Deadbeat Dads

Karen Cote does it again.

After her husband leaves her for a younger woman, Erica Morris starts a group for ex wives of deadbeat dads. Little did she know just how many there were. In the process of rebuilding her life, someone tries to blackmail her. Can she put the past behind her or will it catch up to her?
Avalilable from Amazon

Excerpt:

“Okay ladies,” I looked at the women gathered around me. Lisa Daly, who encouraged me to start this group, was here and Nicole Brown. Poor thing never went out while she was married. Oh, and Louise Conners, I still couldn’t believe her husband ran off with his receptionist, and now they were going through a nasty divorce. Not sure why that surprised me more than the others. It shouldn’t. There was quite a turn out. Half the women I didn’t know.

I brought my attention back to the meeting. “First order of business, a name for our group, any ideas?”

“Deadbeat Dads Anonymous,” someone called out. 

“Wives of Deadbeat Dads,” someone else yelled. “Or Women Against Deadbeat Dads.”

“Better yet, how about Mothers Against Deadbeat Dads.  MADD!” Lisa Daly shouted.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. There certainly wasn’t a shortage of names. “We’re mad for sure but that sounds too much like Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.”

“ADD,” someone else yelled. Against Deadbeat Dads.”

Nicole Brown’s hand went up. “Nicole, what’s your idea?”

“How about Wives Enraged at Deadbeat Dads. W.E.D.D.?” Nicole’s voice barely reached above a whisper.

Poor Nicole. Her ex-husband had knocked her self confidence so low. I was surprised to even see her here.  I met her at a school function. Nicole’s daughter, Cindy, was in the same class as my Josh. I had heard through the grapevine that Bob, Nicole’s ex, had run off with a stripper. Talk about humiliating. I shivered at the thought. 

Suddenly everyone came alive. Shouts of “Hey, that’s great, I like that,” sounded throughout the room. 

“Okay then it’s unanimous, Wives Enraged at Deadbeat Dads it is. All in favor raise your hands. W.E.D.D.”  Kind of funny when you thought about it. None of us were wed any more.

Twelve hands went up.  “Motion carried. We are officially Wives Enraged at Deadbeat Dads. Now we need to set up a schedule for our meetings and discuss our agenda.  First, we need to choose a Chairperson.”

Nicole’s hand went up again. “I nominate Erica Morris for chair person.”

“I second that motion.” Lisa Daly raised her hand. “This group was your idea.  I think you should chair it.”

Me as chair person? I wasn’t too crazy about the idea. “Any other nominations?” I hoped someone would raise their hand. No such luck. Heat rushed into my face. I had a feeling it turned as red as my hair, which was pretty red. I wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Never liked it and sure didn’t care for it now.

The room remained quiet.

No other nominees. “Okay then, all in favor, show of hands. Motion carried, I guess I’m the chairperson. Thank you, I’m flattered.” Flattered but a little taken aback. Hopefully, I wouldn’t let anyone down.  “Let’s break for refreshments and we can continue our discussion while we snack.”  I needed a moment to myself.

I never expected the group to name me chairperson. I’d never chaired anything in my life. In fact, the parents group at my children’s school was the only other group I had ever joined.

Johnny didn’t like me to go out and do things. He expected his wife to stay home, and God forbid, I even suggested going out alone while he stayed home with the kids.  Anger flared in me as I recalled how often he came home late.  Working, yeah right, spending time with his playmates was more like it. How could I have been so stupid? I remembered the day he told me he was leaving. Just like that out of the clear blue sky.

“It’s not working for us, Erica,” Johnny said. “I found someone else.”

Oh, he found someone else all right, his young, sexy secretary. You could have knocked me over with a feather.  I should have known. All the signs were there, his late hours and lipstick on his collar. He was comforting the wife of a friend, he lied. I did a slow burn as the memories returned. And then he left, packed his clothes and just walked out without even a goodbye to the kids, left me to deal with them as usual.  

Not doing well

keeping up my posts, am I? Not for lack of trying. Was busy working on the cover for Two Love Again and then after brainstorming with a writing friend, one of the stories I started quite some time ago, came to life again. 
Aunt Beatrice Lulu from All in the Family started talking - uh yelling - at me and insisted on her own story. I should have known she wouldn't be satisfied with a bit part. She wants the limelight. 
So I started writing and then she quit talking to me. 
It's never good when a character refuses to talk. Most people don't know writers can't force a story. It has to come from the characters. 
One of the things I need to know before I start writing is how the story ends. What happens in the middle is as much a surprise to me as it is to the reader. 
I never know where characters are going. So once I figured it out, well that lady just won't be quiet. Which is fine with me. I love when characters talk. I have a book I started years ago, that I still don't know how it ends, hence it sits with only the beginning written. It has the potential to be an excellent story. In fact, I have three or four like that. One day I hope they'll show me where they want to go. 
I do love Aunt Beatrice Lulu though. She's such a fun character. It doesn't have a title yet, but I'm sure she'll show me that one also.
So, my apologies on not keeping my promise to write every day. 

You can check out my books at: Amazon and by the way, It's Only Make Believe is 99 cents for a limited time.

All in the Family

For a limited time, my book, All in the Family is available from Amazon for 99 cents.

Taking over the police chief's job in her hometown should have been easy for Callie Johnson. At least that's what she thought. After

working in a big city, small town crime would be a breeze. What a suprise when she arrives to finc her grandmother, the judge, accused of murder. As if that isn't enough, she's attacked while walking to her car. Between criminal investigations, her nutty family's antics and her Aunt Beatrice Lulu's matchmaking, Callie definitely has her work cut out for her. Will her grandmother be exonerated? Can Callie ward off her aunt's unsuitable suitors? 

Review:
Callie's a small town police chief who doesn't need department investigators or a dating site. She's got Aunt Beatrice Lulul! And her other aunts, of course. A delightful, slightly wacky family you'll love.

Excerpt:

Callie looked around her first crime scene in Symtheville. Typical vandalism – nothing special about it. According to Jim this park had been vandalized several times over the last couple months. But this time was different. This time they had a witness. Sergeant Billings nodded to the little girl standing next to Officer Peters.

“That’s my witness?” Couldn’t be more than six or seven – what could a kid that age tell them? Still better than nothing.

