Wednesday's Special...Invisible!

INVISIBLE by Kimber Chin

Maeve Delaney knows how to make people disappear. The rules are simple. Cut all ties to the past, don’t talk about yourself and never ever let a man get close. That includes any would-be partners with potty mouths, broad shoulders, and gentle hands.

To buy Invisible, CLICK HERE

Click to visit, Kimber's website.


Excerpt from INVISIBLE


Maeve woke to her fingertip stinging like the bejesus and the fizzling sound of hydrogen peroxide. She tried to yank her hand away. No chance. Hagen had a good grip around her wrist as he gently dabbed at the cut with a pure white cotton ball.

He looked almost concerned, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. Couldn’t be, Maeve blinked a couple of times, he hated her, didn’t he?

The confusion must have shown. “Do you know who I am?” Hagen studied her.

“The devil,” she muttered, uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her.

“Close enough.” That made him grin as he wrapped her finger in a bandage a couple shades darker than her skin. “You’ll live.”

“Until you manage to kill me.” Maeve knew that she should be appreciative. She couldn’t dig up the humility.

“Wouldn’t take much. One tiny scrape,” he held up her finger for her inspection, “and you faint.”

“I did not faint,” she insisted despite all the evidence to the contrary. If she hadn’t fainted, then how did she get from the hall to the bed? How had she? Had he carried her? For that to have happened, okay, she might have fainted…

“Mmm.” He wasn’t bothering to answer, placing the garbage in the bin.

“If I did faint.” At his triumphant glance, she hastily added “which I didn’t. It wouldn’t be because of the cut. It’d be because I haven’t eaten anything today.”

Hagen checked his watch, the sleek Rado, black against the golden of his arm. Wrinkles appeared between his blond eyebrows. “D--- it woman, it’s seven o’clock. Why haven’t you eaten?”

“I was looking for your clue.” Maeve put the blame on him.

He said something under his breath. She couldn’t quite make it out, but based on his past language, it was nine chances out of ten, a curse. “You’re a grown woman who didn’t eat and now have the d--- nerve to try to make this all my fault?”

Maeve shrugged, suppressing a grin. Everything was back to normal. The soft Hagen was gone. This angry Hagen she could deal with. “If the shoe fits…”

His lips thinned into an angry line. “The d--- shoe does not.” Hagen stomped away.

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of INVISIBLE. Or, pop in and chat with Kimber!!
What other articles of clothing do not fit Hagen?

Tuesday's Special is...Valley of the Lost!

VALLEY OF THE LOST by Vicki Delany

In the bucolic mountain town of Trafalgar, B.C. a young woman is found dead of a heroin overdose, her baby at her side. Marks of restraint indicate that it might not have been an accident. Before the police can discover who killed her, and why, they first have to find out who she was.

As the case becomes increasingly personal for them both, Probationary Constable Molly Smith and Sergeant John Winters are plunged into the strange netherworld of a young woman who didn’t exist and a town that was happy to let her remain that way.

Valley of the Lost is the second in a traditional mystery series featuring Constable Smith, Sergeant Winters, and the town in the shadow of the glacier, Trafalgar, British Columbia.


To buy Valley of the Lost, CLICK HERE

Click to visit, Vicki's website, or her blog - Type M for Murder.


Excerpt from VALLEY OF THE LOST


The setting sun had slipped behind the mountains, and in the bottom of the valley, long ago carved out of ancient rock by the swift-moving river, the summer’s night was hot and close. The scent of cedar and pine, decaying undergrowth, rich earth filled the air, and further up the street a pack of young people, sounding as if they’d already hit the bars, laughed at nothing at all.

Lucy Smith, known to everyone as Lucky, stood at the back door of the Trafalgar Women’s Support Center to enjoy a rare moment of peace before walking to her car. It had been a long, hectic day, but a good one, and she was pleased with herself. Today she’d accomplished something. For once, the women seemed to be paying attention to what she’d been trying to teach them.

Lucky drove an ancient Pontiac Firefly. It was parked at the back, in a small gravel clearing chopped out of wild grass and weeds up against the bottom of the mountain. As she unlocked the door car, a soft cry came from the bushes. A cat? Lucky climbed into her car, paying it no further attention. The heat of the day still clung to the worn seats, and as she put the key into the ignition, she rolled down the window to try to catch a bit of a breeze. She was about to turn the key, to start up the engine, when she heard it again.

Definitely not a cat.

How odd. It sounded like a baby.

Lucky reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight. She flicked the light on as she stepped out of the car, and pointed it into the dense brush beyond the parking area. The thin beam illuminated dead leaves, broken branches, grey and white rocks. A single black sock. A blue can of Kokanee beer shone in the light.

A small yellow package, lying on the ground about ten yards inside the woods.

Lucky tried to focus; the bundle shifted, and cried out.

She pushed her way through the undergrowth, heedless of branches reaching for her face and scratching her bare arms. She dropped to her knees, pushing a sharp stone into her flesh. She shifted to get off the rock, and shone her light into the folds of the yellow blanket. A scrunched up white face blinked back at her, trying to shut out the sudden brightness. Tiny fists waved in the air.

“Oh, my heavens. You poor thing.” Lucky stuffed the flashlight into the elastic waistband of her snort, baggy pants and reached for the baby. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” She peeled back the blanket. The baby was small, no more than a few months old. He, Lucky guessed it was a he as it was dressed in a blue sleeper, opened his mouth and yelled. He was clean and at first glace appeared to be healthy. His clear eyes were dark blue, his cheeks pink and chubby, his head bald, and his cry lusty.

“We’d better get you inside. They call me Lucky, but you’re the lucky one. Good thing I found you, and not a bear or a cougar. Where’s your mom?”

Lucky gathered the baby into her arms, and stood up. The flashlight dropped to the ground and rolled over, throwing its light deeper into the woods, touching the edges of a dark shape underneath a large red cedar. With a pounding heart, Lucky scooped the flashlight up. She clutched the baby, now screaming with gusto, to her chest and took a few hesitant steps forward.

