Musings from a Writer’s Brain–Silver Sneakers by Anne Montgomery

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aging, Anne Montgomery, essay about life, exercise, Musings from a Writer's Brain, silver sneakers, Suspense fiction, women's fiction

by Anne Montgomery

I have worked out most of my life. I started ice skating at five. I skied and swam. When I was 24, I started officiating sports and called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games, an avocation I practiced for 40 years. When I was 30, I got my first health club membership and I have had one ever since.

So, I’m a long-time gym rat. I’ve lifted weights, utilized aerobics equipment, and practiced yoga, but I’m primarily a lap swimmer. I mention this because recently I turned the golden corner for those of us who spend time at the gym. The reason? Silver Sneakers.

For the uninformed, Silver Sneakers is a health and fitness program that provides gym access and fitness classes for people 65 and older. It’s covered by some Medicare plans. That means I no longer have to shell out those monthly fees to the health club.

The idea, of course, is to keep old people moving so they’re less likely to succumb to problems like heart disease, broken bones from falls, high-blood pressure, diabetes, cancer, and obesity. If people get exercise, chances are they won’t become ill or injured, which keeps those Medicare costs down.

I’ve been swimming laps regularly for 35 years, so I am pretty comfortable working out.
I was feeling pretty smug the day I walked into the club and asked to be moved to the Silver Sneakers rolls. I had just finished swimming a thousand meters – sadly, I used to swim two thousand, but as I’ve already intimated, I’m old.

“Of course! I’d be happy to help,” a tall, twenty-something smiled down at me. “Sit right here. Just show me your ID and your membership card, Ms. Montgomery.”

I noted he was very solicitous.

After putting the important bits of information into the computer and handing me my new key fob, he placed both elbows on the desk. “Now, we can provide you with a free one-hour counseling session.”

“What for?”

He tilted his head. “To help you learn how to work out.”

I squinted. Did I look like I needed help finding my way around the gym? Did I look like I spent my days on the couch eating Ding Dongs? Did I look like I didn’t know a free weight from a foam roller?

Then, I had an I-glimpsed-myself-in-a-store-window moment. I know you’ve done it. You walk by a reflective surface and the person you see staring back is not the one you always imagined. I was forced to consider how this nice young man saw me. He smiled sweetly. I stared back, realizing I might now appear to be a little old lady.

I said I’d think about the offer. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s anything I’ve been missing. I thanked him and left. Though I stared at the floor whenever I got close to a window.

Here’s a little from one of my women’s fiction books. I hope you enjoy it.

A woman flees an abusive husband and finds hope in the wilds of the Arizona desert.

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Amazon Buy Links

E-Book – Paperback

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.

When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne Montgomery on her website and Wikipedia. Stay connected on Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.

Musings from a Writer’s Brain–Valuable Memories by Anne Montgomery

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Anne Montgomery, diving, essay, Musings from a Writer's Brain, robbery, suspense, women's fiction

from Anne Montgomery

A while back, I returned home to find the front door ajar. My first concern was that my dogs had gotten out, but when I went inside, they both stared at me and wagged their tails. Did I spy a wee sense of guilt on their doggy faces?

Though I saw nothing out of place in the living room, something felt wrong. Then, I approached my bedroom and a chill ran down my spine. The mess inside showed I’d been burglarized. I briefly wondered if the perpetrator was still in the house, but since the dogs were sitting placidly, I realized I was alone.

“Really?” I squinted at my two cattle-dog pups. “You couldn’t bark or something?”

They responded by vigorously wagging their tails.

I turned back to the mess in my room. The drawers had been rifled. The decorative boxes on my dresser had been dumped onto the bed, what remained of my jewelry scattered in glittery bits on the bedspread and floor. It was easy to see that the good stuff was gone. That the really good stuff was in a safe gave me a moment of relief. But then I thought of my ring, the emerald and diamond piece my sweetie pie presented to me on a beautiful day in the desert, an adornment he purchased because of my love of emeralds and because he wanted us to be together forever.

The box where I kept the ring was empty.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed my office had been searched as well, but nothing appeared to be missing.

Sadly, I was wrong. “I can’t find my log.”

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” Ryan said.

But we searched and the book was gone. I was heartbroken.

What had disappeared was my dive log, a planner, of sorts, dedicated to those of us who scuba dive. The idea is that when you’re a new diver, reflecting on what happened underwater is a good way to become a better diver. Generally, we document the conditions: water and air temperature, dive site, date, and dive profile. Then we write down what we saw – beautiful jewel colored fishes on a sunlit reef, magnificent sharks, charming dolphins, sea turtles and star fish and eels and nudibranchs.

But we also revisit what went wrong on a dive: losing track of your partner, not paying attention to air consumption, getting caught in a current, misplacing the dive boat. The log contains stamps, as well, verifying special dives on wrecks and others where we descended below 100 feet.

So, the log is a reflection on our dive memories and underwater performance. The idea is to document your first one hundred dives, a milestone I was approaching.

The other day, Ryan and I were walking our dogs. I don’t recall how the question came up, but it hung between us. “Which do you miss more, your emerald ring or your dive log?” he asked.

I didn’t answer right away, but I couldn’t lie. “My dive log,” I said wistfully.

“I knew you’d say that.” Then he smiled.

I’m so glad he understood.

