In the Weeds

I first “met” Mark Ozeroff when I edited his first book, Days of Smoke, for Asylett Press. In the Weeds, is his second book and it is well worth the wait!


In the Weeds by Mark Ozeroff is a story of a Vietnam veteran working through his own brand of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in the early 1970’s. Sometimes gallant and heroic, Slats Kisov often does more than just bend the rules and the law. But through it all, he retains his own morality, which includes helping the weak and helpless without thought of his own personal loss or gain.

This one-man vigilante wrecks havoc on those who trample the rights of others and he does so with a huge helping of humor. I laughed out loud on every page. In the Weeds reminded me of M.A.S.H. Lots of humor even in the midst of war and ugliness.

Slats is far from perfect, however. He learned to smoke “weed” in Vietnam, and sees no reason to stop when he comes home. It is more than a comfort to him and, as a pilot, he sees no reason not to “help” out a family who grows marijuana by flying loads of their crop into Florida.

Ever at odds with the local police chief over civil rights, brutality, and the cop’s downright stupidity, Slats eventually gets into big trouble with the law. While watching helplessly as other veterans succumb and spiral downward, inviting death rather than live with their PTSD, Slats maintains his humor. Through the support of a girlfriend, the weed growing family, an airplane, and a little girl, Slats learns to deal with his own demons and stop his own self destructive life-style.

In the Weeds is heavy on the flying aspect of Slats’s life, providing details about flying and airplanes that only an experienced pilot could supply. But those details are well-written and interesting. Any pilot will greatly appreciate this book. Mark Ozeroff twists the English language more than Slats twists the law to provide a read that, although troubling at times, never lets up on the humor. I highly recommend this book.


IN THE WEEDS is a humorous ‘70s tale of gas, grass, ass…and Vietnam. Slats Kisov is an Air Force pilot who returns to the US a changed man, suffering from undiagnosed PTSD. Slats just thinks he’s addicted to the adrenaline of combat flying, so for excitement he starts smuggling the occasional load of marijuana into Florida from the Bahamas. He is aided in this venture by the Morales family, moral people…who just also happen to be money launderers, gun molls, and poetry-spouting bulimic Cuban pot farmers.

About the author:

Mark Ozeroff holds an MBA and a Commercial pilot license. He is a ravenous reader, one who believes that fiction can sometimes tell a more profound truth than history. Mark may be the most undisciplined author since Jack Kerouac – he writes slower than a glacier descends a fjord, and his first drafts are rougher’n forty-grit sandpaper. Mark’s debut novel earned a gold medal from the Military Writers Society of America…just in time for his first publisher to go belly-up. So he relocated to California, to lick his wounds and write IN THE WEEDS.
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Alexandra Christian has started a new series!  The first book in the series releases on Apr. 13, 2017. Here’s a blurb, a bit about Alexandra, and a sneak peak excerpt! Enjoy!

Naked Teaser

AUTHOR BIO Alexandra Christian is an author of mostly romance with a speculative slant. Her love of Stephen King and sweet tea has flavored her fiction with a Southern Gothic sensibility that reeks of Spanish moss and deep fried eccentricity. As one-half of the writing team at Little Red Hen Romance, she’s committed to bringing exciting stories and sapiosexual love monkeys to intelligent readers everywhere. Lexx also likes to keep her fingers in lots of different pies having written everything from sci-fi and horror to Sherlock Holmes adventures. Her alter-ego, A.C. Thompson, is also the editor of the highly successful Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes series of anthologies.

A self-proclaimed “Southern Belle from Hell,” Lexx is a native South Carolinian who lives with an epileptic wiener dog and her husband, author Tally Johnson. Her long-term aspirations are to one day be a best-selling authoress and part-time pinup girl. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America and Broad Universe—an organization that supports female authors of speculative fiction.


Following a brutal act of vengeance, MI:6 agent Macijah St. John is left grieving for his slaughtered family and agrees to participate in a secret government experiment that gives him a magnificent and terrible power.  Now he’s a mercenary spy that solves problems for the right price.  His latest job puts him in the path of the greatest catastrophe yet—a librarian.

Phoebe Addison’s life is a disaster. Crippling debt, a non-existent social life, and being the town librarian is hardly the glamorous existence she’d always dreamed of. But when her sister Jessica, an interplanetary archeologist, gets herself involved with a psychotic billionaire bent on world domination, Phoe is about to get more excitement than she bargained for.



Caught in the Rain

There is no situation that can’t be made worse with the addition of heavy rain. Phoebe stumbled down the path behind St. John, her sensible pumps sinking into the squishy ground with every step. His long-legged strides weren’t particularly fast, but she was practically running to catch up. She was also trying to pull a bulky suitcase behind her without much luck. Finally she ran over a large rock, tipping the case over and taking her with it. She sat down hard on the wet ground, the standing water in the grass splashing up and peppering her with a spray of muddy freckles. “Damnit!” she cried, wanting to throw herself down and have a kicking and screaming tantrum. Instead she took off one of her shoes and threw it as hard as she could. It whizzed past St. John’s ear, and he finally turned.

“Problem?” he asked, strolling back toward where she sat in the grass.

“Can you slow down a minute, please?” Her tone was teetering on annoyance. Couldn’t he see that she was having trouble? So much for the politeness of the British.

He stared down at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Actually, no. We need to get as far away from that crash site as soon as possible and you to that spaceport so I can be on my way.”  He looked over the assortment of items that had fallen out of the case as it tipped over. “Got any trainers in there?”

Phoebe looked up at him like he had suddenly lapsed into Chinese. “What?”

“Trainers. Shoes. Like shoes you wear for running.”

“Oh. Not really, no.”

“Jeans? A jumper?”