“Hi.” Callie knelt next to the child – eye to eye so to speak. “What’s your name?”

“Berry.”

“Berry, that’s pretty. What’s your full name?”

“Huckleberry Kane.”

“Huckleberry! How’d you get a name like that?” Callie darn near bit her tongue. One of these days she’d learn to think before she spoke. Although the kid didn’t seem to take offense.

“My Grampaw named me.” Berry pulled on a strand of curly, red hair, lowered her freckled face, and kicked the dirt with her bare feet.

Those had to be the prettiest, greenest eyes she’d ever seen. “Well, Berry, that sure is a pretty name. I understand you saw who spray painted the park and broke the swings. Did you know them?”

Berry hooked her thumb through the strap on her bib overalls, kicked the dirt and shook her head.

“Can you describe them to me?”

Berry shrugged. Her tiny little shoulders brushed against her curls.

“Okay then...” Callie stood. Kneeling wasn’t the most comfortable position, and Berry wasn’t much of a talker. Wonder what she’d do with a sketch artist. Names certainly weren’t forth coming. “Sergeant, where’s the child’s parents?”

“Uh, um, her parents are dead, Chief, her grandfather has custody. He hasn’t arrived yet. We sent someone for him about twenty minutes ago.”

“Twenty minutes, where do they live?”

“Just a few houses down, according to the kid.”

“Go see what’s taking so long. I want to take Berry to the station, let her look at some pictures, maybe sit her down with a sketch artist.”

 “Chief Johnson!”  Peters raced across the park and stopped just short of knocking into Berry. “Chief can I see you alone a minute?”

Callie followed him a short distance away from Berry. “Okay, Peters, what’s going on?”

“Her grandfather, he’s...uh...” The officer looked at Berry and lowered his voice. “They found him unconscious on the kitchen floor. They called for an ambulance. They just took him to the hospital.”

Great, just what she needed another complication. She blew the hair out of her eyes. “Does she have any other relatives?”

“I don’t know, I was going to check with the neighbors. No one around here talks much. It’s like pulling teeth trying to get information.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Callie went back to Berry and knelt down next to her again. What a rotten thing to happen, poor kid.  “Berry, do you have any aunts or uncles?”

“Uncle William.”

“Okay, good. Where is Uncle William?”

“At work.”

Callie let out a chuckle. Of course he’s at work, what was she thinking? “Do you know where he works?”

“At the flour mill.”

“Officer, contact the flour mill, see if you can find William Kane. Let him know what’s going on.  I’m taking Berry to the hospital. Tell him we’ll meet him there.”

Callie stood and took Berry’s hand.  Better stop off and get the kid some shoes. “Okay, Berry, where do you live?”

“Right over there.” 

“Good, let’s get your shoes, and then we’re going for a ride.  Your grandpa said it was okay.”

“Why is Grampaw in the hospital?”

 Smart kid.  Now what?  Be honest, sure she’s only a kid, but she deserved the truth. So much for trying to keep it secret. “Your grandfather got sick and the ambulance took him to the hospital.  I’m going to take you there now, and we’ll meet your uncle. Okay?”

Berry pulled her hand out of Callie’s and raced toward the house.

Callie hurried to catch up and followed Berry into a small bungalow and looked around. Neat and tidy, but lived in. She couldn’t contain her curiosity and looked around the small living room. Furniture looked old but in good condition. Small TV in the corner. Nothing fancy here. A fairly new rag doll sat on an old rocker. Probably Berry’s. She smiled. Didn’t look like Berry played with it much. If she ventured a guess, she’d bet Berry was a a tom-boy. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Heck, she’d been a tom-boy herself. Still was if push came to shove. The kitchen had been cleaned, but the delicious aroma of breakfast still filled the room. Bacon and eggs. Her stomach growled. Half a bagel wasn’t much of a breakfast.

Berry came back with her shoes and put them on. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“So Berry, how old are you?” Callie asked on the way to the hospital.

“Six.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“What grade are you in?” She’d never found it so difficult talking to a child before.

“First. Is Grampaw going to be okay?”

Callie glanced at the little girl, sitting on the seat next to her. Poor kid must be worried sick about her grandfather. “I’m sure he’s going to be fine.” What else could she say? She had no idea what was wrong with the man. Hopefully, it was nothing serious. She pulled into the parking lot at Park General Hospital and helped Berry out of the car.

“Grampaw isn’t going to die is he? Like Momma and Daddy did?”

Fortunately, Callie was spared having to answer. The doctor reassured her and Berry that Grampaw was going to be just fine. “You’ll be allowed to see him in just a few minutes.”

Berry and Callie went into the waiting room and sat down when a tall, muscular man caused a disturbance at the information desk. She jerked upright to see what was going on.

“My niece!” the man shouted.

“Uncle William!” Berry jumped up, raced to the man, and flung herself into his arms, and clung to him.

Callie hurried to join them. “Mr. Kane, I’m Chief Johnson.  Berry witnessed some vandalism at the park. I was hoping you’d allow her to come down to the station and look at some pictures and maybe talk with a sketch artist.”

William Kane threw Callie a look so murderous; she thought she’d been stabbed. His brown eyes glared into hers.

“No! She can’t come down to the station.  What do you mean taking a six year old child in for questioning?”

 “Mr. Kane, she’s our only witness. And I haven’t taken her anyplace for questioning. I brought her here to see her grandfather, who, thank God, is going to be fine, by the way.”  Damn it! Callie turned away and bit her tongue before she said anything else to anger this man.  She needed his permission – unless Grampaw gave his, and under the circumstances, Callie figured William Kane would fight it.

 She turned back to face him. Good looking in a boy next door sort of way. His blond crew cut suited him.  “Look, Mr. Kane, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here.  I know you’re worried about Berry and your father, and believe me – I only have her best interest at heart.  But she is a witness, and I think she can identify the boys who did this.”

William took a deep breath and redness deepened his cheeks. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re right I was worried about Berry and my dad, but that was no reason to attack you that way.” He wiped his hand on his pants and extended it toward her.