A woman lay on her back. Her eyes were open wide, but she wasn’t looking at the branches swaying overhead or the stars barely visible trough the thick canopy of branches, leaves and needles. Shifting the baby in her right arm, Lucky crouched down and touched the base of the woman’s neck. Her skin was cold, and nothing moved under Lucky’s shaking fingers.

*****

Constable Molly Smith’s boot slipped in a puddle of vomit. Instinctively her head jerked back to help her keep her balance and the man’s fist connected with her mouth. Her head spun, and she tasted hot sweet blood, but she managed to keep her footing. She ducked in case a second blow was coming. Dave Evans grabbed the man from behind and wrenched his arms back. “That’s enough of that.”

The man was big, about six foot three with the weight to match, and arms bulging with muscle and tattoos. His hair was long, thin, gray, and greasy. The moment Evans touched him, all the aggression fled. “Hey, I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to hit the lady. It was an accident, right? Can’t we forget all about it?”

“I don’t think so,” Evans said, snapping handcuffs on meaty wrists. “You okay, Constable Smith?”

She touched her lip. Her fingers came away streaked with blood. “No harm done,” she said, inwardly seething. Nothing Evans would like more than to think he’d saved her from the big, bad guy.

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of VALLEY OF THE LOST. Or, pop in and chat with Vicki!!
If Evans likes to think he’s saved her from the big, bad guy, what does Constable Molly Smith like to think about Evans?

Cover Me

From the desk of Ms. Sally Spitfire




Darling Suzie-Cutie,


Since I began working in publishing, Suzie m'dear, I've learned many surprising things. I hope, over the course of these letters, to share many of them with you. But of everything I've learned, I think I have been most surprised by the amount of work (meetings and emails and mock-ups) that goes into designing the cover of a book.

Now don't get me wrong--there are certainly some lucky books out there that are handed over to the care of a designer who puts together a perfectly appropriate and attractive cover which promptly gets approved by the editor, publisher and sales dept. with a few minor changes to font size or background color and---hurrah!--off to the printing press it goes.

More often than not, the cover design for a book ends up being a long and tremendously taxing process. Remember the phrase "don't judge a book by it's cover"? Well, apparently no one in publishing has ever heard this phrase; you wouldn't believe how many arguments take place about which picture, font and color on the cover of a book will best represent the book's subject and attract the correct audience.

Perhaps I'm being too vague. Imagine you're designing the cover for a fiction novel about a girl who meets her first boyfriend who turns out to be the love of her life. Picture in your head what the cover looks like. (Got something in mind?) Now, imagine that I tell you this book is actually a women's erotica novel? (Has the cover changed?) What if I tell you that this is a non-fiction memoir about a women who survived a domestically abusive first marriage? (Cover changed again, correct?) What about a scathingly, sarcastic yet humorous graphic novel for young men? What about a perfect book club book for city women? Southern women? African Americans?

I'm sure you're beginning to get the idea.

And as if it isn't confusing enough to charter the rolling seas of fonts, photos, clip-art, colors, and placement of author's name and subtitles... the cover often has to be approved not once, not twice, but as many as 8 times. In a best-case scenario, the art designer designs a perfect cover, the editor loves it and runs it by the agent and author, both of whom love it as well, and the book (ahem, cover) is in business.

In worst case scenarios (and often when a potentially best-selling book is involved), not only the editor, agent, and author but also the publisher, the sales team and the marketing staff get involved. There are weekly "cover" meetings in which the art dept, editorial staff and publishers meet solely to discuss, discard and discover disastrous and delightful cover designs. There are private phone conversations. There are frantic emails. Of course, more often than not when so many people get involved, it's impossible to make everyone happy. The cover that the publisher and sales dept. love is hated by the agent and the cover that the agent loves is detested by the editor.

It's time to call in the big guns.

That's right. Borders, Barnes & Noble, Wal-mart... whichever major account (book chain) the sales dept. is hoping will place a large order of the book is given a copy of the book jacket. Because here's the thing: if Borders loves a jacket, they may place an order for 10,000 and if they hate it, well... it's back to the drawing board so as not to lose that order.

Between the agent/author team, the publishing house (sales, publisher and editor), and the major booksellers (Borders, B&N, Amazon, etc.), sometimes it amazes me that any cover gets chosen at all! But it's all worth it when a cover comes out so spectacularly that you simply have to pull it off the shelf.

Can you think of any books that you picked up--or even bought--simply because you craved the cover? Please, please do share! I'll tell you the first book I ever bought just for the cover: Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher by Bruce Coville. Ah. I loved that book.

Oh my! Look at the time! I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! (More on that next letter, Suzie!)


Your luvin' cuzin,


(Ms.) Sally S.
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Question: How much does a book cover affect your book purchase? Do you have any favorite book covers?

Thursday's special is...WOOF!

WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty by Diana Black, Mary Cunningham, Melinda Richarz Bailey

No map to guide you through the "joys" of middle age? Join three witty, savvy, resourceful women as we chart our own course. Yep! You’re invited! As you romp through issues of expanding waistlines, deepening wrinkles, empty nests and muddled memories, we promise you’ll find good things to bark about!

Mary says...

My WOOFer name is 'Milkbone'. You may, (or may not) be wondering...Hey! What's with the names?

The acronym for “Women Only Over Fifty” is WOOF. We use canine terms and analogies in stories and chapter titles, such as, Are We Barking Up the Wrong Tree? Purebred Potpourri and Over Fifty Tailwaggers.

In the process, the natural evolution was to give ourselves dog names. Diana’s is d.d. dawg (lower case, puh-leeeze!) and Melinda is known as Mad Dog. No clue why ‘cause she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. And my name, Milkbone, comes from one of my favorite expressions. It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing milkbone underwear.

From Faux Paws, Over Fifty Tailwaggers, to How to Dress the Mature Mutt, WOOF is all about the joys of aging! How 50 is the new 30! Whatever!

Some Faux Paws to enjoy (whether you’re over fifty or not!)

WOOFers have discovered that as we age we often find ourselves in very awkward and socially unacceptable situations. We've gathered a few No-No’s.

