The Best Book Signing Ever! by Alison Henderson

Like most authors, I've done a few book signings over the years. When my first book--a Western historical romance--was released in 2010, I gave a talk and signed books at the historic home I'd used as a model for the heroine's house, I did a Valentine's Day signing in a gift shop in the small Missouri River town where the story was set, and I spoke to my college roommate's book club and signed books. All events were fun and I sold quite a few books, but I never did a signing in an actual bookstore until last month.

I'm sure you're all familiar with SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS TALES, my collection of holiday short stories released in the fall of 2015. In early November of that year, I screwed up my courage and took a copy into a cute local bookstore, as well as the perennial Christmas shop on the main street of our little town. I chatted with the owners, left my contact information, and went home to wait, certain they would want to carry my book in their stores. Days and weeks passed without a word. 

Christmas came and went, so I shrugged my shoulders and moved on. Imagine my surprise when I received an email out of the blue, a YEAR later, from the owner of the bookshop saying they'd like to carry my book for the holidays and schedule a signing for the weekend before Christmas! I rushed right in to The Pilgrim's Way with a few copies of SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS TALES for their shelves and set things up for the signing. Imagine my further surprise ten days later when I received another email asking for more books because they'd already sold several. This was getting exciting!

I fired off a press release to three local newspapers, bought peppermint and milk chocolate truffles to hand out to patrons, and tried to keep the butterflies at bay. The morning of the signing, I loaded my bag with candy and ten more copies of the Christmas book, as well as three copies each of my two female bodyguard books. Wonder of wonders, the owner had lent the copy of UNWRITTEN RULES I'd left with her to a customer who is an avid reader. The woman loved the book and told her they should stock it in the store!

I was nervous at first, but as soon as things got rolling, that melted away. We live in a tourist town, so Saturday afternoons usually bring quite a bit of walk-in traffic. Talking to strangers does not come naturally to me, but I found offering candy to everyone who entered the store a perfect way to break the ice and start a conversation. A couple of local writer friends stopped by to offer moral support, and this adorable couple came all the way from Salinas to buy my book after reading about the signing in the paper!

The signing only lasted two hours, but in that time I sold eight copies of SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS TALES, two copies of UNWRITTEN RULES, and one copy of BOILING POINT. I consider that a rousing success. The owner seemed pleased and asked me to bring more copies of the bodyguard books because she plans to keep them in stock. 

I never expected to see my books on the shelf in a real bookstore, but now I'm thrilled to be able to tell anyone I meet that they can find my books at The Pilgrim's Way in downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea. What a rush!

Alison 
www.alisonhenderson.com 

Storytelling - A Family Affair? by Alison Henderson

I'm not one of those writers who always knew she wanted to write. I didn't keep a journal, write fan fiction stories about my favorite singers or movie stars, or scribble wild flights of fantasy when I was growing up. I always hated creative writing assignments in school, because I never thought my ideas were any good. I had no clue how other people managed to come up with such imaginative stories. I assumed I didn't have it in me. Or did I?

When I was lying awake in the wee, small hours this morning--as I so often do--a memory popped into my mind for no reason I can think of. It was the memory my father sitting on the side of my bed when I was four or five, telling me and my younger sister bedtime stories. I don't remember the story lines, but I'll never forget desperately wanting to know what happened next.

My father was a Harvard-trained lawyer and not someone you would expect to have a particularly vivid imagination, but he made up stories that held us rapt. Actually, it was one long story, told episodically, like the 1930's radio serials he had grown up with. The heroine was Iva Marie, a plucky young lady of uncertain age but old enough to have adventures of her own with her maid/sidekick, Nettie Jane. The two girls were accompanied (and chauffeured) on their escapades through New York City by Tony the Taxicab Driver. As I recall, their adventures included all manner of "baddies", and at one point Tony had to drive the cab, with the girls inside, into the Hudson River to escape. With that kind of influence at an early age, I guess I shouldn't be surprised I ended up as a writer.

Fast forward thirty years to my own days as a young parent. When my daughter was born, I quit my job and stayed home with her for eight years. For the first three years, I was her primary playmate, and I loved it. I didn't create fantastic bedtime stories like my dad, but we did act out elaborate situations with her collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. While she was in charge of the stories, my job was to invent and maintain a different voice for each one. It was more of a challenge than you might think. 

Somehow, subconsciously, the time I spent with these two natural storytellers must have spurred me to try my hand at writing fiction. In my mid-thirties, as soon as my daughter started preschool, I began my first book. And although that was many years and seven books ago, some things haven't changed. I still want to know what happens next.

Alison
www.alisonhenderson.com

P.S. - as a retreat from the mid-summer heat or an antidote to political hoopla, my short story collection Small Town Christmas Tales is on sale for $0.99 all month!

