on either side of a path to a storm cellar me and my grandparents were headed for one stormy night beneath a tornado’s approaching din. There was wonderment there too, along with a vast and looming sense of impending doom.”
I read the usual assigned stuff growing up, short stories by Poe, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, The Scarlet Letter, The Cherry Orchard, Hedda Gabler, a little of Hemingway, etc. I also read a lot of Super Hero comic books (also Archie and Dennis the Menace) and Mad Magazine was a favorite too. I was also in love with my beautiful third grade teacher and to impress her pretended to read Gulliver’s Travels for which I received many delicious hugs.
It wasn’t until much later that I read Huckleberry Finn. I did read To Kill A Mockingbird too. I read Bastard Out of Carolina and The Secret Life of Bees. I saw the stage play of Hamlet and read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle too. However, thematic similarities to these works occurred to me only after I was already well into the writing of Then Like The Blind Man. Cormac McCarthy, Pete Dexter, Carson McCullers, Raymond Carver, Flannery O’Conner and Joyce Carol Oates, to name but a few, are among my literary heroes and heroines. Tone and style of these writers have influenced me in ways I’d be hard pressed to name, though I think the discerning reader might feel such influences as I make one word follow another and attempt to “stab the heart with…force” (a la Isaac Babel) by placing my periods (hopefully, sometimes desperately) ‘… just at the right place’.
A storm is brewing in the all-but-forgotten backcountry of Kentucky. And, for young Orbie Ray, the swirling heavens may just have the power to tear open his family’s darkest secrets. Then Like The Blind Man: Orbie’s Story is the enthralling debut novel by Freddie Owens, which tells the story of a spirited wunderkind in the segregated South of the 1950s and the forces he must overcome to restore order in his world. Rich in authentic vernacular and evocative of a time and place long past, this absorbing work of magical realism offered up with a Southern twist will engage readers who relish the Southern literary canon, or any tale well told.
Nine-year-old Orbie already has his cross to bear. After the sudden death of his father, his mother Ruby has off and married his father’s coworker and friend Victor, a slick-talking man with a snake tattoo. Since the marriage, Orbie, his sister Missy, and his mother haven’t had a peaceful moment with the heavy-drinking, fitful new man of the house. Orbie hates his stepfather more than he can stand; this fact lands him at his grandparents’ place in Harlan’s Crossroads, Kentucky, when Victor decides to move the family to Florida without including him. In his new surroundings, Orbie finds little to distract him from Granpaw’s ornery ways and constant teasing jokes about snakes.
As Orbie grudgingly adjusts to life with his doting Granny and carping Granpaw, who are a bit too keen on their black neighbors for Orbie’s taste, not to mention their Pentecostal congregation of snake handlers, he finds his world views changing, particularly when it comes to matters of race, religion, and the true cause of his father’s death. He befriends a boy named Willis, who shares his love of art, but not his skin color. And, when Orbie crosses paths with the black Choctaw preacher, Moses Mashbone, he learns of a power that could expose and defeat his enemies, but can’t be used for revenge. When a storm of unusual magnitude descends, he happens upon the solution to a paradox that is both magical and ordinary. The question is, will it be enough?
Equal parts Hamlet and Huckleberry Finn, it’s a tale that’s both rich in meaning, timely in its social relevance, and rollicking with boyhood adventure. The novel mines crucial contemporary issues, as well as the universality of the human experience while also casting a beguiling light on boyhood dreams and fears. It’s a well-spun, nuanced work of fiction that is certain to resonate with lovers of literary fiction, particularly in the grand Southern tradition of storytelling.
Discuss this book in our PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads by clicking HERE.
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Title: Then Like the Blind Man: Orbie’s Story Author: Freddie Owens Publisher: Blind Sight Publications Pages: 332 Language: English Genre: Historical Fiction/Coming of Age Format: Paperback & eBook
A storm is brewing in the all-but-forgotten backcountry of Kentucky. And, for young Orbie Ray, the swirling heavens may just have the power to tear open his family’s darkest secrets. Then Like The Blind Man: Orbie’s Story is the enthralling debut novel by Freddie Owens, which tells the story of a spirited wunderkind in the segregated South of the 1950s and the forces he must overcome to restore order in his world. Rich in authentic vernacular and evocative of a time and place long past, this absorbing work of magical realism offered up with a Southern twist will engage readers who relish the Southern literary canon, or any tale well told.
Nine-year-old Orbie already has his cross to bear. After the sudden death of his father, his mother Ruby has off and married his father’s coworker and friend Victor, a slick-talking man with a snake tattoo. Since the marriage, Orbie, his sister Missy, and his mother haven’t had a peaceful moment with the heavy-drinking, fitful new man of the house. Orbie hates his stepfather more than he can stand; this fact lands him at his grandparents’ place in Harlan’s Crossroads, Kentucky, when Victor decides to move the family to Florida without including him. In his new surroundings, Orbie finds little to distract him from Granpaw’s ornery ways and constant teasing jokes about snakes.
