With A Little Help From My Friends...One Last Time by Margo Hoornstra

Writing, especially fiction writing, is basically a pretty lonely business. Hours upon hours and days upon days of solitude.

Derriere in the chair, fingers on the keyboard and/or pen and paper in hand, solitude. With our only company the characters who inadvertently pop into our head where they remain until we convert the particulars of their existence to the printed word.

Once that printed word is created, it’s time to bring in the troops.

In this case, my colleagues here at The Roses of Prose.

For the third, and I promise final time on these pages, I’m seeking input on the opening paragraphs of On The Make, Book 3 in my series, Brothers In Blue.

Hope you can stand it. Here goes.

On The Make - Chapter One

“Let us pray.”

Madison Clark dutifully lowered her head, along with scores of others in the huge, impersonal auditorium. In her case, more for show than reverence. Who held a funeral at a place like this? The Greater Metro Conference and Convention Center. Then again, nothing about her marriage to Joe, short as it was, could be construed as normal. Why should anything change now that he was gone?

“Dear Lord, we now commit Joseph Eugene Edward Ralls, this once earthly soul to your able and compassionate care.”

Dear Lord, please don’t let Joe run across Dave in the hereafter. Her two husbands meeting face to face, Dave would probably deck him.

“All mighty God, we ask that you grant those of us left behind the guidance to understand and the patience to accept Your decision.”

Pastor Gregg’s voice invaded her thoughts. Keeping her head down, she shifted her hips more snuggly into the plush, stadium style chair and sat straighter. Hard to believe it was only three short years ago when she’d buried one husband, the love of her life and soulmate, with their young sons, heart-broken and bewildered, on either side of her.

A mere thirty six months later, front and center in the jam-packed amphitheater, she prepared to bury spouse number two. Both sons on either side of her again.

“Bleep! Blip!”

Flashes of light to the left caught her attention. Cameron had his cell on his lap. Typical teen, both thumbs moved helter-skelter over the keyboard.

Irritation sparked her third nerve to its absolute limit. She touched his arm and squeezed, fully prepared with a stern look of reproach for when he glanced over at her. Which, of course, he didn’t.

About ready to scream, she squeezed harder.

Pushing one last icon with his thumb, he slid the device into his pants pocket.

“In Your name we pray. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Madison’s murmured response joined the rest of the chorus as all heads lifted as one.

Slight of build and balding, Pastor Gregg leaned into the dais for support. “Joe was a great man of many aspects.” He may have been done praying. He wasn’t done speaking. “Real estate mogul by profession. Community leader and philanthropist by choice.”

An ill-concealed sigh whooshed out of younger brother Dak. Madison angled a discreet glance to her right. Flounced back in his seat, he sighed again. Giving him a gentle elbow nudge, she followed up with a slight head shake when he immediately looked over.

“A man of many aspects in his personal life as well.” As the good reverend went on, she made sure all three of them paid close attention. “To Madison, a devoted husband. To Cameron and Dak, a loving and benevolent father.”

“Beussst!” Beside her, fourteen year old Cameron coughed into his elbow.

Keeping her gaze focused ahead, Madison could have sworn the word bullshit had been thinly disguised by his action.

“Bless you, son.” Pastor Gregg didn’t miss a beat. Apparently he wasn’t quite as perceptive as Cameron’s mother.

Her son coughed softly a second time in response.

Their pastor extended his arms, palms upward. “Our sincerest and most heartfelt condolences go now to the grieving little family before us.”

If you’re in to comparisons, here are the links to Attempt One and Attempt Two.

Thanks in advance for what I know will be some very insightful and valuable advice.

My days to blog here are the 11^th and 23^rd. For more about me and the stories I write, please visit my website

Wow! #ebooks for #free or #cheap by Vonnie Davis

Okay, hands up. Who doesn't love a good sale? I certainly do. There's just something satisfying about saving ten cents on a pound of chicken or eighteen dollars on a sweater. Books are no different. Yesterday, I read an ad about Bookbuh, claiming to be THE new hot spot for readers. A book bargain bonanza. https://tinyurl.com/yam6fzez

Signing up is easy; just give then your email and chose four or five genres you love to read. You'll get a daily email with a list of free or deeply reduced ebooks for a day or a week.

One lady claims she's gotten more books for free from this site than she'll ever read. OUCH! Not what a writer likes to hear.

On the other hand, books put on sale there for a day or more make authors money due to volume sold. It also helps us build a reader base YAY!

A few of my books have been put on Bookbub by the publisher. One book with Harper Collins sold over 2500 copies on the day it was featured on sale. This was a book in a series of four. All benefited from that one book's sale day. That is to say, my rankings shot up on all of them over the next month.

When Random House places one of my books on Bookbub, that book will shoot to the top one-hundred and higher rankings on Amazon and the top twenty or higher on Barnes & Noble. My books typically sit in the 100,000 to 350,000 rankings. So this boost, even for a few days, is a boon for me.

