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#EggcerptExchange: Dark Brew by Diana Rubino

DARK BREW A time travel romance

Learn from the past or forever be doomed to repeat it.

Accused of her husband’s murder, Kylah McKinley, a practicing Druid, travels back through time to her past life in 1324 Ireland and brings the true killer to justice.

Two months of hell change Kylah’s life forever. On her many past life regressions, she returns to 14th century Ireland as Alice Kyteler, a druid moneylender falsely accused of murdering her husband. Kylah’s life mirrors Alice’s in one tragic event after another—she finds her husband sprawled on the floor, cold, blue, with no pulse. Evidence points to her, and police arrest her for his murder. Kylah and Alice shared another twist of fate—they fell in love with the man who believed in them. As Kylah prepares for her trial and fights to maintain her innocence, she must learn from her past or forever be doomed to repeat it.

An interview with Diana about Dark Brew

Where did the story come from?

The story took 12 years from start to finish. I’m a longtime member of the Richard III Society, and in the spring of 2004, I read an article in The Ricardian Register by Pamela Butler, about Alice Kyteler, who lived in Kilkenny, Ireland in 1324, and faced witchcraft charges. After her trial and acquittal, she vanished from the annals of history. I couldn't resist writing a book about her.

How did you decide to make it a paranormal?

I’m a believer in reincarnation, and I go on paranormal investigations whenever I can. I’ve gone on several past life regressions. Cape Cod has a lot of history and paranormal activity. I’ve been on many ghost walks and ghost hunts there. I wanted to connect Alice in the past with someone in the present, her reincarnation.

Was Alice Kyteler famous in 14th century Ireland?

Not at all but she was the richest woman in Kilkenny, and for that reason the villagers hated her, especially the men. They accused her of killing her first husband, but she was acquitted. Then they accused her of killing her fourth husband, John LePoer, with witchcraft, the accusations more absurd than those of the 1692 witch hysteria in Salem, Massachusetts. Chancellor Edward de Burgh arrested Alice because her stepsons claimed she had murdered John by casting a witch’s spell with malefecia…and she used the enchanted skull of a beheaded thief as her cauldron.

She went to trial and her dear friend Michael Artson had her acquitted, but she vanished into the annals of history. According to legend, she went to England. But no one knows for sure.

Why did you make it a time travel?

Because my heroine, Kylah McKinley, is a druid and has done many past life regressions, she knows she’s the reincarnation of Alice. So she has to go back and find out what happened to Alice, because too many weird things are happening to her in this life that parallel Alice’s life.

Kylah lives on my beloved Cape Cod. She’s a druid, a ghost hunter and owns a new age store in a restored Revolutionary War-era tavern. She was also the target of a hit-and-run. Another hit-and-run crippled her husband Ted. That’s no coincidence—she’s convinced someone’s out to get them both.

She brews an ancient Druid herb mixture, goes back in time and enters Alice’s life to find out exactly what happened and who killed her husband.

These two months of hell change her life forever. Kylah’s life mirrors Alice’s in one tragic event after another—she finds her husband sprawled on the floor, cold, blue, with no pulse. Evidence points to her, and police arrest her for his murder. Kylah and Alice shared another twist of fate—they fell in love with the man who believed in them. As Kylah prepares for her trial and fights to maintain her innocence, she must learn from her past or she’s doomed to repeat it.

Have you ever spoken to Pamela Butler, who wrote the article about Alice?

Yes, we’ve corresponded. She lives in New Mexico, so we’ve never met in person. I asked Pam what inspired her to write about Alice. I’d never heard of Alice until I read her article, “Witchcraft & Heresy. She replied:

“You asked why I wrote about Alice Kyteler, who preceded Richard by a century-and-a-half. I only wrote it because others on the listserv encouraged me to write about witchcraft, a subject about which I knew very little. I ordered three books from Amazon.com on the subjects of witchcraft, heresy, Satanism, etc. for research reasons. That was my basis, plus I searched the Internet. The Malleus Malleficarum was published in 1487, just two years after Richard's death, so it's almost contemporary. I chanced across Alice in this reading and thought that it was an interesting case. Witch burning was fairly rare in Ireland, and wasn't as bad in England at that time as it had been on the Continent. I wish that the M.M. had never been published; still, the fact that it was published and accepted may reveal the mindset of those times.”