“No. I didn’t think I’d be trekking through the forest,” she replied, taking his offered hand and letting him pull her upright. She limped over to where she had thrown her shoe, searching the grass.

“Is there anything in there that’s helpful or important?”

“Well of course,” she replied. “My clothes and toothbrush… anti-bac hand lotion…” She continued listing off all of the things as she pulled her discarded shoe back on. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed the suitcase and slung it as hard as he could over the ravine.

“What are you doing?” She could feel the pressure of angry tears behind her eyes as she watched all of her worldly possessions take a header down the bank, spilling her delicates over the dirty ground. How dare he have such disregard for her personal property! Not to mention that the items in that suitcase were her security blankets. There might not be anything of value or anything “helpful,” but there were things she needed! A picture of her family, her allergy medicine… her copy of Gone With the Wind. Phoebe started to run after the case, but St. John held her back. She beat her fists against his arms and chest. “Let me go! That’s my stuff! I need it!”

“Your stuff is slowing us down. Look, I said I would help you, but I’m not a bellhop or a hero! If you’re going with me, you play by my rules.”  He looked up into the sky and let her go. “Come on… it’s nearly dawn.”

She watched him go, starting to reconsider her pleas for his help and then realizing that she had little choice but to follow him. They were now so far off the beaten path that she’d never find her way out. Steeling her jaw and giving a last glance back to where he’d thrown her suitcase, she started walking. Despite his growling, he did slow the pace a little so that she could keep up.

As they walked on and on, the trees rose up around them in an ominous canopy that nearly obliterated the early morning light of dawn. She could hear the stream that ran along beside them at the bottom of the ravine. It was hard to believe in their world that places such as this still even existed. It was almost desolate, but beautiful. Watching him as they walked, she slowly realized that St. John seemed almost as distressed as she felt. By now they’d been walking for hours, and in that time he’d become increasingly irritable. After several attempts at conversation, Phoebe had just given up and walked beside him silently. But his mood was starting to make her worry even more than she had been already.

“So… you don’t really seem like the normal space traveler,” he said, surprising her by breaking the silence. St. John shifted the backpack from one shoulder to the other. “What’s taking you to New London?”

“What? Oh… yes. My sister,” she replied. “I’m going to visit her.”

“Interesting,” he replied blandly.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t fully trust St. John and wasn’t sure that she should reveal her true intentions. Anyone could be working for Machine. Maybe he had been sent to keep an eye on her. Phoe was a fan of James Bond, so she had spent many an hour watching spy movies. He could be some kind of operative that was just waiting for an opportunity to steal the medallion and leave her broken body in the woods. And of course there was the werewolf thing. “Not really. I mean… it’s just a visit.”

“Well considering that no one really lives on the space colony unless they’re either filthy rich or a scientist of some sort. Judging by your clothes, you don’t appear to be particularly wealthy. So that leaves scientist.”

“She’s an archaeologist,” Phoebe answered. “She works for the Interplanetary Union, looking for natural resources and such. I’m a librarian.”

“I didn’t know those existed anymore. Libraries, I mean.”

“In small towns mostly, I suppose. I mean, I used to work for a digital archive in New Orleans, but I… I didn’t really like it there.” She bit down on her lip, wishing she could take it back. Her brain whirred, already constructing the story that she would tell him when he asked why she’d left New Orleans. Everyone asked why.

To her surprise, St. John just nodded, glancing toward the lightening sky again.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he parroted.

“Well… what do you do?”

“I… I’m not really sure how to describe what I do. I’m a problem solver, I guess.”  Given the things Phoe saw in his backpack, his problem solving skills must involve heavy artillery.

 Here’s a link to pre-order the book:

Boroughs Publishing for Pre-Order:


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Betty Bolte

My guest today is Betty Bolte, a sweet, generous writer who has hosted me on her site more than once! She has a bit of family history to share and would love to hear some of yours in the comments. Welcome, Betty!

Betty Bolte-July 2013


Rocking Family History

In my latest release, Undying Love, Meredith’s grandmother’s favorite seat in the plantation house was her gooseneck rocking chair. The reason for this particular piece of furniture to have such a central place in the story stems from my own life. See, sitting in my family room is a blue gooseneck platform rocking chair that is older than I am. In fact, my dad bought the chair for my mom when she was pregnant with me.Gooseneck Rocker-2016 (1)

Originally, the upholstery featured a pattern (flowers or country scene, I think) but decades later my mom had it recovered in a blue velour fabric. Why is it called a gooseneck rocker? If you look closely at the photo, you’ll notice that the wooden handles of the arm rest are carved to look like a goose bent to touch its bill to its throat. Here’s some background on their history:

As you can imagine, this chair holds many, many memories for me. It’s always been part of my life. My dad used to nap in this chair, legs outstretched, hands folded on his stomach as he snored in the afternoon. He and I loved to pull pranks on each other. While he napped, I’d untie his shoes and tie them together, giggling the entire time. When he awoke, he’d always act surprised and miffed, but of course he anticipated, even expected, the joke.

My mom, too, spent a lot of time in this chair, rocking as she crocheted, or sitting still while she worked on cross-stitching the top of a quilt or a picture as a gift. In fact I have a crewel embroidered picture she did of a train station with train in honor of my grandfather who worked as a railroad engineer. She also used to occasionally sit in it while she ate potato chips and sipped on a cold beer while she watched her favorite shows on TV.

As a kid, I was prone to poison ivy, and I can recall clutching the gooses to keep me from scratching the bumps and clusters up and down my calamined arms. I also rocked my children in this chair, read to them, cuddled them when they suffered with a cold. Like mom, I’ve crocheted and snacked in it. After all these decades (5 and counting) it’s still a comfortable place to relax.

