Our Pandemic Theater

 

Hubby and I don't watch television much at all, but we used to go to the theater to see movies now and then. The pandemic changed that. Daughter #2 helped us out by signing us on to Prime Video. We've watched several interesting historical shows, which both hubby and I enjoy. But we also watched a few insipid movies. Daughter #1 recommended the Tudor Monastery Farm, which was an in-depth view of life in the time of Henry VII. It is amazing how much work went into simply surviving in those times. 

Do you have any historical series you'd like to recommend?

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 are 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!

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.

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. 

 

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.

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

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?

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. 

   

My Mother’s Miracle

There are a few miracles in my family’s history. There have been tragedies, too, as in most families, but the miracle stories I was told from the time I was young are the stuff that formed my faith and continue to sustain it even through the difficult times. Of course, miracles are problematic when it comes to proving them. However, this particular miracle has a visible, solid object that came along with it, a small home altar of St. Anthony, complete with praying angels, a votive candle, and a bas relief depiction of the Last Supper.

I realize that there are several religions that frown upon praying to saints. For the record, Catholics don’t pray to the saints, we ask for their intercession. Personally, I think of it as asking someone to put in a good word for me. If you want a full explanation you can go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intercession_of_saints

My mother’s miracle came about due to the housing shortage after World War II. My parents, my brother and I were living in a roach infested apartment above a bar. My mother, who grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania never met a roach until she came to NJ. Not only did the apartment have roaches, she said you could see daylight between the wainscoting. 

But searching for another apartment was discouraging. Every time she saw an ad for an apartment, she would call up to find it was already taken. One day, a woman came to the apartment selling subscriptions for St. Anthony’s Messenger. My parents didn’t have much money and my mother could not afford a subscription to the magazine. Nevertheless, the saleswoman was very kind and prayed with my mother to ask St. Anthony for his help in getting a decent apartment for our little family. 

Not long after that, my mother saw another ad in the newspaper for an apartment in a nice section of Jersey City. She told my father about the ad, but he sighed and suggested that she forget about checking the apartment because it would most likely be gone by the time she arrived at the place.

My mother was desperate enough to ignore his suggestion. She bundled me and my brother into coats and made the trek to Jewett Avenue in Jersey City. The apartment was on the first floor of a two-family house. The woman who owned it lived upstairs. The apartment was still available. 

My mother toured the apartment as the owner explained that her mother had lived in the apartment but her mother had passed away. There was a good-sized living room facing the street, a dining room, two bedrooms, one large bathroom, and a kitchen. When my mother stepped into the kitchen, she saw the small altar of St. Anthony above the stove. She asked the owner about it. As it turns out, the owner’s mother had a life-long devotion to St, Anthony. 

My mother got the apartment.The owner told my mother she was welcome to keep the little altar, too. My mother’s prayer was answered!

While we were living there, I started kindergarten and my brother went to first grade. We both got the measles and chicken pox, but we had lots of other children to play with, which was far better than living with roaches above a bar. 

My mother gave birth to another daughter and my parents decided it would be nice to have more room for their growing family. My father found a home in Cliffwood Beach. It was actually the shell of a home. He had to put in walls, but the price was right.

We left Jersey City, but the little altar moved with us to Cliffwood Beach. Another sister came along. My mother often lit the votive candle and prayed through all the tough times. After my mother died and my father moved to be closer to me, my youngest sister became the owner of the little altar. 

The statue is worn and cracked. The figures have been touched up with paint, but to my mother this little altar was a sign that someone was really listening. And so, I never doubt. Prayers are always heard. We may not get the answers we want, but it doesn’t hurt to ask someone to put in a good word for you. 

 

First Place Winner!

I was thrilled to discover PATRIOT'S COURAGE won first place in the inspirational category of the National Excellence in Story Telling contest (NEST). The NEST is sponsored by the Central Region Oklahoma Writers and is open to all works of fiction in digital format.

PATRIOT'S COURAGE is the third book in the PATRIOT Series and is currently available for FREE with Kindle Unlimited. 

You can view a video with all the first place winners on YouTube!​

 

Getting Your Feet Wet

Life is full of choices and sometimes you just have to dive in and get your feet wet. For a writer, that can mean finishing the book by not watching the latest show, which all of your friends are watching. It can also mean sending your book off to a publisher, or an agent, or going indie and publishing it yourself. Stepping into the world of publishing usually involves entering a contest, going to a writers' conference, giving a talk, or going to a book signing. Not all writers are introverts, but many are and it can be difficult to step out into uncertainty.

But that's what authors are called to do knowing that sometimes the water is just right and sometimes it is freezing cold. Putting a book out into the world doesn't give you much time to test the water to see if it is to your liking. I have been at book signings where I didn't sell a single book. I have given many talks about writing or about my books. I have gone to countless writers' conferences. I have not felt comfortable doing most of those things. 