An excerpt from Dark Brew

Kylah shut Ted’s den door. She couldn’t bear to look at the spot where he gasped his last breath. His presence, an imposing force, lingered. So did his scent, a blend of tobacco, pine aftershave and manly sweat. Each reminder ripped into her heart like a knife. Especially now with the funeral looming ahead, the eulogies, the mournful organ hymns, the tolling bells . . .

These ceremonies should bring closure, but they’d only prolong the agony of her grief. She wanted to remember him alive for a while longer, wishing she could delay these morbid customs until the hurt subsided.

Throughout the house, his essence echoed his personality: the wine stain on the carpet, the heap of dirty shirts, shorts and socks piled up in the laundry room, the spattered stove, his fingerprints on the microwave. But she couldn’t bring herself to clean any of it up. Painful as these remnants were, they offered a strange comfort. He still lived here.

“I’ll find that murderer, Teddy,” she promised him over and over, wandering from room to empty room, traces of him lurking in every corner. “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure justice is served. Another past life regression isn’t enough anymore. I know what I have to do now. And I promise, it will never, ever happen again—in any future life.”

She inhaled deeply and breathed him in. “Go take a shower, Teddy.” She chuckled through her tears as the doorbell rang. She cringed, breaking out in cold sweat when she saw the black sedan at the curb.

“Not again.” No sense in hiding, so she let the detectives in.

“Mrs. McKinley, we need your permission to do a search and take some of your husband’s possessions from the house,” Nolan said.

“What for?” She met his steely stare. “I looked everywhere and found nothing.”

“Mrs. McKinley, the cupboard door was open, four jars of herbs are missing, and the autopsy showed he died of herb poisoning. Those herbs,” Nolan added for emphasis, as if it had slipped her feeble mind. “Foxglove, mandrake, hemlock—and an as-yet unidentified one,” he read from a notebook. “The M.E. determined it was a lethal dose.”

Sherlock Holmes got nothin’ on him, she thought.

“Where’s this cupboard, ma’am?” Egan spoke up.

“Right there.” She pointed, its door gaping exactly the way she’d found it that night. Nolan went over to it and peered inside.

“Ma’am, it would be better if you left the house for a half hour or so. Please leave a number where you can be reached,” Egan ordered.

Nolan glanced down the hall. “Where is your bedroom?”

What could they want in the bedroom? “It’s at the top of the stairs on the right. But we didn’t sleep together,” she offered, as if that would faze them. It didn’t.

After giving him her cell number, she got into her car and drove to the beach.

An hour later, she let herself back in and looked around. They’d taken the computer, her case of CDs, her thumb drive, her remaining herb jars, Ted’s notebooks, and left her alone with one horrible fact: This was now a homicide case and she was the prime suspect.

Purchase Dark Brew

Contact Diana
#RomanticIdea:
Cook an authentic Italian meal, cheese ravioli with marinara sauce, garlic bread, a salad with Italian olive oil, a fine Italian red wine, and a sweet gelato for dessert. Then put on some Sinatra CDs and dance the night away!
My favorite Sinatra album is Come Dance With Me
We always had Sinatra playingin my house when I was growing up. Nearly everyone from Hoboken or anywherenear Hoboken has a Sinatra story; being from Jersey City, I have a Sinatra story: my great grandmother and his mother Dolly were very good friends. Unfortunately I never asked Great Grandma about what she and Dolly talked about but I’ll bet a lot of juicy gossip went around!

#ExcerptExchange: The Last Resort by Ember Leigh

Blurb:Rose Delaney is a baby bounty hunter, rescuing children from fugitive ex-spouses. All she wants is to return a recovered child to its mother and get back to her regimented solitary life. But when a snow storm leaves her and baby Emmy stranded, Rose has no choice but to lean on the ruggedly handsome rescuer, who thinks the baby is hers. Holed up in their mountain resort-under-construction and unable to contact Emmy’s mother, Rose's priority is hitting the road—even if Garrett’s erotic touch entices her to ride out the storm. Construction boss Garrett Galo loves his job, but he never imagined a perk like being snowbound during a whiteout with the sassy brunette he just rear-ended. He’s learned to stay away from women who want a family, especially when they come with a kid in tow. When passionate nighttime encounters flare between them, Garrett begins to question what he’d risk to keep Rose. This isn’t the time or the place for romance—but will five days on a mountain make these loners reconsider giving in to love?