Penguins, Pucks, and Pumpkin Pies - Chapter Three by Alison Henderson

Once a player, always a player. Ellie fumed as she rang up two pumpkin pies and one mincemeat for Kora Steiglitz, the mayor’s wife. It’s always the same with him. A tiny voice in her head told her Tyler couldn’t help it if females found him attractive. She shushed it immediately. She had more important concerns than Tyler O’Neil’s sex appeal.

Around two o’clock that afternoon she took advantage of a lull in business to down a cup of coffee, along with a bowl of yesterday’s blackberry cobbler, re-heated and topped with a dollop of whipped cream. Fortified, she gave Clare a quick call to fill her in on the meeting with Tyler. By six she could barely keep herself upright. She dragged her aching back and feet home and straight into a hot bubble bath, knowing full well she had to be back at Pearl’s Perfect Pies in less than twelve hours. Her chief assistant baker would be in the kitchen by four, and Ellie usually joined her at six.

It was still pitch black when she arrived at the pie shop the next morning, but several trucks were already parked in front of the building next door. Portable lights shone through the broken windows, and the sounds of saws and nail guns filled the early morning air. The crew must be hard at work. Tyler might be a self-involved womanizer, but no one could accuse him of being lazy.

Around mid-morning a gap-toothed, red-headed boy of about eleven strode through the door with a stack of papers under one arm. He waited while she rung up a candy apple pie for Elmer McPherson, then stepped up to the counter. He pulled off his hat and one glove and thrust his hand forward. Ellie smothered a smile as she shook his hand. He’d obviously been coached on how to present himself.

“Hello, I’m with the Pumpkinseed Lake Penguins, and we wanted to ask if you’d put one of our posters in your store.” He peeled one off his stack and held it out.

She took the poster and read:

Penguin Pick-Up Food Drive

For the benefit of the Pumpkinseed Lake Food Bank

We need the following items:

Turkeys

Stuffing Mix

Canned Green Beans

Rolls

Cranberry Sauce

Members of the Penguins will stop by your home or business

to pick up donations after 1:00 p.m. on December 23rd.

Thank you for your support!

She pressed her lips together. Not a bad plan for a meathead hockey player. By enlisting the help of the whole community, they would be able to stock the food shelf in a single afternoon.

She returned her attention to the boy, who waited for her answer with a serious expression on his freckled face. “I’ll be happy to help. Why don’t you give me two—one for the front window and one to put here by the cash register?”

“Sure. Thanks!” The boy grinned, handed her another poster, and hustled out the front door toward the next stop on his route.

The days leading up to Christmas were always the busiest of the year at Pearl’s. The bakers cranked out pies like a well-oiled machine, and Pearl put in extra hours behind the counter filling orders. This year Ellie spent every minute up to her elbows in pumpkin puree and cinnamon. Clare sent over several volunteers from the church to help, and together they filled the cooler with forty extra pies.

Ellie was almost too busy to notice the non-stop construction work going on next door. Almost. Tyler’s truck was hard to miss, parked at the curb each morning when she arrived at the shop well before dawn. And she told herself she was only being civic-minded when she sent a couple of the volunteers over with hot coffee and three whole pies every morning around eleven; she had no right to be disappointed when Tyler failed to appear for the follow-up meeting he’d proposed. After all, it wasn’t as if they’d made firm plans.

At nine o’clock on the morning of the twenty-fourth, Ellie left Pearl in charge of the store and rounded up three of the church volunteers to help transport the pumpkin pies next door. Although a small army of Penguins had swarmed through town gathering donations the day before, she’d kept the pies in the large commercial refrigerator at Pearl’s until an hour before the food bank planned to open for business.

When she stepped through the door with the first batch of pies, she froze and sucked in a breath. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was impossible. Tyler and his crew had performed a Christmas miracle.

The charred, water-stained ceiling and walls had disappeared—replaced by fresh wood and newly-painted drywall.  New glass sparkled in the old window frames, and rows of custom-made shelves and cubbies filled the back wall. Even the scarred wooden floor had received a fresh coat of varnish. And they’d done it in less than a week. Her heart swelled, and she had to blink away a sudden sheen of moisture.

Across the room, Tyler and a flock of Penguins were busy organizing the food donations and packing them into boxes that each contained the fixings for a complete family meal. Ellie had taken no more than three steps into the room when one of the boys dropped a package of stuffing mix and zoomed toward her, hands outstretched.

“Let me take those for you, ma’am.”

She cringed. Ma’am. When did I become a ma’am? But she smiled and let him take the pies. Then Tyler glanced up and met her gaze. Her cheeks flushed at the warmth in his eyes. Get a grip. He probably looks at every female like that.

She stood unmoving while he finished the box he was packing and walked toward her with a smile. The temperature in the room shot up ten degrees, and she unzipped her parka. No wonder all the women melt at his feet.

