4-Book Give Away Day!

Today I'm giving away a set of my 4-book series called, Seasons of Redemption.

 To find out about the stories, go my renewly re-designed website and click on the tab BOOKS.

To win, all you have to do is leave a comment. At the end of the day, I'll select a number and the name that coincides with it will be the winner! You may leave a comment more than once.

Below is a blog interview I did after book 4, Undaunted Faith, was released last May. It appeared on Lena Nelson Dooley's blog around that same time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  God has really been moving in your writing life. What do you see on the horizon?

I just handed in the manuscript to my editors for a book called Threads of Hope. It’s book 1 in my new series called Fabric of Time.

    *     *     * 

            Tell us a little about your family.

I’m married and have 3 grown sons, 1 daughter-in-law, and 4 grandchildren. I also have a fine church family.

       Has your writing changed your reading habits? If so, how?

I’m afraid I don’t read as often as I’d like. With researching my historical novels and all the time spent writing them, I barely have time to clean my house and see the grandkids, let alone read. Still, I try to read a book every couple of months and I love to read my friends’ books. Right now I’m reading Louise Gouge’s At the Captain’s Command. Then I’ll begin Karen Witemeyer’s To Win Her Heart.

       What are you working on right now?

I’m writing a short contemporary Christian romance novel and I’m hoping to get a proposal for it to my agent Steve Laube soon so he can shop it around.

  

 What outside interests do you have?

I love to take walks. I recently underwent a total knee replacement and I’m healing up just great. I can’t wait to take regular walks outside come springtime. My husband and I also enjoy seeing our grandchildren. We make that a regular practice.

        How do you choose your settings for each book?

Somehow certain areas just grab me, like the Arizona Territory in 1867. You’ll read about it in Undaunted Faith, Book 4 in my Seasons of Redemption series.

But I’m also interested in local history. Book 2 in my series takes place here in Milwaukee. Book 3 is set in Chicago and then in Milwaukee again. I love to research my hometown and my State. My next series, Fabric of Time, will take place in Wisconsin.

       What is the one thing you wish you had known before you started writing novels?

I wish I would have learned more about self-editing. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to read my older works, even if they’re published. I suppose that means I’m growing as a writer – and that’s good!  J

             What new lessons is the Lord teaching you right now?

God has shown Himself faithful in so many ways. He takes good care of me. One of the lessons I’m learning is that because my Heavenly Father is the King of kings and I am His child, then that makes me…a princess! So I ought to act like royalty, not in a snooty manner, but a manner in which I treat myself with respect and take care of myself. The Bible says that we should love others as ourselves. But if we don’t love and respect ourselves, we cannot love our neighbors.

So all you princesses out there – listen up! Do something wonderful for yourselves today – and then show some kindness to someone else. J

 What are the three best things you can tell other authors to do to be successful?

               1)  Don’t give up.

 2)  Learn all you can about writing and hone your skills

 3) Trust God to open the doors to your success. Then don’t                be afraid to walk through them.

 Tell us about the featured book Undaunted Faith.

Sure. Here is the back cover copy.

The McCabe brothers have their hands full. Trouble on the range and trouble in town. But they never expected their sweet schoolteacher, Bethany Stafford, to join in the mix of woe. When her reputation is unfairly tarnished, Pastor Luke McCabe is quick to propose marriage. But Bethany wants better than just a marriage of necessity to save her good name. Could Luke ever come to love a plain “little field mouse” like her?

Dr. Annetta Cavanaugh has her own questions about men and their intentions. While Pastor Jake McCabe seems sincere, she still has her doubts about him. But after he accompanies her on a medical call, she sees a whole new side of him and can't help but admit her attraction to the handsome pastor.

However, there’s evil brewing in town—a lawlessness that even the sheriff cannot tamp down. Finally, it comes face-to-face with both Luke and Jake and it threatens the lives of the women they love. Are the McCabe brothers ready for the fight of their lives?

        Please give us the first page of the book.

Journal entry: Monday, April 1, 1867

I, Bethany Leanne Stafford, am writing in a

leather-bound journal, which my dear friend Mrs.