But how hard is it for an independent author to place his/her book on Bookbub? First, you have to come up with the money. Calvin's checked into it for me and costs run between $400 to $800. per day, depending on the genre. For example, the romantic suspense I thought about trying to get listed would cost us roughly $500.

The numbers of reviews play into your chance of getting a spot, too. Not for a publisher, it seems, because my book with Harper Collins barely had 30 reviews. The last time I tried to get one of my independent books on Bookbub, I was told it didn't have enough reviews. But I was never told what the minimum was. How come, I wonder.

So, I'm slowly trying to get more reviews of Book One of my Paris Intrigue series in hopes of one day getting it on Bookbub.

AMAZON BUY LINK: http://a.co/3zrBkVT

CHAPTER ONE

 A grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to take a picture. “Madame, in the Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa.” His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.

 Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. “Am I the only one trying to take a picture here?” Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the snippy, tight-assed guard moved on.

She shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a dream come true. No one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.

Once the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security, she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding the gallery surprised her.

She slipped between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Alyson’s nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting achieved such stardom?

If the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other items fell and scattered.

Alyson crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her bent to place a black backpack, the style European men were so fond of carrying, on the marble tile floor.

Their eyes locked.

“Excuse me, you’re standing on my things.” Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf, hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf into her outstretched hand and stood.

Alyson reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She straightened and realized the man in the dark green t-shirt was walking away. The tattoo of a scorpion on the back of his neck. “Sir? Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag. Monsieur?”

He didn’t respond.

She called after him again.

The man disappeared into the crowd.

The museum guard approached. “Is there a problem, Madame?”

“Yes, that man left his backpack here.” Alyson indicated the black canvas bag on the floor. “He set it down at the same time I dropped some things.” She held out her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her that her scarf was empty. She shook it out to make sure. “My hotel key and passport!” Pulling apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping against hope she’d shoved them inside without thinking. Still, with her passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s folds.

“I don’t believe this. He took my keycard and passport. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?”

The guard’s eyes widened for a second. “Madame, you are sure the man left this bag?” He pressed a button and spoke into a speaker attached to the lapel of his uniforme, a scowling gaze intent on Alyson.

“Yes. He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on them.” Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no passport. Oh, hell!

The guard cautiously unzipped the backpack. Yellow wires. The man stepped back,  depressed the communications button again, and spoke rapid-fire French. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the abandoned black bag. Once the word “bomb” was uttered, visitors screamed as they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.

Suddenly, Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.

Holy effing shit!

WWW.VONNIEDAVIS.COM

Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice by Amber Leigh Williams

This week, my daughter turned one. Initially, she was supposed to be born at the end of April. April 29, to be exact. I remember this because it’s the same date I was due to be born thirty years ago. I made my mother wait two more weeks to be born two days before her own birthday in May. (The hub is also a May baby.) Last year as we closed in on this due date, I had a feeling our wee one was going to choose to follow family footsteps.

It was a close call. The Braxton-Hicks contractions started mid-April and seemed to gather in strength as the countdown to May progressed. Like most pregnant women in their third trimester, I was all too eager to meet my baby girl sooner rather than later. The weekend before April 29, my doctor informed me he would be out of state for a wedding and that I shouldn't have my baby until Sunday evening at the very earliest. When Monday rolled around, the hub announced that he and his fellow crew-mates would be setting trusses on a house and he needed me to hold the baby in until they were completed. Tuesday my mother, who works full-time and who I had tagged to assist in the delivery room, said was no good for her because it was her day to do pay-roll at work. When I expressed my frustrations to the hub over all this waiting, he said, “Saturday. Saturday would be best. Tell her to come Saturday.” As if it were a simple matter of conversation between myself and our fetus. “Don’t hold your breath,” I told him.

We tempted fate a bit. When April 29th did indeed lapse, we celebrated the first day of May by taking our son to the beach. The hub brought his surf-fishing gear and proceeded to catch several pompano for us to sup on later. However, as the sun shrank from the high point in the sky, our little guy began to wander away from the sand-castles and the seashells. In the impish way of toddler boys, he began to test the boundaries of our campsite, giggling as he watched my ungainly form waddle after him. The hub was busy reeling in his latest catch when the boy made a break for it. He headed due west down the endless white beach at a charging run. I sucked in a breath and ran after him.

There was no one on the beach that afternoon. Nothing and no one was there to intercept the little guy. I wound up running a half mile down the beach before he finally looked back at me, giggling like a field, and tripped over his own feet. I didn’t so much catch him as crumble next to him in relief, grabbing hold of his ankle so that he didn’t try to make another break for it. I held him there until the hub finally reached us. He slung the boy over his shoulders and dragged me out of the sand. In truth, he carried us both back to camp. On the way home an hour later, the Braxton-Hicks contractions reached fever pitch. That night, I was so uncomfortable, I didn’t sleep.