In Undying, this type of chair plays a significant role:

Meredith paced through the house until she stopped at the wide doorway to the sewing room. Max had told her Grandma died in her rocker, head back, eyes closed peacefully as though taking an afternoon snooze. Meredith paused, mentally inventorying the contents of the room. Sunshine filtered through the sheers covering the oversize double-hung windows. A cut-glass bowl of lavender-and-mint potpourri sat on an antique table, a spiderweb glistening between the bowl and the wood surface. Two floral-print gooseneck-handled rocking chairs faced the windows, lace doilies pinned to their headrests. Meredith envisioned her Grandma taking her final nap in the chair farthest from the door. The same chair the woman had occupied every Sunday afternoon of Meredith’s childhood to do her mending for the week, or to add stitches to one of hundreds of gifts in celebration of a new baby or birthday or other milestone event.

Grandma didn’t know what Meredith had endured. What would she have said if she were here? How would she have handled the loss of two dear loved ones in such a tragic way? The horror followed by anger and grief was beyond her ability to describe to people who had not experienced it, and even more difficult for them to grasp.

Meredith swallowed the emotion threatening to sprout tears. The past was dead, just like Willy. Just like her Grandma. She could not permit herself to relive it. She could only press on with her life as she knew in her heart that Willy would want her to do, and pray for the day she joined all those who’d gone before her.

Of course, Meredith has a long life ahead of her before she’ll realize that eventuality. But with the history of this style of chair in America, and my own personal history associated with one, it seemed only fitting to include one or two in my story. Do you also see how I wove my own view of the chair into Meredith’s reality without it being my reality? No lace doilies ever graced my chair, for example. Usually crocheted afghans…

It’s your turn. What family heirlooms do you treasure? Or hide? Talk to me…

Undying Love by Betty Bolté


Release Date: January 10, 2017


When architect Meredith Reed inherits her family’s plantation after the devastating loss of her own family, she must choose how to move on with her life. Keep the plantation? Not a good idea. Sell it? Better. Turn it into a memorial park? Better yet. But can she go against her family traditions and the hunky but irate lawyer?

Max Chandler needs two things to complete his life plan: become a senior partner and find his soul mate. He’s due a promotion once his legislation to protect the county’s historic properties is approved. The wife part he finds more challenging, having never met the right woman. If only the talented, attractive, aloof Meredith didn’t want to destroy the very property he cherishes.

While Meredith struggles to reconcile her past and future, will she learn a lesson from the spectral Lady in Blue in time to save both her family and home from destruction?

Buy Links



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Betty Bolté writes both historical and contemporary stories featuring strong, loving women and brave, compassionate men. No matter whether the stories are set in the past or the present, she loves to include a touch of the paranormal. In addition to her romantic fiction, she’s the author of several nonfiction books and earned a Master’s in English in 2008. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, and the Authors Guild. Get to know her at, signup for her Newsletter, or follow her on Facebook.


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The 10 Most Unrealistic Scenes from Books and Movies

It isn’t like in the movies. Or most books, either. What isn’t? Real life. Here are ten of the most unrealistic scenes I’ve noticed from books and movies.

  1. When someone nearly drowns, and everyone gives up and assumes they are dead, the person suddenly coughs and comes back to life. Well, OK, but this person just inhaled half a lake and they give a cough or two and then they are fine? I usually cough for five minutes when I strangle on a sip of water that goes down the wrong way. And of course, we have to have that dramatic moment when we think all is lost. Isn’t that getting a bit trite?
  2. In books and movies when a person is getting a fever, they are burning up and keep throwing off the cover and the person taking care of them keeps trying to keep them warm. When your fever is going up, you actually feel cold and chilled and want to bundle up. To keep a fever from going too high (before aspirin or other drugs) you would have to sponge the person off with cool water. It’s when your fever is going down, that you feel hot and throw off covers.
  3. The couple has just made mad, passionate love. It’s the best! They lie there panting but she still has on all her underclothes. Hmm. Well, I admit this one usually just happens in sitcoms.
  4. The couple has been trying to escape from the bad guys. They are tired, filthy, hungry, thirsty, and haven’t had a bath or change of clothes or brushed their teeth for three days. They are still in danger, but they can’t put it off any longer. They make love. Yuck. It would be the farthest thing from my mind right then.
  5. There can be days of danger, trekking through jungles, or across deserts, or freezing in the mountains. The woman never has a problem because she is having her period. Do heroines even have periods?
  6. The group is on an expedition to find some lost treasure. They go through horrible situations. Swamps where they lose half their equipment and some people are eaten by swamp monsters. Dangerous tribes who kill some more of the group and they barely make it away from them. More terrible stuff. Finally, they find the treasure! Hooray! Next scene, they are comfortably ensconced back in London or New York, wealthy. End of movie. Uh. Yeah they got the treasure, but how do they go back through all those dangers, this time lugging the treasure, and with just a few of them left, and with practically no food, drink, or equipment?
  7. And of course, there is the mountain climb. All that effort to get to the top, fingers freezing off, people falling to their deaths, guides deserting. Finally, the last few straggle to the top. Hooray! Mountain defeated! Uh. What about going back down? Isn’t it just as far? Just as cold? Just as many chances to fall, etc? But now there is less equipment, less help, etc. And I’ve always found going down a mountain to be harder than going up. But what do I know?
  8. There are just two or three good guys and they are highly outnumbered. The bad guys fire off 100 rounds to every one the good guys shoot. Yet the good guys manage to kill all those bad guys while getting no more than barely wounded. Are the bad guys always such bad shots? Wouldn’t their superior numbers and greater firepower make up for some of their incompetence? If I were a bad guy, I would go to the shooting range more often.
  9. The main good guy and the main bad guy always end up fighting each other after everyone else has been killed or disabled. Every other fight the good guy has engaged in has been quick and easy. But when the main bad guy and the good guy fight, it goes on forever and is really tough. Really? The bad guy never gets hit by a stray bullet and killed early on? He’s never more of a brains kind of bad guy and an incompetent fighter? OK, so I understand that these two have to face off. But, just once in a while, couldn’t some secondary character just shoot the bad guy? Or he falls off a cliff?
  10. The good guy can hold his breath forever. When he has to dive after the heroine, or is trapped and has to fight his way out while under water, it is amazing how long the good guy can hold his breath. Sometimes, while simply sitting still in my recliner, I will take a deep breath when the good guy is in the water. Here he is struggling, fighting, helping others, and I’m just sitting there but I can’t hold my breath for even half the scene. Just how does he do it?