EXCERPT: Something inside her told her that kissing this man on the first day of knowing him was wrong. She should wait. At least find out a little bit more about him. For God’s sake. When she surfaced, he stood a more respectful distance away, eyes less hazy. Standing in the shallower end, he loomed out of the water like a warrior rising from the watery depths of his kingdom. He was such a man. For reasons she couldn’t understand, his masculinity penetrated her harder than most men she came across, but it didn’t make her bristle like the others. Most guys brought out her masculine side even more—like she had to prove herself, be one of them. That’s how she preferred it, at least. But Garrett didn’t make her eager to prove her dominance. She liked being near him. Already she could spend a long time with him in a room, not talking—something of her litmus test for companions, one most people couldn’t pass. This tempted her even more, clawed at her with aching fingers. Rose didn’t come across too many guys who reminded her she was still a girl. Much less a person she could just be around them. “So, small talk.” Garrett floated toward the side of the pool. “Do we have to?” “I guess not. Should I cut to the interesting questions?” She grinned, liking where this could go. “Yeah, why not?” “Where is Emmy’s father?” The words were a punch in the gut, the sexy energy from moments ago withering and drifting away. Not the route I had in mind. The same gears from dinner began turning, the familiar whoosh of the filing cabinet opening back up to log whatever lie she came up with next. “Um…she…doesn’t have one.” He narrowed his eyes. “How do you mean? Like…absent? Or…immaculate conception?” Rose laughed, taking the time to figure out the second phase of her cover. The light of the room glinted off his slick chest in a way that made it impossible to keep her story straight. “In vitro.” Distant surprise registered on his face. “Seriously?” She shrugged, picking a slow-paced path between the two edges of the pool. In vitro meant fewer details to keep straight, no need for an ex-baby daddy drama story or even an invented relationship to keep up with. And she would rather give up her daily squats than need to complicate this web of lies needlessly.

PURCHASE LINKS: The Wild Rose Press: http://wrildcatalog.thewildrosepress.com/all-erotic/4944-the-last-resort.html Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRD30DX/ Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-last-resort-ember-leigh/1125619766

Releases March 17th, 2017!

AUTHOR BIO: Ember Leigh has been writing erotic romance novels since she was far too young. A native of northern Ohio, she currently resides near Lake Erie with her Argentinean husband, where they run an Argentinian-American food truck. In addition to romance novels, Ember also writes travel memoirs and occasionally updates a couple of blogs. In her free time, she practices Ashtanga yoga, hops around the world, and eats lots of vegetables. Website: www.emberfleighromance.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/EmberLeighAuthor Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8045833.Ember_Leigh Twitter: @EmberLeighAuth

#EggcerptExchange: The Rest of Forever by Carrie Pulkinen


The Rest of Forever

By Carrie Pulkinen

Genre: Paranormal Romance - Angels

Blurb:

Suspended between two worlds—belonging to neither—April must let go of her dreams and embrace her duties in the afterlife to win the man she loves.

April Carter is a high school history teacher who dreams of finding the perfect man to whisk her away from her small-town life. She wants it all—the husband, the house, the kids, the car. But her dreams of living the perfect life are shattered during a school shooting. ​Now she must learn to accept her fate if she's ever going to find the life she loves. ​

Damian ​Perkins ​is ​April's Guardian Angel, though no one would guess that based on his attitude. A tragic event in his past has left him bitter and resentful, and he won’t let anyone get close enough to care about him​. He's tried to make April hate him, but she sees through his abrasive exterior and awakens a part of his soul he thought had burned out long ago. Damian​ must​ let go of his past​ and​ accept his responsibilities​ ​or​ ​​he'll​ spend the rest of his existence alone and miserable​.

Excerpt:

Damian lay on the bed behind her with his arm across her body. God, I wish I could feel her. The memory of the way she fit in his arms tightened his chest, and he yearned to feel her warmth again. To feel her soft curves pressed against his body. She could’ve used some real affection. But as much as he wanted to give it to her, it wasn’t his place. He’d have to settle for comforting her from The In-Between.

