DADDY WANTED is up for an award, but only if you vote for it. PRG reviewers nominated their favorite books for 2013, but readers are the ones who will determine the winners.
My paternal grandfather was a milkman in Jersey City. In the photo above, he's the second man from the left with the cap on his head. He supported his family--three sons and a wife--with his wages. The job was difficult due to the hours because my grandfather delivered the milk in the wee hours of the morning. However, his family got plenty of milk, eggs, and other dairy products as a bonus, which was a good deal during the Depression.
My father sometimes went along with my grandfather. Dad said the horse knew the route. The horse would stop in front of the correct houses all the time.
Eventually, trucks replaced the horses but my grandfather continued to deliver milk until he retired. He owned a two-family house and a car. Being a milkman provided him and his family with a good life.
I'm wishing you health, happiness, and economic stability in the year ahead. For me, 2013 had some major good moments because two of my books were published. In 2014, Patriot's Heart is slated to be released in February. I'm a happy writer. :-)
In case you were busy this year and missed reading some of my blog posts, I thought you might be interested in seeing the ones that received the most hits. I thank all who stopped in for a look around.
I appreciate the comments, too.
1. With over 3,400 views My Thumb and the Synovial Cyst must have struck a chord with many readers. Or maybe a lot of people have the same problem. Check it out at the link:
2. Celebrating the Release of DADDY WANTED with a Contest received over 1800 views. I think that was due to the fact that it was a contest. It's nice to win something. However, that contest is over. If you want to enter another contest go here:
These are my favorite dinner rolls! I found the recipe a long time ago in the Better Homes and Gardens magazine. My precious clipping is encased in a plastic sleeve, but I found the recipe online when I went looking for it.
Try these. They are delicious and not much work at all. Besides, there is nothing like a yeast bread baking in the oven. It makes the whole house smell wonderful. :-)
Dinner Rolls Italiano
3-1/2 to 4 cups all-purpose flour 2 packages active dry yeast 1-1/2 teaspoons Italian seasoning 1 cup milk 1/2 cup water 2 tablespoons sugar 2 tablespoons butter or margarine, plus 2 tablespoons melted butter 1 teaspoon garlic salt 2 eggs 3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Combine 1-1/2 cups flour with yeast and Italian seasoning. Heat milk, water, sugar, 2 tablespoons butter, and garlic salt just until warm (115 to 120 degrees F.); add to flour mixture. Add eggs. Beat at low speed of electric mixer 1/2 minute. Beat 3 minutes at high speed. Stir in 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese. Add in as much of the remaining flour as you can stir in. Turn out onto a floured surface. Knead in enough of the remaining flour to make a moderately stiff dough. Shape into ball. Place in greased bowl. Cover; let rise in warm place until double in volume (about 45 minutes). Punch down; let rest 10 minutes. Shape into 16 balls. Dip tops into 2 tablespoons melted butter, then in remaining grated Parmesan cheese. Place rolls in two greased 8- or 9-inch round baking pans. Cover; let rise until nearly double in size (about 15 minutes). Bake at 375 degrees F. for 20 to 25 minutes.--Carol M. Gilley, Cookeville, Tenn.
This photo was taken many years ago when my daughters were young. They were acting out the Christmas story. Daughter #3 was Mary, Daughter #2 was a lamb, and Daughter #1 was one of the Wise Men. Our daughters used to put on a small play or puppet show every Christmas. Sometimes, when their cousins were visiting, the cast became larger.
Now that out daughters are all grown up, they no longer put together a play to entertain us, but since they did it every year when they were children I know the Christmas story is engraved on their hearts and that they will always remember that Christmas is not really about the presents we give to each other, but the gift that God gave to us.
Styles have changed and I am so grateful for that fact. The gigantic bow on my grandmother's head is really wild. Then there's the long gloves and the dropped waist with a gigantic flower arrangement attached.
I have no idea what the occasion is for this formal portrait. My grandmother was not Catholic. Dad says she was Protestant. Since her family was German, I have assumed she might have been Lutheran, but I don't know. I was told that when my grandfather married her, the ceremony was conducted in the vestibule of the Catholic church. They were not allowed at the altar.
She was a quiet woman. Her parents had a chicken farm in Pennington and when my father was young, he spent his summers there on the farm. I've never seen the farm--only photos of it.