Valerie McCabe gave me for a going-away gift. She

suggested I write my memoirs of my impending

journey West and about my new life as a schoolteacher

in the wild Arizona Territory. Valerie said

she wished she’d have kept a diary of her escape

from New Orleans and a loveless marriage from

which her husband Ben had rescued her.

For continuity’s sake, I shall back up from the day

I left Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In September of last

year, upon leaving the city, I took the train to Jericho

Junction, Missouri. My traveling companions

were Pastors Luke and Jacob McCabe and Gretchen

Schlyterhaus, a German widow.

 How can readers find you on the Internet?

I invite readers to my website: www.andreaboeshaar.com

Once there, readers can find my blog and a lot of other information. They can also find me on Facebook.

To win a 4-book set of Seasons of Redemption, please leave a comment.

Gram's Gravy

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but I am now the keeper of The Family Secret. I am the only known maker of Gram’s Gravy.

My mother’s mother died in 1998, shortly after her 98th birthday. Widowed at 49 and not quite five feet tall, she lived a few blocks away while I was growing up and was an essential part of our family life. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas until she was well into her 80’s, Gram was in charge of making the turkey gravy. There was nothing fancy about her method, no exotic additions or sophisticated techniques, but somehow she concentrated the flavors into the richest gravy imaginable. A couple of tablespoons brought plain turkey and ho-hum stuffing to life. We rationed our helpings to make sure the gravy would last as long as the leftovers because when it was gone, it was gone. Powdered or bottled gravy was no substitute.

By the time I was married, my mother had lost whatever interest she might have had in cooking large holiday meals, so the task fell to me as the eldest daughter and the only one still living in town. Fortunately, Gram was on hand to teach me the ropes. Peering over her shoulder, I learned how to shake up just the right combination of flour and water to add to the drippings to get that perfect consistency and flavor. I’ve now made that gravy dozens of times, and her method (I can’t call it a recipe) has never failed me. My daughter adores it and regularly invites friends to our house for Thanksgiving and Christmas to share our family “specialty”.

Gram’s gravy is an integral part of every holiday dinner, and I think of her every time I make it. The simple act of stirring the basic ingredients together in the hand-me-down family roasting pan is a powerful and comforting reminder of the passing of traditions from one generation to the next. I hope I’m around long enough to teach my daughter and granddaughter (if I’m lucky enough to have one) the secret of Gram’s gravy.

Do you have special holiday traditions that have been passed down in your family? I’d love to hear about them. In the spirit of giving, I’m offering a free pdf of my latest novel, A Man Like That, to one lucky commenter, so be sure to include your email address if you’d like to be entered in the contest.

Here’s a blurb about the story:

Jessamine Randall, fearless crusader and champion of the downtrodden, is not a woman to be left waiting at the altar. When her fiancé disappears hours before the wedding, she hatches a plan to track him down and bring him back where he belongs.

Morgan Bingham knows he’s no good. Never has been. Never will be. A former outlaw is no fit husband for the daughter of the town judge, despite her misguided notions. Besides, after ten long years away from home, it’s time to return to the hills and face his demons.

Ill-prepared, but armed with unshakeable certainty, Jessy follows Morgan to his family’s cabin deep in the Ozark Mountains where she’s sucked into a whirlpool of deep secrets and old hatreds. While she fights to bring light and hope into their dark lives, her greatest challenge is Morgan himself. Can she ever convince him he’s worthy of love?

Alison Hendersonhttp://www.alisonhenderson.com/

Thanksgiving Food Poetry

Sometimes food inspires me.

Oh, That Cranberry Sauce!

Wiggly

jiggly

red

sloppy

floppy

round

Sliding

off my

plate

headed

for  the

ground

Slipping

through

my fingers

landing

in a

mound

Grandma

steps

right in it

and it

doesn’t make

a sound

Sticky

icky

blob

three days later

when it’s

found.

Comment here with your own poetic description of a Thanksgiving food and be entered to win a free e-copy of my holiday novella, MIDNIGHT MISTLETOE. Visit http://www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com/ to find out more about this tale.