Now, I have a new dive log that Ryan bought me, one with lots of clean, white pages. I guess I’ll just have to start over, so I’ve got a lot of diving to do.

Yes!

Here’s a little from my latest women’s fiction book. I hope you enjoy it.

A woman flees an abusive husband and finds hope in the wilds of the Arizona desert.

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Amazon Buy Links

E-Book – Paperback

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.

When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne Montgomery on her website and Wikipedia. Stay connected on Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.

Musings from a Writer’s Brain-Imperfect Sports Center Highlights by Anne Montgomery

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Anne Montgomery, essay about sports, Musings from a Writer's Brain, Wild Horses on the Salt, women's fiction

by Anne Montgomery

In a perfect world, sportscasters would get long leisurely looks at the highlights they use in their live broadcasts. They’d get to rehearse a few times, using their own verbiage to describe a sweet double play or a long touchdown run.

But in the real world, there are times when sportscasters don’t get to view the video prior to a broadcast. Imagine trying to look pleasant, sound authoritative and knowledgeable, and having to describe a previously-unseen set of highlights, while someone is yelling in your ear. Now, try to do it when the highlights are poorly written.

At ESPN, there was a group of workers called PAs: production assistants who spent almost all their time observing games and picking plays for SportsCenter broadcasts. I’m sure to rabid sports fans the gig sounds like having one foot in heaven. A PA would be assigned a game, they’d sit back, watch, and pick three or four highlights. All they had to do was get the plays edited and write a script explaining what was happening in the shots they chose. A final score would then be added. That was it.

Generally, the PAs would appear at the anchor’s newsroom desk before the show and hand over their version of the script. I would always go view the video, make my own additions to the copy, and thank the PA. Beautiful.

However, sometimes there were late games that were still in progress during the SportsCenter broadcast. It was one of these contests and a subsequent set of highlights I received that got me into a bit of a pickle.

One evening, a sheet of game highlights was slipped onto my desk just as the crimson camera light blinked on. I smiled and read the intro. Then, as the video rolled, I eyed the script with my left eye and focused on my desk monitor with my right. (Not really, but it sort of feels that way.) And there it was, a screaming line drive hit into the first row seats, beaning a spectator squarely on the noggin. I read the script and immediately knew there’d been a mistake. The copy read that the fan had been hit by a foul tip. I knew this was impossible, but the next play quickly appeared and I had no time to right the wrong.

It wouldn’t be until the postmortem – the meeting that followed each show, a time during which errors were discussed by everyone involved in the broadcast – that I would get the chance to point out the obvious problem.

“Rich,” I said to the PA, who like all of his ilk was just out of college, sans any previous TV experience, and while they were sometimes treated like slave labor, were willing to do almost anything to get into the business. “Here,” I said, pushing the highlight sheet across the conference table. “Look at the first play.”

“The one where the guy gets hit with the foul tip?” He asked without looking at the page.

“That’s the one.” I smiled. “You don’t want to do that again.”

“Do what?” Rich squinted.

PAs lived in fear of making a mistake, knowing there was a long list of kids who’d do anything to get into ESPN. They worked without contracts for so little pay three or four of them often rented tiny apartments together, and they could be terminated without cause. Still, they lined up in droves to work at the network.

“It wasn’t a foul tip that hit the guy, Rich. It was a foul ball.”

“What’s the difference? The producer asked, palms up.

I looked around the table, finding it odd that no one else seemed to understand. “A foul ball is one that goes out of the playing area in foul territory. It’s a dead ball. Nothing can happen on the field. A foul tip, however, is a ball that generally goes directly from the bat to the catcher’s glove and is legally caught. A foul tip is always a strike and, unlike a foul ball, can result in strike three.”

“So?” Rich said defensively.

“A foul tip is a live ball.” I paused, waiting to see the light bulbs go off in the brains of my SportsCenter peers, but they just stared at me. “If there are runners on base, they can steal at their own risk,” I went on. “That makes it impossible for a fan to be hit with a foul tip. It was a foul ball.”

“It’s the same thing,” Rich insisted.

“No, it’s not.”

“Why do you care?” the PA said, sounding petulant now. “No one else does.”

I looked around the room. None of the other members of the crew had chimed in. Generally, in these meetings, everyone had an opinion and no one was timid about sharing.

“I care, Rich. I’m an umpire. And there are people out there who know that. It embarrasses me to make that kind of mistake.”

Rich’s face turned bright red. “You’re just being a picky bitch!” Then he got up and left the room.

The next day, I was called into my boss’s office. He had been apprised of my comments and insisted that I apologize to Rich.

“But he was wrong,” I said. “I never raised my voice or got defensive. I simply explained that he’d made a mistake.”

My boss was unswayed. That the young PA called me a bitch did not seem to matter. I was forced to apologize.

And all these years later, it still rankles.

Here’s a little from my latest women’s fiction book. I hope you enjoy it.

A woman flees an abusive husband and finds hope in the wilds of the Arizona desert.

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Amazon Buy Links

E-Book – Paperback

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.

When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne Montgomery on her website and Wikipedia. Stay connected on Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.

Wednesday Writers–A Life Without Water by Marci Bolden

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A life without Water, Catherine Castle Wednesday Writers series, Marci Bolden, women's fiction

Today’s Wednesday Writers guest is Marci Bolden talking about her new emotional-to-write women’s fiction release, A Life Without Water.