My grandmother died at the age of sixty-three. I did not get to attend the funeral because I was babysitting my younger sisters and my cousins. My brother did not attend the funeral either. He was overseeing the construction work being done on our house as two more rooms were added.
I wish I knew more about her. I know she made dumplings, which my father loved. I know her cousin, Pearl, lived upstairs in the two-family house in Jersey City. But that's about it. I wish she hadn't been so quiet.
Pictured in the photo above are my three daughters along with a table full of unique and beautiful handmade items. My mother, Daughter #2, and I decided to go into business one beautiful autumn day. We gathered all our wares and set up a table at the flea market in Keyport.
Yes, once upon a time, in the dark ages before the internet, I thought I could make extra money by selling crocheted ornaments I had made. It took me at least forty-five minutes to make each ornament and then I had to stiffen each one. However, crochet thread was inexpensive. Though I knew I would not be making a decent hourly wage I was sure I would sell enough of my ornaments to make up the price of the materials. I believed my low, low prices would have everyone snatching them up.
My mother was a terrific artist. She always hoped to get extra cash selling her paintings. She hit upon a popular idea of decorating old saws with lovely scenes. She went to garage sales, bought old saws for next to nothing and turned them into beautiful pieces of decorative art.
Daughter #2 sewed doll clothes for the popular American Girl dolls. For a youngster, she had talent.
We did not advertise. At all. :-( Still, we expected hordes of delighted customers to show up at our table and purchase our exquisite handiwork.
A few people walked by. I sold two ornaments. It was very disappointing. If we had rent to pay, we would have been bankrupt on day one. :-(
I gave up crocheting ornaments. Now I'm trying to sell books. LOL! In 2011 there were three million books published. That's a lot of competition, but now we have the internet and social media marketing. I am doing my best to get the word out about my books, but it isn't easy. It does take time, but if I don't toot my own horn, nobody will know I exist.
I found a great link, SMALL BUSINESS MARKETING. It offers plenty of sensible suggestions for marketing your wares. I know now how important advertising is!
Last night, hubby and I worked for a few hours signing our Christmas cards, stuffing the cards in the envelopes, and putting on the stamps. Years ago, I made the process simpler by printing out address labels. I also put together The Marzec Times, our annual newsletter, which briefly covers the highlights of our year. We slip the newsletter inside the card.
Sending out Christmas cards is one of the traditions of the season I love. I haven’t seen Marie since college, but I send her a card every year--and she sends one back. Our neighbors moved away twenty-seven years ago, but we still keep in touch at Christmas time. It gives me a warm feeling to think about them and to know how they are doing. We probably won’t get together and visit each other, but it doesn’t matter. We remember each other and wish each other well and hope that next year another card will come.
To me, the emotional connection is the most important part of the tradition.
Fewer and fewer people send out cards these days. Yes, the price of stamps keeps going up, but spending 46 cents once a year on an old friend is a far cheaper than buying them a drink.
Posting “Merry Christmas” or "Happy Holidays" on Facebook is nice, but it will soon be forgotten in a cascade of hastily posted greetings. A card in the mailbox is a special surprise, one that can be held and remembered for a long, long time after its delivery. A card is a gift, real symbol of your presence to someone else.
Over the years, I have removed people from my card list. I usually give them a few years, and then I reluctantly cross them off. However, I will often email the pdf file of our Christmas newsletter to them. I figure it is something they can print if they like—or send it to their ereader. It is my attempt to reach out and keep in touch. I find it very sad that in our modern society with all our amazing communication devices, all I ever get from many people are a bunch of forwarded messages that contain nothing about their personal lives and many of those forwarded messages are filled with hate, which is even more distressing.
Please touch somebody in a special way this holiday season. Send them a real paper card in the mail. Give them a memory.
The Beast of Blackbirch Manorhas two covers, the one on the left is the original version designed for the digital edition and is still in use at Barnes & Noble's online site. The cover on the right is the one you will see at Amazon for both the print and digital editions. The story is my take on a classic Gothic as well as a retelling of Beauty and the Beast. The heroine, Victoria, was married by proxy to a cursed man, covered in fur and destined to become a wolf. The scene below is a dream sequence in which Victoria relives a horrifying moment in her life...