Believe it or not, we did make it to Saturday. We began to think we would make it to Sunday, too, when afternoon rolled around and still there was no sign. When my son, the rascal, nodded off for his afternoon siesta, I gratefully laid down on the couch and did the same.

I woke up feeling funny. Labor pains were a new thing for me since my son was induced and I was heavily medicated for most of his birth. I immediately asked the hub to use the app on his phone to time the contractions. We came to the conclusion that I was actually—finally—in labor.

My son was scheduled to go to his aunt and uncle’s house for the duration of our hospital stay. They live a town east of our house. We drove him over with his little bags, gave him plenty of hugs and kisses then departed quickly. I didn’t tell the hub how close the contractions had gotten because I didn’t want him to rush. He rushed anyway, pulling NASCAR-worthy maneuvers through heavy weekend beach traffic as we sped back east. It’s normally a forty-five minute drive from our house to the hospital. Thanks to the hub’s Richard-Petty-esque driving, we arrived in half an hour just before sundown and were admitted promptly.

Our daughter was born just before sunrise the following morning. She weighed eight pounds, eight ounces. Since then, we have watched her grow into the happiest, bounciest, spunkiest one-year-old we could possibly have imagined. We suspect she’ll be a real spitfire. With a mischievous older brother showing her the ropes, how could she be anything less? Here's to the miracle of daughters and the (busy) month of May!  

Amber Leigh Williams is a Harlequin Superromance author who lives on the Gulf Coast. A southern girl at heart, she lives for beach days, the smell of real books, and spending time with her husband and their two young children. When she’s not keeping up with rambunctious little ones (and two large dogs), she can usually be found reading a good book or cooking up something new in her kitchen. Amber is represented by the D4EO Literary Agency. Find out more about Amber and her writing at www.amberleighwilliams.com!

The Ick Factor: Good Characters Who Do Bad Things by Amber Leigh Williams

This month’s movie topic, Rebel Without A Cause, got me thinking a bit...well, off topic. I’ve got deadline on the brain so this is really no wonder. When I saw the title, I automatically thought, “Rebels.” For some reason, this led to some deep thinking about good characters who throw their own good natures to the wind and, to the reader or viewer’s consternation, cross the line and do bad things…and, worse, sometimes get away with it for reasons we can't explain.

Years ago, when I was a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old dating this really cute guy, we were hanging out at his house for a movie night. He asked if I’d ever seen Sleepless in Seattle. I said no. A shame since I love You’ve Got Mail so much. He dug out the VHS tape—yep, that’s right, kids!—and we snuggled through two hours of rom-com goodness.

Fast-forward from there about eight years. This same cute guy (now my husband) and I are lounging in bed. I’d been in bed all day and for a good reason—round the clock morning sickness. The only thing that proved to somewhat distract me from the onslaught of 24/7 nausea was a marathon of romantic comedies. The hub was scrolling through Netflix and found Sleepless in Seattle. Remembering how much I had enjoyed it that first time back in the day, he selected the movie and we snuggled some more. Only…this time I wasn’t quite so charmed. Yes, Tom Hanks and his son are adorable. Both the hero’s strengths and flaws are written and played to perfection, as far as I’m concerned. However, I found it difficult to relate or even sympathize with the Meg Ryan character, Annie Reed. Maybe it was the negative side effects of early pregnancy getting me down. Maybe it was the fact that I’d spent years studying up on character and motivation and had worked hard to write properly motivated and relatable heroes and heroines. As charming as Meg Ryan tried to make her character, I still couldn’t get on board. First of all, she’s got a ring on it. Not only that—her fiancé is a perfectly lovely man. Other than a case of severe allergies, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. She brags a good bit about the man she’s going to marry, how great he is, and how right their relationship is. All the while, she, in essence, spends weeks stalking a stranger she hears talking about his deceased wife on the radio. The whole time I’m rewatching this movie I’m thinking, "If this were a book, I’d have stopped reading before the midway point."

Sleepless in Seattle is a beloved rom-com. Like You've Got Mail, it's a Nora Ephron film. There are countless individuals who no doubt include it on their Favorite Movies list. Once upon a time, I might have been one of them. Which means at some point or another I let this sort of heroine behavior go. Why? I’ve noticed through the years, particularly in modern romantic comedies, that heroes and heroines are often allowed to do things they would never get away with in books if they wanted to avoid crucifixion by book reviewers. This puzzles me a bit. Why is there so much leeway for characters like Annie Reed? Because she’s so darn plucky?

Speaking of my husband…he isn’t an avid reader nor does he tend to scrutinize character and GMC like I do. But even he has as much trouble watching some modern-day rom coms as I do. He refuses to watch one such movie, Because I Said So, because the main character, Milly, dates two guys at the same time without either of them knowing about the other. Even from a modern day woman’s perspective, there’s a definite ick factor there…especially when you consider that Milly is also sleeping with both of these men without their knowing about the other.

