Subscribe to My Newsletter!

Thursday, September 23, 2021

All People Make Mistakes

Wooden Cross on the Beach at Ocean Grove, New Jersey

 
All people make mistakes. Some won't admit their mistakes. Some make excuses for their missteps. A segment of the population seeks to blame their errors on others.

On the other hand, there are those who spend their lives crippled by guilt, which isn't healthy and there are people who burdened with mental heath issues. 

A lot of us are in very sad shape. This makes it easy for a writer--in any genre--to find characters for their novels. The characters could be tortured heroes or depraved villains or anyone with a checkered past. 

But I find it rather satisfying to write Christian fiction because--in the end--there is hope. Christ died on the cross for everyone. God really does love us--imperfect though we all may be. 

If you're looking for a dose of hope, buy a Christian novel. Pelican Book Group publishes my books under their Prism imprint. but they offer many others, too. There is a large variety and there are plenty of sales as well. Many are available through Kindle Unlimited. 

Buy a good book today!




Thursday, September 16, 2021

Unity

You can see it if you look closely. Printed on our United States currency you can find the Latin words, "E pluribus unum." Translated it means, "Out of many, one." In other words, despite our country's many states, races, ideologies, and regional differences, we are united. Most of the time, it doesn't seem that way. We proclaim ourselves as Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, Northerners or Southerners, white collar workers or blue collar workers, Christians, Jews, or Atheists. We divide ourselves with labels. Out of the tragedy of September 11, 2001, there was one big miracle. We were all united. The feeling did not last long, but it was there for a time. The churches were full, the flags were flying, we were all listening to patriotic music--we were all Americans. It is sad that we have since returned to putting ourselves back into our respective corners, keeping ourselves separated from each other and denigrating the other side.

Yes, I labeled myself into my little corner, too. However, I do mingle (as every writer should) and I do my best to be open-minded. As my father always said, "Live and let live." May we always strive for unity, for that is where our strength lies.

Thursday, September 09, 2021

Sunshine in My Life

I became a grandma recently and I am quite delighted. I’ve been helping my daughter—mostly by holding the baby so she could do something else. I sing songs to my new grandchild when she’s alert, which isn’t often considering she mostly just wants to eat and sleep. But this tiny child has brought a ray of sunshine into my world. After eighteen months of COVID-19, it is a welcome shot of hope.

I haven't been writing much, but I'm sure I'll get back to it with renewed energy when things settle down. Perhaps I'll have a few new plot ideas as well. After all, I started writing in earnest when I was raising my own children so long ago. In my case, motherhood brought my artistic tendencies into full flower. 

But for now, I'm basking in the warmth of a bundle of joy. 


 

Thursday, September 02, 2021

Letters

Once upon a time, a long distance phone call used to be a rare occasion due to the expense. So I wrote letters--real, handwritten breezy little missives--to my near and dear to keep in touch. I wrote to my brother and his wife. I wrote to my aunt. I wrote to my parents and my sisters when I was in Italy one summer. When I returned home, my mother handed me all the letters I had written to her. What a treasure!

Many years ago before she died, my mother found another letter tucked away somewhere and gave it to me. I had written to Mom and my sister when they were visiting my grandmother in western Pennyslvania. I had written it only a few weeks before my hubby and I were married. Using a fountain pen and my best handwriting, I rambled on about the bargains I had found such as my white, wedding shoes for $9.

I told them about the bedroom furniture arriving in the house hubby and I would soon share. I had spent the whole day waiting for the furniture to arrive and had met one of the neighbors.

Then I told them about the wedding shower hubby's family gave me in Brooklyn. I listed all the wonderful gifts I received, but I knew very few people in his family at that time and told my mother I felt like an orphan since none of my own family was there. (A few weeks later, my family threw another shower for me.)

Reading the letter, I realize now how young and naive I was. I have changed--a bit. 😁

Too bad very few people write letters anymore. E-mail is not quite the same.

Thursday, August 26, 2021

The Deleted Prologue of IRONS IN THE FIRE

Initially, I wrote Irons in the Fire with a prologue. I like prologues, but some people don't. Evidently, most agents and editors hate prologues and consider them the mark of a rank amateur. However, my agent took me on as a client on the basis of that book with the prologue.