“I want to thank you for the coffee and pie the last few days,” he said. “My guys really enjoyed it. I enjoyed it, too.”

Butterflies fluttered in Ellie’s stomach. “Pearl always said the fastest way to a man’s heart was a perfect piece of pie.” She regretted the words the second they slipped out.

Tyler grinned. “Pearl was right.”

The butterfly ballet became a flamenco. Unsure how to respond, she glanced around the room. “Your crew did a wonderful job with the place. I can’t believe how much you accomplished in such a short time.”

“Not too bad for a bunch of meathead hockey players, huh?”

Ellie’s face flamed and her jaw dropped. She closed her eyes and prayed for oblivion. Surely she’d never said that in front of him.

His grin widened. “Clare told me that’s what you used to call us in high school.”

“I…” What could she say?

“It’s okay. We probably were meatheads then.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “My judgement might have been clouded at the time. I was only fourteen.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And I had a huge crush on you.”

“Really?”

Shoot. He’d heard her. Why had she let that slip? She shot a nervous glance toward the door. “Um, I have to get back to the store. I’ll see you around, I guess.”

When she turned to make her escape, he grabbed her hand. “Hey, you can’t drop a bombshell like that and run away. We’ve got things to discuss.” She shook her head, but he tugged her hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

She scanned the room. Activity had halted. All eyes focused on them. The scrutiny of eight fascinated eleven-year-old boys sent chills down her spine. Time to beat a hasty retreat. “Okay.”

With a firm grip, Tyler led her to a storeroom in the back. It held the piney scent of new plywood but not much else.

He pulled her loosely into his arms, and his lips curved into an amused smile. “So you used to have a crush on me.”

She refused to meet his gaze. “Maybe. It was a long time ago.”

He nodded and drew her closer. “We’ve both changed since then.”

“Maybe.” He’d certainly changed, or at least her opinion of him had. She used to think he was a self-centered show-off. A gorgeous, self-centered show-off, but a self-centered show-off, all the same. The past week had shown her a new Tyler O’Neil—a thoughtful, generous, hard-working Tyler O’Neil.

“You used to be cute. Now you’re beautiful.”

She huffed in disbelief. Beautiful? What a bunch of… “I don’t—”

He touched a finger to her lips. “You are. I may have been a jerk in high school, but I’m trying to do better. And you may have been too young for me then, but you’re not too young now.”

Her insides began to melt. What was happening? She was quickly getting in over her head. Time for a distraction before the situation got out of hand. She glanced around the room. “You said you had something to show me. What is it?”

“This.” He lowered his head and planted a soft kiss on her surprised mouth.

When he released her, she tried to focus on his features, but the whole world seemed askew.

“So, are you willing to give me a chance?” he asked before he kissed her again, sealing her fate.

Her head was still spinning. “Mmm” was the only response she could muster.

His lips slid down to nuzzle her neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Ellie leaned against his sturdy chest and allowed herself to kiss him back. It was so much better than anything she had imagined as a star-struck fourteen-year-old.

The sounds of whistles and applause entered her consciousness. Her eyes flew open, and Tyler’s arms tightened. Grinning Penguins and amused church ladies filled the doorway.

In the middle of them all stood Pearl. She pinned Ellie with a sharp glance, then winked.  “Didn’t I always tell you? Never underestimate the power of pie.”

This story appears in the collection Small Town Christmas Tales.

Penguins, Pucks, and Pumpkin Pies - Chapter Two by Alison Henderson

Eight hours later Tyler O’Neil parked his truck in front of Pearl’s Perfect Pies. He’d spent what remained of the night mopping up the fire with the rest of the crew, dragging himself home with just enough time for a quick shower before returning to meet Ellie Markusson. A bell over the door tinkled as he entered the old brick building, and Ellie glanced up from the cash register. The tight lines framing her mouth didn’t suggest she was glad to see him. Maybe she was just tired. He sure as heck was, and his knee ached like a bear.

She nodded to one of the small tables next to the front widow. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Tyler hobbled over, pulled out one of the old-fashioned bentwood chairs, and sat where he could watch her. Pearl’s wasn’t a restaurant, but they had a few tables for customers who wanted a slice of pie and a cup of coffee. It was smart marketing, because the tempting aromas of cinnamon and warm fruit made it impossible to walk out without wanting—no, needing—a bite, or two, or three.

He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms while he watched Ellie greet the next customer. Her actions were brisk and efficient, her smile friendly and genuine. He hadn’t paid much attention to his sister’s best friend when they were growing up. The girls spent most of their time playing outside or holed up in Clare’s room, giggling about some silly thing or another. If he thought about them at all, it was with annoyance. Besides, he’d spent every waking hour outside of school on the ice.