A bestselling novel by Emily Griffin that was recently turned into a successful rom com, Something Borrowed, provides another example. The protagonist, Rachel, spends much of the story pining for her best friend’s fiancé, Dex. It’s true; she saw him first in college. It’s also true that her best friend, Darcy, is actually kind of terrible. Why then is Rachel still friends with Darcy? Much of the plot tries to establish Rachel as the “good girl” and Darcy as somewhat of a villain. Not that any of the above justifies the protagonist when she begins dating and sleeping with Dex behind Darcy’s back. Sorry, but for me, another ick factor….

Good characters doing bad things isn’t just visible in the present—and not just in movies either. What about those infamous alpha males from 1970’s romance novels? There was practically an entire era of bodice-ripping alpha heroes who did bad things. How did they get away with their forcible shenanigans for so long? Apparently because back then there was a readership surrounding them. Otherwise, why would editors and writers let this fly?

Going a bit further back to classic literature, we find Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. (To the diehard GWTW enthusiasts reading this, forgive me.) I am a HUGE fan of both the book and the movie. I especially love the character of Rhett Butler. But even I’ve got qualms with the scene toward the end where he gets, in his own words, “very drunk” and forcibly carts Scarlett O’Hara up the stairs of their Atlanta mansion despite her flailing protests. Everything fades to black and we, as the audience, can only assume what’s happening. In the following scene, a sober, ashamed (and, one can only assume, hung-over) Rhett apologizes for his behavior. I admit, I’ve overlooked this part of the story through the years because, as I’ve confessed, I love Rhett Butler. I’ve noticed, too, that this scene isn’t widely discussed amongst other Gone With the Wind fans. Why, even in modern times, aren’t more people asking questions or at least saying, “Bad, Rhett Butler! Bad!”? Is it because he IS RHETT BUTLER? Something to think about, particularly when you consider how bad a rep Scarlett gets for her own bad behavior. Is it really any worse than this? (*ahem* Also, Ms. Mitchell? Perhaps you could explain to me how Mr. Butler performed so well under such heavy intoxication? This seems quite unlikely, even for a character of his magnetism.)

A couple of years ago I read a historical romance novel set in the Highlands of Scotland by a well-established author with many credits to her name. The hero and heroine both intrigued me. Their romance was sexy and sweet in all the right places. To summarize, the two wind up in a marriage of convenience…but also in love. I enjoyed the first two-thirds of the book wholeheartedly. Not a lot could have coaxed me to give it any less than a five-star review. Or so I thought. In the last half of the book, the hero sustains a head injury and is lost amongst the Highlands with amnesia. The author then describes in detail the wild sex he has with random women along the way. Let me reiterate the fact that this is a historical romance novel. No, it is not erotica or anything else that would explain such explicit and socially unacceptable character behavior. I understand that the book takes place in the historic Scottish Highlands. People and morals might have been looser then, particularly for men. However, these wild sex scenes between the hero and women who were anything but his wife/heroine seemed out of place, so much so that they jolted me out of the story. (On a related note, I’m not sure a man should engage in such wild, amorous behavior following a severe blow to the head….) When his memory finally returns and he goes back to his heroine, the hero neither confesses to what happened while his memory was lost nor does he seem to feel any sort of remorse for it. I read reviews posted by other readers of the book who also seemed to think these scenes were a bit taboo considering that the book was lauded by both its author and publisher as a traditional romance novel.

How ‘bout it, readers? Have you ever been frustrated or disappointed by a good character behaving badly? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the topic….

Oh, and Friday I’ll be unveiling the gorgeous cover art for my October Harlequin Superromance novel, Married One Night, at the SuperAuthors site. Stop by for an exclusive first look at my next romance novel!

Amber Leigh Williams lives on the Gulf Coast. A southern girl at heart, she loves beach days, the smell of real books, relaxing at her family’s lakehouse, and spending time with her husband, Jacob, and their sweet, blue-eyed boy. When she’s not running after her young son and three, large dogs, she can usually be found reading a good romance or cooking up a new dish in her kitchen. She is represented by Joyce Holland of the D4EO Literary Agency. Find out more at her website: www.amberleighwilliams.com.

Planning for Valentine's Day by Amber Leigh Williams

Every year just before dawn on February fourteenth, the town of Montpelier, Vermont is hit by a phantom - a Valentine phantom. For the last decade, The Montpelier Valentine Phantom has decorated the storefronts of Montpelier, Vermont with thousands of red hearts. It started in the heart of town, on Main Street, but over the years the Valentine's Day cheer has spread to other streets. Even in 2007 when heavy snow marred the streets, the phantom continued his work. The residents of Montpelier woke not just to a snowy white landscape, but to the welcome sight of the phantom's hearts. The phantom's "phans" have dedicated a Facebook page to its decade-long run....