Welcome, Marci

Thanks, Catherine.

For authors, our books are like our children and we aren’t supposed to pick favorites. Apparently I’m a terrible book mama because I absolutely have a favorite, and it was released August 13. I don’t even feel ashamed saying that.

A Life Without Water is easily the most emotional book I’ve ever written. Despite all the re-reads, re-writes, and rounds of editing, I still cry reading this heartfelt story. This is women’s fiction, a break from my usual genre of romance, and I poured my entire heart and soul into the journey these characters take.

We all have ghosts in our past that we have to face eventually. Whether we face them on our own or stare down that one person who we feel betrayed us, we have to deal with past pain in order to truly forgive and move forward.

That reckoning of the past is what this book is about and it is definitely a roller coaster ride.

Carol Denman divorced her husband over twenty years ago and has never looked back. But on the day before their daughter’s thirtieth birthday, John barges back into Carol’s life with a request that threatens the fragile stability she has built.

John Bowman is sick. Very sick. While he still can, he has some amends to make and some promises to fulfill. But to do that, he not only needs his ex-wife’s agreement…he needs her.

With the past hovering between them like a ghost, Carol and John embark on a decades-overdue road trip. Together they plunge back into a life without water…but which may ultimately set them free.

EXCERPT
Carol Denman blinked. The long and slow kind that gave the brain a moment to process unexpected information. When she lifted her lids, her assistant still stood on the other side of her desk. Tiana’s near-black eyes filled with a million questions. The rich umber skin above her nose crinkled as she drew her brows together.

The words she’d spoken lingered in the air between them.

There was a man standing outside Carol’s office asking to see her. Not just any man. Her ex-husband.

“You were married before Tobias?”

Tiana’s voice was low enough that no one outside the office could possibly hear, but to Carol’s ears, the words sounded as if they had been announced through a bullhorn. The question spun her tightly held emotions out of control. The skin above her brow prickled with the first signs of nervous sweat. Clenching her fists, digging white acrylic tips into her palm, she took a breath to calm herself before the telltale sign of anxiety—bright red creeping up her pale neck until it settled over her face—could start.

She blinked again. This time the rapid, mind-clearing kind. She dislodged the knot in her throat before finding her voice. “Yes. A long time ago.” A lifetime ago. “Did he say what he wants?”

“No.” Confusion faded to what appeared to be concern. “He looks nervous. Should I tell him to leave or…I can call security.”

Security was a seventy-three-year-old overweight retired police officer who was far more invested in completing the Houston Chronicle’s crossword puzzle than he ever was in doing his job. Carol suspected even if she did need help, old Charlie Turner would call 911 and offer crowd control long before he’d intervene with some kind of physical altercation in her office. Not that she was worried about what her ex would do to her.

Just the opposite.

She was more concerned she’d grab the sterling silver scissors from her desk drawer and shove them repeatedly into his chest.

Outside her window, early summer sunlight reflected in a blinding starburst off the man-made pond where geese liked to gather as they migrated. This time of year the water was smooth. Still. Deceptively calm. As she stared at the water, memories of her life with John flashed through her mind like an old 8-mm film on a loop.

Laughter, singing, playing.

Screaming. Crying. Begging.

Tiana’s quiet voice cut into Carol’s thoughts. “Should I tell him to leave?”

“Um… No.” God, I’m going to regret this. “It’s fine. Show him in.”

Read all of Chapter One here.

Purchase A Life Without Water here.

Netgalley Reviews
This story will push your emotions to the limit, make you realize how much damage you do to yourself by holding onto anger and refusing to let go and help you to walk through the process of learning who you really are and what life has done to make you that person. – cindy r.

This book was everything. It made me FEEL so much. I cried so very much at times. Beautifully and realistically written. Life is fickle and here and gone in a minute. Learn to forgive and remember to live! –Dineen M.

This book – A Life Without Water – basically ripped my heart out – smashed it into a million pieces and put it back together again. – Beth S.

About the Author:

As a teen, Marci Bolden skipped over young adult books and jumped right into reading romance novels. She never left.

Marci lives in the Midwest with her husband, two teenaged kiddos, and numerous rescue pets. If she had an ounce of will power, Marci would embrace healthy living but until cupcakes and wine are no longer available at the local grocery store, she’ll put that ambition on hold and appease her guilt by reading self-help books and promising to join a gym “soon.”

Learn more about Marci Bolden on her website. Stay connected on Facebook and Twitter.

Wednesday Writers–The David Years by Lillian Duncan

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Book excerpt from The DAvid Years, book giveaway, Lillian Duncan, Wednesday Writers, women's fiction

 

Today’s Wednesday Writers guest is Lillian Duncan. She’s talking about life changes today, hers, yours and her characters. And she has a giveaway on her website. Welcome, Lillian!

 

Life Changes—The David Years

 

There’s an old saying—nothing in life is guaranteed but taxes and death! I think we have one other guarantee—life changes! And there’s not a whole lot we can do to stop that from happening most of the time.

The David Years, the second novel in the Puzzle House series, is all about life changes. In Puzzle House, Nia was anointed to become a healer. In The David Years, Nia graduates from high school and goes off to college.

Talk about life changes—that’s a big one for every young person

But big changes aren’t just for the young. Life changes whether we want it to or not. A new marriage. A baby. A divorce. A new job. Retirement. A major illness. A death of a loved one.