But since he’d returned to Pumpkinseed Lake, he’d noticed Ellie Markusson plenty. Fifteen years ago, she’d been a cute, snub-nosed little kid with loads of freckles. She was still petite, but now she had curves in all the right places. She wore her thick, honey blond hair in a fashionable, chunky bob, and her freckles had faded to a delicate sprinkle across the tops of her cheeks. The few times he’d tried to talk to her she’d been as prickly as a cocklebur, but then he’d never been the kind of guy to walk away from a challenge.

While he was still pondering her granddaughter, Pearl Markusson walked around the end of the counter and approached, wiping floury hands on her long white apron. Tyler started to rise, but she placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Pearl was barely five feet tall, and the white braids that encircled her head like a crown gave her an angelic air, but it was an illusion. Pearl had always been a force to be reckoned with, and her stroke hadn’t changed that. She might only work a couple of hours a day now, but her presence helped keep Pearl’s the local landmark it had been for nearly fifty years.

“Good morning, Tyler. What can I get you? The apple is as good as always, and the pumpkin…well, you know about the pumpkin.”

He lifted a hand in a gesture of polite refusal. “Nothing for me, Mrs. Markusson. I’m just here to talk to Ellie about the food bank as soon as she gets a minute.”

Pearl cocked her head and regarded him with a sharp look. “When was the last time you ate?”

He hesitated. He’d had a bowl of chili at six the night before. Was that really fourteen hours ago? It had been a long night.

Pearl didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll bring you a big slice of apple raisin pie and coffee. You look like you need it.”

He started to object but she had already turned and bustled off.

A few minutes later she was back with the pie and coffee, steam rising from both. Tyler swallowed and his stomach grumbled.

Pearl’s faded blue eyes gleamed, and her smile held a hint of the flirtatious young girl she’d once been. “Hah! I know a hungry boy when I see one.” She patted his shoulder and headed back to work.

He stabbed his fork into the flaky pastry and brought the first bite to his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the scent of heaven. He’d eaten half the slice when Ellie appeared with a small notebook and pen in hand.

She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “All right. Let’s make this as quick as possible. I’ve got plenty to do, as you can see.” She began writing. “I’ve already called the insurance company to get the ball rolling on the claim. That won’t help get the food bank operational by Christmas, though.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze and pressed her lips together. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas about what we can do in the meantime.”

Still as prickly as ever.

He wondered what it would take to change her attitude and tried a patented O’Neil smile. No dice.

He decided to set it aside for the time being and focus on the business at hand. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.  After we got the fire out last night, I did an inspection and inventory. With a little luck, I think we can repair the basic structure sufficiently to reopen for one day on Christmas Eve. Afterwards, they’d have to close again for a couple of months to finish the work but…” He shrugged.

She eyed him with skepticism. “That would be a blessing to the community and a huge relief to Clare and Karl, but I don’t see how it’s possible.”

“Winter is slow season for me and my crew. O’Neil Construction will donate the labor, and I’m sure I can get Hank at the lumber yard to help with materials. It’ll mean putting in long hours but we can do it.”

Pearl appeared out of nowhere with another slice of pie and a cup of coffee, which she plunked down in front of Ellie. “Here. You need a break.”

“You know I don’t take breaks,” Ellie protested.

“Maybe you need to start. Besides, it’s good for business to have a cute young couple in the front window.” She turned to Tyler with a smile before bustling off.

Tyler couldn’t suppress a grin as Ellie frowned at her grandmother’s receding back. “Pearl’s a pistol, isn’t she?”

When she faced him, her frown became a grimace. “Sorry about that. I love her dearly, but she gets these ideas.”

He liked the way her nose wrinkled when she said ideas. “What kind of ideas?”

She fumbled with her notebook and pen. “The great-grandchildren kind. Now where were we?”

It was probably childish, but some unidentifiable impulse pushed him to ruffle her feathers. “What about you? Don’t you want kids some day?”

“Sure, but right now we’re talking about the food bank.”

He speared another bite of pie. “I like kids.”

“Good for you.” Her tone was dry. “Now can we get back to business?”

He gave her an innocent smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

A tiny muscle flexed in her jaw before she returned her attention to her notes, and Tyler wondered if she was truly angry or trying not to smile.

“I’ll follow up on the insurance. You’ll get started on repairs.” She glanced up. “But what about food for the shelves? Even if we only stock them with holiday food for one day, we’ll still need enough to feed forty families. With help from the church ladies, Pearl’s can bake enough pumpkin pies, but what about everything else?”

An idea swirled around and coalesced in his mind. Tyler took a swig of coffee then set the cup on the table. “I’ve got it covered. This is a job for the Penguins.”

Ellie’s soft brown brows pinched together. “The Penguins?”

“My team.”

“But you’re retired.”

“I coach peewee hockey. My team is called the Penguins. We’ll take care of the rest of the food.”

She hesitated, raked him with an appraising glance, then closed her notebook. “Fine. I guess that covers it. If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.”