This is just one of the many reasons I love Valentine's Day! I make no secret of my love for the holiday every February. Every year around this time, I get out the construction paper, scissors and Elmer's glue. Nothing says "I love you" like homemade cards and paper heart chains! (This year my sister and I even plan on sending a box of paper hearts and homemade chocolate turtles to our father in Georgia.) And with a sweet, new, baby boy in our lives, the whole family is ready to dive into the holidays this year with all the youthful fervor we did when we were children ourselves.

I'm still a big believer in doing things the simple way. This year, the hub and I thought the best way to celebrate Valentine's Day would be to cook a meal for each other. Our little man makes quick and easy meal preparation a necessity throughout the week and some weekends. To treat ourselves, we decided to go all out for a holiday feast. The hub will make me a steak dinner and I will prepare him a large, strawberry-vanilla cake for dessert. This is my first attempt at baking a cake, but I'm determined to pull it off and to have fun while I'm at it. We'll top it off with some sweet wine and chocolate-covered strawberries. And instead of setting the table for this fine meal, we'll spread a blanket on the living room floor, light some candles and have our very own homespun picnic. Simple, romantic, intimate - right up our alley! So much so that I wonder why we never thought of it before instead of dipping deep into our pockets for a meal in a loud, crowded restaurant or expensive presents. As new parents, we realize now more than ever that the quality time together is more than enough!

If you're planning on keeping it simple this Valentine's Day with your special someone, might I make a musical suggestion? We're forgoing the usual movie this year (since we can never really agree on a genre anyway - ah, the great debate over action, comedy or romance) and choosing to go the old-fashioned route. Or...the eighties' and nineties' way - the mixed tape. Only this time, we're getting really creative. In the dating years, we covered songs that held special meaning for us. This year I thought it would be fun to compile a playlist of songs based on real-life love stories written either by the people who experienced them or others inspired by them. It's makes for good ambience and interesting conversation. My personal favorite so far is "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, written by June Carter about their complex relationship at the time. (I couldn't resist throwing in "Jackson," Johnny's duet with June, which over the years has become a staple of ours on karaoke night.) Some others that made the cut include "My Girl" (written for Smokey Robinson's wife), "Wonderful Tonight" (written by Eric Clapton for his spouse at the time), and "Maybe I'm Amazed" (which Paul McCartney dedicated to his wife, Linda).

 

So, folks, what are your plans this Valentine's Day? Do you prefer to keep it simple or go all out?

Here's wishing everyone a very Happy Valentine's Day!


Amber Leigh Williams

Blessings This Holiday Season....

It’s safe to say I’ve fallen off the blog wagon this year. In fact, that’s an understatement. I want to offer my apologies to my fellow Roses and our amazing readers as well as an explanation….

For the last few years, I’ve approached Christmastime with a bit of bah humbug. This year, however, things have changed. Suddenly, I love the holidays. The stress of December has finally taken a backseat to the joy of the season, and it has everything to do with an early Christmas present for the hub and me!

Before I get into that, I have to rewind four years. The hub and I were in our early twenties and fresh off the honeymoon phase of our marriage. We had started thinking seriously about the future and family, especially when we moved into our first house in 2008 and the smaller of the two spare bedrooms started looking more and more like a possible nursery. Thoughts of having children were accelerated by the baby boom happening in his family. My husband has three brothers, two sisters, one step-brother, and two stepsisters. Out of all of them, all but three have married and started their own families. He has approximately twelve nieces and nephews, and many of them were born just before, during, or after this period. There were babies everywhere. Any doubts I might have had about being ready to have kids vanished whenever I saw the hub with his nieces and nephews, particularly the young ones. If ever a man were meant to be a father, it’s him.

When you’re a young girl, it’s easy to catalogue this part of your life. In my mind, everything would happen like dominoes. Finish school. Find the right guy. Get married. Have babies. I finished school, I found my guy, and married earlier than most. Never did I imagine that I would have trouble getting pregnant. Unfortunately, this was the case. The first six months, it’s easy to blame outside factors like stress and timing. A year goes by and you begin to wonder what’s wrong. After four years…well, you get discouraged. Especially after the doctor’s visits where we were told there wasn’t anything wrong with either of us. We took the doctors’ advice and still nothing happened. By last Christmas, we had given up.

Anyone who has been in this situation knows that if the people around you are aware of it, they offer you their own pointers. Lots and lots of pointers. From the practical to the superstitious. We heard some downright crazy stuff. One of the childbearing myths we got a kick out of came from both my mother and grandmother who told us more than once that when we stopped trying, it would happen. If we took our minds off it, we would get pregnant. Like magic. They told us stories about couples who had been trying for a decade who gave up and bought something really expensive – like a house or a nice car – and bam! it happened, just like that.