• A FAUX PAW is christening your friend’s new beige sofa with an entire glass of RED wine.
• A FAUX PAW is leaving a public ladies room with the paper seat protector stuck to your shoe.
• A FAUX PAW is dancing the Twist at your granddaughter’s 10th birthday party.
• A FAUX PAW is asking a friend who normally wears jeans and a sweatshirt, “Hey, what’s with the dress? Did you just come from a funeral?” and hear her answer, “Yes.”

Or, maybe limericks are more your style.

Now that I’m in middle age
I must say I’ve noticed some change.
My waist has expanded.
My eyebrows disbanded.
And I have a much lower “backstage.”

Looking for diet tips? Woof’s got ‘em!

The Saturn Diet

Enough already with "Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus!” Give me a break.
I wanna be from Saturn! What? You haven't heard the latest?

Saturn is denser than Earth. Therefore, a 150-pound woman would only weigh 135! Whoo-hoo! Bring back my 1980s closet. I dream of zipping up those size 8 Liz Claiborne jeans. Slipping on my L. L. Bean cargo shorts and tank top. Oh, and my two-piece bathing suit! How great would it be to slowly remove my beach robe and not have to sprint Olympic-style into the pool. Instead, I could proudly stroll, sit on the edge, and gracefully slink into the water without fear of being mistaken for a beached whale.

Okay…where do you buy tickets for the space shuttle?

Hair Insanity, Dispelling the Chocolate Myth, plus our own WOOFers Restaurant menu and Theme Park, are just a few chapters you’ll enjoy in WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty. Check out our blog, too!

Order from Amazon or Echelon Press

Mary Cunningham is also the author of the Cynthia’s Attic Young Reader Mystery Series.

More about Mary

Born and raised in Southern Indiana, I now live in the mountains of West Georgia with my husband. We're the parents of three creative (grown) children, and a delightfully witty sixteen-year-old granddaughter. I began writing poetry (not good!) at an early age, and then moved on to memoirs. Besides my fantasy series, Cynthia’s Attic, and WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty, in my spare time I’m working on an adult mystery and a young adult time-travel novel.

When not chained to my computer, I enjoy playing golf, swimming, taking walks and pi-routin'. Not sure that's spelled right, but it's Cajun for wandering about, taking in the sights without a specific itinerary.

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Award yourself a WOOF-y nickname and explain the thinking behind your choice. (Ignore the fact that you may not necessarily be a woman and/or over 50).

Mary's favourite will win a copy of WOOF: Women Only Over 50. (If you are not a woman over 50, then it makes a great gift - or it might help you understand your Mom/Grandma/wife better!)

Wednesday's special is...Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

Jamie Ford is the great-grandson of Nevada mining pioneer Min Chung, who emigrated from Kaiping, China, to San Francisco in 1865, where he adopted the Western name “Ford,” thus confusing countless generations. Ford is an alumnus of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, and a survivor of Orson Scott Card’s Literary Boot Camp. Having grown up near Seattle’s Chinatown, he now lives in Montana where he’s on a never-ending quest to find decent dim sum.

“Jamie Ford's first novel explores the age-old conflicts between father and son, the beauty and sadness of what happened to Japanese Americans in the Seattle area during World War II, and the depths and longing of deep-heart love. An impressive, bitter, and sweet debut.”
-- Lisa See, bestselling author of Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

“A tender and satisfying novel set in a time and a place lost forever, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet gives us a glimpse of the damage that is caused by war--not the sweeping damage of the battlefield, but the cold, cruel damage to the hearts and humanity of individual people. Especially relevant in today's world, this is a beautifully written book that will make you think. And, more importantly, it will make you feel."
-- Garth Stein, New York Times bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain

Order Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet from Amazon

Visit Jamie Ford's website

Excerpt from Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

Young Henry Lee stopped talking to his parents when he was twelve years old. Not because of some silly childhood tantrum, but because they asked him to. That was how it felt anyway. They asked—no, told—him to stop speaking their native Chinese. It was 1942, and they were desperate for him to learn English. Which only made Henry more confused when his father pinned a button to his school shirt that read, “I am Chinese.” The contrast seemed absurd. This makes no sense, he thought. My father’s pride has finally got the better of him.

“Wo bu dong?”Henry asked in perfect Cantonese. “I don’t understand.”

His father slapped his face. More of a light tap really, just something to get his attention. “No more. Only speak you American.” The words came out in Chinglish.

“I don’t understand,” Henry said in English.

“Hah?” his father asked.

“If I’m not supposed to speak Chinese, why do I need to wear this button?”

“Hah, you say?” His father turned to his mother, who was peeking out from the kitchen. She gave a look of confusion and simply shrugged, going back to her cooking, sweet water chestnut cake from the smell of it. His father turned to Henry again, giving him a backhanded wave, shooing him off to school.

Since Henry couldn’t ask in Cantonese and his parents barely understood English, he dropped the matter, grabbed his lunch and book bag, and headed down the stairs and out into the salty, fishy air of Seattle’s Chinatown.

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Answer the following question for a chance to win a copy of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet – or just pop in for a chat with Jamie:

What’s another name for Zhōu Rùnfā? (no googling!)

Tuesday's special is...Thwarting Magic

Thwarting Magic by Ann Tracy Marr

Ann Tracy Marr is one of the newest entrants to the ranks of e-book authors. Since she loves the Regency period, her chosen method of torturing readers is to throw them into an altered universe. It looks like Jane Austen's era, with ladies in ball gowns chasing men wearing Brummell's elegant evening costume, determined to make the match of the season – with one small, but significant, detail added.

King Arthur, the round table, and Merlin’s magic are not myth, but history.

Yes, Camelot existed. King Arthur united Britain and Merlin messed it up with his magic. In Marr's Regency era, the Round Table rules, not Parliament, and although they are as rare as the man who never sets up a mistress, magicians walk among common men -- and flirt with marriage-minded debutantes.

So twist legend into truth. In the Camelot-inspired Regency fantasy, Thwarting Magic, a rogue wizard threatens the stability of the world. It is magician Adrian Hughes's quest to find and stop the wizard before magic holes destroy the atmosphere. It is his dream to win Margaret Ridgemont.

But in 1814, the fathers decide. Margaret and James Treadway will marry. Period, end of discussion. It promises to be a hell of an arranged marriage. With magic holes forming in the most unexpected places, Adrian’s quest throws him into the deepest pit of all, the void of a loveless marriage.