Chris

ABRA CADAVER, The Wild Rose Press, coming January 2012

             

Thankful to be here

Not just "here" as in, "alive", but here, as in "the U.S."

I think about this now and again. If I was a woman in another country, would I have the opportunities that I've had? So much in our lives is just an accident of birth: our social status, our health, our family...

I'm so glad I grew up in America, when I did. I was part of the happy 1950s, in an idyllic world where we could trust our leaders, there was an unlimited future, and opportunities were opening up for women in ways no one imagined. I was taught to be self-sufficient, to work hard for my salary, and not to expect extra help in anything unless I requested it.

I've watched younger people struggle to find their place, to make a living wage, to carve out a career, to achieve what I have already achieved. I'm thankful that I'm not young today because I wouldn't want to face those challenges. We had a lot of challenges, but not the kind that are facing people today.

I read stories about women overseas, in some countries, where they aren't allowed freedom, they're essentially slaves, they're brutally attacked and people turn a blind eye. Yes, that can sometimes happen here, but it's a rare case, I think. In some countries, it's the norm.

And I've read my history, about the struggles for women in this country, struggles for equality. My History Patrol series allows me the chance to send time travelers back through time and observe some of those inequalities -- and to comment on them. It's always fun for me to research that and comment on it in my books.

So I'm glad to be here, I'm glad to be where I am, and I'm thankful for the upbringing I had and the country that has given me so many chances -- some I took, some I didn't, but I had opportunity and that's what matters. Imagine what this world would be like if all women could live without fear?

Boggles the mind, doesn't it?

I'm Thankful for Good Health!

-- Vonnie Davis

I think age has a lot to do with what we’re thankful for. Teenagers are thankful for an easy quiz at the end of a boring social studies chapter—or the latest iPhone. Young mothers are thankful for a good night’s sleep as opposed to two am feedings. Workers are thankful for steady employment and a modest raise. Grandparents are often thankful when the grandkids go home. Senior citizens, like myself, are thankful for good health.

Calvin and I have been on a worry treadmill these last two weeks. I had surgery four weeks ago to remove a cyst in one of my saliva glands. Medical personnel at our local hospital sent the offending grape-sized cyst to University of Virginia’s lab for review. When pathologists there couldn’t identify some of the cancerous cells, they forwarded it to the Mayo clinic. Folks, my cyst has traveled more than I have of late.

All we knew was that I had cancer. Was it a slow growing kind or more aggressive? Was it contained within the cyst? What?

I met with a radiologist and chemotherapist today. Good news: the low-grade cancer was contained within the cyst. The term “low-grade” in reference to cancer means slow-growing and less likely to spread to other parts of the body. Although another cancerous cyst may form in the same area, it is only 5% likely to happen. So, for now, I am cancer free, good-to-go, sassy as ever.

I am relieved.

I am truly blessed.

I am beyond thankful.

Cancer is such an insidious disease. Lives are altered. Families dunked into a pool of fear and financial stress. Yet, research seems to move at a snail’s pace to find a cure.

In my debut book, Storm’s Interlude, the hero’s twin sister has leukemia. Believe me, it did not go unnoticed that one year ago today, I signed my publishing contract with The Wild Rose Press for this book, and today I went from doctor to doctor at a cancer center, waiting word of my own fate. How ironic. Yet I fared much better than my secondary character whose cancer was not cured by her first round of chemo.

My heroine, a nurse, comes to stay at a ranch in Texas to care for her new patient. I’d like to share a scene between Rachel, my heroine, and Sunny, Storm’s twin sister.

Sunny turned worried eyes on her. “I’m afraid I’m running out of time. What’s your opinion?”

“Well, I might have thought that initially, but,”—she shook her comb at Sunny—“if you can come into my room, stomp around and throw a bit of a tirade, tossing pillows and bitching about things around the house, I’d say you’re a fighter.”

At Sunny’s widened eyes, Rachel smiled. “Sunny, a fighter always wins. Two boxers step into the ring. Two emerge. Both are victors because both had the guts to fight the fight. You’re in the boxing ring of life with cancer. Do you have the guts to fight the fight?”