She shook his hand. His smile extended all the way into his eyes and wrinkled his nose in a funny sort of way.  Cute! “Good then you won’t object and will bring Berry down to the station to look at some pictures? This is the third time this summer that park’s been vandalized. I really want to get these kids.”

“I’ll bring her down, but only if you’ll agree to have dinner with us. My way of apologizing”

Berry hugged William’s neck. “We get to eat out, yippee!” She loosened her hold, slid down out of his arms, and skipped over to Callie. “Say you’ll come, Miss Callie, please say you’ll come.”

Callie laughed.  “Well, with an invitation like that how can I refuse?” 

Romantic Suspense

 Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have expected my life to change so much just by accomplishing my dream. If someone would have told me a year ago, even two weeks ago, that my life would become so complicated, I would have laughed at them. Seriously.  Maybe I should start from the beginning. My goal in life was to become a topnotch journalist. I loved writing. Always had. Ever since I can remember that’s all I ever wanted to be. Suddenly, the goal was at hand. Within reach. I got it. My first big byline! I beat out all the other reporters at the scene, and the paper printed my story. MINE!

I was ecstatic. So… there I was drinking a cup of coffee and reading my story, relishing the moment. My headline! GEORGIE PORGIE PUDDING AND DIE by me, Susan Weston. Word for word just the way I’d written it. Not one word changed.

I’d been first on the murder scene the night before. Got there before the cops, so I got a pretty good look at the body. Turned out to be a guy I knew from the neighborhood. Pretty gruesome, too. Not a sight I’m likely to forget.

So like I said, I was drinking my coffee and reading my story and Okay, gloating a little bit. It made me feel good that for once my story got printed and not those other guys. This was it. I knew it. My big chance. Things were going to change now. No more fluff pieces for me. Nope, now the boss would have to assign me to some good stories.

That's when everything went haywire. The phone rang. Nothing unusual in that. My phone often rings, although not that early in the morning. Of course I answered. 

The voice on the other end sent goosebumps up my arm, down my spine, and chills down to my toes. It still does. Just thinking about it.

I could hardly hear the caller. His raspy voice faded out, and I only caught a couple of words. Something about liking my story and strawberries. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. I figured it was a crank call. Reporters got them all the time. But something about that call bothered me. Nagged at me.

My life hasn’t been the same since. To find out what happened, you’re going to have to read my book, Ring Around the Rosy available from Amazon. http://amzn.to/PjLvDp

Excerpt:

Susan propped the News Gazette on the counter and focused on the headline. ‘Georgie Porgie, Pudding and Die’ by Susan Weston, it blared at her. Her headline. Her story. She’d done it. Finally got her headline. She drummed her hands on the counter and did a little dance step. She swore if her grin got any wider her face would crack. .”Susan Weston, journalist!” she shouted. God, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

The phone rang, startling her. “Who the heck is calling at this hour? “ She grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Bella rubbed against her legs, waiting to be fed. “Hello?” Susan grabbed the box of kitty food, filled the bowl, and set it on the floor.

“Hello,” she repeated, ready to hang up if no one answered this time.

The evil, raspy voice on the other end sent goose-bumps up her spine. “Who is this?” she whispered.

The voice mumbled something she could barely hear.

“Strawberries? What are you talking about?”

“Just for you,” the garbled voice continued.

“I can’t hear you. Who is this?” What kind of sick joke is this?

She caught the words, “loved your headline,” more garbled words, and “Watch for Jack be nimble.” Then the phone line went dead.

Susan grabbed the counter to steady herself. Her hand trembled, and she stared at the phone. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle as if it was on fire. But she couldn’t stop the trembling. Her stomach churned. Nausea filled her throat. What was wrong with her? Just someone playing a sick joke. This wasn’t her first crank call, why react like this? Maybe because none of the others had sounded like this.

He said he liked her story. That shouldn’t bother her. Something about that voice, so harsh, so evil. It gnawed at her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Something about it seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

After pouring a cup of coffee, she read the story under the headline aloud, trying to keep her mind off the phone call. “Police are investigating the death of thirty-one year old George Lucas, whose body was found last night in Lagoon Park near his west side home.” The sound of her shaky voice surprised her.

What was the matter with her?  “Get a grip, girl.”

Must be the effect of seeing the lifeless body. The way George Lucas’s eyes stared into space. What was he thinking when he looked into his killer’s eyes? The distant street lamp didn’t help. It cast an eerie shadow on the victim. His face frozen in terror, lips parted in a silent scream, and his head tilted to one side as if it was too heavy for his neck. The way one hand clutched at his throat and the other gripped the note, fingers frozen around it, sent icy chills through her, even now. She shuddered.

Thank God there wasn’t any blood, since the image would forever be embedded in her mind. Susan rubbed her arms to warm them.

Picking up the paper, she continued to read. “The coroner will determine the cause of death, but early reports indicate that Mr. Lucas was strangled. Lipstick was smeared across the victim’s mouth, and he clasped the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie Porgie,’ in his hand. The teen who discovered the body reported seeing a man carrying a bag and wearing a gray shirt running from the park moments before. Police have no suspects at this time.”

Bella brushed against her legs, jumped on the counter, and snuggled against her.

Susan’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for the thrill of seeing her name on the front page. The image of the body filled her mind. Her hands trembled while she held the paper and reread the headline with her name below it. It was exactly as she had written it — not one word changed, short and to the point.

George Lucas lived in her neighborhood. She’d seen him a few times in Meliti’s Market talking to old Mrs. Meliti. Although they never spoke, they had nodded and smiled hello. Nice-looking guy, about her age. What a shock seeing him dead. Another shiver shook her body. Seeing a dead body was bad enough, but knowing the victim threw her for a loop. Made it personal.

Arriving only a few minutes before the police showed up and ordered her to leave, not that they had to tell her twice, she had viewed the crime scene and then skedaddled lickety-split. She knew enough about crime scenes to maintain a distance, knew if she got too close, she’d compromise the scene, maybe even leave trace evidence of herself behind. She didn’t need that. But she’d been close enough to read that paper in his hand, a nursery rhyme. She’d seen every gory detail.

The nursery rhyme letters, cut out from newspapers and magazines, and bowl of chocolate pudding and the strawberry pie that had been dumped on the victim’s head would stay in her memory for a long time. Of course, the police requested that information not be printed.