Today, Ann Tracy Marr is here, plastered to her keyboard, ready to explore this marriage with you, the devoted members of the Book Roast club.

Buy Thwarting Magic in paperback or as an e-book at Amazon or Awe-Struck . It's also available at a slew of online e-book stores, and hopefully sometime this year at Barnes&Noble.com.

Thwarting Magic is one of a series of books. Check out Ann Tracy Marr's website for more information.


Excerpt from Thwarting Magic

An unearthly howl caused Mrs. Norris to drop the Minton sauce boat. It landed on her toe and exploded, spraying shards of gilded porcelain far and wide. Cook squealed, dropping the long meat fork on the stone flags in front of the soot stained hearth. One of the tines crumpled. The juicy steak speared on the fork splattered her apron, skirt, the floor, and the good linen tablecloth a maid had just finished ironing.

"Lands, is a dragon got in the house?"

"Oh, not a dragon--please don't let it be a dragon." Massive thuds rattled the crockery.

At the second shouted snarl, wilder than the first, a footman threw his hands over his ears, accidentally tossing the knife he held over his shoulder. It sank into the potato a kitchen maid was peeling. She screamed and fainted. The scullion dived under the work table, rocking it. A pot of peas tilted and fell atop the shattered sauce boat. It was followed by a brimming pitcher of ale. Potatoes rolled. Another maid cast her apron over her head and screeched.

"Pray Merlin save us, it's the Questing Beast. The Questing Beast is come to destroy the house." To the occupants of the kitchen, it sounded as if that dread creature, which made the unholy sound of forty baying hounds, had been unleashed upstairs. The offspring of a girl and the devil himself, the Beast was the most fearsome of creatures. King Arthur had quailed before it; a kitchen populated by humble servants was undone by fear of it.

"Lordy, it's the devil. The house is possessed by the devil Questing Beast!" Another eerie roar made the hairs rise on Mrs. Norris' arms. "A magic devil!"

Devils were one thing, but magic devils were the stuff of primal nightmares. The Questing Beast--they were about to die. The knife boy curled into a ball in the middle of the floor and sobbed. Maids ran back and forth, seeking hiding places where none existed and the footman quaked. The scullion wrapped quivering arms around the table leg.

Porcelain shards glittered and green peas floated in a sea of ale as the chatelaine dashed up the service stairs to the hall, following the bloodcurdling sounds. Reaching the landing, she slapped a hand over her frenzied heart as the baize door swung open and the butler pounded through the doorway. They collided.

Both reeled; Mrs. Norris would have gone back down the stairs on her head if Craig hadn't grabbed her arms. Another prolonged roar, accompanied by the sound of furniture smashing against plaster, echoed in the stairwell.

Mrs. Norris flinched. "What is it; is it the Questing Beast?" Craig curled a hand tight around her arm and started for the kitchen, dragging her with him. "What is wrong?"

Craig bellowed to be heard above the pounding noise. "The master is in the library."

"Oh, my stars. It isn't the Questing Beast. We are safe. I take it he does not like the drapes?"

"Lime and orange stripes? I doubt it."

"Nor the tables Mrs. Treadway purchased? He does not approve of gilded cupids?"

"No, I believe the first howled comment pertained to the tables." Another crash shook the floor and the butler winced, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "If I am not mistaken, that is a tribute to puce and yellow damask cushions."

"The celestial blue walls?" There came a great rumble, as of books and lumber crashing. Safe on the flagged kitchen floor, they exchanged horrified glances.

"Perhaps not." A drawn out, guttural yell heralded the smash of slammed doors. Blessed silence fell over the house.

Mrs. Norris cocked her head and smiled, a slow tilt of the lips upward. "Mr. Treadway must have liked the rug. I thought Mrs. Treadway's choice was inspired with all those red and blue dragons thrashing around the edges eating each other."

The scullery maid, her nose pressed against a leg of the work table, suddenly bolted to her feet, screaming fit to kill, "A hole. Right in front of my nose--a hole. Oh, my gawd, it made a hole. Somebody save me!"

The leg the maid had anchored herself to--the leg of the massive oak work table, thick as a man's wrist--broke. The table slowly tilted, sliding bowls, potatoes, knives, and the ham, studded with cloves in a star pattern, to the floor. The table followed. The crash rattled china nearly as much as the master's response to his wife's decorating of his library.

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Phew! As you calm down after all that drama, for a chance to win a free copy of Thwarting Magic why not answer today's question?

CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED?

And be sure to pop in to chat to Ann Tracy and quiz her on her intriguing idea for choosing a winner - she says "the winner of the contest will be the most cynical respondent". Get the cynical hats on and we'll see you in the comments section!

Hi! Izza Me Antonio!

I amma sorry to be saying Signorina Speetfire sheeza not feeling so good today. Sheeza very many sick anna cannot be here with you. Sheeza never missing work. She hate missing work. She call me this a morning when I amma in the offees and she say “Antonio I hate missing a work. But I amma sick. You finish this anna that then you canna have the rest of day to work onna jor project. But don’t talk to those a women on fifth floor Antonio. They try to take jor clothes. Maybe you canna ask the nice people at Booka Roast to be helping you on jor project.”

Sheeza not saying exactly like that. How you say? Summarize? I summarized for you.

Maybe you are remembering last week Signorina Speetfire say sheeza finding me at computer inna offees onna holiday? Sheeza saying to me later izza everything OK Antonio? You seema upset when you mumble onna computer.

First I say to Signorina Speetfire everything izza OK. I fine. No problems. But that not the truth and later inna day we talk about some more anna I tell Signorina Speetfire about my sister Isabella.

Isabella sheeza twelve. When I leave my country for United States Isabella not come because I want to have nice place for her to live. We not have home in Italy. We live onna street. Isabella sheeza my sister yes. I love her like sheeza my sister yes. But sheeza not my sister…how you say? Tecknickelly? Her family gone. My family gone. We take care of each other. Sheeza OK right now. Sheeza live with nun in Italy. But sheeza saying to me hurry up Antonio. Find new place to live in United States because they want to make me nun too. This izza funny because Isabella sheeza not like nun.