Some big changes are good and some or not so good. Either way, with each big change comes a season of learning. And that’s what The David Years is all about. Learning to do the best we can in whatever situations we find ourselves.

I was diagnosed with bilateral brain tumors in 2012. They were not cancerous, but that didn’t stop them from wreaking havoc on my health and my life. I had to find my “new normal.” I not only had to learn to cope with the changes, but to learn to accept the new me. These have definitely been my David Years.

We all have our David Years—probably more than once in our lifetime—a time when we need God’s wisdom to help us adjust and thrive in the new circumstances we find ourselves—at any age.

So, whether your college years are long past or you’re experiencing them now, you’ll enjoy getting to know Nia better as she struggles to find her place in the world.

 

GIVEAWAY:

To celebrate the release of The David Years, I’m having a giveaway. I’ll pick FIVE lucky winners to receive their choice of one my ebooks from comments left on my blog about The David Years.  To be entered in that giveaway, go to http://www.lillian-duncan.com/ then leave a comment under one of THE DAVID YEARS posts. EASY-PEASY! Winners will be picked on August 30^th!

THE DAVID YEARS

By Lillian Duncan

Nia looked at her aunt and asked, “So what am I ‘spose to do now?”

“Have you ever heard of King David from the Bible?”

“I guess.”

“There were a lot of years between the time David was anointed as the king and he actually became the king. It’s a time for you to grow in your relationship with God.”

“And then later I get to be king?” Nia giggled.

“I meant that figuratively not literally but these are your David Years.”

“My David Years. I like that.”

Nia Johnson has spent the past four years developing a closer relationship to God. She wants to believe she’s still anointed to become a healer at Puzzle House but as each year passes, she has more and more doubts.

Now that she’s graduated from high school and is an adult she is sure it’s time to take the mantle of healing Rachel passed to her so many years before. But the harder she tries, the more it eludes her.

EXCERPT from The David Years:

“Do you want to be a healer?” Rachel’s words echoed in Nia’s mind. The thought of helping others the way Rachel had helped her had seemed impossible until God’s presence filled the room. At the time, it had been amazing—miraculous. But now she was confused—and scared. There was no way she could do what Rachel did. She was only fifteen, how would she heal anyone?

Nia looked down, remembering the warmth, the tingling as Rachel held her hands and prayed with her. God had been in that room with them. God had given her the gift of healing. “I don’t think I can do it by myself.”

“You don’t have to do it by yourself, Nia. Rachel said puzzles are meant to be done together. That’s true for life as well. Have you ever heard of King David from the Bible?”

“Maybe.”

“That David became King David and did all sorts of amazing things for God. Anyway when David was a young boy, the prophet Samuel anointed him as the next king of Israel, but there were a lot of years between the time David was anointed as the king and he actually became the king. David was tested many times during those years. Those years were very important to David’s growth as a man so that he would be the king God wanted him to be when the time was right.”

“So what are you saying, Auntie?”

“I’m saying these are your David years, my sweet niece. It’s a time for you to learn and to grow in your relationship with God. So for now it’s time to live your life as a fifteen year old girl.”

“And then later I get to be king?” Nia giggled. “So you don’t think I need to be going out and healing anyone just yet?”

“Not yet, sweetie. It will happen when the time is right.”

“My David Years. I like that, Auntie.”

Want to read more? You can find The David Years at Amazon

About the Author:

Lillian Duncan… turning faith into fiction.

Lillian is a multi-published author who lives in the middle of Ohio Amish country with her husband and a menagerie of pets. After more than 30 years working as a speech pathologist for children, she believes in the power of words to transform lives, especially God’s Word.

Her goal is to write stories that entertain but also demonstrate God’s love for all of us. To learn more about her, visit http://www.lillian-duncan.com/. She also has a devotional blog at http://www.powerupwithgod.com/.

 

Musings from a Writer’s Brain–He Wants His Cut by Donna DeLoretto Brennan

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Catherine Castle Musings from a Writer's brain, Donna DeLoretto Brennan, short stories Forget the Mess It's Time for a Story, women's fiction

He Wants His Cut

by Donna DeLoretto Brennan

As a mom, I love to hear the thoughts that pop in my kids’ minds and tumble out their mouths. As a writer, I love to share some of those sentiments and words with others.

For example, twelve years ago, our family flew to Salt Lake City for my niece’s wedding. My youngest three kids had never flown before and were especially excited. As the plane ascended into the sky, six-year-old Tim stared mesmerized out the window watching the buildings and other planes on the tarmac getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared. That soon appeared to be forgotten as he and his siblings played inflight games, gabbed with each other, and found other ways to keep themselves entertained.

More than five hours later, as our plane began to descend, Tim’s nose was again glued to the widow. He saw the buildings and planes on the ground getting bigger and bigger, and exclaimed, “What? All this time and we’re right back here?”

This made me smile, and I patiently explained that many airports look the same from the sky; this was indeed a different airport.

A couple of years later, a parenting magazine I subscribed to was looking for funny vacation stories (in 50 words or less). I wrote about Tim’s comment and sent it off to the editors. To my delight, they bought the short piece and paid me twenty-five dollars for it.

That night, I proudly shared my news with my family at dinner.

Eight-year-old Tim asked, “How much do I get?”

“What?”

“You said they paid you twenty-five dollars. How much do I get?”