She took a few deep breaths and slowly drifted to sleep. The tension in her body relaxed, and her pulse slowed to a steady, rhythmic beat. Rest was exactly what she needed to chase away the fear and guilt that must’ve been coiling inside her. To be betrayed by someone who was supposed to love her. He couldn’t imagine what she must’ve been feeling.

Well, yes he could...

He breathed in her intoxicating scent and closed his eyes. He was getting in too deep, and he needed to get away.

But as the last of the tension left her body, she exhaled and whispered, “Damian.”

Hearing his name dance from her lips made his heart lodge in his throat. Was she dreaming about him?

“I’m here, April. You’re safe.”

A soft moan vibrated from her chest, and she nestled her head into the pillow.

She couldn’t possibly be dreaming about him, could she? He’d tried so hard to make her hate him. What dream could possibly be twirling through her mind? She was sound asleep, and he knew it was safe to leave her alone.

But he stayed.

As much as he hated to admit it, he liked holding her, whether he could feel her body pressed to his or not. There was nowhere in the universe he’d rather be. And he desperately wanted to hear her whisper his name again.

Get it together, man. It’s not gonna happen.

The sun set, and soft moonlight filtered through the window, giving her skin an angelic glow. Even with her tear stained cheeks and disheveled hair, she was magnificent. The soft rise and fall of her chest, her gentle breath, her fragile posture. He could’ve held her forever.

But he needed to leave. To get away from her before his thoughts went any farther down the path he’d been avoiding all this time.

He pulled his arm from around her and prepared to Jump. She moaned and reached to the place where his arm had rested moments before.

“Please don’t leave me, Damian.”

He froze, his body paralyzed in anticipation, and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Did she sense him? Did she know he was there with her? No, it wasn’t possible. Charges felt comfort from their Guardians, but they never knew why.

“Damian, please.”

Liquid warmth flowed from his core, out to his limbs. His heart raced at the sleepy sound of her voice. He imagined it was how she’d sound in the morning, after a long night of lovemaking.

But he could not think about her that way. There was no way in hell he’d ever fall for a Charge. Not if he could help it.

Available at Amazon for $2.99 or FREE in KU

 Author Bio:

Carrie Pulkinen has always been fascinated with the paranormal. Of course, when you grow up next door to a cemetery, the dead (and the undead) are hard to ignore. Pair that with her passion for writing, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for an exciting storyteller.

Carrie spent the first part of her professional life as a high school journalism and yearbook teacher. She loves red wine and chocolate, and in her free time, she likes to read, take pictures, and spend time with her family.

Connect with Carrie here:

Web Page | Amazon Author Page | Facebook | Twitter

#EggcerptExchange: Spirits of the Heart by Claire Gem


Spirits of the Heart by Claire Gem

A Haunted Voices Novel

 Blurb:

An addiction counselor and a security guard struggle to free a little girl and her father, two lost spirits trapped inside an abandoned mental asylum. Addiction counselor Laura Horton returns from college to move in with an old friend and start her career. But her homecoming is jarring. Her friend moves out, leaving Laura alone with the gorgeous but intimidating ex-boyfriend—in a house that snugs up to an ancient graveyard.

Officer Miller Stanford is a man with a shattered past. His alcoholic dad destroyed their family, a weakness Miller is terrified will consume him too. The last thing he needs is a sexy, blonde addiction counselor watching his every move. When he begins to see specters in the dark, he starts questioning his own stability.

But Laura sees her too—a pathetic child-spirit searching for her father. When Laura starts digging into old asylum records, the eerie events escalate . . . Can Miller and Laura uncover the secrets of Talcott Hall without jeopardizing their love—and lives—in the process?

Excerpt:

“Hey. Little girl. Let me help you,” Miller tried again, and the child finally lowered her hands. She was younger than he’d first thought—ten, maybe. Tears streaked her reddened cheeks, glistening in the beam of his headlights. Her pale, golden hair was baby fine and wispy, but tousled and disheveled. As though it hadn’t seen a brush in good long time.