Is there anything I’ve missed? Probably. I can think of one or two more. Can you? Let me know in the comments.

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Sara Walter Ellwood

Today Sara Walter Ellwood has stopped by to share a little about her latest release!



Singing to the Heart Book 3


Sara Walter Ellwood

Releasing June 21, 2016 in both ebook and print


Sex, drugs, and country music. That was the lifestyle for Emily Kendall, a Texas girl who hit it big on the country music charts—until she found herself pregnant and battling addiction. Now out of rehab and seeking a new life for herself and her unborn child, Emily returns to her hometown of McAllister. The last thing she’s looking for is trouble, no matter how good it looks in uniform…

A widower, single father, and former Army Ranger struggling with PTSD, Sheriff EJ Cowley has his own demons to battle while keeping folks safe. The last thing he needs is a troubled celebrity speeding through town in her bright red Maserati. But when someone from Emily’s past threatens her safety and the peace of McAllister, EJ has no choice but to protect her. And soon both will learn there’s more to the other than meets the eye. And that wounded hearts can love again…


“I’m sorry, but I can’t ride you right now.” Emily kissed the horse above her nose, and Tink nuzzled her cheek. “We’ll go out tomorrow. How about that?”

“I remember when you rode that horse everywhere you went.”

Startled by the deep voice, she turned. EJ Cowley leaned on the top rail of the fence, and from the look of it, he’d been there for a while. He’d changed out of the brown uniform of the McAllister County sheriff’s department. She couldn’t help looking him over. Dressed in worn boots, faded jeans, a blue western shirt, and a brown Stetson, he epitomized every sexy cliché existing about how a cowboy should look.

Her heart sped up at the way those clothes fit him. Which irritated the hell out of her. She turned back to her horse and stroked her long face. “What are you doing here?”

“My sister-in-law watches my son while I’m at work.”

She stilled. Had she been quasi-lusting after a married man? Hadn’t he married Raquel Marshall? She glanced over her shoulder at his left hand. No ring. But then a lot of cowboys didn’t wear their wedding bands when they were working. The risk of getting it caught on something was too great.

Despite his clothes, he must have come off duty as the county’s ticket-happy sheriff not too long ago. She patted Tink’s shoulder. “See you in the morning, girl.” As she headed toward the man, who was not hiding the fact he appreciated what he saw, she guessed he wasn’t still married, but she’d been around the world a few times and knew not to take a man’s blatant interest as proof of anything. “You have a son. How is Raquel these days?”

She was close enough to notice his gray eyes had turned as haunted as a gravestone when she asked about his wife. He looked to the left, toward his brother’s house, and from the way a muscle twitched in his jaw, he must have gritted his teeth.

“She committed suicide two years ago today.”

“Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she stammered. What else had happened to the people she’d once considered friends she was unaware of? “How old is your little boy?”

He took a deep breath and met her gaze again. She studied his eyes as they moved over her face. God, he had the most fascinating eyes. They weren’t truly blue, but the gray was an odd shade. Too light to be slate, but too dark to be silver. They reminded her of her great-grandmother’s pewter candleholders.


As silence engulfed them, she turned to head for the gate. She had no idea what was up with the sheriff, and she didn’t like her desire to ask. EJ Cowley may have filled her schoolgirl fantasies, but she wasn’t the wide-eyed kid who crushed after the local cowboy-turned-soldier.


At the sound of her name, she glanced past EJ to the porch. Johnny stood there with his toy lightsaber and x-wing. She promised to play a video game with her brother. “Well, it was good seeing you again, EJ.”

She was halfway across the drive when his voice stopped her. “By the way”–He cleared his throat–“I lost your ticket…”

Stopping in the middle of the driveway, she looked over her shoulder at him. His face puckered as if he’d eaten a lemon soaked in vinegar. He took his hat off and ran a hand through his short hair. The setting sun turned the tresses a gleaming gold.

“You lost it?” Damned if she’d make it easy on him. “After going through all the trouble of stopping me a mile away from home?”

Setting his hat back on his head, he cleared his throat again and stood with his feet apart. He gave a quick jerk with his head in the affirmative. “Can’t find it anywhere. No ticket. No proof. You’re off the hook.”

Holy crap, he was gorgeous, and heat flooded her to pool in her belly. She turned, not wanting him to see the way he affected her, and headed for the porch, then lied through her teeth. “Good, because I’ve already tossed it.” She had every intention of paying the fine, but she was glad he lost the ticket. No decent cop would lose a ticket. Maybe he did it out of remembrance of their childhood friendship. Or was he as attracted to her as she was to him?

With an inward shake of herself, she didn’t let a possible answer formulate in her muddled brain. She couldn’t be anything to him. You’re pregnant with another man’s child and don’t need the added stress! At the door into the kitchen, she ruffled Johnny’s hair and turned, ignoring her self-admonishment. “See you around, EJ.”