I tried to explain to him that that’s not the way it works. I wrote it. I sent in the story. I got paid.

His response? “But I said it. How much do I get?”

I sighed. Humor with a twinge of sarcasm is almost a second language in our house. I told him, “You’re eating dinner right now, aren’t you? That’s what you get.”

He didn’t like my answer, but he dropped the subject—for a while. That conversation took place almost ten years ago, yet every now and then he’ll bring it up. He tells me he’s still waiting for his cut.

Admittedly, I was tempted, all those years ago, to give him a few dollars to make him happy. But since so much of what I was writing at the time was based on interactions with my family, I figured I couldn’t afford to pay my kids every time they thought I got my idea from them. Especially since they seem to think everything I write is about them, even when it isn’t.

For instance, in one of my books the kids play soccer. All three of my boys played soccer from elementary school through high school. So my book must be about them. And one of my main characters in that same book is named Elizabeth. But that’s my daughter’s middle name. So it must be about her. And so on and so on.

I try to explain that most writers write from their experiences. I was a soccer mom; my main character is a soccer mom. And I like the name Elizabeth—that’s why I used it for my character and why it’s my daughter’s middle name. It really isn’t about them at all.

Yet now here I am, writing about my kids and what they’ve actually said or done. But I’m not getting paid for this post, so maybe I’ll make an exception this time and agree to split my earnings with them.

 

About the Author:

Donna DeLoretto Brennan was a technical writer for over ten years before becoming a computer programmer. Since leaving the corporate world after her twins were born, she’s had short stories, interviews, and nonfiction articles published online and in print magazines. She’s speaks at writing conferences and other events.

She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group (GLVWG). She’s served in various capacities on the GLVWG board, including several terms as Conference Chair. She’s always looking for opportunities to encourage others and to share what she’s learned.

Donna’s website is http://www.degunkinglife.com/.

Forget the Mess—It’s time for a Story!

by Donna DeLoretto Brennan

When life starts to fill with mindless chores and endless to-do lists, take a mini-break to relax and reenergize. This book contains six stories to help you forget about the dishes that need to be washed or the laundry that needs to be put away. Forget the mess for now, and enjoy a story. The mess will still be there, waiting for you, when the story is finished.

• My Good Son – The son she remembers is missing; and who is this man calling her “Ma”?
• Pretense – Sister-relationships can be complicated, especially if you’re afraid to tell the truth.
• Another Day – Clara looks for a way—and a reason—to keep going.
• Spectator – When watching other people’s lives is more interesting than living your own, maybe you need to take some action.
• Taking Care of His Wife – Brad promised to take care of Megan forever—but he never said exactly how he would do that.
• Love Your Frenimies – When Jesus said to love your neighbor, he couldn’t have meant Gina’s neighbor, Anna.

 

Forget the Mess—It’s Time for a Story is available in paperback form at Amazon. A kindle version will be available soon.

 

 

Wednesday Writers–Forget the Mess–It’s Time for a Story with Donna DeLoretta Brennan

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book excerpt, Catherine Castle Wednesday Writers series, Donna DeLoretta Brennan, short stories Forget the Mess It's Time for a Story, women's fiction

 

 

Today’s Wednesday Writers guest is Donna DeLoretto Brennan. She’ll be talking about one of my biggest issues and the jumping off point for her contemporary women’s fiction book Forget the Mess—It’s time for a Story! There’s also an excerpt. Welcome, Donna!

 

Confessions of a Procrastinator

By Donna DeLoretto Brennan

I often get overwhelmed with all the things I have to do as a wife, mother, author, and procrastinator.

It’s like a speeding merry-go-round that I can’t step off of. When I’m overwhelmed it’s easier to procrastinate; when I procrastinate for long periods, the other stuff piles up and becomes even more overwhelming.

For example, the lunch dishes need to be washed and I have to edit the next chapter of my novel; but I’m hitting a slump. So I take a break to do something a little more enjoyable—but it has to be something I can convince myself has a beneficial purpose. Facebook, I reason, is just such a thing. It helps me reconnect with old friends and maintain contact with new friends.

But Facebook can be like a black hole. You go on it for twenty minutes and when you look at the clock four hours have gone by. And now it’s time to make dinner, but first I have to empty the sink and I forgot to defrost the roast I wanted to cook, so I need to find something else fast. And that next chapter of my novel goes unedited today.

My solution is to “procrastinate in bursts”. Alexia is my friend in this endeavor. When I go on Facebook, I say, “Alexia, set a timer for thirty minutes.” Then, when thirty minutes have passed, she chimes at me. And, hopefully, I log off Facebook and start being productive again.

Reading a good book is another type of break I’ll allow myself. Usually, at the beginning of a book I can put it down after a chapter or two and get back on task. (Returning to it later, of course.) But sometimes, especially near the end, the book is hard to put down. All those hooks at the end of each chapter and the tension and pacing—I love the book and the world it transports me to, but the stuff in the real world that I have to do keeps mounting up while I’m away.

One solution is to read short stories or articles in magazines. It doesn’t take as long, and it’s easy to put down (for now) and finish later. And the short break does help me to relax from the overwhelm and get back on track.

That’s the idea behind my collection of short stories. Each story is intended to take you away from your current stress and worries, but they’re short, so you aren’t gone that long. You can either read another story right away, or put it down and pick it up later when you need another break.