She met his gaze with eyes like the man’s, clear and blue and strangely luminescent. The sadness Miller saw behind them made his chest ache.

“Where did your friend go, sweetheart? The man who came out with you. Where did he go?”

She stared at him with lips quivering before her face crumpled again. “I don’t know. I don’t know where Daddy is. I’ve been looking and looking for him. Every time I think I’ve found him, he goes away.”

Miller swallowed. Yeah, that’s one way to describe the mysterious vanishing act.

He drew in a breath and tried again. “What’s your name, sweetie? Was that your daddy with you?”

Head bobbing, the tears flowed freely now, and she wouldn’t take her eyes off Miller’s face. He felt a lump growing in his own throat, as though she was somehow transferring her pain to him. His hands, clasped in front of him, began to shake.

When she spoke again, her voice took on an echoed quality, as though she were receding into an empty culvert. “I’m Greta. And I’m looking for my daddy. He used to live here. But I keep coming back to find him, and nobody knows where he is.” She dropped her chin to her chest and ground her knuckles against her eyes.

“Greta,” he repeated, a stab of pity piercing his gut. So freaking pathetic. A forlorn little girl . . .his own memories rose up like foul-smelling steam. Swallowing hard, he pressed on. “Greta, honey, what’s your last name?”

When she looked up, Miller gasped. Behind her, against the fence, a bright red McDonald’s French fry box clung to the base of the chain link. Directly behind her, yet he could see it clearly. That’s when he realized he could see . . .right . . .through her.

Claire Gem Bio:

Claire is a multi-published, award winning author of emotional romance—sexy contemporary, supernatural suspense, and women’s fiction. She writes about strong, resilient women who won’t give up their quest for a happy-ever-after—and the men lucky enough to earn their love. No helpless, hapless heroines here. These spunky ladies redefine romance, on their terms.

Her supernatural suspense, Hearts Unloched, won the 2016 New York Book Festival. Her rock star contemporary, The Phoenix Syndrome, won the women’s fiction division in FCRWA’s The Beacon Contest.

A New York native, Claire has lived in five of the United States and held a variety of jobs, from waitress to bridal designer to research technician—but loves being an author best. She and her happily-ever-after hero, her husband of 38 years, now live in central Massachusetts.

You can find out more about Claire and her work here:

Website:                      http://www.clairegem.com

Amazon Author Page: http://www.emotionalcontemporaryromance.com

Facebook:                    http://www.facebook.com/clairegem.author

Twitter:                       http://www.twitter.com/gemwriter

Buy Links:

Createspace:            https://www.createspace.com/6899776

Amazon:                   http://amzn.to/2jt6k1p

Book Trailer:             http://bit.ly/1QreCAY

 

 

 

 

 

I Love Words. Except These.

Background image with white letters flying in air I probably need to cover myself up front by saying that I know lots of people who use words that make me grind my teeth or roll my eyes. I still respect them in the morning.

Words I find distasteful seem to fall into three categories. There are the profane words that polite society seems to frown upon. There are bodily function words. And there are words used incorrectly or simply made up. After I made my list I asked my writing group what their ick-factor words were. Although we had some dislikes in common, our differences surprised me.

My own absolutely-will-not-say words fall into the bodily function category. I didn't realize this until a fellow writer pointed it out. Being a biology research scientist, these words don't bother her at all while they're even hard for me to make myself write. For the sake of the blog, I'll do it: Fart, snot, and puke. Once, I stopped reading a book by one of my favorite authors when farting became a large part of the story.

Two words that I hear way more often than I should are orientate and conversate. I will say these words only as punchlines to jokes. A colleague offered the word confusement as her pet peeve.

Misused words make the list, too. A huge irritant is the use of less when fewer is the appropriate word. One writer-friend hates sentences that begin with so. I cringe when I am asked if I am done. Unless you're talking about meatloaf, the question is "Are you finished?" Another friend hates the phrase all y'all.

I'm from Virginia. I understand that idiom completely. And I loved it when Prince used it in a song. Y'all didn't know he was southern, did you?

Through my friends I learned there are words that some people dislike for no apparent reason, like moist, ooze, cannibalism or space cadet. The collection of words that drew the biggest groans? The feels, adulting, squee, bae. These made up words seem cute, but in reality cause massive eye rolls from  readers/listeners.