“Yeah… See you around.” He tipped his hat and turned on his heel to amble toward his extended cab Silverado.

From inside the screen door, she watched the way he filled out the backside of his Wrangler’s and muttered, “Hell yeah, I hope so.”

If you’d like to see more excerpts check them out here:

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Sara Walter Ellwood (8)


Although Sara Walter Ellwood has long ago left the farm for the glamour of the big town, she draws on her experiences growing up on a small hobby farm in West Central Pennsylvania to write her contemporary westerns. She’s been married to her college sweetheart for over 20 years, and they have two teenagers and one very spoiled rescue cat named Penny. She longs to visit the places she writes about and jokes she’s a cowgirl at heart stuck in Pennsylvania suburbia. Sara Walter Ellwood is a multi-published and international Amazon bestselling author of the anthology set Cowboy Up. She also dabbles in the paranormal genre with her The Hunter’s Dagger Series, which was previously published under the pen name Cera duBois.

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The other books in Singing to the Heart…

Heartstrings, Book 1 and Heartsong, Book 2 are also available in ebook and print

Heartstrings: Amazon:

Heartsong: Amazon:

For other vendor links and book information check out my website page:




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Why many writers begin writing in fourth grade

I have heard a lot of writers say they began writing in the fourth grade and it got me wondering just why that is. It was certainly true for me.

When I was in 4th grade, the teacher talked about poetry and told us to write a four line poem that rhymed. I wrote an eight line poem. Hey, budding writer, overachiever, the plot needed a longer poem. What can I say? I wondered why all my classmates hated the assignment I loved so much, and why their poems didn’t rhyme well or have good meter. That was also the year I started my first, still unfinished, book.

It wasn’t until my own kids hit fourth grade that I realized why the writer in so many of us surfaces in fourth grade. In grades one through three, most kids are learning the basics. They are learning how to read and write. It is in fourth grade that students begin to use those skills to learn geography, history, and other subjects.

Writers are also voracious readers. By fourth grade, people who are innately…well, I won’t say twisted or warped, but maybe skewed, in the direction of writing, begin to use their new skills to write. We’ve read stories, we’ve made up stories for our friends and younger siblings, now we want to write them down. It’s time.

How many of you started writing in grade school?

How many of you loved it every time the teacher gave a writing assignment?

How many of you were the kid who asked if you could write more than the 2 or 3 pages assigned?

If you answered yes to these questions, you’re probably a writer!

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Katherine McIntyre

Welcome to Katherine McIntyre! Her new book is Hunting for Spring and here is just a little bit about it!

Hunting for Spring 


Hunters are a lonely breed, and Conor’s no exception, until the day he meets Brenna. Even though she slinks in unannounced and kills the wight he was hunting down, the girl’s a mystery and he can’t get that blinding smile or those gorgeous curves off his mind. Since they’re both after the same caster who’s unleashing these monsters, he suggests teaming up, and despite her initial reluctance, the hungry way she scans him down promises something powerful.
However, her secrets have repercussions, and faster than Conor can lift his Glock, he’s drawn into the web of kidnappings and Unseelie mischief, all concealing the machinations of a darker foe—one that plans to bring Philly to ruin.

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If Conor Malone could ditch the responsibilities of his clan and somehow forget all the horrors he’d seen, he wouldn’t be stuck tromping through a nasty part of West Philly, trying to avoid stares and the permeating stench of bird shit. But no, the burden of tracking mythical beasts fell to those with the bad luck of being born into the wrong family. His family tree hearkened back to the likes of the Inquisition and Van Helsing—the original warriors against things that went bump in the night—hunters.
After passing the first couple of boarded-up houses and catching movement behind the cracked windows, Conor had his hand on his Glock. Despite the supernatural splatter board of blood, guts, and questionable ooze he’d witnessed through the years, he didn’t forget the atrocities humans were capable of.
Dark gray clouds collected overhead, laden and ready to spill over, although a sunny day wouldn’t make these streets any safer. High-crime cities like this one were the epicenters of the worst bloodsuckers, Unseelie fae, and a hodgepodge variety of nightmares crawling through the streets. Even with his trusty leather jacket on, he shivered as the cold wind swept the first few drops of rain to splash against his cheeks.
Because an easy hunt was too much to ask for. He heaved out a sigh as he picked up his pace toward the end of the block where the wight had last been spotted.
For the third time this week, one of those buggers cropped up in Philly, and he began to disbelieve coincidence. Move here, they said. You’ll always have work, they said. His dad’s friends might not be liars, but they were definitely dicks.

Hunting for Spring Links:

Author Bio:
A modern day Renaissance-woman, Katherine McIntyre has learned soapmaking, beer brewing, tea blending, and most recently roasting coffee. Most of which make sure she’s hydrated and bathed while she spends the rest of her time writing. With a desire to travel and more imagination than she knows what to do with, all the stories jumping around in her head led to the logical route of jotting them down on paper. She writes novels with take-charge women, ragtag crews, and emotionally savvy men. High chances for a passionate speech thrown into the mix.

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Linda Gondosch


Today’s guest is Linda Gondosch. Linda and I have been friends for…hmmm…a LOT of years. We were unpublished when we met and attended many writers groups and programs together. Linda has now published several children’s books. I am always amazed at how well she can get into the head of a child and write her stories from their point of view. She has had a lot of success with her fiction, and enjoys doing school visits to interact with kids. She has also written some non-fiction books for children, including, Where Did Sacagawea Join the Corps of Discovery?: And Other Questions about the Lewis and Clark Expedition. She wrote one about Junipero Serra, too, and that one has just been published. Here’s what Linda has to say about her new book:

Junípero Serra: Founder of the California Missions

Michele, thanks to you and Ron for telling me about the September 23 canonization of Junipero Serra during Pope Francis’s visit to the United States. As a result of your urging, I submitted the manuscript to Ignatius Press and they published it on October 15, 2015. A great big thank you!

