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Wednesday, February 27, 2019

New Release — All About Charming Alice (ROMANCE IN BLAKE’S FOLLY Book 2) by J. Arlene Culiner

Alice Treemont has given up hope of meeting the right man and falling in love. Living in Blake’s Folly, a semi-ghost town of rusting cars, old trailers, clapboard shacks and thirsty weeds, she spends her time cooking vegetarian meals, rescuing unwanted dogs, and protecting the most unloved creatures on earth: snakes. What man would share those interests? 

Jace Constant is in Nevada, doing research for his new book, but he won’t be staying long. As far as he’s concerned, Blake’s Folly is hell on earth. He’s disgusted by desert dust on his fine Italian shoes, and dog hair on his cashmere sweaters. As for snakes, he doesn’t only despise them: he’s terrified by them. He can hardly wait to get back to Chicago’s elegant women, fine dining, and contemporary art exhibitions.

So how is it possible that each time Alice and Jace meet, the air sizzles? That she’s as fascinated by him as he is by her? That they know their feelings go deeper than raw desire? Still, it looks like this relationship is doomed before it even starts.

In need of juicy gossip, the other 52 residents of Blake's Folly have decided Alice has been alone for long enough. The attraction between her and Jace is obvious, so why worry about essential differences? If you trust in love, solutions do appear. But don’t those solutions call for too many compromises, too much self-sacrifice?

EXCERPT


     The man turned, stared up at the house. His expression told her all she needed to know: he wasn’t exactly sneering, but he still looked incredulous. Okay, the house had no discernible style—not western, not Victorian, not anything—and some parts did look as though they were ready to fall to bits.

But there was beauty in the old place, too, she thought defiantly: large bay windows stared out at a bleakly beautiful landscape; an ancient rattan settee on the broad, wooden, somewhat sagging, veranda invited you to sit, relax, slow down. Take the time to look out at the dusty, bare hills, the endless sky. Think about life, wonder what all the hustle and noise was about.

     Alice shook herself, chased the silly thoughts out of her mind. Sure, that was the way she’d felt when she’d come out here, but why would a man like that one notice such things? Just look at him: tall, his tight muscular thighs were outlined by obviously expensive jeans, and his broad shoulders stretched out the worn brown leather of his jacket. He was—yes, she had to admit it—wonderful-looking. He also looked like a man with things to do, places to go. Definitely not the sort to waste admiration on the scenery in a one-flea community.
    “Come on, boy,” she heard him say, and watched as he strode up the hard path leading to the wooden porch, Killer loping behind him with meek resignation.
     Just before the man knocked on the door, Alice saw his eyes catch the sign pinned to the wooden framing: ROOM TO LET.
     He looked amused, now. Just as she’d known. He thought living out here was a great joke. She sighed. She even knew why he was knocking on her door. Wasn’t that obvious? He’d brought his dog, was about to abandon it. Yes, she knew, all right. She’d seen it all before, heard all the excuses people gave when they wanted to get rid of a loyal pet. Her house was usually crammed full of these canine rejects—until she managed to wheedle folks into adopting some of them.

      

Monday, February 25, 2019

February #blogabookscene & Excerpt from Give Me Tomorrow by Kaye Spencer #PrairieRosePubs #vampireromance



As February's #blogabookscene theme is "All You Need is Love", I am sharing a falling in love moment from my contemporary vampire/cowboy romance Give Me Tomorrow. This story is set in northeastern Colorado in 1990. The hero, Jax, is on the road with his thoroughbred racehorse transport service. The heroine, Lissa, has called his mobile phone with birthday wishes...



EXCERPT (PG)



Each mile was an eternity traveled in checking and re-checking his phone for the reassurance of service. His anticipation for Lissa’s call waned as the hours passed without hearing from her. While still a long way from Omaha, he pulled into a truck stop just as his phone rang. His hopes rose in the same instant he cursed the phone’s display for only showing Incoming Call and not an identifying number.

“This is Jax. Speak your business.”

“I hear you’re thirty‐seven today.” Lissa.

“Are you there? Jax?”

Clearing his throat, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. That’s right. Thirty‐seven. I’m getting to be an old man.”