If you are interested in seeing how new words spread across the country, check out these links. Then let me know what words make you cringe.

Here's how new words spread across America.

Here's just the video.

By Any Other Name

I have a habit of giving multiple names to people, pets, and books. Granted, I start out with perfectly acceptable names, but they tend to morph into whatever strikes my fancy at any given time or circumstance.

For example, we adopted a cute little dog named Muffin. We were told she was 19 months old and full grown at 25 pounds. We didn't think she looked like a Muffin so we changed her name to Molly. When she started to get a bit chubby she became Molly Muffintop, which morphed into Milenko and then The Grest Milenko (said in the sing song voice of Insane Clown Posse). Later, when she topped 50 pounds and started jerking on her lead and popping one of my ribs,  she became Tank.

​That is the same route my titles usually take. It starts with what we think the story will be. House of the Rising Son started out life as "Beautiful Strange" which captured the essence of our main character. Then one day my partner and I were cooking. She'd opened a can of pineapple and I cautioned her to be careful because the can seemed to be sticky on the rim.  Boom! We both knew that had to be the books true title-- "Sticky on the Rim". The two main characters were trying to break free from their families' expectations so they could live the lives they wanted, but each time they were close to breaking free something kept them from taking the last step. Seemed  logical to me. The publisher didn't agree, and the title became House of the Rising Son.

The series carries the same name as my blog--Living After Midnight. When my partner and I first started writing stories together, we both held full time jobs and had other responsibilities. Writing took place at the end of the day after everything else was finished. Late night phone calls helped us flesh out what we were writing. It became our truth that we were existing during the rest of the day but truly living after midnight.

My two current works in progress have already had two names each. I wonder what turns life will take, and what additional names we'll uncover.

Music Fuels Me #MFRWAuthor

Music effects us on a physical level as well as emotional. Our breath quickens, heart rate increases in response to some types of music. Music can calm those same functions. It's logical that listening to music which enhances emotional responses in writers helps them express those feelings in their writing. ​We may not ever be lucky enough to find a song that inspires us to write a blockbuster movie, as Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet did for Young Guns II, but we can hope that it spices up what we do write. There is so much music available that it would be impossible to NOT find a song that elicits the feeling we're trying to put on the page.

​Music helps me get "into the zone" when I write. It can almost be a trancelike state when the writing is going well. And sometimes when I would rather do anything than write, a good song can call me to where I need to be. But it has to be the right music.

​My go to music is Liquid Silk by Marina Raye, Wave by Beck, or Elephant Box by Ingrid Chavez. They help me relax. I never listen to the radio so am hopelessly out of touch with the top popular songs.

I find music on TV programs or in movies.

​My fight scene, or intense scenes, work well with many of the entrance themes used by WWE wrestlers. Live in Fear, Voices, The Truth, Black and Blue, Catch Your Breath, and This is War. Any doubt you might have about the quality of this music can be easily erased when the music hits and the crowd erupts.

Drift from Pacific Rim and Young and Beautiful from Great Gatsby are two of the songs on my playlist. I would love to have a song out of Twilight that isn't for sale as far as I can tell, and I have searched for the theme to Blood Ties without any success. Way Down We Go from Lucifer joined music from Empire and Sons of Anarchy. i recently bought Silent Lucidity again as well as Misguided Angel by the Cowboy Junkies. Both were bought because they were on one show or another and I was reminded how much I liked them.

The common denominator for all of these songs is that they move me, cause me to feel a strong emotion. In turn, this emotion sparks and fuels my writing. What songs fuel you?

check out more great blogs!

My Hobbies Aren't What They Used to Be #MFRWAuthor

Writing is a time-intensive endeavor. From dreaming up stories to staying connected to those who enjoy my work, hours and hours are consumed bringing my characters to life.

When I’m not writing, much of my time is taken up by my dogs and with cleaning my house. These are not hobbies, of course. The word “hobby” suggests something fun. Let’s be honest: There is nothing fun about doing household tasks. Chores are dull and repetitive. You clean the kitchen one day and the next day you have to do it all over again.

On the other hand, I love my dogs very much, and they fill my heart with joy—most of the time. Maybe you would need to see the three-ring-circus that is the care and feeding of my needy pooches to understand why it's so all-consuming and not consistently enjoyable.