As Orbie grudgingly adjusts to life with his doting Granny and carping Granpaw, who are a bit too keen on their black neighbors for Orbie’s taste, not to mention their Pentecostal congregation of snake handlers, he finds his world views changing, particularly when it comes to matters of race, religion, and the true cause of his father’s death. He befriends a boy named Willis, who shares his love of art, but not his skin color. And, when Orbie crosses paths with the black Choctaw preacher, Moses Mashbone, he learns of a power that could expose and defeat his enemies, but can’t be used for revenge. When a storm of unusual magnitude descends, he happens upon the solution to a paradox that is both magical and ordinary. The question is, will it be enough?
Equal parts Hamlet and Huckleberry Finn, it’s a tale that’s both rich in meaning, timely in its social relevance, and rollicking with boyhood adventure. The novel mines crucial contemporary issues, as well as the universality of the human experience while also casting a beguiling light on boyhood dreams and fears. It’s a well-spun, nuanced work of fiction that is certain to resonate with lovers of literary fiction, particularly in the grand Southern tradition of storytelling.
CHAPTER ONE
EVERYBODY ON EDGE
Thursday, June 6th 1959
Momma and even Victor said I’d be coming to St. Petersburg with them. They’d been saying it for weeks. Then Victor changed his mind. He was my stepdaddy, Victor was. It would be easier on everybody, he said, if I stayed with Granny and Granpaw in Kentucky. Him and Momma had enough Florida business to take care of without on top of everything else having to take care of me too. I was a handful, Victor said. I kept everybody on edge. If you asked me, the only edge everybody was kept on was Victor’s. As far as I was concerned, him and Momma could both go to hell. Missy too. I was fed up trying to be good. Saying everything was okay when it wasn’t. Pretending I understood when I didn’t.
Momma’s car was a 1950 model. Daddy said it was the first Ford car to come automatic. I didn’t know what ‘automatic’ was but it sure had silver ashtrays, two of them on the back of the front seats. They were all popped open with gum wrappers and cigarette butts and boy did they smell.
One butt fell on top a bunch of comic books I had me in a pile. The pile leaned cockeyed against my dump truck. Heat came up from there, little whiffs of tail pipe smoke, warm and stuffy like the insides of my tennis shoes.
It rattled too – the Ford car did. The glove box. The mirrors. The windows. The knobs on the radio. The muffler under the floorboard. Everything rattled.
We’d been traveling hard all day, barreling down Road 3 from Detroit to Kentucky. Down to Harlan’s Crossroads. I sat on the edge of the back seat, watching the fence posts zoom by. Missy stood up next to the side window, sucking her thumb, the fingers of her other hand jammed between her legs. She was five years old. I was nine.
I’d seen pictures of Florida in a magazine. It had palm trees and alligators and oranges. It had long white beaches and pelicans that could dive-bomb the water. Kentucky was just old lonesome farmhouses and brokeback barns. Gravel roads and chickens in the yard.
Road 3 took us down big places like Fort Wayne and Muncie. It took us down a whole bunch of little places too, places with funny names like Zaneville and Deputy and Speed.
Missy couldn’t read.
“Piss with care,” I said.
“Oh Orbie, you said a bad word.”
“No. Piss with care, Missy. That sign back there. That’s what it said.”
Missy’s eyes went wide. “It did not. Momma’ll whip you.”
Later on we got where there was a curve in the road and another sign. “Look Missy. Do not piss.”
“It don’t say that.”
“Yes it does. See. When the road goes curvy like that you’re not supposed to pee. But when it’s straight, it’s okay; but you have to do it careful cause that’s what the sign says. Piss with care!”
“It don’t say that.”
“Does too.”
We crossed a big pile of water on a bridge with towers and giant ropey things looping down. On the other side was Louisville, Kentucky. After that was just small towns and little white stores with red gas-pumps, farm houses and big barns and fields, empty fields and fields of corn and fields where there were cows and horses and pigs and long rows of tobacco plants Momma said cigarettes was made of.
I had me a war on all the towns going down.
Tat Tat Tat Tat! Blam! There goes Cox Creek!
Bombs away over Nazareth!
Blam! Blam! Boom! Hodgekinsville never had a chance!
“Let’s keep it down back there!” Victor said.
“A grenade rolled into Victor’s lap!” I whispered. “BlamOOO! Blowed him to smithereens!”
I wished Momma’d left him back there in Toledo like she said she would. She was always threatening around like that, but then she would get to feeling sorry and forget all about it. She’d been mad ever since Victor spilled the beans about Daddy. Victor was mad too, drinking his beer and driving Momma’s Ford too fast. After Louisville he started throwing his empties out the window.
I liked to watch them bust on the road.
“Pretty country, Kentucky,” Victor said.
**
It was the end of daytime and a big orangey-gold sun ball hung way off over the hills, almost touching the trees. The Ford jerked over a ditch at the foot of a patchy burnt yard, thundering up a load of bubble noises before Victor shut it down.
“Get off me,” Missy said.
“I ain’t bothering you.”
“Yes you are.”
“But Missy, look!”
A big boned woman in a housedress had come to stand in the yard down by the well. She was looking into the sun – orange light in her face – standing upright, sharp edged and stiff, like an electrical tower, one arm bent like a triangle, the other raised with the elbow so the hand went flat out over her eyes like a cap. She stared out of wrinkles and scribbles and red leather cheekbones. Her nose was sunburned, long but snubbed off at the end, sticking out above a mouth that had no lips, a crack that squirmed and changed itself from long to short and back to long again.