Forget the Mess—It’s time for a Story!

Genre: Women’s contemporary fiction

When life starts to fill with mindless chores and endless to-do lists, take a mini-break to relax and reenergize. This book contains six stories to help you forget about the dishes that need to be washed or the laundry that needs to be put away. Forget the mess for now, and enjoy a story. The mess will still be there, waiting for you, when the story is finished.

• My Good Son – The son she remembers is missing; and who is this man calling her “Ma”?
• Pretense – Sister-relationships can be complicated, especially if you’re afraid to tell the truth.
• Another Day – Clara looks for a way—and a reason—to keep going.
• Spectator – When watching other people’s lives is more interesting than living your own, maybe you need to take some action.
• Taking Care of His Wife – Brad promised to take care of Megan forever—but he never said exactly how he would do that.
• Love Your Frenimies – When Jesus said to love your neighbor, he couldn’t have meant Gina’s neighbor, Anna.

 

Excerpt from Love your Frenemies, the last short story in the collection:

Finally, after almost an hour of fussing and whimpering, Ella is sound asleep and I can lie her down in the playpen for her nap. I take a moment to wonder at her small figure lying there so peacefully and content, her tiny lips curved into a soft smile that melts my mommy-heart and makes me forget the screaming fusspot she was less than thirty minutes ago.

I glance at the clock. Oh, no! It’s three-fifteen.

I rush to the side door to bring Fritz in before the neighbor kid, Peter Jacob, starts tormenting my dog into a frenzy. Just as I reach for the doorknob I hear that little Yorkie barking his head off outside. Before I have the door fully open, Ella’s screams cause my shoulders to tense and my temper to flare. I see little Peter Jacob scurrying away from the chain-link fence. He glances over his shoulder and we make eye contact. I am certain that’s a smirk on the little bugger’s face.

“Peter Jacob, what did I tell you about agitating Fritz?”

He doesn’t respond. He just hurries his chubby little legs up his driveway to his front door. He pulls open the screen and hollers, “Hey, Mom! I’m Home.”

The door slams behind him.

Fritz is still yapping away, and Ella is exercising her lungs at full volume. Just another day in the neighborhood.

Want to read more? Forget the Mess—It’s Time for a Story is available in paperback form at Amazon. A kindle version will be available soon.

 

About the Author:

Donna DeLoretto Brennan was a technical writer for over ten years before becoming a computer programmer. Since leaving the corporate world after her twins were born, she’s had short stories, interviews, and nonfiction articles published online and in print magazines. She’s speaks at writing conferences and other events.

She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group (GLVWG). She’s served in various capacities on the GLVWG board, including several terms as Conference Chair. She’s always looking for opportunities to encourage others and to share what she’s learned.

Donna’s website is http://www.degunkinglife.com/.

Wednesday Writers–All My Tears by Kathy McKinsey

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All My Tears, Christian fiction, excerpt from All My Tears, Kathy McKinsey, stories of hope healing and love, Wednesday Writers, women's fiction

Today’s Wednesday Writers guest is author Kathy McKinsey who will be sharing about her book All My Tears and how her faith journey applies to her novel. Welcome, Kathy!

 

Thanks, Catherine.

I became a Christian when I was seventeen. Although I’ve had times in my Christian life where I felt like I was growing in my faith, I’ve also had many struggles and falls. Sometimes I felt like I was only holding on to God by my thumbnails. I realize now that during those times, truthfully, God was the one holding on to me.

My book, ALL MY TEARS, is a collection of five novellas. Each story follows a woman through a struggle, an illness, a fear—a time when she needs to find God’s strength and comfort

These stories are not autobiographical. However, I have dealt with depression for many years. I know what it’s like to fear God can’t forgive me. I am familiar with the struggle to keep a marriage and family strong.

And I know how it feels to find my Father God waiting for me, running to greet me, when I turn back to him. I know how his grace and mercy support me through my daily walk. I want to share this hope of forgiveness, healing, and strength with my readers.

Plus, I wanted to make the stories fun. I like relationships between siblings; with children and adults, not just children and parents; relationships with young adults and elders. I enjoy bringing humor into the stories any time possible.

 

All My Tears

By Kathy McKinsey

Meet five women who struggle with life’s deep sorrows. Beth fights to recover from alcoholism and to mend her relationships with her family. Ann doesn’t believe God will forgive her. Kathleen wrestles with a years-old fear and with saving her marriage. Cassie needs to learn to deal with chronic depression. Martie finds herself the single parent of the eight-year-old niece she barely knows when the child’s parents die in a car wreck.

See how God gives them the gifts of hope, healing, and love

 

Excerpt:

One Sunday at lunch, Naomi’s best friend Mark sat down next to me in the restaurant we’d gone to after church. “You know, Cassie, it’s way sad you’ve let yourself get stuck in that old people’s Sunday school class that Jeff and Sharon go to.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Almost everybody over thirty, most of them married. Stuck in their ways. Boooring.”

“Yeah, boring,” Tommy said.

“I’ll show you boring.” Sharon laughed as she spread a napkin in Tommy’s lap then tickled his neck.

“I hadn’t thought about that.” I slid a straw in Naomi’s drink.

“You’re a young person,” Mark went on. “You need to be with other young people, in a more vibrant, exciting group.”

“I’m young.” Naomi popped her head around me to look at Mark.

