TELL A BOOK BY ITS COVER? by Brenda Whiteside

My last post concerned having a tough skin as an author. In particular, I lamented someone commenting negatively about my latest release, A Legacy of Love and Murder. This is the third book in what will be a five book series. I’m here to update what I did about this problem (from my last post):

The cover has a swastika. I thought my cover artist did a great job. To me, it spoke to the suspense and danger of the book. Apparently, this might not appeal to some readers. Truthfully, only one reader told me it didn't appeal to her even though she loved the first two books. She won't read it. Only one...but if one, then there could be more who feel that way.

I checked sales for the first two months of each of the first three books in the series. Whoops. I could only conclude the cover was an obstacle. After further research which consisted of asking for some input from other writers, including an organization I belong to, Sisters in Crime, I decided to take my concerns to my publisher, The Wild Rose Press. They listened, they pondered for a very short time, and bam! I had a new cover and an improved blurb.

The story is the story, and I’ve gotten great reviews and comments…I just had to get those who tell a book by its cover to open that cover! 

I’m happy to officially announce the new cover for A Legacy of Love and Murder, book three of the Love and Murder Series.

Blurb:

In Austria to meet her great-grandfather and explore his castle estate filled with priceless art, August Myer arrives to find he’s died suspiciously. As one of the heirs, her life is in danger, turning this fairytale Alpine adventure into a nightmare of veiled threats, unexplained accidents, and murder.

Inspector Tobias Wolf splits his time between his profession and fighting the spread of neo-Nazism. But when the beautiful, intriguing American crosses his path during a murder investigation, ensuring her safety challenges his priorities…and his heart.

When August learns the handsome inspector is concealing a personal involvement and the death of her great grandfather is somehow connected, she takes the investigation into her own hands. The outcome could be the death of both of them.

Buy Links:

Amazon 

Kobo

ARe

The Wild Rose Press

Fear Not, There's Alway Hope, Right? by Margo Hoornstra

The other day, I noticed this sign posted on a bulletin board near my husband’s office.

Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, the ark was built by amateurs; the Titanic was built by professionals.

I wasn’t sure how or what, but I did know that would be the subject of my next post here. Then I figured it out…

My birthday was earlier this month. All in all, it was a pretty good day. The kids called with plans for a week end party, my husband bought me a sentimental card and took me out to a very nice dinner. Then he dropped a bombshell I wasn’t expecting. He wanted to buy me flowers, specifically a plant. I didn’t know what to say. Not because I was necessarily touched by his thoughtfulness, although there is that. The fact is, I was truly rendered speechless in an – oh, no, not again sort of way.

You see, I’m horrible with plants. Saying I have a brown or even black thumb doesn’t begin to do justice to the malady that afflicts me. Plants in my care have no chance of survival. Zero. None. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

They may as well shrivel up and die before they even arrive at my house because, try as I might, that will ultimately be their fate. After so many years my husband knows this and yet he insisted. What else could I do but graciously accept? So off we went to find a suitable sacrifice…uh…specimen.

After some offers I absolutely had to refuse – temperamental African Violets, (it makes me shudder to even thing about raising those); fragile Boston Ferns, (the kind my mother used to grow en masse by the way) nope. Finally we settled on a Calla Lily. I had heard of them. This one was purple, my favorite color and seemed to be reasonably healthy (for now, anyway).  ‘Indirect sunlight, moderately moist soil and 60 to 70 degree temperatures’ to quote the full color instruction stick. The one which, by the way, also sported the picture of an entire, beautiful bouquet.

 

 

Easy enough, don’t you think? For normal plant growers, I suppose. Of which I am not one. 

 

What’s indirect sunlight exactly? Either the sun’s shining down or it isn’t. Sun beams don’t shine from the side, do they? I mean, the sun would have to leave its position in the sky to do that, which isn’t going to happen. Sunlight, direct or not, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of middle ground on the issue. Sounds to me a little like being somewhat pregnant. Either you are or you aren’t. Again no middle ground.

 

The only thing for sure I could surmise was that direct sunlight was probably not good.

 

 

But back to the fate of the innocent little plant of mine. The center of our living room, aka away from any and all windows seemed to be as indirect, sunlight wise, as one could get. This is where I set my treasure. Then I made sure the soil was moist, even added some extra water because we were going out of town for a few days. Just to be sure said soil really did remain ‘moderately moist’ while we were gone. When we returned, the leaves were getting a little pale, yellow even. Not only that, water sat, yes sat, about a half an inch deep, in the pan underneath the pot. Could this be the beginning of the inevitable end? Apparently my idea of moderately moist and their idea of moderately moist were two completely different moderately moists. We, that tiny instruction stick and I, had something else we couldn’t agree on.

 

In addition to that whole direct and indirect sunlight thing.

 

**heavy sigh**

At any rate, I’m trying to reform; I’m letting the poor thing dry out a little and moved it from the center of the living room to a shelf near a window in my office. A little closer to a window, but far enough away, I hope, from any and all direct sunbeams.