He had things to do, too, but found himself in no hurry to leave. “We should plan to meet again in a couple of days to touch base. Same time, same place?”

Before she could reply, two young women—girls, really—rushed toward the table.

“Tyler, it’s so great to see you,” one squealed.

“Are you going on the sleigh ride tonight?” the other asked, tumbling over her friend’s words. “Everyone will be there.”

Tyler gave her a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I have to work.”

The girl’s enthusiasm drained away, and her pretty young lips slid into a pout.

He sighed inwardly. He tried to be polite, but even after several years back in Pumpkinseed Lake, he still attracted an uncomfortable level of public attention. He’d grown used to it during his playing days, but how much longer would it take for people to let go of the past and accept him for what he was now?

He glanced away from the girls and realized Ellie had taken advantage of the distraction to slip away and return to the counter. When he managed to catch her eye, she froze then pointedly turned away and directed a glittering smile at her next customer—who just happened to be the town’s most eligible young attorney.

Well...damn.

This story appears in the collection Small Town Christmas Tales.

Penguins, Pucks, and Pumpkin Pies - Chapter One by Alison Henderson

A ringing phone at two in the morning never brought good news.

Ellie Markusson’s heart pounded as she fumbled for her phone on the bedside table. Was it her mom? Had something happened to Grandma Pearl? She’d seemed fine that morning, but at her age anything could happen.

Her pulse slowed when the caller ID showed Burkhalter instead of Markusson but sped up again almost immediately. Why would her best friend call in the middle of the night? Maybe it was the baby. Clare was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with her second child. Maybe she’d gone into labor and her husband Karl had been called away. That happened to ministers sometimes, didn’t it?

“Hello.” She was already plotting the fastest route from her friend’s house to the hospital in Eau Claire.

“Ellie?” Clare’s voice was high-pitched, on the verge of hysteria.

In the background, muffled shouts interspersed with a variety of thuds and bangs. “Clare, are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m at the food bank. You’d better get down here.” Her friend’s voice wavered.

Ellie stumbled out of bed and flipped on the light. “What’s going on?”

“It’s on fire! The food bank building is on fire, and I’m afraid it’s going to spread to Pearl’s.”

Ellie’s heart froze. The food bank operated by Clare’s husband’s church was located in the building next to Pearl’s Perfect Pies in downtown Pumpkinseed Lake. Ellie’s Grandma Pearl had owned and operated western Wisconsin’s most famous pie shop until she’d had a minor stroke a few years ago and Ellie had stepped in to run things.

She ran to her dresser and yanked open drawers, looking for something—anything—clean to throw on. She balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder and hopped on one foot while she stuffed the other into the leg of her second-best jeans. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Hurry!”

Ellie grabbed her parka, jammed her feet into her Sorels, and raced out to the garage. She revved up her Jeep, threw it into Reverse, and thanked God the town was so small. She would be downtown in ten minutes— maybe eight.

As she approached the four-block-long business district, a glow lit up the sky, interrupted by plumes of smoke. Please don’t let it reach Pearl’s.

She pulled the Jeep into an empty space at the curb a couple of blocks away and ran toward the generalized commotion, her heavy boots crunching on the packed snow with each step. Three fire trucks—the entire fleet of the Pumpkinseed Lake Volunteer Fire Department—were parked in front of the food bank. Men in heavy, soot-stained yellow suits aimed hoses at the flames shooting from the roof at the back, and a small crowd of onlookers huddled on the sidewalk nearby.

As soon as Pearl’s came into view, Ellie’s breathing slowed a fraction. The building stood cold and dark, ignored by the firefighters. Thank God. If the pie shop burned down, Ellie would be out of a job, but Grandma Pearl might never recover.

Then she spotted Clare in the waiting group and jogged toward her. Clare’s long down coat barely stretched across the bulge of her tummy, and her dark hair hung in unruly ringlets beneath her knit hat. As Ellie approached, she took in her friend’s pale face, swollen eyes, and reddened nose.

She reached for Clare and hugged her tight. “Everything’s going to be okay. It looks like they’re getting the fire under control.” Scanning the onlookers, there was no sign of Clare’s husband. Surely he hadn’t let his very pregnant wife come out alone in the middle of the night. “Where’s Karl?”

“He sh…should be here any minute. He’s d…dropping Jacob off to spend what’s left of the night at his parents’ house. I’m s...s...sorry I woke you.” Clare snuffled then pulled off one mitten and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. She blew her nose noisily. “You didn’t need to come down. The fire didn’t spread to Pearl’s, after all.”

Ellie lifted her gaze to the top of the building, where firefighters had reduced the columns of flame to a few flickers. “No, but the food bank…”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Tears trickled down Clare’s cheeks. “The shelves were stocked for the holidays. So many families depend on us.”