“Yes, you are.” I kissed her head. “If I don’t want to be in Naomi’s class, how could I find such a group, I wonder.”

“Funny you should ask.” Mark bent down to pick up a fork Naomi dropped on the floor. “I happen to be in just such a class at our church.”

“No.” My eyes widened.

“Can you believe it? A lot of singles, only a few married couples, almost nobody over thirty. People who are excited about the Bible. About life.”

“Young, vibrant people,” I suggested, catching Naomi’s drink before it also went on the floor.

“Exactly. You’ve got it.” Mark slapped his hands down on the table.

“And what Mark isn’t even bragging about”—across the table, Jeff reached to steal one of Tommy’s fries—“is that he is the teacher of the class.”

“I don’t like to think of myself as a teacher.” Mark shook his head. “Too old school, buddy. I like to think we can all learn from each other. I’m just like a … a discussion starter.”

“Hmmm, discussion starter,” Jeff said, reaching his hand toward Tommy’s plate again. “Sounds like a good excuse for not having to prepare what you’re studying beforehand.”

Tommy clapped his hand down on top of Jeff’s. “Hey.”

I nodded at Mark. “You’re right. It does look like Jeff is getting pretty old.”

Want to read more? You can find All My Tears at Amazon.

 

About the Author

Kathy McKinsey grew up on a pig farm in Missouri, and although she’s lived in cities for nearly 40 years, she still considers herself a farm girl.

She’s been married to Murray for 31 years, and they have five adult children.

She’s had two careers before writing—being a stay-at-home-Mom and working as a rehabilitation teacher for the blind.

Now she lives in Lakewood, Ohio with her husband and two of her children. Besides writing, she enjoys activities with her church, editing for other writers, braille transcribing, crocheting, knitting, and playing with the cat and dogs

Follow Kathy on her blog and Facebook

 

 

 

 

 

A Writer’s Garden with Linda Bradley

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A Writer's Garden, Catherine Castle's garden blog, garden memories, garden quote from Monet, Linda Bradley, Maggie’s Way, Monet’s garden, women's fiction

Today I’m welcoming author Linda Bradley and her garden memories to A Writer’s Garden. Welcome, Linda!

Thanks, Catherine.

Once upon a time, my garden was my refuge. Each spring I’d plant annuals amongst the perennials. I’d anticipate the blooms of color welcoming my favorite season, summer. If I count correctly, my garden was home to eight peony bushes, six rose bushes that grew like mad, a fence line of daffodils, one bleeding heart, a patch of iris’, lilies resembling sunbursts, sweet lily of the valley, and wild geraniums. When I first moved into my Calvin house, it was the middle of winter and I had no idea what slept beneath the drifts of Michigan snow. As I look back, the scenario fittingly represents that sliver of time in my life. It was a time when uncertainty shrouded me. I wasn’t sure how life would evolve or what life had in store for me until the chill from a broken heart melted and opportunities blossomed around me.

Toiling with the Calvin garden upkeep never bogged me down. The soft pinks, vibrant yellows, sharp fuchsia, creamy purples, and crisp salmon hues were like a balanced canvas. It wasn’t a canvas I painted, but luckily inherited. This unexpected bounty brought back sweet memories of my childhood and peace. Its beauty awakened something that slept inside me.

Four years ago, I said goodbye to the lovely garden at my Calvin house. I miss the greenery, the unmistakable garden scents, and beautiful flowers, but I’m reminded of the days I’d baked in the sun while turning soil as I stroll along on my new journey accompanied by a sweet rescue dog, Maisey. She occasionally stops along the way to smell the blooms, too. The aroma of lilacs transports me back to my childhood, whereas the scent of sweet roses conjures images of laughter, rough housing, bikes on the lawn, rollerblades in the drive, and a string of boys hungry for their next snack. As Maisey’s nose twitches, my does, too.

Claude Monet said, “My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece.” Even though he lived in a different era and gardened on the opposite side of the world, the premise of sanctuary links his grandeur to mine. Each garden representative of the gardener at hand. Someday, I’ll settle down and when I do, I’ll remember the gardens from my past and the gardens I’ve passed along the way. I’ll also remember Monet’s words. While I believe he was referring to the relationship of harmonious color and balance of composition created in nature, I’ll smile knowing that joy created by something as elementary as a garden, color splashed on a canvas, or words delivering a heartfelt story, is universal.

 

About the gardener/author:

Linda’s inspiration comes from her favorite authors and life itself. Her women’s fiction with a thread of romance highlights characters that peel away outer layers of life to discover the heart of their dreams with some unexpected twists and turns along the way. Her writing integrates humor found in everyday situations, as well as touching moments that make readers connect with her characters. Linda’s books are not spicy, are pretty tame, with a little kissing. Writing does elude that characters are intimate. Linda enjoys painting scenes from the gardens in her memories and travels. You can find her at Twitter Facebook Website

Amazon Link: http://amzn.to/2bakz7T

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carol McClain talks about The Poison We Drink on Wednesday Writers

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book excerpt from The Poison We Drink, Carol McClain, Christian fiction Catherine Castle's Wednesday Writer's blog series, forgiveness, The Poison We Drink, women's fiction

Today Carol McClain is the guest of Wednesday Writers and she’ll sharing a book excerpt and talk about the major themes that run through her women’s fiction book The Poison We Drink and their importance in our own lives. Welcome, Carol!