The place I live in New Yorka New York izza OK for me but not for Isabella. Izza small anna have too many cockaroach anna rat. Summa time people shooting guns. Izza very loud. I look for new place onna computer anna I find a some but they are much money. This izza OK because I get second job! Signorina Speetfire sheeza telling me good for you Antonio if it izza not interfering with a this job.

The new job izza at night anna I sit inna desk with a many many people sitting inna desks all around. The people inna this room we call other many people atta their houses when they are eating a dinner anna ask them many many questions from onna paper. Summa people they do not like a to talk so they hang up the phone before I ask a them questions!

I ask a my second job boss if I canna say my own questions anna he is saying to me yes yes Antonio when you get very much better with a English. I want to a practice my questions so I amma ready. I hope you are notta minding that I amma asking question below to practice. Please answer inna the comment if you are wanting to only. Grazie!

Signorina Speetfire sheeza going to get a better soon anna I amma thinking sheeza going to be here next week.

Practicing Question by Antonio:

What izza the most difficult part for you about writing? What izza the most easiest part for you about writing?

Friday's Special Is...Lonely Places!

Lonely Places by A.L. Debran

Wounded and left to die on the Colorado plains, Elliotte Sorin is a woman with incomplete memories. Beau Hyatt saves her life and she vows that with this handsome brooding man she will never be alone again. As his gunfighter past intrudes into their lives, and his absences from her increase, her loneliness deepens.

She turns to Liam Mederi and finds endless love in his welcoming arms and smiling green eyes. Deadly jealousy rages when Beau questions the paternity of her unborn child and the two men meet in a violent confrontation that threatens to destroy more than one life.

Order from Cobblestone Press.

Visit A.L. Debran's website.



Excerpt of LONELY PLACES:

When Beau Hyatt stepped out of the line shack, the diffused brightness of the cloud-covered sunrise on the snow-covered prairie greeted him. There was no breeze, not a whisper of air. He surveyed the rolling landscape and inhaled the cold, crisp air as he saddled his horse and swung into the saddle, glad that the snowfall hadn’t turned into a blizzard overnight.

An hour later, he started down a ravine and pulled up sharply. Damn it. I’ll get myself killed if I’m not more careful. Ahead of him, a packhorse stood over an unmoving horse on the ground. The packhorse nickered and whinnied, glad to see someone. A distant, answering whinny reached his ear. He cocked his head toward the sound, but heard nothing more.

He sat the gray a comfortable and cautious twenty feet away and contemplated the scene. He took in the dead horse with the gear still in place, the packhorse with the lead line dragging, and that there was another over the hill. Slight movement by the dead horse caught his eye. He frowned and looked around. He stepped down, dropped the reins to ground tie his mount, and walked to the horses.

The free side of a blanket trapped under the dead horse flapped in the growing breeze. Squatting on his heels, he lifted an edge of the blanket and snow scattered around him in a swirling gust. He expected to find a body beneath the blanket, but discovering it was a woman caught him completely off guard.

He hesitated. Staying out of other peoples’ business had kept him alive. He stuck his neck out for few people, especially strangers, female or not. Scenes of his life with another woman passed through his mind, but he forced them away. With an uncharacteristically sympathetic decision, he un-cinched the saddle and pulled the woman, along with the saddle, from under the horse. Once more, he hesitated. If he tried to save her life, his own would be forever changed.

He took off a glove and slipped a bare hand inside her coat. Cool, but warm enough. Her face, ears, and fingers were pink. Matted brown hair stuck to her face with bloody ice crystals and dirt. There was no telling how long she’d been there, but he knew the blanket and the warmth from the dead horse had kept her from freezing.

Grabbing his glove, he stared at his hand. Blood. He pulled her coat open and found her clothing stiff with dried blood while fresh blood trickled from an injury high on her chest or shoulder. Checking further, he found three holes in her coat: two in the upper left shoulder and one on the same side midway down her back.

Antsy and wary, he rocked back on his heels and studied his surroundings, analyzing the situation. No sign of self-defense. The holes in her coat entered from the back. He figured the horse had taken a shot to the flank and had gone down with her still in the saddle.

“Who are you? Why the hell are you out here all alone?”

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of LONELY PLACES, or just pop in to chat with A.L. Debran!!

Out on the prairie, you lift up a blanket and find your mother snoozing red-faced with two empty bottles of tequila. Do you wake her up, and if so, what is the first thing you say?

Thursday's Special Is...Searching for a Starry Night!

Searching for a Starry Night by Christine Verstraete

Samantha Ann Carlton would rather spend her summer vacation anywhere but a spooky old house in Wisconsin...like Lake Geneva! Somehow Sam knows it's going to take more than a couple days to find a missing painting no bigger than her hand.

Maybe things won't be so bad, she thinks, since she gets to take a friend's lovable, nosy, and often mischievous Dachshund, Petey, and her best friend Lita. If they're lucky, the three of them can find the miniature replica of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and help Sam's mother get it to the museum, where it belongs.

But it's not going to be easy, Sam realizes, when she discovers that her own family has some spooky secrets. Then Petey digs up an ancient curse, and Sam fears her friendship with Lita is doomed.

Can she find the miniature masterpiece before it's too late? Will she and her best friend go home forever friends or enemies?

Visit Christine's website.

Order from Quake/Echelon Press.

Order from Amazon.


(Christine Verstraete thinks you're never too old to play with dollhouses, so when she's not writing, she's probably working on a new miniature project.

Pets, especially dogs, also manage to find their way into many of Christine's projects and stories, with her real life dog serving as inspiration for her book's mischievous Dachshund, Petey.

Christine's real house is home, as well, to assorted fish and birds, plus wild turtles, and frogs that crawl across her lawn each summer.

Christine has had short fiction and nonfiction published in various magazines and online. Her short horror story, "The Witch Tree," was a contest winner published by Echelon Press. She also is author of the ebook, "In Miniature Style," with miniatures photos, stories about collectors and how-to projects.)

Excerpt from SEARCHING FOR A STARRY NIGHT:

(Finally, Sam and Lita make their way over to the housekeeper Mrs. Drake's house. They might not be able to get inside to see the woman's dollhouse collection, but they can at least peek in the windows, right?)