We didn’t believe it. But we had given up. And in March, my husband brought home a new “toy.” A jet-ski, to be exact. A very expensive, top-of-the-line kind of jet-ski. It was hard to argue when I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had found his new “baby,” and I had to admit that it was a fun, healthy distraction from the long years of disappointment.

A few weeks later, I started to feel a little icky. When my “stomach virus” lasted over a week, we began to wonder. We had been through this before. The maybe we are/maybe we aren’t had happened too many times to count. But there was something different about this time. Still, we put off the at-home pregnancy test for another week. Then I couldn’t handle the suspense anymore. On April Fool’s Day, we finally got a positive. Christmas had come nine months early and we were ecstatic! And yes, my mother and grandmother very much enjoyed telling us “We told you so!”

The doctor told us to expect a Thanksgiving baby. Though the first trimester made the holidays seem far, far away. My writing and blogging schedule took a hard hit thanks to extreme fatigue and morning sickness that lasted from dawn to dusk. Despite a demanding work schedule, the hub really stepped up and took care of me and our little bean. By summer, the morning sickness had faded but the crazy, southern, summer heat kept me indoors in the air conditioning. I took up a bit of writing again, read a good many books, but didn’t return to blogging. I had trouble focusing on anything none-baby-related.

Finally the third trimester rolled around. I was surprised by how smoothly the pregnancy had gone, despite the bumpy start. My doctor pleased us even more by suggesting we should induce on November 19. That way, we could possibly be home for Thanksgiving with our new bundle!

I walked into the hospital late the night of November 18, was induced early the next morning. Shortly after noon, I was ready to push and we were blessed with a beautiful baby boy at exactly 2:24 p.m. After so long a time in the birth canal, he gave us a bit of a scare, and instead of the skin-on-skin time we had planned on for months, he was handed over to the amazing nursing staff and his lungs were pumped. Three minutes after he arrived, he let out his first cry and the hub and I – and everyone else in the delivery room, for that matter – dissolved into tears.

Jacob James, Jr. weighed in at seven pounds, twelve ounces, measured twenty-one inches long, and was so perfect and precious, we were both almost afraid to hold him. After another two days, we were discharged and on our way home for Thanksgiving with much to be thankful for!

Since I was absent from blogging for so long, I wanted to give the Roses the first glimpse of baby Jake as a way of saying thank you for being so patient with me over the last nine months. And I wanted to wish everyone a happy holidays! I hope all your wishes and dreams come true and all your prayers are answered this holiday season!

Love,

Amber Leigh 

Where Did She Go?

Today I wanted to share a tiny short story with you. For my
 mother-in-law, Marilyn...

       Where Did She Go?
                     by Jerri Hines

            Time is a relative thing. Isn’t it? I mean the older we get the faster it ticks away. There are never enough hours in the day. Running late as usual, I stopped by for a quick visit. Have to. Haven’t been by in awhile.

            The backdoor open, I walked in, sliding back the screen door to find Mom sitting in her chair. She smiled up at me, the most beautiful smile. A laugh escaped her, a laugh to die for. The house used to echo her laughter.

            “Oh, it’s you. You have come to visit,” she said.

            I smiled back at her. It’s been years since she said my name. I looked over at Dad. It has been one of those days I can see. His tired worn eyes betrayed him, but not his words.

            Leaning over and kissing Mom’s cheek, I turned to Dad. “Why don’t you go out? I’m here for as long as you need me. Pat is at a dinner for work.”

            “Do you mind? I could run down to the Knight’s?” he asked.

            “Not a problem,” I answered, reprimanding myself. I should have come by more often and watched her for him.

            Realizing in that moment, I have taken my older sister, Donna, for granted. She has taken the blunt of this. Never having married, I had convinced myself she had the time to look after Mom and Dad. Forgetting perhaps, she was my mother, too.

            I watched Dad leave from the window and turned back to Mom.

            “Where did that man go?” she asked.

            I sighed.“He’ll be right back.”

            “Who?” she asked. She stood up and walked toward the kitchen.

            “Are you hungry? Let me fix you something,” I said while following her.

            She leaned down and picked up a tiny, tiny scrap of paper on the floor. I wondered for a moment how could she have seen it. She picked it up and placed it in the palm of her hand.     

            “Do you want me to take that?”

            She doesn’t answer, but I reached over and took it. Throwing it in the garbage, I watched her walk over to the table, rearranging the centerpiece. She turned back to me.

            “Where did that man go?”

            “He’ll be back in a minute,” I answered her again. My eyes caught sight of a stack of pictures at the corner of the table.

            Picking them up, I flipped through them. I held the past in my hand. Pictures of my father fifty years ago. So good looking, smiling in his army uniform. Another of their wedding…baby pictures of us kids.