When I received a contract for Irons in the Fire from New Concepts Publishing, the editor told me to cut the prologue. Deleting my precious beginning hurt, but I did it and dropped the information throughout the rest of the story. Nevertheless, the Advanced Reading Copy contained the prologue and with it the book received a Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award nomination.

Go figure.

I made the Advanced Reading Copy which I sent to Romantic Times for review. That copy was later put up for sale on Amazon.😀 I made it with my own two hands and decorated the cover with a sprig of yarrow from my garden. It was beautiful!

So for those who still think prologues can be a nice addition to a book, I give you the original beginning of Irons in the Fire.


Prologue

Catherine Mullaney knew she couldn't expect a party on her sixteenth birthday. Still, she walked home from school in a bleak drizzle dreaming of a frothy, white-iced cake with pink roses and blazing candles. And butter pecan ice cream, too.

Before she reached home, the drizzle changed to rain and soaked her jacket. Shivering in the hall outside the apartment, she stood with her hand on the knob and took in a ragged breath. Why couldn't somebody else's father have Alzheimer's disease? Why did it have to be her father who acted like a stranger? She never knew what to expect when she walked in the door.

Fighting back a wave of despair, she squared her shoulders, deciding that if Dad could simply remember who she was, that alone would make the day special. However, what she saw as she stepped into the room made her gasp. Their once neat and orderly home looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. Her backpack slid out of her grasp as her gaze swept over the destruction. A pain squeezed at her heart. Where was Dad?

Magazines, cushions and newspapers lay scattered in every direction. Even lamps and chairs had been overturned. Heart thundering, she picked her way through the chaos. When she heard a furious muttering coming from the corner behind the upended sofa, fear knotted in her stomach.

Barely breathing and moving with feline stealth, she inched closer to the sofa. When she peered around the edge and saw her father on the floor methodically ripping apart a wicker basket, a sense of relief flowed through her, though the little comfort she found in his presence was tinged with sorrow. Once he had been Ed Mullaney, the famous syndicated columnist, loved by the American people, a sensible voice in every crisis whether political or mundane. Now, weakened and sick, there seemed little left of him except the shell.

"Daddy?" She patted his shoulder, but he didn't look at her. He continued to tear the basket to shreds. Her throat tightened, and tears pricked at the back of her eyes.

"Witches," he muttered. "Witches and hands. Terrible bloody hands."

A shiver went up Catherine's spine. "Daddy, what happened?"

His hands stilled above the shredded ruin of the basket. He frowned and turned his gaze on her, his eyes wide and staring. "Fiona!" he roared.

"I'm not Mama!" Catherine backed away, tears spilling from her eyes.

Her father struggled to his feet and snatched at her hands, squeezing them until they hurt.

"Fiona!" He howled like a wounded animal.

"Stop it!" Catherine fought to get her hands free of his strong grip. "Let me go! I'm going to call Uncle Mike." She broke away and dashed for the telephone. Her father came after her. When she picked up the receiver, he lunged at her.

Dodging him, she ran out of the apartment. Despite the driving rain, she kept on running, not caring anymore, trying only to rid herself of the anger and hurt.

By nightfall, soaked to the skin and numb, she huddled in the shadows of an old pier. Across the Hudson River, the lights blinked and went out on the Jersey side. The rain stopped. She glanced up at the clouds racing along toward the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. With the moon behind them, the clouds looked like blue ghosts.

She stared into the black gloom around her. Nobody. Even New York's homeless people had vanished with the rain. She felt tired, cold, and hungry; but she couldn't go back--ever. It hurt too much to know that Daddy would never be the same again. A fresh torrent of tears rolled down her cheeks. Uncle Mike would have to find someone to look after her father.

She rubbed her arms and decided to search for a better shelter. A few blocks away, she discovered a dumpy restaurant that still had all the lights burning. She reached into her pocket and drew out four dollars, enough for a bagel and a hot cup of tea.

As the only customer, she sat on a stool by the counter.