However, I really enjoy writing books and I would like other people to read those books. So, I step out and get my feet wet even though I would rather stay home and write books. Of course, nowadays, there is the Internet and all the many social networks, which may or may not facilitate the sale of books. Most authors do have an Internet presence. Some are fearful about posting online, but they do it--at least a little bit. 

Writing a book is only part of the process. Making sure the world is aware you've written a book is the other part of the process--and it can be difficult. Especially for an introvert. 

Writing a book is a brave activity. Marketing the book will test the faith you have in your story. But do it anyhow. Dive in and get your feet wet.  

Returning

 

There’s a young buck peering out of his hiding place. I feel like that as I slowly and cautiously return to what used to be normal. The pandemic is not over, but for those of us who have received the vaccine, we are venturing out more. I continue to wear a mask in stores and at church. Some people don’t, but since I haven’t had a cold since I started wearing a mask, I think there’s considerable value in the practice. However, outside I feel safe—though still shy. I’m not hugging many folks anymore. 

Over the past month, I have come across people I used to see on a regular basis. Just last week, when I went to the local park and took this photo of the young buck, I stopped by the lake as well. Sitting on a folding chair and holding onto a fishing rod was a man I used to see just about every week. He served subs to hubby and I. He was always cheerful and chatty. But there he was by the lake waiting for a fish to bite his hook. I was so delighted to see him and so happy to know he lived through the past fifteen months. He’s not working at the sub shop anymore. He’s working at a bagel shop. I’ll have to go there and see him again.

Hubby and I went to buy a pair of slippers for his mother in Boscov’s. As we passed through the men’s department, we got a wave from the salesman who has helped hubby in the past to choose new suits. Just seeing a familiar face is a joy. Not only because it’s been fifteen months, but because there are those who caught the virus and now have permanent health problems. And there are those who died.

So now I cherish seeing old acquaintances with joy in my heart and pray that this terrible scourge will be defeated. Journey carefully, my friends.

Summer in the Past

Summer is here and I have been thinking about summers in the past. When I was young, my family drove (in our non-air conditioned car) out to southwestern Pennsylvania to visit my mother's family. That was our vacation. Every year. We never went to Aruba, Paris, or even Miami. Nope. We visited my grandparents, my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Since my mother had five brothers and one sister, we had a lot of relatives to visit. For the most part, we stayed in my grandparents' home because the majority of the relatives lived nearby--except for my aunt in Ohio. We had to drive even further to visit her.

My siblings and I slept in the attic at my grandparents' house. It was stuffy and hot. No air conditioning there either. It did not exist.

We had fun as I recall. We jumped into the hay in the barn. We picked wildflowers and berries. (Even if we handed Grandma a dandelion, she put it in a vase.) My mother made pies and jam from the berries.

The photo above was taken in 1966. It shows my mother's father and my father discussing world events--a coal miner and a journalist. My grandpa came to this country when he was sixteen and became a coal miner. He always spoke English with a heavy accent. While he had little formal schooling, he was smart, talented, and artistic. He maintained a small farm and built three houses on his property over the years.

Nothing was ever wasted in his household. He built a loom and in the wintertime he made rag rugs from scraps of fabric because nothing was ever wasted. I studied the rag rugs when we visited in the summer and could recognize former clothing woven into the rugs.

The pace of life slowed as we listened to everyone talk. In the evenings, we all moved to the front of the house because it was shady there. The house sat on a hill. A two-lane highway stretched below it and we simply listened to the conversation and watched the cars go by. No television, no radio. Sometimes heat lightning on the other hills gave us a little show.

Nobody complained or said they were bored.

Simple was nice.

Celebrate Fathers With A Bookish Event and WIN!

 

SEA OF HOPE is one of several books featured at N.N. Light's Book Heaven in a special Father's Day Event! https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/post/sea-of-hope-cfbe

You can see the full list of books listed here: https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/celebrate-fathers-bookish-event and enter for a chance to win a $20 Amazon gift card. 
 

Win Books!

Do you see that book, THE COWBOY'S MIRACLE? One reviewer said, ""The adventures of a cowboy with a past and a woman in need of saving is always a win."  You could win a CD that contains not only that book but all the ebooks featured on the Pelican Book Group's giveaway page as well as a bundle of paperbacks and a gift card to the etailer of choice.

While the first place winner will receive the physical CD containing all the ebooks featured on the giveaway page as well as a bundle of paperbacks, three runners up will receive a copy of the physical CD that contains all the ebooks featured on the giveaway page.

That’s five winners per giveaway! Enter today. No purchase necessary.

And don’t forget to subscribe to PBG Booklovers and to the authors’ newsletters for additional chances to win so you don’t miss out on future opportunities!

Sign up now at: https://pbgbooklovers.com/app/

Remember

After college, my brother joined the Air Force during the era of the Vietnam War. He wanted to be a pilot, but was assigned as the navigator/bombardier in an F-111, a fighter being tested in the New Mexico desert. He and the pilot died in December of 1973 when the jet crashed.