            So long ago. How I missed those days. Engrossed in the pictures, I didn’t noticed at first she had sat down. She held the picture of my father in her hand. Gently her hand glazed over the face.

            “He’s handsome,” she said, not releasing it but gripping it tighter. She reached for the stack of pictures. I relented and studied her as she looked through them.

            Suddenly the urge surged through me that I wanted her back. I wanted her to take me in her arms as she had when I was a child. Smooth away the pain. To tell me that all would be fine.

            “Everything will be better in the morning,” she used to tell me.

            Instead, she looked up at me. “Where did that man go?”

            “He’ll be back in a minute,” I answered once more. She seemed appeased and went back to looking through the pictures.

            We sat there going through the pictures. I answered her patiently when she asked me who it was.

            “That’s Tommy. Your oldest grandson.”

            “Are you sure?” she asked.

            I nodded. She stared down at it thoughtfully. I saw her mind struggle to remember, searching for something familiar. There had been times in the past when she would break down and cry at this point. Today she went to the next picture.

            How desperately I wanted to share with her my memories. Moments in my life I cherish. Would always cherish. Wouldn’t I?

            I wanted to tell her I would never have survived high school without her. It wasn’t until my children got to be in high school that I realized why Mom stayed up and hugged me before I went to bed. Later in life she told me she just wanted to make sure I hadn’t been drinking. Nothing ever got by her. I wanted her to know I have done the same with my children.

            I chuckled to myself remembering how much she disliked Pat when I began dating him. Never did she come straight out and tell me. No, it wasn’t her way. Subtle remarks here and there. They stopped the day I married. Over the years, surprisingly she formed a special bond with my husband.

Then the vision of her when I was giving birth to Justin flashed before me. Pat was by my side when the doctor said his heart rate dropped and they needed to perform an emergency Cesarean. Being wheeled down the corridor to the OR, I heard her before I saw her. Running down the corridor like a mad woman, she stopped us for a second.

Bending down over me, she whispered, “I love you.”

I heard her as I was being wheeled away. “I couldn’t let them take her in without telling her…”

            I looked back at her. Oh, God, what happened to my mother? The woman who never forgot a date in her life, a birthday, an anniversary, dates that I didn’t even know meant anything.

            Smiling at me, she asked, “Where’s that man? Suppose he forgot to come back.”

            “He’ll be back in a minute.”

            She nodded. Her head tilted to the side when she came to the next picture, the picture of her on her wedding day. Beautiful, smiling broadly, so happy.

            Her eyes met mine. “Where did she go?”

            More than 5 million Americans are affected by Alzheimer’s. My husband’s mother, Marilyn, is one of them. From a personal perceptive, Alzheimer’s is an awful disease taking from your love ones their memories. I have watched my husband’s family struggle with this fact. At first, I watched a lovely, warm woman struggle to remember simple facts. Frustration sets in. She wasn’t what she wanted to be. Then after another stage, she became more like a child. Accepting what you told her amiably, instead it was his family who endured the hurt. I have watched my father-in-law stand by his wedding vows, for better or worse, in sickness or health, faithfully. When I write a romance, I write about finding a love to last a life time. It happens…I’ve seen it.

            So come Sunday, September 25^th, my family and I are walking for Marilyn. If you want to learn more about what we are doing click here.

You will find my next release, The Judas Kiss, out this coming January, 2012, with Whiskey Creek Press. A historical romance. I’m excited because it’s the first in the Tides of Charleston series. You will find my other books, Dream Walker and Patriot Secrets, at most ebook stores. Follow me on Facebook-Novel Works is my fan page where I recommend books, authors, blogs… I’m also on Twitter@jhines340.

Listen to the Voices Within

Brenda Whiteside

When I was in the fifth grade, I took on a brave and fearless attitude. I could do anything and be anything I wanted to be. My femaleness would not prevent me from at least trying whatever I wanted. And when I was a child, females were often barred from a great number of things. This attitude drove me to enrolling in auto shop when I got to high school. I wasn’t allowed to take the class, but I sure tried. I stepped over the boundary whenever I could, if it suited me. I think the attitude has served me well, and I owe it to a woman whose achievements were monumental. In all of recorded history there has only been one woman who has held supreme command of a nation’s military forces – and she did it at the age of seventeen. My childhood idol was Joan of Arc, or Jeanne d’Arc.

She was born in 1412, the third of five children to a farmer and his wife in France. Her childhood was spent minding the herds in the fields, learning religion and housekeeping skills. When she was twelve, she began hearing voices. In the beginning they directed her to be a good child, study and work hard. But eventually these voices led her on a journey at the age of sixteen to convince the dauphin of France she was the one to free France from the English and make sure he took the throne.

Oh how romantic! My ten-year-old imagination was so taken with the story. Joan of Arc’s life is well documented in spite of the centuries that have passed since she led her troops against the English. She charged into battle carrying the banner but never killed anyone. The quotes from her and the transcripts of her trial after capture, show a spunky young woman with wisdom and courage beyond her age.