She laughed. “You don’t know what old is. Where are you?”

“I’m at a truck stop between Chicago and Omaha to refuel and grab a bite to eat.” He rolled to a stop at a diesel pump and set the brakes. “Are you on call?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m on my way to the clinic now. I’ll likely be here the rest of the night.”

“Well, if you get a chance, give me a call. I’ll be on the road.”

“All right. If I can, I will, but don’t count on it. Anyway, I hope you’ve had a nice birthday.”

“Thanks. Not much opportunity to celebrate when you’re hauling horses from town to town.” He didn’t want her to hang up, so he grasped for anything to keep her talking.

“Mandy says you’re coming to supper on Saturday.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll get to meet my dad.” “Mandy mentioned that.”

“You know, calling and wishing me happy birthday makes me think you called on your personal phone instead of your work phone.”

Silence. He waited.

“You’re right. I did.”

She could have lied. He took it as a good sign that she didn’t. Jax grabbed a pen from the glove box and poised the tip over his palm. “So, what’s your number?”

More silence.

“Are you still—”

She recited the numbers.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Don’t abuse it.”

“You don’t want me to call you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Lissa?”

“Yes?”

Say it. Just say it. “I wish you were with me. I’ve missed you.”

Again, nothing from her end. He checked the service. Still connected. “Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Hesitation, then, “I’ve missed you, too, Jax.”

“How much?”

“More than is good for me. Don’t push your luck.”

The light lilting tone in her voice made him smile. He didn’t know what giddiness felt like, but he was pretty sure it must be close to how he felt right then.

“Jax, I’ve reached the clinic. I have to go.”

“Yeah, sure. It was good talking to you. See you Saturday.”

Leaning back in his seat, he sat there staring at the center of the steering wheel as he worked her words around in his head. She admitted it. She misses me. And it sounded like she wasn’t just saying the words. She meant it. His slow grin turned to a full-blown smile.

A full thermos of coffee, an extra sandwich and chips for the road, and the tanks full of diesel, Jax hit the highway. Light‐hearted and counting off the miles, he turned up the volume on the classic country music radio station and sang his way homeward on Interstate 80. It was somewhere west of Grand Island when he realized he was in love.

I’ll be a son of a bitch.



GIVE ME TOMORROW
Available on Amazon.com



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Until next time,

Kaye Spencer
Writing through history one romance upon a time











Saturday, February 23, 2019

Fire Star Press: The Book Tour: Episode One

Fire Star Press: The Book Tour: Episode One: How It All Started Hungarian village street             It was an icy winter, and I was holed up in a four-hundred-year-old st...

Thursday, February 21, 2019

The Book Tour: Episode One


How It All Started


Hungarian village street
            It was an icy winter, and I was holed up in a four-hundred-year-old stone house in a small French village. Two months before, I had run away from Hungary, from a love story I no longer believed in. Now, huddled beside a wood-burning stove, I was writing a mystery, Death by Slanderous Tongue, on the kitchen table, incorporating into the tale, all the pleasant and unpleasant characters around me, much local gossip, and the strange goings-on that, when put in the right — or wrong — context, could lead to a (fictional) murder.

I was filled with longing — for published books, for recognition as an author, for warmer weather, for candle-lit dinners and a wonderful new romance, for something unusual to take place. Of course, all of those things do require an impossible alignment of lucky stars, and that never happens in my universe.

I had already had two books published: my romance, Felicity’s Power, had been released by, Power of Love, in Australia, but the company had folded three months later. My non-fiction book, Finding Home: in the Footsteps of the Jewish Fusgeyers, had been published the preceding autumn. It was a project that had taken me six years of research in the archives of Romania, Austria, Germany, Holland, England, France, the USA, and Canada; the learning of a new language (Yiddish) so I could translate documents; much uncomfortable travel on buses and trains; and the crossing of Romania on foot. Then, came the hard work of writing, the torture of book proposals, and the discouraging rejection letters. However, the manuscript did soon find a welcome home at the now-defunct Sumach Press, in Toronto.