Requested, hell. Demanded was more like it, but Susan understood. Those were facts only the killer knew, and it prevented crank confessions. Couldn’t give the public too much information. After waiting behind the crime scene tape long enough to hear the possible cause of death, she hurried home to write her story before the deadline.

Susan walked around the kitchen. To sweeten the deal, her colleagues hadn’t shown up until well after they’d taped off the crime scene, hadn’t seen what she’d seen. So Ernie printed her story. Her first big byline!   Even that cocky reporter, Dan Hill, hadn’t beat her out this time.

Staring at the large headline, she sipped her coffee. The words from the phone call rambled around in her mind.

“Strawberries. The voice on the phone said something about strawberries. Strawberry Pie dumped over the victim’s head.” Her voice cracked at the memory.

Only the killer knew about the pie. Her body shook. Had she been talking to the killer? What else had the caller said? Jack be nimble. Another nursery rhyme.

Grabbing the counter to steady herself, she repeated part of the nursery rhyme “Jack be nimble…”

Her mind raced. She pushed away from the counter and paced the kitchen, trying to remember the rest of the rhyme.

“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candlestick. That’s it!”

What the heck did it mean? Was he going to kill again? Was there a serial killer out there?

She grabbed the phone and dialed the police department. Maybe it was nothing, but she needed to report it. Something didn’t sit right.

Shadows in the Attic

In the process of renovating century old, Queen Anne style Victorian home, author, Anna Hughes decides to convert part of the attic into a quiet place to write. Her fiancé points out a window on the outside of the house that doesn’t show in the attic. It’s only natural, she’d insist on knocking down a wall. Once the wall is down, they discover a room, complete with furniture, a diary, trunk full of treasures, and shadows hovering over it.

Ben Curtis, Anna’s fiancé hates getting dirty but agrees to her harebrained scheme, hoping to prove her wrong. Maybe then she’d give up the idea of writing and get a real job. Once she discovered the room, there was no stopping her. Worse, she insisted she saw shadows.

Chad Andrews was thrilled when Anna hires him to renovate the attic once the wall was knocked down. Too bad she was engaged, he was attracted to more than her house.

Do they hold the answer to secrets of why the room was hidden?

Available at Amazon

Welcome, Adriana Ryan

1: First off, I know you have several names you write under. Why do you feel the need to use a pseudonym and how do you come up with the names?

Hey Roseanne! Thank you for having me. J It’s great to be doing my first official interview!

As far as pseudonyms go, I have two. I originally started writing under my real name: Sandhya Falls. I published a few short stories in anthologies, and they were all speculative and/or dark fiction.

I also write under Sandhya Menon, which is used for my multicultural children’s books. I haven’t published anything under that one yet, but there’s a ton underway!

When I wrote my contemporary paranormal romance for MuseItUp, I wanted to make sure my work wouldn’t clash with what I already had published. I didn’t want to confuse readers, or make it hard for them to choose what kind of fiction they wanted to read. Hence, Adriana Ryan was born.

2: How long have you been writing and what was your first book and series?

I have been writing since I was a little girl. I used to scribble bits of poems and prose on the walls and cabinets, and even my clothes and shoes! Finally, my parents got me my own notebooks and I filled those up as fast as I could.

Now, my Netbook is my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without it! However, Her Heart’s Desire (working title) will be my first novella. I’m so excited!

3: What do you like the most and least about writing?

Ooh, a really interesting question! There’s almost a love-hate relationship between most authors and the writing process, isn’t there? The act of writing itself is like a drug – addictive and intense – but then there are certain parts that make you want to tear your hair out.

Let’s see, my favorite part is when I type The End. Really! It’s not because it’s a project completed (although that’s nice, too!), it’s because I feel like I’ve had so much fun in this happy – or sad, or mysterious, etc. – world I’ve created. It’s a full, satisfying feeling, almost like when you’ve just had a baby. J

The worst part, I think, is editing! That first round of going through and ripping out parts you’ve written, rewriting things until the words start to swim, and wondering why you ever thought you were worthy of being a writer – ughhhh. ‘Editing’ is a four letter word to me.

4: What do you for fun and relaxation when not writing?

I LOVE to read. I’m a fanatic about books. I can’t stand having a single day without something new to read – the minute I finish a book, I have a new one waiting in the wings. I’m a total word nerd.

I’m an amateur painter as well, with an emphasis on the word ‘amateur.’ I absolutely love anything to do with color. I paint abstract realism most of the time, but most recently just finished my fully abstract piece and loved the experience.

5: You mentioned that you started off writing dark fiction. When and how did you begin to write contemporary paranormal romance?

Her Heart’s Desire is actually my very first romance, believe it or not. I was so lucky that MuseItUp picked it up! I wasn’t even sure there would be a market for a story like it; I just knew I wanted to write it. As you probably know, Roseanne, there are some characters who just won’t shut up until you tell their story! J

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

I’m really bad at talking about myself, so it would probably be that I’m not “just” a stay-at-home mom (although that in and of itself is a huge undertaking!). I have other personas: writer, for one, and student, for another. I think that when people find out you stay home with your kids, they sort of stop looking past that to see if there’s anything else. I’m lucky to have a proud husband who brags to anyone who’ll listen that I’m a writer and soon-to-be psychologist!

7: Tell us about your current novel, Her Heart’s Desire. How did you come up with the idea and where can we find it?

Her Heart’s Desire will be out through MuseItUp Publishing (www.museituppublishing.com) in March 2012 (stay tuned for a concrete date as time gets closer!).

I remember the idea came to me like a bolt of lightning. It was so different than anything I’d ever written that I knew I had to get it down. My first scribbles had allusions to an “imperfect heroine” and a “magic necklace” but the story hadn’t formed much beyond that until I started writing.

8: Do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

Don’t worry about what others will think of your story. Just write the story you want to tell, write your heart out, write every day. Follow your instincts. And before you submit, have a few really smart people critique your work.

9: Do you base your characters on real-life people?

My major characters are almost always a vivid fusion of different people, and even different traits of people. For Millie, I drew upon my sister, myself, a secretary with whom I once worked, and my incredibly beautiful aunt. But ssh – don’t tell them!