Junípero Serra: Founder of the California Missions is a biography for ages 9 and up about the intrepid Franciscan friar who founded the first nine missions along the California coast in the 1700s, opening the area to European settlement. He was born Miguel José Serra on the poverty ridden Spanish island of Majorca in the Mediterranean Sea. Although small and frail, his mind was strong, and he possessed a beautiful singing voice. He was sent to a Franciscan school and eventually obtained a prestigious teaching position at the Convent of San Francisco in Palma.
But Serra had a dream. He wished above all to become a missionary to the New World and serve where no Christian had ever been. At age thirty-five he journeyed across the ocean, surviving a hurricane, and landed in Mexico in 1749. Although he suffered from a painful, ulcerated leg most of his life, as well as asthma, Serra still managed to cover great distances as he journeyed through Mexico, working among the Native Americans.
At age fifty-five Serra jumped at the chance to join the “Sacred Expedition,” a group of Spanish soldiers, Christian Indians, and Franciscan friars who traveled north to the area known today as California. It was there that Saint JuníperoSerra opened the first nine of an eventual twenty-one missions, preached his Catholic faith, and taught natives the Spanish language and life skills. By his death at age seventy, nine missions had been opened that eventually grew into the coastal towns and cities of California. Saint Serra, the first Hispanic saint in the United States, had a huge impact on the settling of the American West.
“Always forward. Never turn back,” is a motto that Serra lived by his whole life. When Californians chose the “most important people” from their state, they chose JuníperoSerra to have his statue placed in Statuary Hall in the Capitol in Washington, DC.Pope Francis considered him a man unafraid to venture to the ends of the earth in order to spread the Gospel message. According to the pontiff, “He was the evangelizer of the West in the United States.”
Large full color illustrations were done by the renowned French illustrator, Emmanuel Beaudesson. Bibliography, timeline, and a homily by Pope Francis are included.

To find out more about Linda Gondosch, visit her website.


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Ignatius Press:ípero-serra.aspx


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Dana Wright

If you like paranormal romance, Texas Twister, by Dana Wright, might just be the book for you.



Texas Twister (Blue Moon Chronicles) by Dana Wright – Romance>Fantasy

Sometimes love finds you in the darkest places.

Magdalay Rousseau is having a bad day. She can’t find the charging cable to her laptop, and when she goes into her husband’s office to look for it, she discovers he’s been cheating on her. She decides to hire a private investigator to dig into her husband’s secrets, but what the detective discovers about her turns her world upside-down.

Carter Zusak is a private detective–and a cat shifter. When a new client shows up, he’s almost certain she’s a flake. What kind of woman writes romance novels and owns a shop selling supplies for witches? He’s sure she’s got a bat or two loose in her belfry–until he delves deeper into her case. No one in her life is what they seem, and Magdalay has just put herself in danger more insidious than he ever imagined. Something about this witch sets his heart on fire. But he’ll have to figure out a way to save her before they both get burned…

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Published By: Etopia Press

Published: Oct 27, 2015

ISBN # 9781944138158

Pages: 99


blue moon chronicles, cat shifter, cisgender, dana wright, etopia press, fantasy romance, ghost, heterosexual, magic, male / female, paranormal, paranormal / horror, paranormal romance, private detective, private investigator, shapeshifter, shifters, shifters / cats, shifters / felines, supernatural, witch, wizard / witch / mystic



Magdalay Rousseau stared at her lifeless laptop and groaned. It wouldn’t turn on. Again.So much for a lasting battery. Already irritated from lack of sleep, she pressed the on button one more time and tried to recall where she’d left the charger. It should be in the little plastic bag she usually kept next to her laptop, but it wasn’t.

“Great. I can’t believe this. I ought to just spell you and be done with it.”

She growled and pushed herself up from the small space at the kitchen table. Perhaps it was in her work bag in the foyer. She hated resorting to magic when real world solutions worked just fine. It had been a point of contention with her mother for years. Besides, she wasn’t very good at it. Wish for rain and get a flood in her kitchen. That was her life right now.

Magdalay peered into the bag.

“Oh. This is just getting better and better.”

Magdalay spun on her heel and considered her next move. She had a deadline for her publisher, and today would be her only day off with no distractions until next week. Not that she could focus anyway. Not with the antics Russ was pulling lately. Her mind kept circling him like a dog with a bone.

He’d been out with the boys from the club, but something in the back of her mind kept digging at her. Their poker games didn’t last that long. Neither did their dinners at the club, which she now refused to attend. Not after the last time with his uppity friends and their equally unpleasant wives. She didn’t fit in with the country club scene, and that was more than all right with her.

Russ hadn’t come home—again—by the time her head hit the pillow last night at midnight. It was becoming par for the course. Magdalay couldn’t concentrate on anything and that included leaving her damn charging cable someplace. She could swear it was next to her workstation last night when she went to bed, but she could have been dreaming. She couldn’t remember, and that just pissed her off, making her already foul mood even more noxious.

“Did you wash my pants?” Russ called out from the bedroom, his voice lacking any of the warmth she used to receive from him.

“Yes,” she ground out, barely containing her urge to demand where the hell he’d been all damned night. It didn’t do any good. He never answered her anyway. “They’re folded on the dryer.”

Her husband, Russ, clad in a blue pullover shirt and tighty-whities bolted from their bedroom down the short hall toward the laundry room. The door opened and shut, and she caught a streak of blue out of the corner of her eye but no acknowledgement or thank you.