Fingers crossed these new arrangements will prove to be beneficial. Please send positive thoughts our way and wish both of us luck.

Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, the ark was built by amateurs; the Titanic was built by professionals.

Skill wise, I don’t qualify to build either, but here’s hoping I can at least grow one measly little plant.

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

 

To fly or not to fly ~ by Leah St. James

I have a confession.  I haven’t flown (on an airplane) in something like 40 years.  (Yes, I’m that old...but that’s another post.)  The reason is simple:  I suffer terribly from motion sickness. I have vivid memories of being stripped down to my petticoat and walking through an airport terminal when I was around four years old. (Please don’t judge my mom. The petticoats of those days were sturdy things and covered more than some street clothes of today! :-) 

When I was 18, I flew from New Jersey to Florida for a vacation with my friend and her little brother.  As the plane lifted off, I looked out at the horizon that was now at a 45-degree angle, and...well, let’s just say it was not a pleasant ride...for any of us.

In 1996, I went on a dream cruise with my sister to Bermuda. As soon as we cleared New York Harbor, my world tilted and I couldn’t stand upright. I spent the next three days lying on my side in bed while my sister boogied in from the lido deck to bring me one goodie or another...which I ate while lying on my side. As I envisioned myself choking to death trying to swallow in that position, I took solace that at least I’d die happy (eating).

Did I mention yet that I get dizzy watching IMAX? (Not great when you're chaperoning a class of rambunctious fifth-graders.)

About a dozen years ago I finally discovered the cause.  Seems I have something called benign paroxysmal positional vertigo—which explained why my whole life I kept walking into walls without a drop of any mind-altering substances. Who knew?

Avoiding plane travel has been easy since hubby, who doesn’t trust the aerodynamics that make machines fly, prefers to drive as well.  But my run of plane-free travel has come screeching to a halt.

My best friend’s daughter is getting married. And instead of celebrating their nuptials in the D.C. area where they live and where it would be a relatively quick (albeit probably miserable) drive for me up I95, she and her hubby-to-be have decided to marry in a “celebration barn” in the middle of Iowa!

 

Faced with the thought of a two-day drive by myself (hubby can’t go with me), plus spending tons of money on gas and an overnight stay in a hotel (not to mention precious vacation time spent in the car!), I did the unthinkable.

I booked a flight.

Then I visited my doctor’s office and got prescriptions for some mind-altering pharmaceuticals that will (hopefully) tell my brain that it’s sitting on my living room couch, not being propelled in a giant tin can several tens of thousands of feet in the air, held there by some magic of physics.

As news of my upcoming flight spread to my family, who know of my aversion to air travel, I was flooded with advice.

My sister, who travels frequently by air, is now fretting that I picked “the worst” airport to make a connecting flight (Atlanta). “Oh dear,” she said during a recent phone call, “It can be really confusing.” She mentioned something about trams and gates, departing and arriving...I don’t remember. She offered to schedule a phone call with her husband (a project manager who makes a living planning for worst-case scenarios) to help me map out my route from the arrival gate to the departure gate. Included would be step-by-step instructions on what to expect  at the outbound security checkpoint, what kind of luggage to bring, what kind of toiletries to pack, why I shouldn’t bother to lock my luggage...and I forget what else.

So now I’m not only freaking out about the plane ride itself (and what condition I’ll be in when I, God willing, reach my final destination), but getting myself from one plane to the next.  So I talked to a friend at work, a former flight attendant from Germany, who said, “You’ll be fine. Print yourself an airport map and follow it. It’s easy.”

That didn’t help. In addition to suffering from motion sickness/vertigo, I am directionally challenged. (I once got lost walking in my in-laws’ neighborhood where I’d walked many, many times because I started off in the opposite direction. God’s truth.) I can’t tell north from south from east from west unless I’m looking at the sun (but not at noon!), or standing at the shore of the Atlantic, with the water to my right...which means I’m facing north...right?

My sister was right. I do need a training session!

My trepidation worsened after I downloaded a terminal map from the airport’s website. The place is HUGE! Immediately my head was filled with an image of myself wandering aimlessly from gate to gate, blathering nonsense due to my now-prescription-drug-induced haze. 

In desperation, looking for comfort, I turned to Son No. 1 (in birth order, not preference, of course).  He travels quite frequently, too. Here’s what he had to say:

“The worst part of an airport is that everyone is in a bad mood and rushing around.  They've gotten good with big maps and directions, and if in doubt, find someone to ask - even it's the closest bartender.”

Big sigh of relief. I’m a master at asking strangers for help, including bartenders. I can do this.

If things don’t go well, though, I might be moving to Atlanta. 

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Leah writes stories of mysteries and romance, good and evil, and the power of love. Learn more at leahstjames.com, or stop by and say hi on Facebook or Twitter.