Missy’s eyes widened. “Who is that?”
“Granny,” I said. “Don’t you remember?”
I saw Granpaw too, sitting squat-legged against Granny’s little Jesus Tree. He was turning in one big hand a piece of wood, shaving it, whittling it outward with a jackknife. The brim of a dusty Panama shadowed his eyes. In back of him stood the house, balanced on little piles of creek rock. You could see jars and cans and other old junk scattered underneath. It was the same dirty white color as before, the house was, but the sun ball had baked it orange, and now I could see at one end where somebody had started to paint.
As we got out of the car, the big boned figure in the housedress let out with a whoop, hollering, “Good God A Mighty! If it tain’t Ruby and them younguns of hers! Come all the way down here from Dee-troit!” Blue-green veins bulged and tree-limbed down the length of her arms.
Victor stayed out by the Ford, the round top of my ball cap hanging out his pocket. A gas station man had given it to me on the way down. It was gray and had a red winged horse with the word ‘Mobilgas’ printed across the front. Victor had swiped it away, said I shouldn’t be accepting gifts from strangers. I should have asked him about it first. Now it was in his back pocket, crushed against the Ford’s front fender where he leaned with an unlit cigar, rolling between his lips. The sun was in back of him, halfway swallowed up by a distant curvy line of hilltop trees.
“Hidy Victor!” Granny called. “Ya’ll have a good trip?”
Victor put on a smooth voice. “Fine Mrs. Wood. Real fine. You can’t beat blue grass for beauty, can you?” A long shadow stretched out on the ground in front of him.
Granny laughed. “Ain’t been no farther than Lexington to know!”
Granpaw changed his position against the tree, leaned forward a little bit and spat a brown gob, grunting out the word ‘shit’ after he did. He dragged the back of his knife hand sandpaper-like over the gap of his mouth.
“I want you just to looky here!” Granny said. “If tain’t Missy-Two-Shoes and that baby doll of hers!”
Missy backed away.
“Aw, Missy now,” Momma said. “That’s Granny.”
Missy smiled then and let Granny grab her up. Her legs went around Granny’s waist. She had on a pink Sunday dress with limp white bows dangling off its bottom, the back squashed and wadded like an overused hankie.
“How’s my little towhead?” Granny said.
“Good.” Missy held out her baby doll. “This is Mattie, Granny. I named her after you.”
“Well ain’t you the sweetest thang!” Granny grinned so big her wrinkles went out in circles like water does after a stone’s dropped in. She gave Missy a wet kiss and set her down. Then her grin flashed toward Momma. “There’s my other little girl!”
Momma, no taller than Granny’s chin, did a little toe dance up to her, smiling all the way. She hugged Granny and Granny in turn beat the blue and red roses on the back of Momma’s blouse.
“I just love it to death!” Granny said. “Let me look at you!” She held Momma away from her. Momma wiggled her hips; slim curvy hips packed up neat in a tight black skirt. She kissed the air in front of Granny.
Like Marilyn Monroe. Like in the movies.
“Jezebel!” Granny laughed. “You always was a teaser.”
They talked about the trip to Florida, about Victor’s prospects – his good fortune, his chance – about Armstrong and the men down there and that Pink Flamingo Hotel. They talked about Daddy too, and what a good man he’d been.
“It liked to’ve killed us all, what happened to Jessie,” Granny said.
“I know Mamaw. If I had more time, I’d go visit him awhile.” Momma looked out over the crossroads toward the graveyard. I looked too but there was nothing to see now, nothing but shadows and scrubby bushes and the boney black limbs of the cottonwood trees. I remembered what Victor’d said about the nigger man, about the crane with the full ladle.
“I want you just to look what the cat’s drug in Mattie!” Granpaw had walked over from his place by the tree.
“Oh Papaw!” Momma hugged Granpaw’s rusty old neck and kissed him two or three times.
“Shoo! Ruby you’ll get paint all over me!”
Momma laughed and rubbed at a lip mark she’d left on his jaw.
“How you been daughter?”
“All right I reckon,” Momma said. She looked back toward Victor who was still up by the Ford. Victor took the cigar out of his mouth. He held it to one side, pinched between his fingers.
“How’s that car running Victor?” Granpaw called.
“Not too bad, Mr. Wood,” Victor answered, “considering the miles we’ve put on her.”
Granpaw made a bunch of little spit-spit sounds, flicking them off the end of his tongue as he did. He hawked up another brown gob and let it fall to the ground, then he gave Victor a nod and walked over. He walked with a limp, like somebody stepping off in a ditch, carrying the open jackknife in one hand and that thing, whatever it was he’d been working on, in the other.
Granny’s mouth got hard. “Ruby, I did get that letter of yorn. I done told you it were all right to leave that child. I told you in that other letter, ‘member?”
“You sure it’s not any trouble?” Momma said.
Granny’s eyes widened. “Trouble? Why, tain’t no trouble a-tall.” She looked over my way. “I want you just to look how he’s growed! A might on the skinny side though.”
“He’ll fill out,” Momma said.
“Why yes he will. Come youngun. Come say hello to your old Granny.”
“Orbie, be good now,” Momma said.
I went a little closer, but I didn’t say hello.