Her patient shoved up the sleeves on her robe. “Believe me, I’d love to fight someone right now. To feel alive again.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled. “I did throw a bit of a tirade, didn’t I? God, it felt so good! You never once told me to sit down or be calm. Why was that?”

“All women need to bitch now and then. We were born with the bitch gene, after all.” She shot Sunny a wry look.

Sunny laughed. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy having you here. I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”

Rachel walked over to Sunny and knelt by her knees. “Training for the fight won’t be easy. You’ll have days where you’ll hate me for pushing you so hard. I’ve found the stronger a patient becomes, the better they can handle the fight. When I’ve pushed you too hard, I expect you to tell me. I need to know exactly how you’re feeling.”

She took Sunny’s hand in hers. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll give me honesty every moment of every day, so I know how you’re feeling both emotionally and physically. In return, I promise I’ll be honest with you. I promise you’ll feel alive again.”

Sunny blinked several times, her eyes locked on Rachel’s. A slow smile curved her lips and her face shone like the star she’d been named for. “Girlfriend,” she purred, her Texas twang especially pronounced, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

** I'm giving away an eCopy of Storm's Interlude to one lucky commenter today. Please include your email address so I can contact you, should you win. And please, you know your body; report any changes to your doctor.

REMEMBRANCE DAY - Red poppies and apple blossom

                        The 11^th of November, is Armistice Day or Remembrance Day. It commemorates the signing of the Armistice to end the carnage of World War 1. On this day we spare a thought, and give heartfelt thanks to the brave men and women who bought freedom with their blood. The wearing of a red poppy on this day symbolizes their sacrifice.

                               

            The battlefields of France and Belgium were covered with red poppies, and they grew profusely, nurtured by the blood of thousands of soldiers. In Northern France when he saw the poppies growing on the battlefield, a Canadian officer, Lt.Col. John McCrae penned his immortal poem. In Flanders Fields. Moina Michael, who worked for the American YMCA, read the poem just before the Armistice was signed. It moved her so much she decided to wear a red poppy in remembrance of the fallen.

 I thought the following story was appropriate. Soldiers sacrificed their lives on the battlefields. The women they left behind wept and mourned, often living a sad and solitary life, bereft of children and the men they loved.

             

            The title for my little story is – CALL OF THE APPLE BLOSSOM.