In the past, when writing was something I did for sheer enjoyment, I had lots of hobbies. I did needlework and crocheted. I gardened. I made presents for family and friends. I even did a little scrapbooking. Sadly, all of those activities require a time commitment that I no longer have. I still buy the Stampington magazines and crafting products, and PLAN the projects I will do "next Christmas", but mostly I just look at the pictures and wish I had more time.

Now when I have time to sit down and do nothing for brief periods, television seems to be my activity of choice. There are a few special shows I record. I watch when I have free time, such as Supernatural (#TeamDeanforever), Lucifer (#sexymf), Magicians (hate the main characters but #lovemesomeEliott), Grimm (#nothingwithoutMonroe), and new to the roster, Riverdale (#hookedandnotsurewhy). These programs lend themselves to binge watching when I my brain is fried from the daily grind. Other shows, like Netflix’s The Fall are so intense that I can only watch one episode at a time. I then have to spend any remaining free moments finding something (anything) lighthearted to view.

My most enduring pastime is researching whatever grabs my imagination. I’ll hear or see something that takes me down a rabbit hole by way of the Internet, library, or bookstore. This month I've researched H.H.Holmes, one of the first documented American serial killers, Admiral Byrd (the explorer) and Operation High Jump, Byrd’s invasion of Antarctica, now speculated to be UFO war. I am currently nursing a fledgling interest in genealogy. It began when my mother had her DNA tested and found, much to her surprise, that despite being raised as one ethnicity, she, in fact, has 0% of that DNA. Which means I, too, am not who I believed myself to be.

It's disquieting to learn you are not who or what you think you are. Since being one’s authentic self is the theme of most of my stories, this discovery offers interesting ideas for further writing. It seems I may have a new hobby I must play with for a while. What are your current hobbies? Check out these other fabulous blogs!

They love you anyway: Best Friends #MFRWAuthor

“Best friend” is an interesting, complex concept. It seems to have a variety of meanings, depending on who you're asking and the context.. To make it even more complicated, our understanding of  “best friend” changes with each stage of development—at least in my observation. When you’re five, your best friend is the kid you see most often. When you’re a teenaged girl, it’s the person you giggle with. And when you’re middle-aged, it’s the person who simply understands you the most—and loves you despite yourself. As a teen, my best friend and I shared a love of The Rolling Stones. We didn’t have access to concerts, but we spent time together listening to albums, hunting down the latest magazines with even the tiniest snippet of information and pictures. Oh, the pictures. The cooler and sexier the better. Mic Jaggar did not disappoint.

Our love of music didn’t end with Mic and the gang. We also got into the local music scene, going to clubs headlined by acts from across the region. We spent every free minute together. I thought we would always be friends, but it wasn’t meant to be. As time went on our interests changed. We saw less and less of each other. In tenth grade boys entered the picture, and we drifted apart for good. That relationship marked the last “best friend” in my life for many, many years.

​When I met my current best friend, it was for a similar reason--lust, I mean, love of a popular rock star. The one and only Prince. She and I started as pen-pals, and met for the first time at one of his concerts in 1993. Although we lived 900 miles apart we kept writing. We also managed to visit frequently and attend dozens of his concerts together.

About twelve years ago, life took an interesting turn and brought me to New England. She’d recently moved here too. Distance isn't an issue anymore. We’re able to share a wider variety of interests. We've tried ski lodges, Niagara Falls, comic cons, shows like Supernaturalists, Cirque du Soleil, and I've even dragged her to WWE wrestling matches. We try new things, and encourage each other to be braver than we would be alone.

Besides our common interests, she is my confidant. She’s gives me a kick in the ass when the pity parties go on too long, and she is a safe shoulder to cry on. When I need help because my back is hurting, or because I again bought something that I can’t assemble alone (or given my tendency to put things together backwards or inside out, shouldn’t), she’s right there. I don’t even have to ask. She accepts me for who I am, with all my quirks and flaws that other people have tried to change.

Because she knows me so well, she understands it wouldn’t work anyway.