Finding Home received a few excellent reviews, but it earned no money. No surprise. Not earning money is nothing new in my life: I never did figure out how to do it, and I’m too old, and too ornery, to learn now. So, there I was, freezing, poor, living in a very unromantic French village. Understandably, life seemed rather flat, eventless. Thus, the murder mystery to cheer me up.

It was on a late Thursday afternoon that the telephone rang. It was Rémy — he’s a sculptor, a friend, a cultural attaché who had arranged several of my art exhibitions over the years.
“How do you feel about going to Egypt for eight days? It won’t cost you anything: free flight, free food, free travel, free hotel.”
“Sounds fine to me.” (I knew he was joking, of course.)
“Okay, we leave on Saturday morning.” He didn’t sound as though he were joking. “If you need a visa, you’d better get to Paris right away.”
“Oh come on. What’s the gimmick?”
“No gimmick. Just yes, or no. If you aren’t interested, I have to know right away. Now.
“But what…”
“I’ll explain when we’re on the plane. Yes, or no?”

I took a train to Paris, almost three hundred kilometers away— sometimes you just have to take risks — and got myself to the Egyptian Embassy. I was lucky. Normally, obtaining a visa took three days, but I would have one that afternoon: there had been a terrorist bombing in Cairo and, at the moment, tourists were very thin on the ground. I then went out to the edge of Paris where Rémy had arranged I spend the night in a circus trailer. Yes, I know, dear reader. This all sounds so unlikely. Like some romantic, highly unbelievable fiction. But it’s all true, I swear it is. Rémy’s son had his own, very original circus, and one of the trailers happened to be empty. No, there was no heating. Yes, the bed was a lumpy affair. Yes, there was running water, but it was in a washhouse way out in the back of beyond. However, the accommodation was free (I did mention that money and I don’t often meet), and I got to watch a wonderful circus performance.

On Saturday morning, I joined Rémy out at the airport. He was with a small group of friends — three sculptors, two painters, a blue-eyed pastelist, an art photographer, his wife, and an art critic I knew from way back — he was a very slimy guy. I did like the blue-eyed pastelist, however.

With Rémy
On the plane, Rémy told me his story: he had originally planned to go on this trip with his mistress of the moment (he has always had a string of mistresses) but she’d left him the week before after he’d made it clear he wouldn’t be leaving his wife. Now, he was broken-hearted. He had already paid for the mistress of the moment’s ticket to Egypt, for the hotels; weeks before, he’d told his wife he would be traveling with the art critic and a few artist friends — so he definitely couldn’t announce now that he’d suddenly found a ticket for her. But, why let that ticket go to waste? Besides, Rémy needed a shoulder to cry on: mine.



 In Egypt, the days passed very pleasantly. We all went to museums, traveled to a few towns, spent hours (as the French do) over long lunches in shady gardens, drinking wine, discussing art at great length, and with much-heated debate — French artists do like doing that sort of thing. I flirted a bit with the blue-eyed pastelist, and although he was polite, he wasn’t encouraging. We went to visit Egyptian friends of the critic, and they all lived in crowded back apartments; we took slow boats across the Nile to other shady gardens where we dined, drank wine, and discussed art at great length, and with much-heated debate. In the evenings, after wonderful dinners, a considerable amount of wine, and many fiery discussions about art, we strolled through the streets. Then, we’d bid each other goodnight and go to our rooms (the slimy art critic always suggested I join him in his — he was not an easily-discouraged man). I, of course, was sharing Rémy’s room — the one he would have stayed in with his mistress — but not his bed (we really are just friends). And, each night, he waxed on about the mistress, about how much he loved her, missed her, about how wonderful his wife was etc. The usual.
With Jacques, sculptor
 
 Then, suddenly, something very strange happened (very strange in my life, anyway.) Somewhere out in that very distant universe, a few stars aligned.

It was the day before we were due to leave. Not quite lunch time, we were all sitting in the shade outside a café in some forgotten town along the Nile, and, as usual, discussing art at great length. Rather bored, I looked across the road and noticed a sign: cyber café. Announcing I was going to check my mail (the French artists I know have no modern cell phones, and they don’t travel with computers), I crossed the street, entered the café, paid my money, and went online.