Mary wore her hair pulled back into two tight little plaits that met at the back of her head. She stared sightlessly ahead, not blind in the literal sense, but blind to the future and the present.  She had sight now only for the past.
            Memories in a kaleidoscope of colour flashed through her brain. Gone, erased forever would be the pitying looks from the nursing staff, other patients and their visitors in the geriatric ward. She moved her hands, with the grotesque, arthritic knuckles to brush a fly away from her face.
            The nurse came over, starched and pristine in her uniform, to tuck in the blankets.  Mary had suffered a stroke, which partially paralysed her. Just because she’d lost the power of speech didn’t mean she was deaf. She smiled inwardly, because her slack lips were incapable of forming a smile.  People talked about her, thinking she could not hear them.
            “Poor old thing doesn’t get any visitors,” they would say. “Been here twenty years and hasn’t ever had any mail, not even a card for Christmas, Mother’s day or her birthday. Unloved and with no-one to care. It’s such a shame.” They would shake their heads as they discussed her.  How she hated their pitying looks.
            She wasn’t lonely, wasn’t unloved either.  She did have a visitor, a special one who came from another age, through the swirling mists of time, came fleetingly, but more and more often now, closer and closer. She could almost reach out and touch him. Could smell the scent of apple blossom he brought with him from the orchards that had once been their home.
            She glanced at the other occupant of the ward, Jessie who pushed her teeth in and out all the time, and dribbled saliva from the corner of her mouth.  Who would want visitors like Jessie’s?  Her daughter paid duty visits, accompanied by the granddaughter in skin-tight jeans and too tight tee shirt, and her loutish boyfriend with his bleached frizzy hair and earrings dangling from his nose and eyebrows.
            No, she did not miss having visitors like that. She had memories more precious than the most beautiful flower and they would not wither or die, because they had been nurtured through the years by a million teardrops. Fresh, poignant memories even the ravages of time and age could not destroy.
            The end would come soon now. Each time her visitor came, he always brought the scent of those blossoms with him. She reached out her hand - so close, but as their fingers bridged the time barrier and almost touched, he would disappear.
            No, William could never really leave her.  His memory was locked in her heart for eternity. A misty veil came down. She felt his presence and tried to call him through the mists of years, but the time had not yet come, and he disappeared into the swirling clouds that had separated them for so long.
            Through the years, she often heard the muted march of countless feet, as ghostly battalions passed by as they marched to immortality.
            William, her tall, handsome husband, with his blonde wavy hair and deep blue eyes, had donned khaki and sailed away with a smile on his lips.  He promised to return, but a bullet had cut him down in foreign fields.  Every now and again, the scent of apple blossom wafted on the air, alerting Mary that her love was not too far away.  Everything became confused.  Had William really marched off to fight in a war on the other side of the world?  Had he died on some blood stained foreign field, or was it all a dream?  A dreadful nightmare, when she would awaken and see him standing at the gate again.  They would be smiling and laughing as he grasped her hand so they could run through the orchard like carefree children.  The soft winds would cause the blossom to cascade upon them softly, nebulous as tiny snowflakes.  The air would hang heavy with their perfume, and the sound of bees buzzing carried on the stillness.
            Oh careless youth, who knew no sorrow.  Who had no inkling of the black clouds forming on the horizon to blot out their sun.  For this would be their last meeting. No, it wasn’t a dream, awake or asleep the memory remained.
            A strange silence shrouded the ward, interrupted intermittently by the clacking of Jessie’s false teeth. Mary lay in bed with a screen pulled around her. A man in a white coat stared down at her. She didn’t remember going to bed.  In fact all she remembered was the apple orchard and running hand in hand with her handsome soldier.
            A breeze rustled the curtains hanging over the opened window, and the soft swishing changed into the muted marching of many feet, as ghostly columns of a long dead army passed by.  On the breeze came the first scent of blossom as it drifted through the window, gradually becoming stronger and more overpowering. The room filled with a perfume so strong Mary felt as if she was back under the trees in the orchard.  The white coat turned into khaki, the years rolled back as if they had never been, and she knew now that the time had come for her to slip away and join William and his comrades.

Wild Oats, my novel from the Wild Rose Press, is set against a background of the 1^st World War. It was an EPIC Finalist last year. One lucky blogger will win a PDF copy of Wild Oats.  Please leave your e-mail address.

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/wild-oats-p-3893.html

My website: http://www.margarettanner.com/

I Am Thankful That I Have Enough to Share

by Laura Breck

I'm grateful that I have the option of having a full stomach. Granted, I seem to fill it too much, and could stand to lose a few (dozen) pounds. Conversely, on a typical day, an estimated 100,000 children* in the US go to bed hungry, and 13 million children* in the US are threatened with hunger.

This is in the United States of America.

As an author, I fight for literacy. As a liberal, I fight for equal access to health care. Sometimes in my concern for these basic human rights, I forget that even more important are the basic human needs. Food, water, clothing, and shelter.

During this season of giving, if you have enough to share, I would love to have you join me in the fight to end hunger in our country. Sharing doesn't always have to be a monetary donation. It can be giving of your time and your talents. Becoming active in organizations that lobby to change public policies is a great way to help.

Besides your local organizations, here are a few national programs:

Feeding America

Share Our Strength

Feed the Children

Catholic Charities





I'd like to hear your thoughts on hunger. What are we doing wrong, and what are we doing right in our country to end hunger? I will give an e-copy of my newest release, Scandalous L.A. Desires to one commenter, and I will make a $25 donation to one of these four charities in that person's name.

Thanks for listening,
Laura
LauraBreck.com
Secret Vegas Lives
Scandalous L.A. Desires
both available from Red Rose Publishing

*Source http://www.worldhunger.org/articles/04/editorials/hungry_us_children.htm