Next time she ought to let his clothes just pile up and see what happened. Well…she took that back. A week ago, she’d been too busy to keep up with the laundry and he’d shaken her awake after a long day at the shop and writing, demanding to know when she would get around to it. The icy stare was enough to motivate her into preemptive action. She’d never been afraid of her husband before that night, but things had changed between them at an alarming rate.

She poured the water into the coffeepot and flipped on the switch, sighing as the rich aroma of the Columbian blend pervaded the kitchen. It was still early, and she’d spent a sleepless night tossing and turning and imagining his car wrapped around a pole or worse. The man hadn’t come home until after two. At least that was the last time she recalled on the blinking clock on the nightstand. Russ hadn’t even had the decency to let her know where he was or if he was OK. Magdalay didn’t remember him sneaking in. She’d tried to stay awake so she could talk to him or at least give him a piece of her mind, but she must have drifted off in a wave of jittery exhaustion.

Last night had just been the latest in a long line of whatever was happening in their marriage and fixing it was becoming a pipe dream. He’d grown more and more distant over the past three months and she didn’t know what had gone wrong. Well…except for her working. He hated the hours she spent away from home, but with her mother’s passing, Broomstix had become hers. The irony wasn’t lost on her. A witch who didn’t want to be, or worse yet, was terrible at it.

She thought back to her mother’s last days and the love she had for her trusty cat, Jules. They’d been inseparable.

“You need a familiar, love. Sometimes having someone at your back and by your side is the most powerful magic in the world.”

Magdalay’s lips twisted and she sighed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried. Every cat she’d gotten went missing in a matter of days. When she’d gone to Russ about the missing animals, he’d had nothing to say. Frustrating wasn’t even half the word for it. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for animals. Then she thought all she needed was her soul mate. That would have to be enough. She’d always thought Russ was that person, but more and more, she sensed a tremendous gulf between them, and it left her hollow inside.

Last month she’d been at the stitching circle and each of the ladies was practicing poppet magic. The little cloth dolls danced and frolicked in anticipation of whatever task they were intended for. Hers lay there, looking still and unresponsive. It was to be a creative muse for her magic. She figured if she could cast a spell and have a poppet work on some of her overdue plot lines and synopses, she’d be ahead of the game. No such luck.

The stitching circle, full of her mother’s old friends, thought it was hilarious. Now on top of her writing schedule, it was her responsibility to keep Broomstix going. People depended on her, and she was trying to learn as much as she could. Gaining the knowledge she needed wasn’t going as smooth as she’d like.

Her gaze raked the cluttered counter where her husband paid bills and recoiled. No way was she touching that. “Not a chance.” Then she remembered Russ had the same model laptop she did. She could borrow his charger and pick hers up tomorrow when she went back into work. Problem solved.

“I’m out. See you tonight,” came the clipped response from the front hallway followed by the slamming of the decorative lead glass door. He hadn’t even come into the kitchen. Not even for coffee.

“Wow.” Now she knew he was avoiding her and likely hiding something. Magdalay shook her head, the bitterness of her new reality sliding down her stomach like a Ping Pong ball. His behavior stung, and she didn’t know what to make of it. She moved down the hall, her linen nightgown floating around her legs. In the Texas heat, it helped to have something comfortable and the Eileen West nightgowns were her guilty pleasure. Goddess knew she needed something.

She paused in the doorway to his office and sighed. Goddess, she hated invading his space. Maybe the charger was right out in the open and she could snap it up and be out before she disturbed anything of importance. Then she saw it. Propped on a pile of paperwork next to his computer was her small, holiday design-covered Ziploc bag with her cord dangling off the desk over the top of it.

“What the heck?” Her lips slid into a frown and she unclenched her hands. He took it. Probably to do the same thing she’d been about to do, but at least she would have replaced his where she found it as soon as she was done. She reached down to pick up the bag and wind up the charging cord, and her hand brushed the mouse on his desk, the darkened screen erupting to life. His e-mail was up. She wouldn’t have stopped save for the name on the screen.


Slowly, Magdalay lowered herself into the chair and began to read. She hadn’t meant to intrude on his privacy. They’d always respected each other enough to be honest. At least she’d always thought so. But with every line she read, the trust she believed her marriage was based on was revealed to be nothing more than a lie.

She hated wives who resorted to sneaking into their husband’s phone records and all of those things to find out what they’d been up to. Now, here she was, and she didn’t have a clue what to do about it. What was done was done and couldn’t be taken back. One e-mail turned into two. Two turned into a dozen, and at that point she had to stop, the contents of her stomach churning like wildfire in her gut.

Fuck me. Fuck me like you did in your office.

I want it all.

You motherfucker.

Tears stung her eyes. There was no other explanation was there? It was all laid out in black and white. The only thing missing was a frigging video of them fornicating. Her stomach lurched.

The lump in her throat threatened to overtake her, and she had to pause and take a deep breath. Her mother’s absence was a raw and gaping wound. Eleanor would have known what to do, but Magdalay was frozen with indecision. Her thoughts turned to the ladies in her stitching circle. They met once a month but it wasn’t scheduled until next week. Goddess, but she sure could use some comfort now. Or at least, a sounding board for her fury. Her fingertips itched to zot the fucker but no…not yet. Not that she was fully capable, but her circle was. She’d seen it time and again.

But the emails…she read the last line again.

I want to run my fingers down your long, long legs and part your… She had to stop. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her once again.

“You cheating bastard,” she whispered.She had to be sure. It was possible it was only emails. In her heart, she knew that was a lie. Magdalay stood, her knees shaking and made her way out of Russ’s office to her work space in the kitchen. She hooked up the laptop to the charger and shoved the plug into the wall.