Ellie gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t worry. The town will come together. We’ll find a way. We always do.”

A firefighter in full turnout gear approached them. When he removed his helmet, Ellie’s brows drew together and her jaw tightened. Thick, black hair—curling and damp with sweat—brushed his forehead above sky-blue eyes, a crooked nose, and strong, square jaw. Tyler O’Neil, Clare’s brother, the unofficial Playboy of Pumpkinseed Lake. And even better looking than the last time she saw him, if that was possible.

Ellie had known Tyler nearly all her life, but because he was four years older, she’d never known him well. To be completely honest, she’d harbored a secret crush on him for years, but she and Clare had never been more than minor annoyances, mosquitoes buzzing around the greatness that was Tyler O’Neil, Pumpkinseed Lake’s favorite son—the only local puck jockey to go on to the NHL. A knee injury might have ended his playing career, but it hadn’t put a dent in his local celebrity. He’d taken over the family construction business and grown it into one of the largest employers in town.

Their paths had rarely crossed in the past few years, which was fine by Ellie. The town grapevine provided more than enough information. Her friends, both single and married, carried on about Tyler as if he were God’s gift to the women of Pumpkinseed Lake instead of just a retired meathead hockey player. Although she had to admit he was easy on the eyes, over the years she’d heard enough double entendres about his ability to put the puck in the net to make her ears bleed.

Suddenly, Ellie realized he was speaking. And she’d been staring. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“—think it started in the motor of one of the freezers. The rear of the building and the roof have suffered significant structural damage. The interior of the main room and the shelves are intact, but there’s a lot of smoke and water damage. I don’t think you’ll be able to salvage much food.”

“But it’s only a week until Christmas,” Clare moaned. “And I’m so big I can hardly move.”

“I’m sure Karl and the rest of the congregation will help you pull something together.” Tyler wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a pale streak in the soot. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. People will appreciate anything the church can do.”

“Karl is so busy right now he doesn’t have a minute to spare.” As Clare contemplated the smoking building, her lower lip began to tremble again. “And it’s almost the end of the year. There isn’t enough money in the church treasury to rebuild.”

Her friend’s desolation broke Ellie’s heart. Clare was always so bubbly and upbeat. It hurt to see her crushed this way. “You have insurance, don’t you?”

Clare sniffed and nodded. “Yes, but there’s no way we can file a claim, get the money, make repairs, and re-stock the shelves in a week.”

Tyler stepped forward and put his arm around his sister. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Ellie and I will make this happen.”

He called me Ellie. He hasn’t said a word to me in ten years, but he remembered my name.

When he shifted his intense blue gaze to meet hers, she shivered. Maybe her friends were on to something after all. Tyler O’Neil had a way of making a girl want to say yes.

Besides, she couldn’t say no to the watery hope in Clare’s eyes. With orders for more than two hundred pies to fill in the next week, she had no idea where she would find time to do anything about the food bank, but she’d manage. She nodded and tried to smile. “Of course.”

Clare reached for her hand and pulled her close until the three of them formed a solid unit. “You two are the best. You’ve never let me down.”

Tyler looked over his sister’s head at Ellie. “We can get together around ten at Pearl’s for a strategy session.” One corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile just before he winked.

She swallowed hard. What had she gotten herself into?

This story appears in the collection Small Town Christmas Tales. 

Writing the Perfect Logline by Alison Henderson

Loglines were developed to sell movie and television scripts in one intriguing sentence. In the book world, we’ve taken that concept and melded it with the marketing idiom of taglines, which are more like verbal logos and not intended to convey much of the story. The result is something like a mini blurb, suggesting just enough of the story to grab a potential reader. You can read numerous articles rigidly defining both terms and insisting on the “correct” form for any given situation. But what’s the point? For our purposes as popular fiction writers, we’re going with a hybrid you can craft however you need to, depending on the use.

The perfect logline can definitely help sell a book. You might use it on the cover, in a Tweet or other promo, in online catalogues, etc. However, for me, writing a logline for a new book is an exercise in torture. Some writers hate writing synopses. Those have never been a problem for me. And unlike many, I actually enjoy writing blurbs. But distilling the essence of a story into a sentence or two? Nearly impossible.

So, to get some practice and challenge my creativity, I decided to try writing loglines for the ten short stories in my new collection Small Town Christmas Tales. Here goes:

If Wishes Were Fishes –

            She forgave him for her brother’s death years ago, but can he learn to forgive himself?

Mistletoe and Misdemeanors - 

            Locked in a cell on Christmas Eve, and only the town’s former bad boy has the key.

Let it Snow –

            When she’s sent to evict Santa Claus, can a lawyer turn the tables on her Scrooge of a client?

The Brightest Jewel –

            There’s a handsome stranger in town, but has he come to save Black Bear Creek, or destroy it?