Sam studied the house. Neatly trimmed hedges, a variety of flowerpots. Most importantly, the driveway was empty. Mrs. Drake's car wasn't here. Sam crept closer to the house to listen. The house looked deserted. The windows were open, but no sounds drifted out.

Fishing equipment in hand, Lita jogged across the road to stash everything out of view behind the scraggly bushes, while Sam went to peek in the backyard and checked the sides of the house. A quick glance eased her mind. Okay, it looked like the coast was clear. Sam headed back to the front and nodded to her friend. "Okay, I'll take the left, you take the right, watch the bushes."

Lita's long, lanky legs made it easier for her to sidestep the giant yew bushes positioned in front of the right side windows. She squeezed close enough to the house to peer inside. Sam inched forward to peek into the living room through the left side window.

"Oh, awesome!" Lita cried. "Sam, you see the house? Look at all that other stuff!"

"Yeah. Wow, Mrs. Taylor wasn't kidding," Sam said. "There's stuff all over."

The tall pink Victorian dollhouse that they'd seen Mrs. Drake carry out of Aunt Hilda's house now sat on a table in the corner. A chair by the fireplace overflowed with a variety of dolls and bears in all different sizes. A smaller dollhouse sat on one end table. Two even tinier houses sat on the coffee table. Even the fireplace mantle was lined with a collection of dolls and more houses.

Sam's wish that she could see what was in the adjacent room was cut short by the sound of a car driving up the road. "Lita, quick! Someone's coming. Hurry, hide somewhere!"

It was a scene from an old Charlie Chaplin film as Lita hurried out from behind the bushes, fighting to pull her shirt caught on a branch, before frantically searching for somewhere to go. Sam's heart thudded in her chest as she hopped around, unsure of where to turn.

Lita decided for them. "Sam, quick, get behind that bush. I'll be around the corner."

In the nick of time, Sam jumped over the pots of mums and ducked behind one of the tall bushes in the back, thankful that it was far enough away from the building. The space was small, but it at least gave her enough room to squeeze in without getting stabbed by the bush's spiky limbs or coming out with dozens of tiny scratches on her arms. Hearing the car stop, the engine shut off and a car door slam, Sam tried to peek around the edge of the bush to confirm that it was Mrs. Drake without giving herself away.

The click-clack of a woman's heels on the concrete steps caused Sam to shrink as far back into the corner as she could, like a frightened turtle returning to its shell. She stood in the cramped space, mouth dry, hardly daring to breathe. The squeak of the screen door being opened and the rustle of paper drifted her way. Her heart thudded so loud she thought everyone could hear it. C'mon, hurry up, she urged silently. What was taking her so long to go inside?

A minute later, the sound of a voice, clearly Mrs. Drake's, almost made her run. Sam looked around in a panic, not sure what to do.

"You can come out," the housekeeper said.

Sam froze. Funny, she wouldn't have guessed that Mrs. Drake had any pets. She hadn't heard any barking nor seen a dog through the windows. The muscles in her legs tightened as she braced herself. Her heart pounded. Any minute she expected the mysterious dog to run out and head straight for her.

Mrs. Drake spoke louder. "Did you hear me, Sam?"

A puzzled look crossed Sam's face. Cat, dog, whatever it was had her name, too? Weird. No wonder Mrs. Drake made fun of her when they met!

Sam's eyes widened when her gaze met a pair of brown eyes looking straight at her. "I meant you, girl. Next time you want to hide, don't stand behind a bush you can see through. You can tell that friend of yours to come here and bring those grocery bags in for me, too."

Still surprised at being discovered, Sam nodded at Lita who slunk from around the corner with a sheepish look on her face. The two of them followed Mrs. Drake up the steps and grabbed a paper sack. Sam turned to take one more look at the bush before she went in. Mrs. Drake was right. You could see right through the bare limbs. She hadn't noticed that before! Whatever made her and Lita think it was a good idea to hide there?

With a smile, Sam carried the bag of groceries into the neatly kept house, glad to have been discovered. Actually, it was a perfect idea. It had worked to get them inside, hadn't it?

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of SEARCHING FOR A STARRY NIGHT, or just pop in to chat with Christine!!

What did Sam and Lita see the last time they looked in the housekeeper's window?

Wednesday's Special Is...Mermaids in the Basement!

Mermaids in the Basement by Michael Lee West

MERMAIDS IN THE BASEMENT explores the complex bonds between a father and daughter. Twenty pounds overweight—and sporting a bad haircut—Renata DeChavannes’ luck has run out. Her screenwriting career is on the skids, she’s reeling from her mother’s sudden death, and her producer-boyfriend is on the cover of tabloid magazines (accompanied by a big-breasted starlet). For decades, Renata has been estranged from her father, but she retreats to her beloved paternal grandmother’s home in Point Clear, Alabama, where an old steamer trunk holds clues to her troubled childhood—and to her parents’ failed marriage. She hopes to reconcile with her womanizing, heart-surgeon father, until his latest fiancée turns up bloodied and comatose at her engagement party—and pearls from Renata’s broken necklace are rolling around the crime scene. While the police snoop and her father dodges her phone calls, Renata continues to excavate the old trunk; and she discovers that everything she thought she knew about her parents—and herself—is a lie. And all of it uncannily resembles a tabloid story.

Order from Amazon.

Visit Michael's website.


(Michael Lee West is the author of five novels including Crazy Ladies, Mad Girls in Love, American Pie, She Flew the Coop as well as a food memoir Consuming Passions. She lives with her husband on a rural farm in Lebanon, Tennessee with three bratty Yorkshire Terriers, a Chinese Crested, assorted donkeys, chickens, sheep, and African Pygmy goats. Her faithful dog Zap was the inspiration of a character in Mermaids in the Basement.)

Excerpt of MERMAIDS IN THE BASEMENT:

RENATA DECHAVANNES SAYS, ONE SIZE FITS ALL

If I had not read the cover story in the March 2, 2000, National Enquirer, it's doubtful that I would have gone to Alabama and ruined my daddy's engagement party, much less sent the bride-to-be into a coma. Just for the record, I don't go around hitting other women, even if they are all wrong for my daddy; I don't read tabloids, and I certainly would never steal one, yet that's exactly what happened.