10: Are you finished with Millie Fields, or does she still have any stories left to tell?

I’m not sure if Millie will come back in future books. As of this time, I haven’t written any more stories with her – her story feels told and done. However, I absolutely loved the fun, flirty feel of the book as well as the fact that it had a truer, deeper meaning in it as well. That’s something I hope to carry over into my future books.

11: Can you tell us about your next book in the works?

Sure! I always have about a zillion projects going at any time, so I’m happy to oblige. ;) My next novella, Dusk, is actually a light paranormal horror (absolutely no gore), with a touch of romance to it. I’m still editing it (ah, the lovely phase of rewrites – not!) and eventually I hope it’ll make it past the slush piles like Her Heart’s Desire did!

12. Are you a plotter or punster?

I am most definitely a plotter. My ideas come in a flurry, but I have to get that butterfly net out and snag them down to where I can pin them, or they’re lost. I like to have a visual map before me, either in the form of an Excel spreadsheet or a column of flash cards.

13. Where can we find you? Website? Blog?

My blog is http://adrianaryan.wordpress.com. I blog regularly about the writing process for a new (to the publishing world) author like me, but I also interview and feature a dazzlingly talented array of other authors. 

Blurb: Her Heart’s Desire is about Millie Fields, whose unfortunate life is of Greek-tragedy proportions and couldn’t possibly get any worse… or so she thought. But one humiliating encounter with her heartthrob of a boss (aka Gorgeous Grant) finds her in the rain, desperate for a chance to be someone who matters. A mysterious woman slips her a necklace that gives her exactly what she’s wanted for years. Will she be able to juggle her two identities and end up with the one man of her dreams?

Unedited Excerpt:

Millie knew she had to get out of there. Between the rain and her frizzy hair, the impossibility of getting promoted, and seeing her Graham fall so easily for Alice’s trilling laugh, she’d had enough. She was halfway to the door when the heel on her shoe snapped, twisting her ankle and landing her flat on her face – at Graham’s feet. For a moment, time stopped. She staggered up on her knees and stared up at Graham’s confused face. The silence around the office was deafening.

Alice was the first one to register what had happened. She started laughing so hard, she snorted several times in a row. The paralysis that had gripped the office broke, and people everywhere started joining in, chuckling and calling out, “Timber!”

Please don’t laugh at me. Millie tried to telegraph her entreaty to Graham. She was still on her knees; she just couldn’t bring herself to move. Please don’t laugh, not you.

But of course he laughed. With one look at Alice’s contorted face, Graham burst into guffaws.

Millie pulled herself up and took her shoes off in silence. She heard Alice drawl, “I don’t think you’re a heels kind of girl, Millie,” and there was a fresh wave of laughter around the office.

Millie looked around at everyone’s faces, distorted with mirth, eyeing her as though she might do something else for their entertainment. They all thought she was a big fool, didn’t they? She was an untalented, fat, unfashionable slob. She felt tears rush to her eyes and blinked them back furiously. She wouldn’t let them see her cry. She couldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Without a word, she ran out of the office and down the hallway. Flinging the door to the fire escape open, she ran down the stairs in her bare feet, and out into the warm pouring rain. She hurried away from the building, keeping her head down as people with umbrellas rushed past, darting her curious glances. Her hair was plastered to her skull, strands of it were in her eyes, and her tears mingled with the rain. She only half-registered the sobs that escaped from some place deep within her chest; her shoulders hitched with the effort of containing them. Finally, she got to a bench and sat down, her sopping clothes clinging to her. She glanced down at her shirt and realized with a lurch of horror that it was white. Her ratty black bra was clearly visible. Fresh sobs racked her frame; she was so out of it that it took her a few moments to notice that someone’s hand was on her back.

She looked up to see a weathered old face staring at her in concern.

“My dear, what is the matter?” The woman sitting next to her was dressed in tattered clothing and had a shopping cart full of clothes and knick knacks parked nearby. Her voice lilted with an accent that Millie couldn’t place.

“It would take less time to tell you what isn’t the matter.” Millie stared at the cracks in the sidewalk. She tried to gain control of her wobbling voice, but failed miserably.

“You mustn’t despair,” the old woman said. “You have a good heart. I see it.”

“Yeah well, a good heart doesn’t really help you get the man of your dreams, you know? It doesn’t help you be something other than a laughingstock for your whole office. It doesn’t help you get ahead in a career that’s completely dead-ended. It doesn’t help you feel like anything except a 28-year-old failure.” Millie put her hands over her face, giving in to her burning humiliation and sorrow.

 She looked up when she felt something being slipped around her neck. “What –“

“This is for you.” The woman gestured at Millie’s chest.

Millie looked down and saw a glass pendant shaped like a small bottle hanging on a black leather cord. The pendant was no bigger than an inch, and intricately carved. “It’s beautiful,” Millie said, fingering it. “But I don’t have any money… I left my purse back at the office –“

The woman held up a wrinkled old hand as the rain pelted down on them. “I do not want your money. This is for your pained heart.” Before Millie could protest, the woman placed her palm over the pendant. She closed her eyes and half-sang, half-chanted, “Mashaha la. Mashaha la.”

Millie watched in disbelief as a purple glow lit up the crevices of the woman’s hand and light spilled from the spaces between her fingers. She could feel the pendant getting warm, warmer, almost hot. Then, in a sudden mini-implosion, the light and the heat receded.

Millie squinted at the homeless woman in the rain, unable to speak. What had just happened?

“This is the Night’s Hope necklace. By day you will be Millie, by night you will be transformed into your heart’s desire.” She flashed a crooked little smile at Millie. “Enjoy.”

Millie gazed down at the necklace, trying to remember if she had told the old woman her name. “This is amazing,” she said, stroking the pendant. “How did you make it light up?” When there was silence, she looked up to see that the seat next to her was empty. Her only company was the thundering rain and gusting wind.

Hello, Gail Branan

1: Thank you so much for being here, Gail.  First up is the obligatory question. When did you first begin writing?