“He’ll be all right,” Granny said.
“I hope so Mamaw. He’s been a lot of trouble over this.“
Veins, blue rivers, tree roots, flooded down Granny’s gray legs. More even than on her arms. And you could see white bulges and knots and little red threads wiggling out. “I’ll bet you they’s a lot better things going on here than they is in Floridy,” she said. “I bet you, if you had a mind to, Granpaw would show you how to milk cows and hoe tobacco. I’ll learn you everything there is to know about chickens. Why, you’ll be a realfarm hand before long!”
“I don’t wanna be no damned farm hand,” I said.
“Boy, I’ll wear you out!” Momma said. “See what I mean, Mamaw?”
“He’ll be all right,” Granny said.
The sun was on its way down. Far to the east of it two stars trailed after a skinny slice of moon. I could see Old Man Harlan’s Country Store across the road, closed now, but with a porch light burning by the door.
A ruckus of voices had started up by the Ford, Granpaw and Victor trying to talk at the same time. They’d propped the Ford’s hood up with a stick and were standing out by the front.
Victor had again taken up his place, leaning back against the front fender, crushing my ball cap. “That’s right, that’s what I said! No good at all.” He held the cigar shoulder level – lit now – waving it with his upraised arm one side to the other. “The Unions are ruining this country, Mr. Wood. Bunch of meddlesome, goddamned troublemakers. Agitators, if you catch my drift.” He took a pull on the cigar then blew the smoke over Granpaw’s head.
Granpaw was stout-looking but a whole head shorter than Victor. He stood there in his coveralls, doubled up fists hanging at the end of each arm, thick as sledgehammers – one with the open jackknife, the other with that thing he’d been working on. “Son, you got a problem?”
“The rank and file,” Victor said. “They’re the problem! They’ll believe anything the goddamn Union tells them.”
Granpaw leaned over and spat. “You don’t know nothin’.”
“Anything,” Victor said.
“What?”
Victor took the cigar out of his mouth and smiled. “I don’t know anything is what you mean to say. It’s proper grammar.”
“I know what I aim to say,” Granpaw said, “I don’t need no northern jackass a tellin’ me.” Granpaw’s thumb squeezed against the jackknife blade.
Cut him Granpaw! Knock that cigar out his mouth!
“Strode!” Granny shouted. “Come away from there!”
Momma hurried over. “Victor, I told you.”
“I was just sharing some of my thoughts with Mr. Wood here,” Victor said. “He took it the wrong way, that’s all. He doesn’t understand.”
“I understand plenty, City Slicker.” Granpaw closed the knife blade against his coveralls and backed away.
“Ain’t no need in this Strode!” Granny said. “Victor’s come all the way down here from Dee-troit. He’s company. And you a man of God!”
“I’ll cut him a new asshole, he keeps on that a way,” Granpaw said.
Momma was beside herself. “Apologize Victor. Apologize to Papaw for talking that way.”
“For telling the truth?”
“For insulting him!”
Victor shook his head. “You apologize. You’re good at that.”
Over where the sun had gone down the sky had turned white-blue. Fireflies winked around the roof of the well, around the branches of the Jesus Tree. Victor walked around to the front of the car and slammed the hood down harder than was necessary. “Come on Orbie! Time to get your stuff!”
I couldn’t believe it was about to happen, even though I’d been told so many times it was going to. I started to cry.
“Get down here!” Victor yelled.
Momma met me at the car. She took out a hankerchief and wiped at my tears. She looked good. She always looked good.
“I don’t want you to go,” I said.
“Oh now,” Momma said. “Let’s not make Victor any madder than he already is, okay?” She helped bring my things from the car. I carried my tank and my box of army men and crayons. Momma brought my dump truck, the toy cars, my comic books and drawing pad. We put them all on the porch where Missy sat playing with her doll. Momma hugged me one last time, got Missy up in her arms and headed to the car.
Victor was already behind the wheel, gunning the engine. “Come on Ruby! Let’s go!”
“You just hold on a minute!” Momma put Missy in the car and turned to hug Granny. “Bye Mamaw.”
“Goodbye Sweetness. I hope you find what you’re looking for down there.”
“Right now I’d settle for a little peace of mind,” Momma said; then she hugged Granpaw. “I’m real sorry about Victor Papaw.”
Granpaw nodded. “You be careful down there in Floridy.”
“Bye Momma! Bye Missy!” I yelled.
Momma closed her door and Victor backed out. I hurried down to where Granny and Granpaw were standing. The Ford threw dust and gravels as it fishtailed up the road.
Granpaw tapped me on the shoulder. “This one’s for you son,” he said and handed down the piece he’d been working on. It was a little cross of blond wood about a foot high with a burnt snake draped lengthwise along its shoulders. Granpaw moved his finger over the snake’s curvy body. “Scorched that in there with a hot screw driver, I did.”
It was comical in a way, but strange too; I mean to make a snake there – right where Jesus was supposed to be. Like most everything else in my life, it made no sense at all. Momma’s Ford had disappeared over the hill. Pale road-dust moved like a ghost into the cornfields under the half-dark sky. It drifted back toward the skull of Granpaw’s barn, back toward the yard. I stood there watching it all, listening as Momma’s Ford rumbled away.