The blue-eyed pastelist at work

Which was when I discovered that my publisher had written to announce I had just been awarded the Tanenbaum literary prize for Canadian history, and I was to fly to Toronto for the awards ceremony. I would then go on to speak at book festivals in a few cities.

I don’t know how many times I read that letter; how many times I checked that it really had been sent to me; that it had been sent by my publisher — I mean, things like this don’t happen to me. Stunned, I finally managed to stagger back outside into the sunshine, to lurch across the road, to announce what had happened.

Heated discussion about art stopped immediately. Everyone stared. Then, they began to cheer. Someone — was it Rémy? — flagged down a donkey cart filled with sacks of grain, and, pushed me into it. The blue-eyed pastelist jumped in beside me, handed the ancient and confused driver some money, and we were off, clomping through town with the group of artists walking beside us, cheering. It was quite a moment. All my hard work had paid off. I was on the dizzying heights. Finally. Well… sort of…

Okay, my publisher was a small one, there was probably no luxury in sight, but I vowed I would use this opportunity to the full: I would criss-cross America, go on long book tours, meet readers, writers, talk, see places. Wasn’t that exciting? True, I would be back on those miserable all-night buses and trains again; I would probably stay in dreary hostels; in Toronto, I would be sleeping on a cot at my step-sister’s, sharing the back room with the cat’s litter box. Did any of that matter? Of course not. I was a recognized writer. I had won a much-coveted prize.

Yes, I know what you’re waiting for. You want a love story. That evening before we left Egypt, the blue-eyed pastelist discovered I wasn’t Rémy’s wife or his girlfriend (after all, we were sleeping in the same room), and he wanted to know if I would have dinner with him once we arrived in Paris. And, if I needed a place to stay, he could always put me up…

Of course, we all know that stars don’t stay neatly aligned for forever. But, dear reader, just in case you’re wondering, the blue-eyed pastelist and I are still together after all this time. As for reading about the book tour, you’ll just have to wait for next month’s Episode Two. In the meantime, take a peek at all my delicious books right here: http://j-arleneculiner.com/page-2-book-0.html




Sunday, February 17, 2019

FOODIE MAZATLAN, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

I'd like to take a detour today from the bump and grind of writing to a recent vacation of mine, a trip to Mazatlan, Mexico. Back in the day, these trips were filled with drinking and reverie; today the high points often center on food.

 

 

Good food begins with a trip to the downtown mercado.



 

Fresh fruit and vegetables, grown locally.



Mazatlan is also known for its seafood. Good restaurants have a fine assortment of dinners.


The cat looks on.



Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Valentine's Day Traditions by Angela Crider Neary


The history of Valentine’s Day and its patron saint is shrouded in mystery.  Legend has it that St. Valentine of Rome defied Emperor Claudius II’s orders and secretly married couples to spare the husbands from war.  He was arrested and imprisoned.  While awaiting execution, he fell in love with the jailer’s daughter and sent her a love note, which became the first Valentine’s card.   

Valentine’s Day as it is celebrated now is a bit of a controversial holiday if you ask me.  Some, like my husband in particular, believe it is a forced “Hallmark” holiday, or a corporate marketing ploy, where any gift or card is rendered devoid of meaning since you're damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.  If you fail to acknowledge the holiday at all, you may risk hurting your significant other’s feelings.  If you buy the typical card, flowers, or candy, this might be considered insincere or to lack originality.  

I can see where those with this mindset are coming from, but I don’t buy into it.  For me, any opportunity for a fun celebration or activity is good enough for me - especially if it involves the above-mentioned flowers and candy.  Also, how could an opportunity to remind someone of your love for them be bad?  It has been my delight over the years to send Valentine’s cards, not only to my significant other, but also to my parents, relatives, and friends, just to remind them that they are special to me.  And I’m sure many remember those grade school days when you filled out a card for each member of your class and dropped it in his or her decorated bag or basket.  

So, even if my husband refuses to celebrate, he will be getting a card and likely a small token of my great affection.  I read a statistic saying that women buy approximately 85 percent of all Valentines, so I won’t feel too bad if I don’t get one, myself.  