I guess that depends on your definition of writing.  If you mean as in putting words on paper like a mad woman in the midst of an obsession, not till my mid to late 30’s.  If you mean as in creating stories in my head and living in a fantasy world, I don’t ever remember not doing that.  I was the youngest child in my family by ten years, and we lived in an “old” neighborhood, no other kids around to play with.  So I became a “planet-hopper”, a “time-traveler” at a very young age.  I remember having regular little worlds, each separate, each with different characters, wherein I had specific identities.  Don’t think I was any more than five when that started.  Once, my older sister told our mother I had the least imagination of any child she’d ever seen, because I wasn’t much for playing dolls and tea-parties. And I remember thinking it was hysterically funny, even then.

2:  So we know you had an overactive imagination, what inspired you to write?

Boredom.  At the time I started my first novel, I’d run through every book then written by my favorite authors; the library wasn’t stocking new ones fast enough; and no book I picked up right then grabbed my attention.  So I thought maybe it was time to see if that ghost story that had been sitting in a corner of my brain since I was twelve could actually make it onto paper. 

3: Wow, you had a story stewing that long. We all know there's certain aspects of writing we like and dislike, what do you like the most and least about writing?

I love it when a plan comes together. I love it even more when a plan doesn’t come together and twists and turns and converges into something completely different from your expectations. When your characters jump up and tell you what to do.  When you’re actually watching a movie in your head and simply writing down what you see.  I think readers are most surprised when the writer is most surprised.  I love those moments.  And I’ve had quite a few of them.  They’re the best.

And conversely, there are times when what you thought was just going to flow into something wonderful absolutely refuses to move.  That’s the pits. 

4: We've all experienced that. I know you work a full time job, what do you for fun and relaxation when not writing?

There’s something else to do except write?   I have a set response when folks ask me why I write.  Because I couldn’t have this much fun for free doing anything else.  But okay, sure, I admit – everybody needs a break.  When I know it’s time to stop writing for a bit, I love to watch movies, all kinds, comedies, suspense, fantasy.  We have a big collection.  And I do love to read, though writing sometimes detracts from the enjoyment reading used to give me when I didn’t write myself.  I think all writers tend to edit the books they read, as in, “I know that writer didn’t just –” when they see a discrepancy or a factual mistake.  Or a grammatical mistake.  We’re harder to please than we used to be. It takes more to impress us.  Which consequently makes us turn green with envy when we run across a really beautiful book.  My grandson’s five, and he was demonstrating the warped sense of humor that runs in the family by the time he was three.  So time with him is a hoot. 

5: Yes, authors are the worst critiques. Oh and grandchildren are a refreshing distraction. You said you liked to read, which authors do you like to read?

I’m eclectic in my tastes.  Two of my favorite writers only wrote one book each.  Margaret Mitchell, Gone With the Wind, which I read the summer between the second and third grades.  You can believe me or not (most people don’t) but it’s the absolute truth.  Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, which I read the first time when I was probably 11 or so.  It’s only coincidental that the first writer is from Georgia and the second’s from Alabama; I’m really not playing regional favorites or anything.  They were just absolute masterpieces, eternal gems.  Growing up, I also loved Poe and Lovecraft, because they scared the bejesus out of me, Bram Stoker for the same reason, James Michener, who fascinated me since I loved history, Mary Stewart whose romantic suspense was absolute magic, Victoria Holt, Phyllis Whitney, Alistair MacLean.  I truly love Thomas Wolfe even though he’s not an easy read.  He’s a prose-poet and his words are so beautiful they make me weep.  And I love Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Janet Evanovich, Kathy Reichs, Diana Gabaldon, Nora Roberts, Robert Parker, Tess Gerritson, Iris Johansen, Tami Hoag.  I read a lot of folks, don’t I, so maybe I’d better hush.

6: We love some of the same authors. Here's a more personal question. What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

That I never want to offer any reader anything but my absolute best.  That I personally pledge to any reader who ever considers one of my books that it is absolutely the very best writing I can deliver.

7: That's the most unusual answer I've gotten to that question so far. Tell us about your current novel, where we can find it and your website/blog.

Miami Days & Truscan (K)nights debuts April, 2012, thanks to MuseItUp Publishing.  It’ll be in the MuseItUp Bookstore, of course, and on all the sites MuseItUp Books are so blessedly sold, including Amazon and Barnes & Nobles.  My blog is Flowers on the Fence, http://flowersonthefence.blogspot.com. 
I recently contracted another novel, Down Home, which will be released September, 2012. 

Miami Days & Truscan (K)nights is the story of  Tess Ames, personal troubleshooter of the CEO of Miami based Ramos International.  Tess discovers that rainbows aren’t the only things career girls can fly over – or into.  The corporate plane carrying her to Jamaica flies out of the blanket of gray, swirling mist it’s been flying in for miles, crashing into a stand of hardwoods that have no business growing anywhere in the remote vicinity of where she’s supposed to be.   The riders on horseback coming out of the trees don’t look as though they have any business being in the vicinity either, especially the rider on the mount which sports the curving horns.  Tess has flown through a door to a parallel world, a world in which her rescuers, rough knights of the country called Trusca, are under constant attack by the Prian Empire, whose inhabitants are humanoid but pig-like in appearance.  Even worse, the Prians are cannibals.   Fortunately for Tess, she’s not the only American stranded over here.  An American pilot by the name of Johnny McKay has survived in this world for a long time.  And this world runs on magic, omens, portents, and power stones.  Tess has an impressive résumé, but no expertise in any of the foregoing categories.  Still, she’s willing to give it her best shot.  And Randalph of  Trusca – Dalph – the King of this parallel world’s country of Trusca  – well, he’s looking pretty good, too.    

8: Wow, that sounds fascinating. Here's a question I'm often asked, do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

If you’re a writer, write.  That’s about it.  It’s the be-all and end-all.  If your bottom line is making a lot of money, if you don’t care about the world and the characters you’re creating, if you wouldn’t write whether or not you’re ever published, if you don’t care whether or not your finished product is the absolute best you can make it – well, I hate to break to you, but you’re not really a writer.  And if you’re really a writer, if you’ve really made your finished product the best you can make it, and if you’re really persistent, sooner or later, someone will notice as you continue to throw your heart out there. 

9: Great advice. Another one, I'm often asked, do you base your characters on real-life people?