Most of my experience with fairies in fiction comes either from fairy tales or from children’s books, yet I have always loved the old fairy lore. When growing up as well as the usual fairy tales, I also had a couple of books with fairy tales from around the world. In the ones where fairies featured they were always tricksters and never to be trusted…and yet they quiet often revealed a person’s true heart.
My love of all things fairy was amplified when I was given a set of the Fairy Ring Oracle cards and I discovered even more fairies and their background (which of course led to more research…).
But it was several more years before I had an idea for a fairy story. While I knew there were other fairy paranormal romances out there, I hadn’t actually read any. However I think there is enough fairy lore out there for writers to put their own spin on things (much like has been done with vampires).
Because my stories tend to be on the darker side I knew I was going to draw on the old legends where fairies were powerful and to be feared. They ruled the underworld and loved to trick humans who weren’t smart enough to avoid them.
Fairies these days tend to be seen as diminutive benevolent little flutterbys. They were downgraded from gods, or demi-gods, to little more than the imaginings of children.
I imagine some fairies would care and others wouldn’t as while humans have forgotten, nothing has changed for the fairies. They still decide the fate of souls and rule the underworld. They still take the occasional human as they need a human to reproduce (there has to be some reason for kidnapping all those mortals in the old stories) and they still meddle in mortal affairs…only these days people don’t blame the fairies.
While creating my fairy world I was very aware that the fairy lore that is still around is old. Which means it’s not current news from Annwyn so I had to imagine what had changed over the centuries. Kind of a where are they now? Since my fairies love to plot and scheme, what better way to show that than with a battle for the throne looming?
I also had create Annwyn, the realm where they live, but I didn’t want it to be static. So Annwyn changes depending on what is happening. With the old king dying Annwyn is no longer in summer, the leaves are falling and everyone is worried about who will claim the throne, his son or the challenger (who is revealed in Lord of the Hunt).
Annwyn is full of beautiful fairies…but their looks concealed cunning and cruelty. They can be charming and yet terrifying. Capable of compassion and trickery. Their morals and rules are not the same as ours. They couldn’t be as they live for so much longer.
I hope that I have created a place of great beauty and danger.
The realm of the fairies might be unbelievably beautiful, but its people are notoriously treacherous. Raised among mortals, Taryn hoped to avoid her fairy heritage her whole life. But now she must cross over to Annwyn and appeal to the King to pardon her exiled parents, or they’re sure to die. And to get to the King, she’ll first have to face the Lord of the Hunt…
He Can’t Imagine Life Without Her…
Verden, Lord of the Hunt, is sworn to serve to King. But the moment he sees Taryn, the attraction is instant and devastating. How can he not help the beautiful, brave young woman who refuses to bend to the will of the court? Yet the power in Annwyn is shifting, its magic failing. No matter how much he may love Taryn, the Hunter knows that abandoning his duty could bring down the mortal world forever…
Praise for the works of Shona Husk:
“Romantic and intriguing.” —Publishers Weekly
“Enthralling.” —Booklist
“A great fairy-tale feel…dark, fresh, and tantalizing.” —Anna’s Book Blog
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Three time ARRA finalist Shona Husk lives in Western Australia at the edge of the Indian Ocean. Blessed with a lively imagination she spent most of her childhood making up stories. As an adult she discovered romance novels and hasn’t looked back. Drawing on history and myth, she writes about heroes who are armed and dangerous but have a heart of gold—sometimes literally. She is the author of the Shadowlands Series and the Annwyn Series. You can find out more information about Shona and her edgy romances at http://www.shonahusk.com/ or follow her on Twitter, @ShonaHusk.
Today I have Tracy Weber here today to discuss her debut book, Murder Strikes a Pose.
What’s That Pose on the Cover?
I can’t take any credit for it, but I’ve fallen in love with the cover of Murder Strikes a Pose, my first cozy mystery. The Seattle landmarks highlight the lovely city the story is set in. The bright colors hint at the humor and lightness I’ve tried to pepper throughout the novel, in spite of its sometimes serious themes. The cartoon characters’ expressions capture the love Kate (my protagonist) and Bella (her dog) feel for each other. Even better, the yoga pose on the cover is part of the series’ name: The Downward Dog Mysteries.
You don’t have to practice yoga to enjoy my books, but in case any of your readers are tempted to give it a try. I thought I’d share some information about this popular yoga pose.
Downward Facing Dog is a favorite pose of yoga students everywhere. Even Bella likes it, much better than she likes its evil counterpart, Cat Pose! Downward Dog strengthens the shoulders while stretching the backs of the legs, but those are only its secondary effects. In Viniyoga (the style of yoga Kate teaches) Downward Dog is categorized as an extension pose, meaning that its primary intention is to lengthen the spine. That amazing stretch Kate feels in her calves and hamstrings is just a side benefit.
My book cover’s static depiction of Downward Dog is only part of the posture. In Viniyoga, moving in and out of the pose is as important as staying in it. Movement contracts the muscles that will eventually be stretched, making them more like warm plastic and less like rubber bands. Wester physiologists call this action Proprioceptive Neuromuscular Facilitation, or PNF. (Though somehow I doubt that’s what the ancient yogis called it.)