She heard the wail. It sounded more like the cry of a beast than a human. Searching though the long corridor in the basement beneath the manor, she shivered with only her thin nightgown to protect her from the chill. She loathed the basement where the dampness set mold to growing on the walls no matter how often the servants scrubbed it away and she feared the creatures that inhabited the darker corners. But she could not think about that now. Her bare feet made no sound as she hurried softly along the passage. She cursed Paul’s stubbornness for refusing to have her mother put away. If he would only listen to reason! She wanted to be free--like other young women her age. She was seventeen! She wanted to go to parties and dances. She wanted to fall in love. But there could be no peace in Blackbirch Manor due to her mother. It was as if the old house had become a prison for them all. Another animalistic howl sent ice tingling along her spine. An echo bounced off the solid stone walls. Stopping for a moment, she listened intently but heard nothing save the creaks and groans of the massive timbers as they bore up under the weight of the old dwelling. Her hands shook as she felt her way along the walls. She paused at the door to each storage room and barely breathed, waiting to hear the rasp of her mother’s labored gasps for air.
The darkness was complete. She could see nothing, but when she heard the singular creak of the heavy door that led from the basement to the kitchen stairs, she scrambled in that direction. The sound of her mother’s laugh, a wild cackle that seemed almost demonic, froze her heart. The hinge of the door that led outside squealed and she felt the draught of the wind rushing into the basement. Her heart quailed, for there could be no telling in which direction her mother would go once she escaped. If she ran all the way down the hill into Taylor’s Grove, everyone would learn the truth. That must not happen--no matter how much she resented caring for her mother. She did not want anyone to know of her mother’s madness. Stumbling up the steps and out into the chilly night, she saw she had only a pale sliver of moon to guide her. She ran into the kitchen garden, but her mother was not there. From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement at the corner of the house. Taking a deep breath, she sprang in that direction for all she was worth. More hysterical laughter echoed in the icy air as she rounded the corner in chase. An ache in her side slowed her, but she did not stop. Her mother must be headed for the gate! In despair, she wondered why no one else had come to help her. She tried to call for Paul and Ipsy and William--anyone--but though she formed the words with her lips, no sound came out. Off to her right, she heard the crush of leaves in the underbrush and the snap of branches in the woods. Someone--or something--was nearby. Fearfully, she looked this way and that, but all she saw were the swinging their branches of the black birches in the nighttime breeze--shadowing the pallid moon to leave her in darkness so deep that the gloom became as dense as a thick velvet curtain. Again, she heard the sound and the smell of terror filled her nostrils.
Without any other warning, she was grabbed from behind. And then she heard the scream, the hideous screams that echoed on and on. She woke and realized that the screams had come from her own lips. Her heart thundered as she stared up into the face of the Beast. He loomed over her, his powerful hands pressed against her shoulders, pinning her upon the mattress.
Yes, that's me--the pathetic, little bald-headed toddler. I look like a refugee. My brother is in the background with his thick head of hair.
My mother had glorious hair. All her siblings had the same amazing hair--and her parents, my grandparents, did, too. Because my grandparents did things as they would have back in the "old country," when my mother worried about my thin, fine hair my grandparents told her to shave my head. They believed that would solve the problem. They insisted it would grow in full and lush afterward.
My head was shaved. My hair grew in--and it was okay, but it was never as thick as my mother's hair--or anyone else's hair on that side of the family. Evidently, I took after Dad's side of the family. Such is life. The genetic toss of the dice.
Fortunately, that was the last time my head was shaved. However, mom never gave up trying to make my hair look abundant and luxurious. She permed it when I was six (somewhere I have a photo of that, too). She tried setting it in pin curls, rags, or on rollers. If my hair wasn't permed, the set would not last long--even using various hair setting products.
Then hair spray was invented. It solved my limp hair problem!
Even better, I married a man with a thick head of hair. My daughters have lovely hair. They got lucky in that genetic toss of the dice.
Tomorrow at Ereader News Today,DADDY WANTED will be on sale for $.99! It's an amazing bargain. This cute, sweet romance has received some wonderful reviews.
There's a long review at Romance Junkies, a Five-Star Review at PRG, and there's at least ten reviews at Amazon. Hey, it's worth your time and it's certainly worth $.99. (It's $.99 at Amazon, too.)
If you own an ereader, you should definitely go to Ereader News Today's Facebook page and LIKE it. There are incredible bargains everyday--and some free books, too. Discover new authors!
Just remember, this is a limited time offer. So don't wait!