Show me a writer who says his characters aren’t based on real people and I’ll show you a liar.  Of course, all characters are based on bits and pieces of people the writer has known and observed through the years and combined in whatever combination fits the plot.  How else would they be believable?

10: I absolutely agree.   Another question people frequently ask, where do you get your ideas and what inspired you to write this book?

Ideas come from everywhere.  Memories.  Realities.  This particular book was born  because I wanted to do an historical romance – sort of – but I didn’t want to do the research for it.  But – if my heroine went through the Bermuda Triangle into a parallel world, I could make that world into anything I wanted, now couldn’t I, and who could gainsay me? As an added bonus, I’d been playing around for years in my head in a parallel world I created when I was about five.  I’d forgotten about that world.  Grown-ups tend to forget their magic as they age.  But one advantage to being a writer is that they find the magic easier to recover than most folks.

11: That makes perfect sense. It's fun creating your own world isn't it? What are you currently working on?

At the moment, I’ve just finished a re-write on a crime thriller with paranormal overtones.  I call it a Redneck Espionage Plot as the fictional setting’s based in my home county.  My rural home county.  I’m also running through a dark horror novel that’s been finished for a while, in the hopes that it’ll find a home after another polish.  I find distance invaluable in polishing a book to the best of my humble ability.   I’ve also got an urban fantasy plot going that I’m in hopes might turn into a series.  And at the back of my mind is the thought that if Tess and Dalph are well-received, there might be several more novels in the Truscan (K)nights series.   

12. Well you're certainly keeping busy. Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

I didn’t bore you enough already?  Well, I have this secret yen for another career as a bounty-hunting private detective.  Maybe I’ll work on that.  But now, thank you, darlin’, I’ll graciously take my leave, with thanks for having me on-board today.  I’m honored.  And as I leave, can I just drop this little excerpt off ?  Tess is seeing Dalph’s city of Trussa, the Truscan capital, for the first time….

We moved out and over one hill, into a meadow, and then over another hill.

And before us spread Trussa.

Dalph stopped at the top of the hill. I turned my head around to catch his expression. It was full of fierce pride, of pleasure at his homecoming, of dedication. Johnny was absolutely right. Dalph lived for this country. And based on knowledge gleaned from my entire 24 hours of residency, I was sure that one day he would almost certainly die for it.

Johnny pulled up beside us.

“Well?^”

“I ain’t in Kansas anymore,” I said.

He laughed. “Damn sure ain’t, baby girl.”

The walls and battlements constructed of a white material without a shadow of gray gleamed under the afternoon sun. They reflected a pinkish glow under the rays of the red sun. Behind the walls I saw buildings of one and two floors constructed from the same stone and a golden, glowing wood. Bright pennants flew from many roofs. And in the center of the stronghold stood what had to be the Rata, complete with towers and turrets.

“Does it have a drawbridge?” I asked. “And a moat?^”

Johnny laughed. “No. The town is its moat. And nobody and nothing’s ever gotten past it.”

“Welcome to Camelot,” I said softly.

Johnny laughed again. “Yeah, and there^’s even a Round Table. Of sorts. But for God^’s sake, don’t expect armor. Dalph^’s knights have protection of a different sort.”

Dalph spoke then, and though I didn’t understand the words, the meaning was clear.

“Enough.” And he lifted his hand again, and the riders started forward.

Hello, Marva Dasef

Thanks for joining us today, Marva. tell us about your Witches of Galdorheim Series..

Bad Spelling - Book 1 of The Witches of Galdorheim Series

A klutzy witch, a shaman's curse, a quest to save her family. Can Kat find her magic in time?

by Marva Dasef http://marvadasef.com

Blog: http://mgddasef.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/MarvaDasef

MuseItUp Buy Link: http://tinyurl.com/3daem4r

Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWgjP4szkh0

Amazon Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005URFJ0Y

Cover Blurb

If you’re a witch living on a remote arctic island, and the entire island runs on magic, lacking magical skills is not just an inconvenience, it can be a matter of life and death–or, at least, a darn good reason to run away from home. 

Katrina’s spells don’t just fizzle; they backfire with spectacular results, oftentimes involving green goo.  A failure as a witch, Kat decides to run away and find her dead father’s non-magical family. But before she can, she stumbles onto why her magic is out of whack: a curse from a Siberian shaman.

The young witch, accompanied by her half-vampire brother, must travel to the Hall of the Mountain King and the farthest reaches of Siberia to regain her magic, dodging attacks by the shaman along the way.

Book 2: Midnight Oil - January 2012

Shipwrecked on a legendary island, how can a witch rescue her boyfriend if she can’t even phone home?

Book 3: Scotch Broom - April 2012

A magical trip to Stonehenge lands a witch in the Otherworld where an ancient goddess is up to no good.

Andy the Troll/Human

 Hi! My name is Ander, but everybody calls me Andy. I lived in the Troll Kingdom with my brothers Inder and Ender for fifteen years. As far as I was concerned, I was a troll and proud of it. Trolls don't look as bad as that picture, but we don't have cameras or cellphones in the caverns, so we don't take many photos. Let's just say we're not handsome, but we do have a certain drollish charm.

However, on her deathbed, my mother Gorm confessed that I was bortbyting, a changeling. When her triplets were born, one of the babies was weak and sickly. Mother Gorm knew that a child like this would never survive in the harsh conditions of the troll caverns, so she snuck into a Sami nomad camp one night and swapped out the sick baby for me. I was plenty healthy, but less than one day old. I imagine that the Sami parents might have wondered about the baby, but accepted the troll child as their own.

Now, this is how it works. If anyone, including humans, live long enough in the troll world, they become trollish over time. The same is true in reverse, so the troll baby who lived with the Samis would have appeared more human as he grew. At least I hoped he'd grow up strong and healthy. I certainly did. By the time the triplets could begin crawling through the caverns, I'd converted entirely into troll form. As a matter of fact, I even took on the looks of my brothers. Very few could tell us one from another. We wore different colored suspenders to identify us.

When Katrina and her brother, Rune, showed up at King Ole's, my brothers and I greeted them. Well, kind of greeted. We actually attacked them with knives. But it was an honest mistake. Rune (we didn't know he was Rune at the time) spoke to us in a strange language. We knew to expect somebody to come visiting, but thought it might be Thor's warriors. Again, honest mistake. Kat's aunt is named Thordis (like Thor, get it?) and the message to the three of us guarding the bridge into the Troll Kingdom...well, we screwed up, okay?