Instructions for Down-Dogging it the Murder Strikes a Pose Way
1. Come to your hands and knees, with your knees about four inches apart. Place your hips directly above your knees and your hands slightly in front of and wider than your shoulders.
2. On inhale, lengthen your spine and tuck your toes.
3. On exhale, press down through your hands and feet, lifting your hips to the sky. Keep your knees bent and your chin slightly tucked. Focus on feeling length between the crown of your head and your tailbone.
4. On the following inhale, lower your knees to the mat again. Bring your hips directly above your knees and lengthen your spine.
5. Move in and out of this position eight times, wrapping each movement in each breath.
6. After the eighth repetition, remain in Downward Dog for several breaths and enjoy the stretch!
Hints:
Keep your chin slightly tucked and your low back extended.
Don’t worry about how you look! Feel free to soften your knees. Focus on lengthening your body from your head to your tailbone.
To minimize wrist strain, spread your fingers and press your weight equally out through your fingertips.
Avoid pressing your chest too closely to your thighs. This can hyperextend your shoulders, which adds significant strain to your shoulder joints.
Happy down dogging, everyone! Please check out Murder Strikes a Pose, and let me know what you think of the cover. Even more importantly, let me know how you like the story inside of it! I hope you love reading it as much as I’ve loved writing it.
Namaste
Tracy Weber
About the Author:
Tracy Weber is a certified yoga teacher and the founder of Whole Life Yoga, an award-winning yoga studio in Seattle, where she currently lives with her husband and German Shepherd. Weber is a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Dog Writers Association of America, and Sisters in Crime. She loves sharing her passion for yoga and animals in any form possible. Murder Strikes a Pose is Weber’s debut.
Yoga instructor Kate Davidson tries to live up to yoga’s Zen-like expectations, but it’s not easy while struggling to keep her small business afloat or dodging her best friend’s matchmaking efforts.
When George, a homeless alcoholic, and his loud, horse-sized German shepherd, Bella, start hawking newspapers outside her studio, Kate attempts to convince them to leave. Instead, the three strike up an unlikely friendship.
Then Kate finds George’s dead body. The police dismiss it as a drug-related street crime, but Kate knows he was no drug dealer. Now she must solve George’s murder and find someone willing to adopt his intimidating companion before Bella is sent to the big dog park in the sky. With the murderer on her trail, Kate has to work fast or her next Corpse Pose may be for real.
Books-n-Kisses is please to let one of our all time favorite authors take over the blog today. If you don’t know about Molly Harper yet here is a little about Molly.
When Molly Harper was eight years old, she set up a “writing office” in her parents’ living room, complete with an old manual typewriter and a toy phone. And she (very slowly) pecked out the story of her third-grade class taking a trip around the world and losing a kid in each city. She had a dark sense of humor even then.
When Molly was considerably older, she headed for Western Kentucky University, where she majored in print journalism. After graduation, she landed a job with The Paducah Sun and married her high school sweetheart, David, a local police officer. After six years at the newspaper, Molly took a more family-friendly secretarial position at a local church office.
Her husband worked nights and Molly was alone with their small child in the “The Apartment of Lost Souls.” A big fan of vampire movies and TV shows, she decided to write a vampire romance novel. Molly created Jane Jameson, a bit of an accidental loser. Jane is single, almost 30, and a librarian working in Half-Moon Hollow, Ky. She has become a permanent fixture on her Mama’s prayer list. And despite the fact that she’s pretty good at her job, she just got canned so her boss could replace her with someone who occasionally starts workplace fires. Jane drowns her sorrows at the local faux nostalgia-themed sports bar. On her way home, she’s mistaken for a deer and shot by a drunk hunter. And then she wakes up as a vampire. The three-book JANE JAMESON series–which includes Nice Girls Don’t Have Fangs, Nice Girls Don’t Date Dead Men and Nice Girls Don’t Live Forever—was released in 2009. A fourth and final installment, Nice Girls Don’t Bite Their Neighbors, was released in 2012.
Molly continues stories in the Jane Jameson universe through her HALF-MOON HOLLOW series, Driving Mr. Dead, The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires, Undead Sublet, and A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses and Curses. Undead Sublet is a short story in The Undead in My Bed anthology. A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses and Curses was released in June 2013.
A special FREE audio holiday novella, I’m Dreaming of an Undead Christmas is available now from Audible (so be sure to get your copy today!).
Molly has been updating her popular NAKED WEREWOLF romance series in 2013. How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf was originally released in February 2011, quickly followed by The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf. A third installment, How to Run With a Naked Werewolf, will be released on 12/31/13.
Molly also launched her first-ever contemporary romance series, BLUEGRASS, with My Bluegrass Baby in December 2012. Rhythm and Bluegrass was subsequently released in October 2013.
Molly’s books are published by Pocket Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster. They are available in print, as e-books and audio books at major book stores and on Amazon. Molly is a native of Kentucky. She lives in Paducah with her husband and children.
For those of you new to Molly’s work, we highly suggest that you check out her entire backlist, but for today, we’re going to spotlight her NAKED WEREWOLF series and its upcoming release.
So now that you know a little about Molly I will let her take over. Take it away Molly:
Every time I write a book, I try to walk away with a lesson.