PRINCE OF THE MIST is the story of Tia. Escaping a carjacker, she tumbles into the Sifra—home of the fairies--and wakes to find herself wedded to a Sidhe prince. While insisting their marriage is not valid, she cannot deny the passion she finds in his arms.
Wildon, son of the Sidhe king, must stop Tia’s mother, a state senator, from voting for a nuclear plant that would be built above the Sifra. In marrying the senator’s daughter, he can get close enough to prevent the senator from voting. However, falling in love with Tia is not part of the plan. In the following scene, Wildon brings Tia home and meets Tia's mother, Angela Glenmore...
“You are, to use another human expression, light as a feather, dear wife.” He leaned closer to her lips. He watched her lashes flutter down against her cheeks. His senses, drunk with desire could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart.
Then someone grabbed his arm.
“Didn’t you hear me! Put my daughter down, you big oaf!”
Wildon turned to see Angela Glenmore. He had seen many glamorous photographs of her with a bright smile, but she was not smiling now. She reminded him of a volcano ready to blow its top.
“How do you do, Mother Glenmore.” He smiled as wide as he could but his misgivings concerning the imperious senator increased as he saw the orchid on her lapel vibrating.
“Don’t you dare call me Mother! Put my daughter down this instant or I will call the police!”
She shouted in such a stentorian voice that Wildon winced. He gently placed Tia on her feet, but she swayed a bit so he held onto her.
“It’s okay, Mom. He saved me from a carjacker.”
“A carjacker! When? Why didn’t you call me? I spent all night worrying about you. You didn’t call last night and I knew something was wrong.”
Angela Glenmore tried to snatch her daughter away from Wildon’s supportive embrace, but he refused to let Tia go, especially since her legs continued to wobble.
“I couldn’t call because my cell phone was in the car.”
Wildon felt Tia take in a deep breath before she went on.
“And I--I passed out. Wildon revived me and brought me back here.”
When Tia glanced up into his eyes, Wildon felt the delicate thread of desire binding them ever closer together.
He also caught the way Angela Glenmore narrowed her eyes and glared at him, measuring him from head to toe.
“Well, I suppose we owe him our thanks.”
Wildon noticed the way she pursed her lips. He knew of a charm that would make her lips stay in that pose forever, but he restrained himself from casting the spell on her. He had--as humans liked to say--more important fish to fry. However, the thought occurred to him that if she did not look so appealing in photographs maybe some people would not vote for her.
“It has been my pleasure to care for your daughter. I’ve never met such an attractive woman. That’s why I married Tia. I’m sure you’ll want to be the first to wish us much happiness.”
At that point, it sounded like Angela Glenmore was choking.
Our elderly friends are suffering. Failing health and faulty memories are draining all their joy, but drawn into the concrete sidewalk some fifty-five years ago, a symbol of their forever love remains.
There's me looking hopeful. All set to autograph books. All set to go home with--at the very least--money to put gas in the car.
Did I sell any books? Nope. Not one. Zero. Nada. Zaden.
Am I going to quit writing? No. I've gone through this scenario many times, though when I was younger, disappointment hit me harder. I needed extra money when the kids were younger, but writing didn't provide it. So I got a job. Still, I could not quit writing. I had stories to tell. In the quiet of the evening, when the house settled down, I wrote.
Some people live to play golf, some live to sing, some live to shop. I live to write.
And though I did not sell any books at the book fair, my books do sell online.
As far as the gas for the car, I had money in my wallet to buy it on the way home. (I always remember to be prepared.) There was a gas station on Route 1 selling regular for $3.05 a gallon. What a bargain! Plus the proprietor actually cleaned the front AND back windows for me.
Do you like autographed romance books? Do you like meeting famous authors?
On Saturday, October 19, 2013, at the Renaissance Woodbridge Hotel, 515 U.S. Route 1 Iselin, NJ, the New Jersey Romance Writers will be hosting a Literacy Book Fair and Author Signing at the conclusion of their Put Your Heart in a Book Conference. The book fair is open to the public from 4:00-5:30 pm.
A portion of all proceeds from the Book Fair will be donated to Literacy Volunteers of America, New Jersey.
I will be there with my glass of wine, my books, and a pen. Come and chat with me for a while. :-)
Hubby first learned how to play ragtime a long time ago--way before I met him. He searched out collections of Scott Joplin's music in the New York Library, but discovered some songs were not included in the collections because the music publisher, Jerry Vogel, held the copyrights.