We took Kat and Rune to the King as we were supposed to do in the first place. It was only then that I found out that Kat was half Sami! Those are my birth people as Gorm had told me on her deathbed (sniff, I do miss my mother). Anyway, when Kat said she was searching for the nomadic Sami tribe, I spoke up. King Ole said I had a right to meet my birth parents, so I could go along on the search for them. But I had to return to the Troll Kingdom if the troll baby would not, or he was dead. It's all about a balance of nature.

So, that's how I got together with Kat and Rune. It's also how I changed from troll to human boy. Quite a difference a few days in the land of humans makes, eh? I thought I turned out to be a pretty handsome human. I'm glad that Kat thinks so too.

Here's an excerpt where I tell King Ole that I was human, not troll.

“Yes, yes. That’s what happened. Mother Gorm told me the truth just before she died last year.” Andy bowed his head. A tear rolled down the rough skin of his cheek. He took a deep breath and continued. “She told me where to find my human family. She thought I should know.”

Endy and Indy wrapped their arms around their brother, hugging him tightly, murmured something to him, and then stepped away. Andy nodded. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. You’ll always be my brothers, no matter what.”

The king’s advisor stepped forward. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, this troll should return to the Sami,” he said, his lips twisted with distaste. “And have the real troll returned to us.”

“Jtte, you really need to do something about your anti-human bias. Just because one tricked you—”

“Those humans cheated, Sire!” Jtte retorted, with a sneer. “I had that woman’s child within my grasp; then she went and guessed my name. What’s worse, she kept saying I was a dwarf!”

“Well, Rumpelstiltskin isn’t too common a name, Jtte, even for a troll.”

“That’s why I’ve changed my name to Jtte Finn.” The troll huffed, standing taller and sticking his nose in the air.

“And why you hate humans so much,” the king finished for the troll. “You really need to put that behind you and live in the now.”

The king turned back to Andy. “It seems to me you are the reason the fates sent these children here. Not to get my advice but to return you to your people and, in turn, find Katrina’s family.”

Shaking off his sulk, Jtte stepped forward. “I can test whether this human,” he said, pointing at Andy, “might be related to the girl.”

The king rubbed his chin. “Well, Andy’s mother told him she swapped him in Siberia, not in Norway or Sweden. I don’t doubt the lady’s word.”

“Still, Your Highness, I can easily test the human and the girl.”

“Why would it matter?” King Ole asked.

“I’ve recently discovered a means of comparing certain aspects of blood to test family ties. If they are related, then it is proof they come from the same tribe.”

King Ole pondered. “I don’t want either of them harmed.”

“It’s simply a pinprick, Highness. Nothing dangerous at all.”

MuseItUp Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/MIU-MarvaDasef

Website: http://marvadasef.com

Blog: http://mgddasef.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/MarvaDasef

Amazon Author: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BM4DM6

Twitter Handle: @Gurina

Hello, J.Q. Rose

 Hello, Everyone. I’m J. Q. Rose, author of the mystery/light horror novella, Sunshine Boulevard.

Thank you, Roseanne, I am thrilled to be a guest on your blog today. My main character, Michigan snowbird Jim Hart, is here with me. I had to twist his arm to come though. He is not one to seek the spotlight. I thought your readers would like to hear first-hand from Jim about the mystery concerning the unusual number of senior citizens dying on Sunshine Boulevard. This comes at a time when many Northerners are getting ready to head to Florida for the winter. I do not want to worry them, but this should serve as a heads-up to snowbirds that some of your usual fun activities may be interrupted this winter.

Jim, come on in and I’ll let you tell your story.

Thank you, J. Q. and thanks Roseanne. I don’t usually talk too much about that winter in Florida. It was the most frightening time in my life.

I didn’t want to be pulled into the investigations of mysterious deaths in our senior retirement and golf community of Citrus Ridge. I’m the captain of the community’s First Responders. It’s a group of volunteers in our area who offer first aid and comfort to our residents as soon as a 9-1-1 call is received. We always arrive on the scene before the ambulances and EMT’s get there.

That winter every call was not the typical falling accident, high blood pressure, or heart problem. No. Those would be good calls compared to what I witnessed at the homes where I found my friends and neighbors dead when I arrived.

The death scenes haunt me. I have years behind me as a First Responder and never have I seen or smelled such a body. They were so yellow and turned to powder when touched. The homes were filled with a sickening stench from the mummified bodies.

Excuse me. I need to grab my handkerchief.

Jim, it’s okay. I know it is still difficult for you to bring up all the trauma and grief you experienced during that winter season. Continue when you’re ready. Or we can stop here.

No, J Q, I’m fine now. Thank you.

My wife and I sold our hardware business up north so we could retire and escape to Florida in the winters to enjoy golfing, relaxing on the beaches, dancing at the social club dances, eating dinner at the Golden Corral, and playing games with our friends in Citrus Ridge. However, that Florida winter season was not the ideal retirement days we have experienced in the past. Inexplicable deaths occurred on Sunshine Boulevard, the main road that circles our entire community.

I’m sorry. I guess I just can’t continue bringing up the horrible memories of those days. I’ve had enough. You’ve told the story in Sunshine Boulevard, J Q.

Perhaps, if  Roseanne’s readers are interested  they can follow the story of that deadly winter as I help the authorities to figure out who or what was killing the seniors on Sunshine Boulevard.

Okay, Jim. That’s fine. Really appreciate your being here today.

Roseanne, I believe you have the links for more information about Sunshine Boulevard on your blog. Thanks so much.

Please tell our readers where they can find your book and more information about you.

The e-book is available at Muse It Up Publishing Bookstore

http://tinyurl.com/2c53noz and

Amazon.com http://tinyurl.com/4czwr6h

bn.com http://tinyurl.com/4442b94

as well as at many online booksellers.

J Q Rose Website http://www.jqrose.webs.com

 J Q Rose Blog  http://www.jqroseauthor.blogspot.com

 You Tube Book Trailer

http://tinyurl.com/64htcx8