Whether it’s new information from research or a skill I picked up while studying a character’s potential background, I try to learn something from every project. For instance, I while writing THE CARE AND FEEDING OF STRAY VAMPIRES, I spent so much time looking up poisonous plants, I’m pretty sure my internet history would have put me in jail if anything had happened to my loved ones. After writing the Bluegrass contemporary series, I’m pretty sure I could run a tourism marketing department on my own – but probably just for the state of Kentucky.
With HOW TO RUN WITH A NAKED WEREWOLF, the main character, Anna, is on the run from an abusive ex, and stumbles into the path of Caleb Graham, a member of the Grundy werewolf pack. I spent a lot of time reading about dysfunctional relationships and abusive men so I could accurately portray the ex’s transition from a seemingly normal guy to someone who would break into his ex-wife’s email so he could hunt her across ten states.
But I forgot that I share a Kindle account with my husband, so every time I ordered a book like TOXIC MEN: TEN WAYS TO IDENTIFY, DEAL WITH AND HEAL FROM THE MEN WHO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE by Lillian Glass, PhD, the same book would pop up on David’s carousel. Two or three titles later, he walked into our living room and asked, “Sweetheart, is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
It is not easy being married to an author.
And even though David is not toxic, I did walk away from this manuscript feeling very fortunate to have the man I married, and fairly certain that I’d learned enough verbal disarmament techniques to drive him insane if he gets sassy with me.
Again, it is not easy being married to an author.
I recently started taking Brazillian jiu jitsu lessons, which didn’t directly result from a book idea. But so far, the techniques I’ve learned have made their way into two manuscripts. If I can conjure up an idea about a female assassin who is highly deadly, but trips over her own feet while not on assignment, the “lesson” cycle will be complete.
HOW TO RUN WITH A NAKED WEREWOLF is available in print, ebook and audio at all major book retailers. For more information, go to mollyharper.com or simonandschuster.com.
Caleb Graham is a werewolf by nature, a tracker by profession. He uses his “extra gifts” to find people, and not always in the most legal or ethical manner. He doesn’t care what they’ve done, or who wants them found, as long as his considerable fee is paid. He likes his life simple and uncomplicated.
Anna Moder, former physician to Caleb’s pack, happens across Caleb during a particularly violent “negotiation” that has left him bloodied and unconscious. She helps him, despite the fact that he’s cost her a car, so he insists that she stay with him on the road for a while. As they grow closer, Anna looks past the gruff exterior and and the questionable job to thoroughly decent werewolf underneath.
Anna – who is careful to edit her involvement with Caleb’s pack from their conversations – doesn’t talk about why a nice girl wants to live in the middle of frozen nowhere, but she’s obviously on the run from something. When Anna’s past collides with Caleb’s current assignment from one of his sleazier contacts, Caleb finally has to make a choice—protect his job…or his potential mate?
Don’t forget to check out our review of How to Run with A Naked Werewolf HERE
A modern day author’s life varies greatly from the practises of say, an author writing thirty years ago. While Barbara Cartland would lay on her chaise lounge with her fluffy white dog in her lap and speak into a dictation machine, and P.D. James’ secretary would turn up at 10am every day to type up P.D.’s longhand, modern day authors are using voice recognition software to get the words down, while the others are pounding away on their laptops. Everything is quicker, if not instantaneous.
The first thing I do in the morning, after taking a forty five minute walk with my husband along the beach to clear my head, is check email and social media. Living in Australia, I’m always interested to see what’s come in overnight from the Northern Hemisphere and from our friends, two hours ahead of us, across the ditch in New Zealand. This means scrolling through Facebook and Twitter as well as reading my emails and preparing blog posts. And I haven’t even had breakfast yet.
My morning is usually spent editing my work from the day before. It helps to read it again after a good nights’ sleep. Some days, I spend an hour or two skyping with my grown up children who are living in the United States. Instantaneous.
Most things are a mere key stroke away, and for a writer, this is both awesome and distracting. The internet has forever changed the way we work and the way we interact, but what hasn’t changed is the need for writer’s to have discipline, the discipline of putting your butt in the recliner and getting the words down one way or another. Usually my afternoons are spent this way, trying to add words to my current WIP. And like everyone else on the planet, there are chores to do, messages to run and elderly parents to visit. Sometimes, it’s hard to find the hours to forge ahead, and some days are more successful than others. But there’s no way around exercising that discipline, because in the end the book is not going to write itself.
Six o’clock is wine o’clock in my house, and I usually begin thinking about getting started on dinner. If I’m not satisfied with my word count for the day, I’ll try getting some more words down at night, maybe after catching a TV program like Homeland or Hostages.
Then it’s time for bed, and like everyone else, it all begins again the next day.
About Lee Christine:
Lee Christine is a former legal practice manager and corporate trainer. An amateur songwriter in her teens, she is passionate about music, and plays the alto saxophone.
In 2011, In Safe Hands won first place in the Romance Writers of America Silicon Valley Gotcha Contest, followed in 2012 with first place in The Smoky Mountains Laurie Award and the East Texas Southern Heat Writing Contest. The novel also received a Commended in the 2012 Romance Writers of New Zealand Clendon Award.
In Safe Hands is Lee’s first novel, and she is currently writing her second, another gripping romantic suspense. She has two grown children, and lives in Newcastle, Australia. Learn more about Lee here
Smooth, seductive and savage: Lee Christine returns to the dark, criminal underbelly of Sydney with her follow-up to In Safe Hands.