One year, I made chocolate truffles.


Another, I took my husband out for Champagne and oysters.


Yet another, I bought Valentine-themed soap and candles.


Last year on February 12, I experienced the horrible loss of my father.  Of course, Valentine’s Day was nowhere on my list of priorities.  In fact, I found myself in the drug store that week and was startled by all of the festive pink and red decorations that were, of course, in stark contrast to my bleak mindset.  That was probably the only year I haven’t celebrated or acknowledged Valentine’s Day in some form or fashion.  With the anniversary weighing heavily, maybe just what I need is a light-hearted holiday to take my mind off of things, even if just for a moment.  I decided to get a head start.  

I bought myself a pink “Love” T-Shirt.


And some festive heart socks.


I also received some beautiful flowers from some wonderful friends.


In the reading department, there are many Valentine’s-themed anthologies out there, as well as tons of romance novels that can easily fit the bill.  For my pick this year, I recently discovered HEARTS AND SPURS, a Prairie Rose Publications collection of nine Valentine’s Day love stories of the old west by some excellent western romance writers:  Kathleen Rice Adams, Linda Broday, Tracy Garrett, Tanya Hanson, Sarah J. McNeal, Phyliss Miranda, Cheryl Pierson, Jacquie Rogers, and Livia J. Washburn.  Kindle version only $.99!  



Do you have any special Valentine’s Day traditions?  Any plans for celebrating the holiday this year?



Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li'l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos, by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.  Her second book, Li'l Tom and the Case of the New Year Dragon is now available.  To learn more, visit her on Facebook and Amazon.

Saturday, February 9, 2019

Book Review: A Heart for a Heart by Cheryl Pierson

Valentine's Day is coming up, and what better way to start getting in the mood than with a book! :) 

25607781

Blurb:

Kiera Leslie is all set to welcome Cory Tiger into her home as a foster child. Orphaned and with a learning disability, Cory is looking forward to living with his tutor. Until his uncle shows up...

Sam Tiger returns from military duty to find his deceased brother's son being taken in by a stranger. The boy needs his family—and Sam is it. He never expects the tutor to stand up to him and want to keep Cory. Then the worst happens—he finds himself attracted to Kiera.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Cupid’s got deadly aim!

My Review:

This is a sweet quicky insta-love story perfect to entertain for an hour or two.

I love reading short stories that still manage to give me a connection to the characters and not just fill the pages with lust. This story delivers!

Sam and Kiera have a special connection through Cory, both wanting the best for the boy. And just in time, the best for everyone is found. I loved Kiera's soft heart and gentle, vulnerable spirit. Sam totally was swoony with his protective instincts and honor.

My favorite moments? The first time Sam holds Kiera in his arms and then later, their first kiss. Both are sweetly real (read: almost awkward before the spark) and just sweetly perfect.

Purchase links:


Wednesday, February 6, 2019

What's Going On?



WARNING: This rant, I mean post, contains spoilers for the following movies:  A Quiet Place, The Happening, The Bird Box, and How It Ends
 
If you are interested in any viewing any of those movies but haven’t, continue reading at your own risk.

This month I’m ranting about my newest pet peeve in movies. All movies start with a script/story and as such have a beginning, a middle, and an end. During the course of the story some issue(s) is/are resolved, i.e. the murderer is caught, the heroine gets her happily-ever-after, the dog finds its way home, etc. However, two of the four movies I listed above leave gaping holes in the plot and numerous issues unresolved. So, what’s the point of the movie?

Let’s start with A Quiet Place. Out of all of the movies listed above, it is the only one I liked. I enjoy movies about humanity struggling to survive against all odds and this one told the story well. It opens in a greatly changed world where what’s left of humanity is struggling to survive knowing that any noise can result in an immediate and messy death. What a great concept! The movie centers on a family who is not only trying to survive in this new world but also attempting to raise children, one of whom is deaf, and give them somewhat normal lives. Naturally, their attempts are met with varying levels of success; all stories need some level of conflict/difficulty to keep it interesting. However, during the course of the movie you get hints of what caused the disaster by getting glimpses of obviously non-human creatures haunting the countryside. Then, by the end of the movie, the family has stumbled across a tool that can be used to fight back. Not only does this tool aid them in their time of need, it’s something that can be scaled up and used world-wide. All in all, a creative story told well.