Magdalay considered her options. She could wait and confront him when he got home. Whenever that would be.

Or she could hex him where he stood and watch as his dick shriveled up and fell off. A tiny smile twitched at the corner of her lips at the idea. If only. With her luck, she’d turn him into an overlarge piece of beef jerky and have to explain that one to the police.

Not a good idea. Her magic was unpredictable at best. She’d hid it from him, not wanting to go there. It wasn’t her fault she was born a witch. It was her choice whether or not to use it. If something needing a spell came up, she waited until her hubby was off doing engineer things or sleeping in front of the television. Proof. She needed more proof. The laptop whirled to life and she pulled up her search engine.

What about a private detective? She had a little mad money put aside for the dress she wanted for the romance writer’s convention in a few months. Magdalay had no idea what the detective would cost, but she had to know. With unblinking eyes she typed, private investigator Spinnaker, Texas then she closed her eyes, rolled the mouse, and clicked on the Blue Moon Detective Agency.

About the author:

Dana Wright has always had a fascination with things that go bump in the night. She is often found playing at local bookstores, trying not to maim herself with crochet hooks or knitting needles, watching monster movies with her husband and furry kids or blogging about books. More commonly, she is chained to her computers, writing like a woman possessed. She is currently working on several children’s stories, young adult fiction, romantic suspense, short stories and is trying her hand at poetry. She is a contributing author to Ghost Sniffer’s CYOA, Siren’s Call E-zine in their “Women in Horror” issue in February 2013 and “Revenge” in October 2013, a contributing author to Potatoes!, Fossil Lake, Of Dragons and Magic: Tales of the Lost Worlds, Undead in Pictures, Potnia, Shadows and Light, Dark Corners (upcoming), Wonderstruck, Shifters: A Charity Anthology, Dead Harvest, Monster Diaries, Holiday Horrors and the Roms, Bombs and Zoms Anthology from Evil Girlfriend Media. She is the author of Asylum, The Invitation and Texas Twister.   Dana has also reviewed music for specializing in New Age and alternative music and has been a contributing writer to Eternal Haunted Summer, Massacre Magazine, Metaphor Magazine, The Were Traveler October 2013 edition: The Little Magazine of Magnificent Monsters, the December 2013 issue The Day the Zombies Ruled the Earth. She currently reviews music at New Age Music Reviews and Write a Music Review.

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Twitter: @danawrite

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Shelli Rosewarne

I’m not much of a fan of Zombies, but Shelli’s book sounds intriguing! This one could change my mind!

Promo 4

Hi Michele, and thanks so much for having me over to visit. I’m really excited about my new release, Love Reawakened, which is … wait for… zombie themed. I know, right? You think zombies and it’s more ick than mmmmh, especially when it comes to a romance. Well, thankfully, the story doesn’t have a zombie love interest, but a cute, sassy witch and a rather drool-worthy necromancer, and while I’m normally a complete and utter horror wuss then when these characters came to me I knew I just had to write their story. (Or maybe it was the fact they gave me no peace until I did, one of the two lol). Some of my favourite reviews from it so far are those that start with, ‘I’m not normally into zombies, but…’ – I would like to think it’s a zombie story for people like me, who hide behind the couch at horror movies.

It’s got magic, action, romance and a zombie cat called Mittens (hey, he doesn’t shed, maybe it’ll catch on), so something for everyone. I really hope you check it out.

Cemetery in a foggy full moon night


For Emma Strachan, raising zombies is all in a day’s work. A girl has to pay the bills somehow! But when what should be a simple raising goes horribly wrong, Emma is forced to ask for help from the one man she swore never to see again.

Garret is used to being a loner, as a necromancer he works best that way and frankly, with the dangers he faces every day, it’s easier not to have to look out for anyone else. When Emma shows up on his doorstep desperate for help, he vows to ignore the raging attraction between them – after all a pretty, fun-loving witch has no place in his world.

Can Emma and Garret put aside old resentments in order to try and defeat a zombie unlike anything they have seen before? When the dust settles, can they count on any future between them?


“Why?” he muttered. “Really, you couldn’t think of anyone else?” He opened his eyes to Emma standing over him, hands on hips and glaring.

“Oh, silly me! When you were lying on the ground unconscious and covered in blood with a life-threatening zombie bite, I should have scrolled through my address book to find someone you would approve of! Next time I’ll goddamn leave you there!”

Tears glistened in her eyes, and the guilt reared up again. Damn, he could be a real arse sometimes. He reached out for her hand, tugging lightly so she sat down on the edge of the bed, albeit with bad grace.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know you only did what you thought was right at the time. It’s just a bit of a shock seeing him again.”

Her gaze softened a little. “He does love you, you know. Why else would he drop everything to come and save your sorry ass?”

“So he could hold it over me for evermore?” he suggested glumly.

She sighed. “I’m sure that’s not the case, but either way, you’re alive. So surely it’s worth it?”

He supposed it had to be. He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, the softness and warmth of her skin soothing him.

She smiled down at him. “Besides, if you’re talking about owing people, don’t I get anything for helping keep you alive back there?”

He grinned at her. “Nice try, honey. If I remember rightly, I got injured by your zombie, while saving your arse. So if anything, you should owe me.”

She leaned forwards, a wicked glint in her eyes that sent blood pooling to certain areas.

“Is that so?” she whispered, her lips a breath away from his. “I kinda liked the idea of you owing me.”

He swallowed. “Oh yeah? And what would you want in payment?”

She closed the distance between them, crushing her lips to his, and he groaned as the world dropped away.

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I’d also love for you to stay in touch, you can find me on social media at the following links:

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Twitter – @shellirosewarne

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