"You run away?" the owner asked in heavily accented English. The gaze from his almond-shaped eyes fastened on her.

"No." She smiled, hoping he couldn't heart her heart pounding. "I'm in a Broadway show."

"Broadway...hmmm." He wiped the counter top and grinned.

Her stomach tightened. The man didn't believe her. She moved over to the next stool, closer to the window that looked out onto the street. In the dim light she watched as another man slid a steel cover over the front of the pharmacy next door, closing up for the night.

With the hot tea warming her, she recalled her last visit to the clinic with her father. She had questioned the doctor about a new experimental drug for Alzheimer's patients. She'd read about the treatment in the New York Times. The doctor had informed her that her father had progressed too far in the disease and had refused to prescribe it.

To Catherine, even a little improvement in her father's condition would be a miracle. She couldn't understand why the doctor didn't agree with her. A risky plan of action began to form in her mind. It seemed her only hope.

When the restaurant owner lugged out his garbage for tomorrow's pickup, Catherine pocketed a knife from the counter and hopped off the stool. She dashed to the back of the restaurant. Pushing open the heavy steel exit, she stepped out into a small yard littered with debris. Sharp slivers of glass sparkled in the light streaming through the restaurant's back window.

She heard an ominous click as the door behind her automatically locked shut. Her knees went weak as a wave of doubt swept over her, and she leaned back against the door for support. She intended to commit a crime to get the new medication that the doctor would not prescribe. If she wanted her father to be well, she had to go against the law to help him get better.

She looked up into the midnight sky and fought back tears. "I'm doing this for you, Dad."

A chain link fence separated the restaurant's backyard from that of the pharmacy. Drawing in a deep breath and thankful that she'd worn her jeans, she climbed over the fence. She tugged at the back door to the drug store. Naturally, it didn't budge an inch. She stepped back to study the situation. There had to be a way in, and she had all night to find it.

The squeaky hinges on the restaurant door sent her pulse thundering. She scurried for cover behind a wall of cardboard boxes.

"Hey! Little lady!" The restaurant's proprietor called out. "Is not allowed to go back here!" The man muttered to himself in his native tongue. She heard the crunch of the broken glass and the rattle of the chain link fence. Curling up as small as she could behind the boxes, she held onto the Celtic cross around her neck and said a prayer.

When the restaurant door slammed shut again, Catherine peeked over the edge of her hideout. He was gone. Weak with relief, she heaved a sigh.

She began a thorough inspection of the pharmacy. The fire escape loomed way too high. She tapped the steel doors that covered the entrance to the cellar and smiled when they shook slightly. Kneeling down, she used the knife to try and wedge the lock open. However, the knife kept slipping in her cold hands.

Icy water from a small hollow in the doors trickled onto her fingers. Unexpectedly, the metal of the lock gleamed with an eerie brightness as the last of the clouds fled from the face of the moon.

Catherine turned to look at the glowing orb and felt a strange dizziness take hold of her. She turned back to the puddle, touched it with her hand, and saw the moon's reflection ripple in the water. An odd shiver ran through her with lightning speed, numbing first her hands, then her arms, until finally, her entire body froze in a rigid grip of terror. The world about her was replaced by a dark, empty void. A roaring filled her ears as she felt herself sucked backward through space.

Then the spinning stopped. Although Catherine couldn't see anything, she sniffed the aura of musty wool around her. Her pulse beat frantically. Where was she? She put her hand out and felt a stucco wall and the shapes of hanging clothes. She was in a closet. The closet in the cottage--in Ireland--and she was two years old.

She hated the closet. She hated the dark. And she hated Mama's screams. Frightened, Catherine wanted to cry, but Mama had told her to be quiet. A small stream of light came from a crack in the door and she knelt down to look out into the room.

There was a man in the room with Mama, but it wasn't Daddy. The man hit Mama and made her cry. He hit her again and again. Mama screamed and Catherine wanted to scream, too, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. Then Mama's screams stopped.

The air in the closet grew stale. Catherine pushed her hand against the closet door. It opened a little and she saw the man with blood on his hands. He cursed and put his hand up against the side of his head. Part of his ear had been cut off.