The Happening is similar. Humanity is being destroyed by an unknown foe. To some extent the story was well told and suspenseful. However, when you reach the end and learn that the trees did it (yes, you read that right), it suddenly becomes two hours of your life you will never get back and a preachy lecture on eco/environmentalism. Is there anything inherently wrong about wanting to protect our world and all of the plants, animals, etc. that inhabit it? Absolutely not. I am extremely eco-concious but this was way too over the top for me. The trees did it? Seriously?

Image courtesy of www.depositphotos.com
 
Next up, The Bird Box. Sigh. After all of the hype around this movie, I expected much, much better. I was greatly disappointed. The Bird Box is basically A Quiet Place with the addition of blindfolds and gaping plot holes. Never are you told what caused the phenomena causing people to commit suicide. Is it aliens? You never see one. The only shadowy shape glimpsed against a covered window is quite humanoid. Are the trees rebelling again? Maybe. The only indication that the villains are about to strike is a sudden gust of wind. And the ending? Somewhat touching but incomplete. The group of travelers reaches safety. The End. Wait. What? Yes. They are safe but only temporarily. It’s only a matter of time before their safe haven is discovered by the humans under the thrall of the unknown aliens/trees. Do the folks running the safe haven have enough blindfolds to go around? A bunker for everyone to shelter in? Weapons and ammo to fight off the bad guys? (Based on the safe haven, the answer to all of those questions is a resounding NO!) And who is working on a way to fight back and end the conflict? Apparently no one. An unsatisfying movie all around in my opinion. And don’t even get me started on the so-called Bird Box Challenge. *uses mom voice* Don’t be stupid. Just don’t.

How It Ends. I have seen zero hype for this movie, and after watching it, I understand why. I sort of stumbled across it on Netflix and thought it sounded interesting (and it had five stars) so I watched. What a mistake. When the move opens we learn that our hero, whom I shall call Mr. Metrosexual (or MM for short), and his girlfriend are expecting. Now they have to break the news to her parents. MM does not care for his soon to be father-in-law; the two have nothing in common. (Welcome to reality movie dude.) Almost father-in-law is former military, loves his country, and has no problem with owning guns; Mr. Metrosexual with his custom suits, shiny shoes, and fancy car, can’t get behind any of that. As luck would have it, Mr. Metrosexual is grudgingly visiting his girlfriend’s family on the east coast when the never explained disaster strikes, knocking out the power grid, all but sporadic communications, and stranding the pregnant girlfriend on the west coast. MM and almost father-in-law grudgingly agree to work together to drive across country to rescue the girlfriend. Mr. Metrosexual is horrified that not only is his almost father-in-law packing heat but he expects him to do so as well. Oh the humanity! It only takes one looting and near car-jacking to get Mr. Metrosexual to rethink his stance on guns. Once again, there is zero information given as to what is actually causing the earthquakes, storms, et cetera. Is the world under attack by aliens? Has the planet had enough abuse and decided to rid itself of the annoying parasites living on its surface? Who knows? Certainly not the viewers. Even worse is that over the course of the three or so days covered by the movie, Mr. Metrosexual goes from almost fainting at the sight of a gun to taking out bad guys with perfect head shots – from a moving vehicle. Oh, give me a break. *gags* So, of course, when our hero reaches the west coast, the city his girlfriend is in is nothing but rubble. She, of course, has survived with the help of a somewhat mentally unbalanced neighbor. When the movie ends, the couple is in a car, speeding down a highway as yet another earthquake destroys the road behind them. How does this resolve anything? It doesn’t. What. Is. Going. On? Are they just going to keep driving forever hoping to outrun whatever comes their way? Good luck with that. I’m pretty sure neither of them knows how to siphon fuel andgasp—there are no functioning gas stations. For a movie named How It Ends it tells you absolutely nothing about how it ends.
 
Thanks for listening to me vent. I feel better now, LOL. What are your pet peeves in movies or books?
 

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