 

Thanks, Catherine,

As a single mom in rural New York, the absence of intimacy handicapped my life. I’m not talking about the love of a husband, but the closeness of a friend. I struggled not just as a mother, but a Christian. When I stumbled, I had no one to pick me up. With questions about faith, family, or work, I had to plot my own course. Much of this time was spent in self-correction.

I had friends. However, church, jobs and their own families kept them busy. Often, I felt as desolate as the abandoned dairy farms that dotted our area. Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 became my prayer. Without help, I would continue to fall.

The title of The Poison We Drink, had originally been Threefold Cord. The three friends in this novel would never find forgiveness, release and happiness without each other.

Of course, from the title, you can guess the second concept that has been woven into my life. The aphorism “bitterness is the poison we drink hoping our enemy would die” resonates with my life philosophy. The lack of forgiveness which morphs into bitterness destroys our lives. It consumes us while our nemeses live their own lives unaffected by our pain.

We must forgive, as Jesus did on the cross, not because the wrong done to us was acceptable, but because not forgiving will destroy us.

Those principles define the major themes of The Poison We Drink, a woman’s fiction set in Albany County in central New York–a locale I’ve loved for years.

 

The Poison We Drink

By Carol McClain

 

Twenty-four-year-old hairdresser Torie Sullivan has given up on life. When her boyfriend betrays her, she careens her car into a ditch in a drunken fury.

After paramedic Adam Benedict rescues Torie from her mangled car, he learns she’s the middle school bully who brutalized him. A week later, he discovers she lives in a lean-to in Hookskill Nature Preserve. Despite his hatred, his innate compassion won’t allow him to leave Torie in the wilds. He offers her a room in his miniscule cabin.

After Torie’s first night at Adam’s, tragedy strikes his life, and he can no longer house her. His girlfriend, Maya Vitale takes Torie in. Though first-grade teacher Maya’s past isn’t as sinister as Torie’s, she, too, hides a shameful secret.

In The Poison We Drink, the lives of three disparate friends collide and reveal the toxic pasts that threaten to poison their lives.

Only by forgiving the unpardonable can they be set free.

 

Excerpt

 

(Unsaved Torie has broken up with her boyfriend, and is drunk. The barkeep tries to keep her from driving but she refuses to listen. This is where this excerpt picks up).

She snatched the keys from the blacktop as Collin exited The Stadium. He loped down the steps and banged at her passenger window.

“If you drive away, I’m calling the cops.”

The glow from the streetlight haloed Collin, like an angel. If angels existed.

“Torie, no man is worth it. Consider AA. You don’t have to be like your mother.”

She bit her lip. Mumbled. “I’m not like Jean.”

Tears threatened, but she wouldn’t be a cry baby. Hadn’t cried since middle school when… She clenched her teeth and inhaled, let the air fill her lungs. Her mother thrived on self-pity and man-lust. Not her.

With an exhale, Torie pulled away from the curb. Behind her, brakes squealed, and a horn blared. She stepped on the gas, peered into the rearview mirror, and let the black SUV eat her dust.

“I don’t need no cab,” she told Collin as though he sat beside her. “I’m cool and in control…”

…Speed, and anger at Collin, lost their magic. Collin had been a friend — sometimes stern, but always fair. Her eyes watered.

The real culprits resurrected — Selene and Trey. The imprint of Trey’s hand on her wrist, inviting her into his bed still burned like a brand. Lying next to him, Selene smirked. Her friend knew Torie loved Trey — the first man she dared to not simply date, but to love.

It did no good. He preferred her fat friend. Her stunning, voluptuous, charismatic, sarcastic best friend. Torie’s fingers dug into the steering wheel.

Her stomach tossed. She had scruples. Unlike Jean. Unlike everyone else. Still, the treachery of the two people she trusted most rushed back and blinded her. Collin’s rot-gut booze failed her. Her memories remained raw.

Collin was right. She ruined every one of her friendships. Maybe she was–

Her eyes blurred, and her nose ran. Her thought would stay unspoken. Torie fished through her Kate Spade purse for tissues then tossed it to the back seat. Her iPhone fell to the floor. Contorting her arm behind the console, Torie attempted to retrieve the phone.

The car hurled itself to the right. The crunch of the shoulder gave way to the bumpy grass. It caught the tires and yanked her down a steep slope. The headlights illuminated tree branches as they grabbed the car, rasped their fingers along its sides as though shoving her down the slope until spider webs of pain showered over her. The Rabbit slammed into a stone wall.

 

Want to read more? Carol’s book is available wherever books are sold online.

Amazon:  Barnes & Noble:

About the Author:

Versatile.

Others say weird.

In truth, McClain’s wacky and wonderful.

As a youth, she believed herself an odd-ball, and craved to be like others. She even practiced writing in clichés because her classmates did, and if they thought the phrases were cool, they had to be.

Fortunately, that phase passed, and she now celebrates her own diversity. She plays bassoon, creates stained glass, enjoys high ropes, loves to run and, of course, she writes.

For thirty years she attempted to teach teenagers the joys of the English language. Judging from the prevalence of confusion with their, they’re and there–not to mention your and you’re, she hasn’t succeeded. She’s now on a quest to make magic with her own words.

You can contact Carol at http://carol-mcclain.blogspot.com