Legal secretary Josephine Valenti has no idea why a notorious bikie president would be contacting her, but when he is murdered in front of her eyes, she knows that she is in very deep trouble. Fleeing to her home, she’s intercepted by Nate Hunter, a man she used to know and lust after…a man she used to care about.
However, Nate has changed. His leathers and his bike tell of a lifestyle that Josie can’t begin to accept or understand. His is a life of drugs, money laundering and prostitution.
Though, all is not what it seems, and Josie must fight harder than she ever has before — for the truth, for what’s right, and, ultimately for the man who still has a hold of her heart.
Goodreads praise for In Safe Hands: “This is a fabulous debut novel, expertly thought out and skilfully written with a passionate pair of main characters that both have hidden depths…I’m definitely looking forward to her next release!”
What makes a friendship? Over the years I have had “friends”, but their friendship waxes and wanes with time and circumstances. So what makes a true friendship? If you had asked me that question six months ago I probably would have answered that I had no idea. Now I look at friendship and realize it is a combination of things, and that true friendship is a very rare treasure.
Friendship by definition has a few different meanings, and it changes with different stages of your life. One thing in my research I found is that trust is typically linked with friendship. I must say I have quite a few friends, but I don’t trust easy, especially after having trust broken numerous times. But in acknowledging friendship, I don’t find it necessarily goes hand and hand with trust. I have childhood friends that although we can spend time together and have a great time, would I trust them with my life, with issues in my life that I need to talk through? No, not necessarily.
Can friendship be synonymous with love? I think a true friendship can, and it would involve trust. As someone who trusts very little, and keeps things internal without sharing, I find myself pondering this as I look at people in my life and my friendships. There are very few people in my life that I share the “true me” with. I am a very private person, and on top of rarely trusting anyone, it makes me keep to myself with walls in place to protect myself. Recently I came to a place in my existence where a childhood friend wandered back into my life. When sitting and talking, catching up, I found myself in a place of unfamiliar territory—at least unfamiliar in the last 25 years. I found myself transported back to a time of 25 years ago where this friend of mine and I were very close, and had the ability to talk about anything. There was trust, unbroken and pure trust. I found myself right back in that spot where I realized I trusted this person beyond anything else in the world. This was a person not only would I trust with my life, but with my utmost secrets – secrets of failure, disappointment and shame, and know that no matter what this person was on my side.
How can a friendship like this pick up where it left off after 25 years? How can a bond be so strong with someone that you haven’t had contact with in a quarter of a century? It baffles me, yet on the other hand, I’m thrilled to be back in contact with this friend, a kindred soul, who is the only one that knows me for who I truly am. And I have to say, it has been a relief and a time of relaxation to let the guard down and be myself. If you have a friend like this, a true friendship, consider it one of the greatest gift you can ever be given and enjoy it to the fullest.
CHLOE WILDER is newly pregnant and running from her abusive boyfriend. She needs a home more than ever before. Chloe takes refuge in Arden, Maine – a sleepy, coastal town where she finally thinks she can be safe. JAYDEN PETERSON abandoned his career as a city cop after accidentally shooting a child. Jayden quickly agrees to fill his father’s shoes as Arden’s police chief. Determined to protect his loved ones and unsure if he can ever pull his gun again, Jayden is relieved to stay where the worst crime that will ever happen is jaywalking – or so he thinks.
Except of TRUSTING LOVE:
Chloe Wilder shot up in bed. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands trying to adjust to the dim moonlight that filtered in through the closed blinds. Her heart raced as she took in the shadows that danced around the room. She swiped her hand across her face to wipe away the tears the nightmare left behind. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she hugged herself tight.
This same nightmare had become recurrent. Her arms wrapped around her waist, she whispered, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She pushed the covers off, jumped out of bed, and crossed to the window. It was dark except for the light of the moon. No street lights were lit. There was no better time than now.
She pulled on an old pair of sweat pants and a baggy sweater. She dragged an old tattered suitcase from the closet and started packing. A sense of urgency came upon her as she shoved in the last shirt and closed the suitcase. She glanced around the room and her eyes stopped on a picture of her parents. They held each other, smiling. It was obviously taken at a happy moment. She picked up the picture and looked closer. Sadness and shame overwhelmed her. Holding it close, Chloe closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness for the mistakes she had made in her life. Putting the picture in her purse, she picked up the suitcase and slipped through the door into the night.
She threw the old suitcase in the backseat of her beloved Toyota. The vehicle was on its last leg, but somehow it kept running. Chloe prayed it would take her far away from this town, and even further from all the pain. She needed a fresh start for her and her baby she vowed to protect.
Author Bio:
Emma Leigh Reed has lived in New Hampshire all her life. She has fond memories of the Maine coastline and incorporates the ocean into all her books. She lives in a small town with her three children, although now it is mostly her and her Springer Spaniel to keep her company as empty-nesting has started. Her life has been touched and changed by her son’s autism – she views life through a very different lens than before he was born. Growing up as an avid reader, it was only natural for Emma Leigh to turn to creating the stories for others to enjoy.
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A little about Vicky: 