For the past six months, I'd been staying at my late mother's cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, eating salt water taffy, forgetting to shave my legs, and plotting my next trip to Ireland. Days ago, my sweetheart, Ferg Lauderdale, had called from his Dublin hotel room, and, in between sneezes, he'd mentioned that he'd lost his sweater at a pub. "Could you pop a cardigan into the mail, love?" he asked. "Or better yet, could you deliver it in person?"

After we went through our five-minute ritual of saying good-bye, I drove to Jockey's Ridge Crossing, where I bought a pound of pecan divinity at the Footgear, then looked at a flying pig whirligig at Kitty Hawk Kites. Finally, I wandered over to Black Sheep, an eclectic wool store that sold dhurrie rugs, Flemish tapestries, Aubusson pillows, cashmere sweaters, and assorted one-of-a-kind clothing.

A bell tinkled over my head as I ducked into the store. A woman with short gray curls and horn-rimmed glasses sat next to the checkout desk, dipping French fries into catsup. She directed me to a polished maple display table that was piled high with cashmere. I hadn't seen Ferg in five weeks, and the notion of hand-delivering a care package was quite appealing. I selected three blue crew-necked sweaters that were exactly the color of his eyes, and a heavy, oatmeal-colored cardigan with deep pockets.

"Don't forget to look at our fifty-percent-off counter," called the clerk, lifting a plastic cup.

Tucking the sweaters over my arm, I wandered to the sale bin. A white poncho was spread out like gull wings over a half-price bolster pillow. With one hand, I lifted the poncho, and the macramé fringe, which was knotted with aqua beads, clicked and swayed. I had an image of myself wearing this poncho to Ireland. I'd jump into Ferg's outstretched arms and wrap my legs around his waist-well, maybe I wouldn't leap, and I certainly wouldn't do any sort of leg wrapping. A salt water taffy binge had left me with ten, or maybe twenty, extra pounds.

Setting down Ferg's sweaters, I slipped the poncho over my head, taking care not to snag my dangly seashell earrings in the fringe. The poncho felt a bit snug, and on my way to the three-way mirror, I caught the clerk's attention and said, "Does it come in a larger size?"

"I'm afraid not. One size fits all," said the clerk. "Unfortunately, that doesn't mean it flatters all." She waved her hand, knocking over the plastic cup. Ice and cola slid across the glass counter, then cascaded over the sides, pattering against the industrial-grade carpet. The clerk threw down several paper sacks, then bustled off to the stockroom for a mop.

I parked myself in front of the mirror, glancing over my shoulder, trying to see if the poncho covered my rear end. It didn't. Grasping the fringe, I tried to stretch the garment over my elephantine self. My head jutted out of the poncho, resembling the handiwork of a South American head shrinker.

I turned away from the mirror and bumped into a hospitality table that held a coffee urn and Keebler oatmeal cookies. A thick stack of fashion magazines and tabloids toppled to the floor. I hunkered down, gathering them into my arms, and happened to glance at the cover of the National Enquirer. It was upside down, but I recognized the couple in the photograph.

The laughing, dark-headed woman was Esmé Vasquez, the star of my sweetheart's new film. Her tight black pants showed the outline of aerobicized thighs. She leaned sideways, her breasts spilling out of a V-necked blouse, a smoky topaz necklace shining against bare skin. Her manicured hand gripped a man's thigh-Ferg's thigh. He was wedged against her, gripping a pint of ale. Behind his familiar wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes held a bemused expression.

I'd helped Ferg select those glasses after he'd stopped wearing contact lenses. His hair looked shorter and redder than I remembered. If he'd altered his hairstyle, what else had changed? The old Ferg had coppery, ropelike natural curls that sprang out all over his head. I remembered how he used to sit on the fl oor between my knees, a towel draped around his shoulders while I shaped and scrunched his hair with my unglamorous, unmanicured hands.

Me, I was the antithesis of all things Hollywood. One year ago, when he gave his acceptance speech at the Academy Awards, the camera had panned over to my row. I started to shrink down, but I was seated next to Susan Sarandon, who'd been nominated for best supporting actress in Bombshell. Susan grabbed a handful of my black gown and held me aloft. Later, when we made the party rounds, she pointed to my feet-one navy pump, one black. I waved my hand, and explained that the shoes were Prada, identical twins except for the color: the navy kid leather was almost black. I had borrowed them from my late mother, a self-professed shoe-a-holic. When Shelby VanDusen fell in love with a shoe, she bought them in multiple colors. "Just go barefoot," Susan suggested, "unless you're trying out for Fashion Victim of the Week in the tabloids."

"But I'll get my feet dirty," I said.

"That's all right, love," Ferg said, handing his statue to Susan; then he swept me into his arms. He smiled. "I'll carry you."

I always thought his hair went with his smile, a wide-mouthed, open grin. I'd worked with him three years, lived with him for two; but the longer I stared at the picture, the more alien he seemed. If it wasn't the camera angle, only one explanation made sense: I had never really known him. He was a stranger with even stranger hair.

In less than four minutes, my own hair was about to undergo a radical transformation, and not by choice.

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of MERMAIDS IN THE BASEMENT, or pop in to chat with Michael!!

What do you feed your mermaids in the basement? (And for extra credit, what are their names?)

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LIST OF MICHAEL LEE WEST'S BOOKS:

Mermaids in the Basement

Twenty pounds overweight—and sporting a bad haircut—Renata DeChavannes' luck has run out. Her screenwriting career is on the skids, she's reeling from her mother's sudden death, and her producer-boyfriend is on the cover of tabloid magazines (accompanied by a big-breasted starlet).

American Pie

With wit and loving compassion, Michael Lee West introduces us to an indomitable family of eccentric survivors in an unforgettable novel of cruel fate, bad luck, and unassailable resiliency.

She Flew the Coop

From Michael Lee West comes a beautifully rendered portrait of small-town Southern life, filled with humanity that brilliantly weaves comedy with dark calamity.