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Comma Compulsion #MFRWAuthor #bloghop

My name is Trevann Rogers and I have comma issues. There I said it. My challenges can  be summed up in one word. Commas. Moreover, I'm an afficionado  of the Shatner Comma as well as the Oxford comma.

With the first, it just makes sense to me that there should be a comma where I want the reader to pause. That pause can totally change the meaning of a sentence. It's really the only way to show inflection.The second is obvious as Eats Leaves and Shoots so aptly shows.

Despite owning several books dealing with grammar, and usually reading about commas several times during the editing process, I still seem to get them wrong. Fortunately, my editor still treats me kindly. Like I'm that quirky, outlandishly dressed second cousin who means well but never manages to hit the mark in terms of basic fashion.

I also have a penchant for leaving partial sentences when I rewrite a passage. Most of the time I catch them on the second go-round, but not always. I also do the opposite and leave out a crucial word when I change a sentence. I am an equal opportunity rewrite mangler. Except for commas most of my editing mistakes are carelessness. Since I know what I want to say, my mind fills in whatever should be there.

Fortunately, I'm lucky to belong to a writing group whose members excel at punctuation and haven't yet grown tired of catching those mistakes. With their help, I might have a chance at learning the comma rule. Then again, maybe, I won't.

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Just Hungry for a Good Story #MFRWAuthor #bloghop

I suppose it could be called a total lack of willpower. Or maybe it is incredible focus. Whatever you call it, I have it: A tendency to binge watch television programs.

With some shows, binging comes easy. Several seasons were available when I stumbled upon Stranger Things, Hemlock Grove, DareDevil, Luke Cage-Their stories captivated me. It was easy to just keep watching.  It doesn't hurt that Netflix requires nothing of you to play the next episode. It just rolls on to the next one in the queue.

With other shows, I deliberately wait until the season is over before I start to watch.  If I could only watch one episode at a time, Empire would frustrate me to the point that I would stop watching completely. Longmire falls into this category too. The main characters of both shows pull such stupid and illogical stunts that I would stop watching if I had to wait a week. Watching the season in it's entirely allows me to see the story unfold and resolve.

Then there is the third type of binge watching. I start at Season 1 and watch the entire series--and then start back at Season 1. Supernatural falls into this category. I cannot even calculate how many times I've watched this series from beginning to end. I also have favorite episodes I pull out if I only have a small amount of time. Usually these are humorous but not always.

Interestingly,  this sort of binge isn't restricted to TV. How many times have I read the first six of the Anita Blake books? Or Tanya Huff's Shadow series? Or Stephanie Plum?

What brings on Binge #3? Mostly disappointment. When I can't find a new TV show that I like, or if I've started a few books that I can't force myself to finish, I go back to my favorites. The entertainment equivalent of comfort food.

Regardless of the type of binging, it isn't about lack of will power. It's about my hunger for a good story. What about you? Do you binge watch? If so, what do you hunger for?

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She Has My Back: Surviving the Writer's Life #MFRWAuthor

Both my partner and I are writers. We understand the craziness that happens when a deadline approaches, or writer's block moves in and settles down to stay awhile. We are lucky that we rarely have the same problem at the same time. We tend to be very supportive of each other's writing process.

She is slow and methodical. When she sits down to write she knows exactly what she wants to say. Because of her work schedule, she can’t write every day so she schedules marathon sessions. I have seen her put together a 70,000-word document in a weekend. On those days I stay handy to provide meals and snacks, do little bits of research, and play cheerleader.

On the other hand, I tend to decide what scene I need, close my eyes and picture it like a movie. I can then describe what I see. Unfortunately, sitting still for even an hour is torture. I just can’t do it. So short writing sessions every day works best for me.

I do a lot more rewriting and editing than she does. She'll listen to my endless rambling about the plot until I finally decide what I am writing, and she drags me back to the plot when I get another idea I think would work better. (It usually wouldn't. Its just newer and "shinier" and therefore more interesting to me.)

 

We cheer each other on when other family members, who will remain nameless, are not as encouraging. Like when a relative expresses shock that a book was published. Or another is so competitive that he must try to beat us at anything having to do with writing, such as winning Nanowrimo. Others who didn't even buy the book in the name of being supportive.

Despite the lack of support from our families, we continue to write. We have each other's back.

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