Penguins, Pucks, and Pumpkin Pies –

            When the food bank catches fire the week before Christmas, it takes Pumpkinseed Lake’s former golden boy and his team of peewee Penguins to save the day.

Liza’s Secret Santa –

            Someone is leaving tiny treasures on Liza’s doorstep, but who?

No Room at the Inn –

            A carpenter named Joe, a pregnant teen named Maria, and three Jersey Wise Guys converge on a harried innkeeper in a mélange of mix-ups and misunderstandings.

Second Hand Hearts –

            A burned-out tech entrepreneur gets more than he bargained for when he returns to his grandmother’s seaside home to lick his wounds and finds himself the object of a matchmaking scheme.

A Hard Luck Christmas –

            Are a handsome rancher and the chance to set a teen’s life on the right course enough to keep a dedicated social worker in an apparent wasteland like Hark Luck, Wyoming?

Christmas 2.0 –

            A college professor faces a big decision when her video-gamer ex-boyfriend re-appears as a changed man with a new purpose.

So what do you think? There’s quite a mix here. Would these lines entice you to read the stories?

Small Town Christmas Tales is available in paperback and ebook exclusively from Amazon. For more info, click here.

Alison

www.alisonhenderson.com

A New Release - Happy Birthday to Me! by Alison Henderson

Tomorrow is my birthday and I'm celebrating! After two long years, I have a new book out. Small Town Christmas Tales is officially released in both Kindle and paperback versions. Woohoo!

Fellow Roses of Prose, please take a bow. This book is dedicated to you, because without your support and inspiration, I never would have written it. I've enjoyed our annual holiday short stories so much I wrote a whole book of them! Barb and Diane helped critique them, and Jannine edited the entire collection. It really was a group effort, and I'm very grateful.

The stories run the gamut from funny to poignant but are all warm and upbeat--like ten mini Halllmark Channel Christmas movies. I've set each story in a fictional small town in a different state, many in places I've lived or know well. I hope readers will make a connection with the settings as well as the characters.I had great fun inventing towns like Porter's Landing, MA; Hawthorne Springs, MO, Little Moose Island, ME; Black Bear Creek, CO; Cypress Cove, CA; and Hard Luck, WY. Who knows? One day I may visit some of these towns again in a full-length book.

If you've read the book, thank you! If not, and you want a little boost getting in the holiday mood, I invite you to check it out here. And, as always, reviews are most welcome!

Alison 

www.alisonhenderson.com

Short Doesn’t Mean Easy by Alison Henderson

I'm currently working on edits for my holiday short story collection SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS TALES, to be released this fall. I was inspired by the annual holiday short stories some of the authors of The Roses of Prose have written for the blog the past three years. I'd never written a short story before we began our tradition, and it's been so much fun I wanted to expand on it by writing my own collection of ten stories.

Ten short stories--less than 50K words. Easy peasy for a writer used to producing full-length novels, right? Let me tell you, I'm exhausted. The creative well was down to the last dregs by the final story. My critique partners can vouch for that. 

Here's why:

1. Each short story is just that--a complete story. It needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. Because our ROP Christmas stories span multiple days, I learned to structure my stories in three parts, one for each of three days. Those became the beginning, middle, and end. For this collection, I had to come up with ten separate and complete plots.
2. Because I'm a plotter, I needed to work out and write down what was going to happen in each of the three acts before I began. After the first couple of stories, I tried winging it and it was a disaster. It might seem like a waste of precious time to write a synopsis for a short story, but I learned that without one I froze up or muddled around, wasting even more time.
3. Characters are just as important in a short story--maybe even more so because there isn't enough room for an elaborate plot. Since the characters carry the story, I began each new story by writing character descriptions. They didn't have to be as detailed as the ones I write before I begin a novel, but I had to have them. That meant ten heroes and heroines, along with assorted secondary characters, who needed names, personalities, hopes, and problems.
4. Each story in this collection is set in a fictional small town in a different state from coast to coast, from Maine to California. I needed to create ten settings in places I knew well enough to make the setting an integral part of the story. I've traveled quite a bit, but this was a challenge. 
5. And lastly, a story doesn't flow for me until I have a title I'm happy with. I've never been able to write without a title, or even with something I consider a working title. I have a fairly easy time coming up with titles, but ten separate titles in a few short months taxed my creativity.

It hasn't been as simple as I expected, but at the end of this process, I'm happy to say I've learned a great deal about writing short. Some of the lessons will also apply to my longer books. If you haven't written a short story, I recommend it. Just don't expect it to be easy.

Alison

www.alisonhenderson.com

It’s Official – I’ve Disappeared by Alison Henderson

Have you seen the ad with Mindy Kaling where she wanders around, wondering if she’s become invisible because no one seems to notice her? Finally, she interrupts a pick-up basketball game, only to discover she isn’t invisible—it just feels that way. I’m feeling a bit like Mindy these days.