There's a memorial in Clovis, New Mexico for all those who died in the F-111.

On Memorial Day, please remember those who have served our country. There are no greater heroes.

Hitting the Delete Button Is Easier Than Frogging

I learned how to crochet at a young age. I've been making shawls and blankets from different patterns for years. However, when I wanted to make a sweater for a baby, I had a problem with the particular pattern I had chosen. Sometimes, the patterns are difficult to interpret--that is not unusual. I wound up ripping out all the work I had done TWICE, which is called frogging. The photo on the left shows what I did wrong. The armholes were too big. I took a look at a finished sweater online and realized I was way off. I didn't give up. I redid all my work and now I'm adding arms to the sweater. I have plans make a matching cap as well.

Whenever I write a book, I have to edit it. I go over and over and over my words. I delete many of them. I add many as well. Basically, that book is written and rewritten. But it sure is easier to delete words and even entire paragraphs on a computer than it is to rip out a complete crochet project--or a knitted project. Pulling it apart is painful. Plus all that yarn must be rolled up, too. 

Quitting is always an option. I could go out and buy a sweater. But I am stubborn. Anyone can give up when the going gets tough, but if I want to finish a project--I will. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again. It's not talent. It's PERSISTENCE. 

 

Forty-Six Years Ago

My first date with my future husband happened forty-six years ago this week. He took me for a ride on his motorboat. He had a slip for it in Marine Park and the photo above shows him getting the boat ready to go out. This is not a good photo because at the time I was taking photos on my old Minolta 35mm and developing the negatives. I didn't stop taking pictures, but I stopped developing them. 😆

The ride that day on the river was pleasant. The boat chugged along slowly. What I didn't know was that it wasn't working as it should. It could go very fast, but it didn't that day, which was fine with me. After our ride, we went out for pizza. It was a pleasant date. So, next time he asked, I went out with him again. 

The rest of that summer, we went out on that little motorboat a lot. I took the wheel sometimes. We got stuck on sandbars. We endured a horrible thunderstorm on the water. Occasionally, we ate at restaurants with docks on the river. We stopped at Starvation Island, too. The beginning of our romance was spent riding up and down the river in that boat, which was a nice adventure. But we soon gave up boating and embarked on marriage and children. That was the best adventure of all.

Cooking Up A Happy Ending

A romance book must have a happy ending. That's the guarantee. Romances without an uplifting ending are not not romances. In real life, the good guys do not always win and there are plenty of tragedies. When I pick up a romance, I want to forget about the real world.

However, to assume that there is a formula or recipe in writing a romance is to dismiss the nature of the art. Yes, romances are genre literature and so they are looked down upon by those who write and read literary novels. Literary novels are considered serious works. To me, they are most often seriously depressing. Romances do have sad scenes. My novel, HEAVEN'S BLUE, has choked up a number of readers--but it ends well.

There is a lot of variety to be found in getting to the end of a romance. While there are only so many plots in the world, romances are character driven novels--and when it comes to people, the choices are endless. I've read my share of cowboy romances, but they are not all the same. Every writer comes to the task with a completely unique set of characters roaming around in his or her mind. Jane Eyre is as real in most readers' minds as Nicole Kidman--maybe more real. The characters I put into my novels are very real to me.

One of my other Christian romances, HOPING FOR JOY, is based on part of I Corinthians 13--so there's some serious spiritual pondering in the story. Still, despite their differences, the hero and heroine will succeed in falling in love by the end. Why bother reading a romance when you know that the two protagonists will end up happy every after? For me, it's the sunshine I feel in my heart when I get to the end. How about you?

The Results of My Featured Deal at BookBub

 

    After years of applying to BookBub for a featured deal with several of my books, Heaven's Blue was accepted. Featured deals do not come free, so I considered it a gamble to pay that much money. However, BookBub has a large subscriber base and most authors are satisfied with the results. I paid the fee and dropped the price of my book to $0.99. 

    The ad ran on a Friday, which is a very sweet time to be a featured author since it gives the readers an entire weekend to look through the books. So far, I've sold 1,361 ebooks on Amazon, which means I just about broke even for the cost of the deal. However, I also sell Heaven's Blue at Barnes & Noble, Apple, and Kobo through Smashwords. 

    The chart below shows how many sales I made through Smashwords to Apple, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo. Those sales are pure profit and while I am not going to be a millionaire, it's always nice to make a little extra. But it will take a while for that money to come in. Barnes & Noble and Apple usually take at least a month to pay. 

    

Still, there are benefits other than cash in being a featured author on BookBub. My book was at the top spot for a few days and that definitely helps with visibility. I took the photo below when my book was right next to Redeeming Love.

In addition, I received more ratings and several new reviews, which always helps when it comes to convincing a reader that the book is worth their time. 

All in all, I was very satisfied with Heaven's Blue being a featured deal at BookBub. 😀