In his searching for more ragtime music, hubby discovered another publisher printing the songs only Jerry Vogel was entitled to publish.
Hubby took it upon himself to report this to Jerry Vogel who had a store in NYC.
Mr. Vogel appreciated hubby's report and informed hubby that he would sue the other publisher and give hubby 10% of the proceeds. Hubby declined the offer. So instead, Mr. Vogel said he would give him the money as a wedding gift when he got married. As I said, hubby didn't even know me at that point.
However, when hubby and I were married many years later, we received a check from Mr. Vogel and for years afterward, until Mr. Vogel passed away, we received a gift box of paper products at Christmas. (We figured Mr. Vogel had stock in that company.)
The moral of the story--report pirates, not because you'll get a reward but because it's the right thing to do. Also, don't be a pirate. Pay for the music and books you enjoy. Somebody worked hard to produce it.
In our family, whenever we sit around a fire we sing old songs. The old songs are the best songs! This past weekend we were happy to have a our friends and relatives join us around the firepit. There is something about sitting around a fire in the dark that makes for special times. I think it is because everyone has to provide their own entertainment. :-)
I strummed the guitar and played a few songs, but one of our friends clamored for hubby to play "Charlie on the MTA." Hubby obliged. Those who knew it sang the words.
Our nephew's new bride was amazed. She had never heard the song. She hails from Pittsburgh but now lives in Boston. She wondered why the transit card there is called a "Charlie Card." Now she knows. Our nephew knew because he had heard the song at some of our other campfires.
We had a lot of laughs. My sister told a funny story. She had a problem with ants and decided to try an all-natural and safe deterrent for the ants--cornmeal. She made a barrier of it around the house. The next day she found the local turkey population enjoying her cornmeal!
I'm thinking that would be a good anecdote in a book somewhere.
For those of you with a bad case of writer's block, invite some friends to a campfire and see what develops. You are bound to get a few story ideas--and certainly some laughs. :-)
I am making dirt. I am being environmentally conscious and putting my cucumber peels, potato peels, and apple peels into a composting bin. I toss in coffee grounds and all those annoying brown leaves that fall from the trees onto my patio. The leaves are brown and very dry, so I add water.
I found a worm one day and I placed him in the bin, too. Had some deer poop on the lawn so I added that as well. Every now and then I stir up my compost. It takes a while for all that stuff to disintegrate into dirt, but I'm hopeful that by spring I'll have humus rich in nutrients to place around my flowers.
I can't help but compare the process of composting with the process of writing. It's similar to cooking, too, but it takes much longer. A little of this, a little of that, time, stirring, adding water, and voila--a book.
If you want to know more about composting, there are many sites on the web devoted to the topic--and quite a few excellent videos, as well.
If you want to write a book, get busy. Add a little of this, a little of that, give it time, stir, and drink some water (or coffee, or tea). It's slower than cooking--and you should use a thesaurus--but you could wind up with a book if you keep at it. :-)
Yesterday was Dad's 92nd birthday. We celebrated. I made lasagna because it's soft and he likes cheese. Lasagna is a lot of work, but I like it, too. I bought a little ice cream cake. ("Why didn't you get straight candles?" he asked.)
When it was all said and done I asked if he thought we had feted him enough.
Everyone gave me a strange look.
"Fete," I said. "It's a real word. F-E-T-E."
Daughter #1 said I wasn't pronouncing it right.
I turned on the iPad, hurried to Dictionary.com, and discovered that I was indeed pronouncing it incorrectly.
Fete is pronounced just like the word fate, but fete and fate have entirely different meanings.
Fete is of French origin and it comes from the eighteenth century. It is a day of celebration. :-)
While I didn't pronounce it properly, I had the correct meaning.
That's one of the problems with being an avid reader. I am familiar with plenty of words, but I have never heard anyone speak them. Most people get by using very few words. Party is a far more popular word than fete.
But I've been mired in the history of the eighteenth century for a while. I wrote The Pirate's Wraith, which is set in 1711. I wrote Patriot's Heart, which is set in 1778. At the moment, I'm writing Patriot's Pride, which is set in 1784.
So I say we should all prepare a fete instead of a party. Let's party like it's the eighteenth century.