For the first time in the five years I’ve been published, as far as I can determine, I haven’t sold a single book during the past thirty days. Two KU readers finished reading UNWRITTEN RULES, so I will receive a (tiny) royalty check from Amazon for July, but my KDP sales line is flat as yesterday’s lefse (a pancake to you non-Norwegians). According to Novelrank, no one worldwide has bought a copy of any of my three small-press published books in the past month, either. It’s possible I’ve sold something through another outlet, but I won’t know until figures become available from my publisher in a couple of months. Since the vast majority of my sales have always come through Amazon, I don’t spend much time worrying about other retailers.

Since I’m a writer and inclined to dissect feelings, I have to ask myself how I feel about this. Not too bad, as it happens. It’s odd, weird in fact, but not bad. Especially since I know the causes.

1.    I haven’t had a book out in almost two years. This is the primary reason I’ve dropped off readers’ radar screens.
2.   As a result of #1, I haven’t done any real promo in ages. I’m still active on social media just being me, but it doesn’t feel right to continue promoting an old title.
3.   Many writers, especially indies, have proclaimed that the debut of Amazon’s new subscription service Kindle Unlimited has sounded a death knell for their sales. I’m not sure that’s true for me. For a long time, I had a 50/50 balance between sales and KLL borrows. My sales slump coincided with the arrival of KU, but I think #1 is more to blame.

Some writers are quick to ascribe declining sales to any convenient outside force. I’ve read that sales are slow in the summer because people are on vacation. (Wouldn’t they want to buy a book or two to take along to the beach?) Others say sales drop in November and December because of the holidays. (What about books given as gifts?) Now Kindle Unlimited is the bogeyman. It’s always the fault of someone or something else.

I blame no one for my sales situation but myself. You read a lot of baloney on the Internet, but some of the marketing advice is actually sound. In order stay in readers’ minds, you need to publish frequently. Two books a year is good; three is better. Stay active on social media. Market yourself and your platform (though not necessarily your books) regularly. Collect email addresses. Send out newsletters. Yada, yada, yada. We’ve heard it over and over—probably because it’s true.

I’ve failed on nearly every count and take full responsibility for the result. I’m the poster child for Anti-Marketing. I have valid reasons for not publishing a book last year, but even at my most productive, I’ll probably never write more than one book a year. Again, a matter of personal choice and life balance. I hate marketing with a passion and, as a result, will never be any good at it. I’ll never do a Facebook launch party because I can’t imagine spending several hours online posting pictures of fancy dresses and nearly-naked male models and giving out prizes. I know it works, but it’s not me.

There was a time I would have embraced the stress of tight deadlines for the potential rewards of a successful writing career. That time has passed. I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be a best-selling author. I’m simply unwilling and/or unable to do what it takes. I still love the creative process of writing and have stories I want to tell. Hopefully, people will enjoy reading them—maybe not as many people as I’d like, but I’m grateful for each one.

That being said, I’m thrilled to have a new book coming out later this year. I’m close enough to finishing to say that with certainty. I love the stories in SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS TALES and will do my best to get the word out so others can enjoy them. I plan to dedicate this book to my sister writers at The Roses of Prose, who inspired it. Thank you for your support along the way!

Alison

www.alisonhenderson.com

Fun With Fonts by Alison Henderson

Did anyone else think of Sheldon Cooper's "Fun With Flags" when they read this title? I hope so. I'd hate to think I'm the only Big Bang Theory-loving, romance-writing geek out there.

Today, I want to talk about fonts. When you look at a book cover, yours or another author's, do you think about the font the artist chose? The cover for my first book, Harvest of Dreams, used the most amazing font. I had never seen anything like it, and many readers commented how much they liked it. That cover remains one of my favorites, and the font is a big part of the reason.

Unless you design your own covers, you may not pay much attention to font choice, but the font can tell the reader as much about the story as the images. It provides additional clues to the genre, tone, and subject matter of the book. For example, when I designed the cover of Jannine Gallant's seventeenth century historical, An Uncertain Destiny, I found a wonderful font to suggest the period and setting.

 

Take a look at the cover fonts on some of your favorite books. What do they tell you about the story? Do they add to the visual impact in a positive way? Do they make you want to pick up the book? After all, that's the whole point of the cover.

I'm currently working on the cover for Small Town Christmas Tales. You helped me choose a background image; now I'd like some input on the fonts. In these examples, I've tried several different fonts for the title, sub-title, and author's name. Please look at each element individually, as well as the whole composition. What feelings do they spark? Do you like the author's name in all caps, or not?

Here's the first iteration:

Now #2.

Here's #3.

And #4.

The stories are all warm-hearted, and some are a bit whimsical. I want to give readers the right first impression. I'll probably mix the elements from a couple of the options above. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Alison
www.alisonhenderson.com
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