She always considered herself a common person following her destiny. When ladies brought her objects to touch, Joan laughed and said “touch them yourselves. They will be quite as good with your touch as mine.”

Unfortunately, her capture led to her death. She was handed over to a pro-English bishop who tried her for witchcraft and heresy. Joan wore men’s clothing, specially made for her small stature because it was appropriate clothing for the battlefield. Much was made of that and the fact she continued to insist she took her orders from God through the voices of St. Michael, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. No matter what they did to her, she stood her ground.

She attempted to escape several times. They put her in chains because of that. Her response was, “it is true that I wished and still wish to escape, as is lawful for any captive or prisoner.”

Even after being jailed, she continued wearing men’s clothing for protection from rape. Men’s clothing was multi-layered. They would not put her in a women’s prison. Unfortunately, that sealed her fate. When a woman wore men’s clothing, the church considered it a crime against God. After fourteen months of interrogation, she was burned at the stake at the age of nineteen.

“She was perhaps the only entirely unselfish person whose name has a place in profane history.” – Mark Twain

Women of Achievement: Louisa May Alcott

LITTLE WOMEN

One of the most beloved books of my youth, Little Women, was written by Louisa May Alcott. The story chronicled the lives of four sisters. Louisa May Alcott pulled me into their world. Blessed with a vivid imagination and the drive to shine, Ms Alcott wanted to be famous from an early age.

When writing a story I love to create women characters that are strong, willful, stubborn, loyal…a woman just like Louisa May Alcott. The irony of writing about strong willful women in historicals is that it was difficult for women with these characteristics in the past. Women were looked down upon during this time if opinionated and independent. 

Although I’m not certain whether it was a conscious choice for Louisa to be different, I’m confident she chose to be herself. Perhaps it was being one of four sisters that drove her. Perhaps it was growing up in poverty. Perhaps it was her ambition. Whatever the reason, I believe because of her strength and determination she was able to achieve much in her life, leaving behind a legacy to be admired.

Her father might not have provided well for the material needs of his family, he did have connections. The Alcotts were within the inner circle of the Transcendentalist movement. Louisa’s father, Bronson, was best friends to Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. The influence of these men on her writing is undeniable, but writing wasn’t Louisa’s first plan to become rich and famous.

Louisa wanted to become an actress. Knowing that Little Women was based loosely on her on life and ‘Jo’ fashioned on herself, this information isn’t shocking. It is also not shocking to discover that her fame and fortune came from writing. What I found most fascinating and admirable was Louisa herself.

Louisa May Alcott was a woman of action and much more than an author. Louisa was a staunch abolitionist and supported racial equality. Saying this, one needs to remember the times Louisa grew up in. Abolitionists weren’t popular anywhere. Remember Louisa was raised outside of Boston, Massachusetts. Even there abolitionists were only tolerated. Most people of the era, even those who opposed slavery, still considered themselves above slaves even if they were free. Louisa’s family was part of the Underground Railroad. At times, her family hid runaway slaves in their home.

When the Civil War broke out, Louisa served as a nurse in the army. She tended patients in Washington. She assisted patients even holding the hands of soldiers dying from long and painful deaths. Her nursing these soldiers cost her her own health. She contracted typhoid fever and was treated for it with calomel (a mercury derivative) which hurt her physically and affected her for the rest of her life.

After she made her fame and fortune, Louisa set up a home for orphaned newsboys and told stories to the needy. She campaigned for women’s suffrage. She vowed when she was younger to be rich, and famous, and happy before I die. She fulfilled that vow and took on her family’s financial burden.

Louisa never married although there are rumors of a romance with a young man called “Laddie” when she was in Europe. We will never know for certain because she took that part out of her journal. One of Louisa’s friend Julian Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s son, said about Louisa. “Did she ever have a love affair? We never knew; yet how could a nature so imaginative, romantic and passionate escape it?”

Because Louisa took on the financial responsibility for her family, marrying would have caused a dilemma for her. A woman at that time would have become a shadow of her husband with no economic or legal identity. Did she sacrifice herself for her family? That I can’t answer.

Louisa’s fortune was set with the publication of Little Women when she was 35. She had finally achieved the fame and fortune she had sought.

She died twenty years later and is buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery by her parents. It is also the resting place of other notables such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Elizabeth Alcott.

She is renowned for her writings, but she was much more than an author. She was a woman of action. One to be long admired for her achievements.

You will find my next release, The Judas Kiss, out this coming January with Whiskey Creek Press. A historical romance. I’m excited because it’s the first in the Tides of Charleston series. You will find my other books, Dream Walker and Patriot Secrets, at most ebook stores. Follow me on Facebook- Novel Works is my fan page where I recommend books, authors, blogs… I’m also on Twitter @jhines340.