The man cursed again, louder. Catherine sank deep into the closet. Through the crack, she could still see the man. He picked up Mama and carried her out of the house.

Everything became very quiet. Catherine wanted Mama. She cried but Mama didn't come. She crawled out of the closet. The floor was covered with red. And in a basket by the door, she found Mama's hands.

Wailing, like the high-pitched keening of the banshees surrounded her. Fear spiraled in her. She wanted to escape, to leave the horrible nightmare.

Then the vision faded. Blackness swallowed her up and hurled her back through the terrible void. She collapsed, weak and trembling on the cold, steel doors behind the pharmacy.

Confused about what had happened, Catherine thought she must be going crazy, too, just like Dad. Her stomach churned as a sob lodged in her throat. She bit down on her lower lip to stifle any sound. She had to get that medicine. If the drug couldn't help her father, maybe it could prevent her from coming down with the same horrible illness.

With a wildness born of desperation, she grabbed the steel bars that covered the window and shook them. They didn't budge. She yanked at the bars, and slammed her body up against them. Finally, she took the knife and hacked at the wooden sill.

The tinkling of glass warned her. She whirled around and froze. Her heart stopped as she stared down the muzzle of a gun in the hands of a very big cop.

"Put your hands up. Slowly," he said.

Check out the latest edition of Irons in the Fire at http://amzn.com/B0112J0KIE

Thursday, August 19, 2021

Which Books Would You Read Again?

Once, when I was looking for a few excerpts for a talk about strong heroines, I picked up this old book. I bought it eons ago--already used. Despite the picture on the cover, the heroine is very strong-willed. My children were quite young when I first read it. Once I opened the cover, I could not stop reading it. I remember sitting in the rocking chair and reading it in a rush and enjoying every moment.

It became a keeper.

When I intended to casually glance through it and pick out a few choice quotes for my talk, I got caught up in the story--again. I could not put it down until I had reread the whole thing.

I've read Jane Eyre several times, too. I know there are readers who hate that book, but to each his/her own. Jane Eyre is another book on my keeper shelf.

What are your favorites? Which books would you read a second time? Or a third time?

Thursday, August 12, 2021

Palisades Interstate Park

Hubby and I have been seriously lacking adventures during this pandemic--but we didn't want to go too far away. We decided to make a trip to the Palisades Interstate Park. Neither of us had ever visited it and it wasn't too far away. However, we went on a Friday during the summer which meant we were bound to hit traffic at some point. Also it was going to be a rather hot day. 

We arrived just in time for lunch at the Lookout Inn. I ordered the jumbo hotdog with sauerkraut. That was the best hotdog I've eaten in a long time. We sat outside at a picnic table to eat. There are plenty of picnic tables. There are other picnic areas as well, but we did not visit any of those. 

By that point, the temperature was climbing. I took lots of photos of the area. The views from the top of the cliff are impressive. Lots of solid rock and the wide Hudson River. 

As I was wandering around with my camera, another couple waved me to where they were standing. They were taking photos of a peregrine falcon sitting on a branch. They even moved aside so I could get a better view. 

There are many, many different areas of the park and many, many trails. I think it would be a better place to visit in the fall--when the temperature is more conducive to long hikes. 

Seeing the cliffs from the water would be great, too. There are docking and boat launch facilities in the park. We saw several boats and jet skis cruising along the river from where we stood at the top of the cliff. 

One sailboat in particular intrigued me. It looked familiar. When we got home and I showed the photos to my daughter, she told me it looked familiar because it was the Clearwater! We took our children to many of the Clearwater Festivals in NJ when they were young. So nice to see it floating along on the Hudson River. 

It would be nice to go back and check out the docks at the park, or even go to a fishing area and watch folks fishing. Or to do a little hiking when the weather cools down. I really wanted to see the Women's Federation Monument, but it was simply too hot to tramp through the woods. 

Of course, as I expected, we were tied up in traffic on the way home, but we had Bruce Springsteen's Seeger Sessions CD playing so we sang along. 

NJ has some beautiful scenery and the Palisades Interstate Park is a great place to see. It was a good, though short adventure.