Mad Girls in Love

Michael Lee West's indomitable G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised in the South) are back -- enduring rough times with all the grace and outrageous flair expected of true Southern heroines.

Crazy Ladies

A lively multigenerational tale of six charming, unforgettable Southern women--a story of love and laughter, pain and redemption


Consuming Passions

Consuming Passions is Michael Lee West's delightfully quirky memoir of an adventurous life centered around food and family—the story of how she went from non-cook to gourmet of words and victuals by watching a multitude of relatives squabble, prepare sumptuous repasts, and carry on honored traditions.

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Again, the question is: What do you feed your mermaids in the basement? (And for extra credit, what are their names?)

Go for it!

Tuesday's Special Is...Within the Law!

Within the Law by Chelle Cordero

Tom gave up on ever falling in love again the day that he buried his high school sweetheart and fiancé. He started a career in law enforcement just so that he could find her murderer and rapist.

Just when he is about to see justice done, he meets Alli Davis-the defense attorney for the man who took his love from him.

Alli and Tom share a mutual and passionate attraction but Alli refuses to make any commitments. She is hiding a huge secret. Tom falls in love with her and pursues her despite a false arrest, kidnapping and attempt on his life.

Buy from Amazon.

Visit Chelle's Website.




Excerpt from WITHIN THE LAW:

He put his hand on the bartender’s wrist as she moved the open bottle towards his glass to refill.

“That’s going to be it for me, I’ve got an early morning.” He removed his hand from her wrist and watched as she pulled her slender hand away, noting the bright red of her nails. He remembered seeing red nails like that before. It was the same red as the cherry that topped the ice cream sundae you took your girl out for on a hot summer night. It was the same red as the Ruby stone that sat in a high school ring.

It had been more than eight years since he had seen that high school ring. She had been wearing it on a gold chain around her neck as she kissed him and told him she’d see him later. He waved as she got into the car with her friends and they drove off. Even though it had been a girls’ outing, he was supposed to drive them that day. One of her friends was planning to move into the dorm at the university in Syracuse later that summer and they all had wanted to help her make purchases for her room. But the restaurant manager had a last minute opening and he was grabbing all the work he could. So he stayed behind. He stayed behind and worked so they would be a little bit closer to being able to afford getting married.

His high school ring was never supposed to replace her engagement ring. He had been planning on buying one. But they wanted to move the wedding date up. They needed the money so buying the diamond was put on hold. Tom was still working the busboy job that had carried him through his senior year of high school. He had applications in at lots of other places for full time jobs, but the summer wasn’t the best time to get hired. His dad had wanted him to go on to college, but college wasn’t in his plans. Not anymore. He proposed to Joyce on their high school graduation day.

Joyce’s parents tried to convince them each to go to the local community college. They kept telling them that a two year engagement wasn’t all that long after all. Tom and Joyce knew they couldn’t wait the two years. So he worked as many hours as he could as a busboy. He managed to pick up a few extra hours pumping gas at the local station also. Joyce babysat and she was going to start selling plastic kitchen containers to all the area housewives. She wasn’t planning to buy anything that day. She was just going along for the ride. She was just going to enjoy the day with her girlfriends. He wanted her to have fun.

He was dead on his feet after the shift at the restaurant and he just wanted to go home and watch TV. His mom called him before he left work. His fifteen-year old cousin had run away again, something she did an average of twice a week since coming to live with them when she was twelve. Tom always knew where to find her and he picked her up on his way home that night. They were sitting in his car while he once again lectured her about her behavior when the police car pulled up. Tom knew that his world was about to end when he saw Joyce’s father get out of the back seat.

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of WITHIN THE LAW, or pop in to chat with Chelle!!

GI Joe has just commandeered your dollhouse. What redecorations has he made, and where does his Dachshund sleep?

(Chelle says the most creative answer wins!)

So...You're Writing a Book, Are You?

From the desk of Ms. Sally Spitfire:



My dear Suzy-kins,


Thank you for the package! I was so thrilled to get it. The hat you sent is simply gorgeous, although I can't imagine where I'm going to wear it! Certainly not at work and certainly not until summer--but I'll do my best to find the perfect occasion.

Meanwhile, I have a mystery that I need help to solve. I decided to go in for half a day this past Monday even though we technically had the day off (Martin Luther King Day) and you'll never guess who I saw when I walked into the office...

Antonio!

And I still have no idea what he was doing there. All I know what that he was sitting in front of his computer, staring intently at the screen and muttering to himself...until he saw me. Then he immediately jumped up to make us both a pot of coffee. Any ideas?

But I've been sidetracked; I wanted to answer the question from your letter! As it turns out, publishing DOES have its own "occupational hazard" and it is this: once you start working in publishing you quickly find out that EVERYONE IS A WRITER. They simply ooze out of the woodwork!

For example, at our family Christmas this year, no less than three of our relatives pulled me aside into linen closets and quiet corners to ask my opinion on "a fantastic idea for a book that I've been thinking of writing." I have received, by email, 5 different manuscripts and at least three times as many queries on "how to go about publishing a book" from close friends of the family. I even got a call from an ex-boyfriend with whom I hadn't spoken in years who wanted recommendations on good (read=willing) literary agents for his recently-finished epic fantasy novel.

But best of all, Suzy dear, was what happened at my last dentist visit. I should never have mentioned that I work in publishing. As he stuck his hands in my mouth, my dentist exclaimed: "Well that's fantastic because I'M ACTUALLY A WRITER!" At first I thought he was kidding but it turns out that the joke was on me because he spent the rest of the appointment telling me about his series of DENTAL FORENSIC MYSTERIES. And, to top it all off, he claims I have a cavity. I use the word "claim", because in the same breath he told me I'll have to come back next week to have a "very small cavity" filled and also, when I come, would I mind bringing along a list of editors from my publishing house who work with mysteries?

I swear, Suzy, sometimes I think I should just tell people that I work in finance.

Much love to you and Chloe and her rabbits,



(Ms.) Sally S.
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So, how do you describe your day job?

Who is more paranoid? A criminal in the midst of a break-in, or a writer about to type "The End" to a manuscript.

Do you like your dentist?

Discuss as you like...