Saturday, July 23, 2016


Welcome to The Cottage of Blog: 

Today, I am PROUD to hostess Rave Review Book Club's Author, Lincoln Cole, who is promoting his book "Raven's Peak." Read the synopsis and the excerpt. What a great choice for a hot summer evening's read! If you're interested in purchasing this exciting horror story, you can check out the links at the bottom, where you'll find his links. 

Please leave comments in the comment section under the post. I'm sure Mr. Cole would appreciate it, and I certainly will.  


A quiet little mountain town is hiding a big problem. When the townsfolk of Raven's Peak start acting crazy, Abigail Dressler is called upon to find out what is happening. She uncovers a demonic threat unlike any she's ever faced and finds herself in a fight just to stay alive. 

She rescues Haatim Arison from a terrifying fate and discovers that he has a family legacy in the supernatural that he knows nothing about. Now she's forced to protect him, which is easy, and also trust him if she wants to save the townsfolk of Raven's Peak. Trust, however, is considerably more difficult for someone who grew up living on the knife's edge of danger. 

Can they discover the cause of the town's insanity and put a stop to it before it is too late?


“Reverend, you have a visitor.”
He couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.
“Open D4.”
A buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The aching need was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each time the lash licked his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched skin fulfilled him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm summer’s day. 
“Some woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is Frieda.”
A pause, the lash hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog through knee-deep mud to reclaim those memories.
It was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he managed to cling to was the name. Frieda. It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a devil.
One and the same when all was said and done.
She belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were nothing compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his flesh.
The lash struck down on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood against the wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months, he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral grin as the whip landed with a sickening, wet slapping sound.
“Jesus,” a new voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every morning.”
“You’ll cuff him?”
“Why? Are you scared?”
The Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man, you said he was crazy…but this…”
The lash came down, lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let out a groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren’t worth his time.
“I think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month in the hospital.”
“Regulation says we have to.”
“Then you do it.”
The guards fell silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More blood. More agony. More pleasure.
“I don’t think we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good idea. Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts himself. Right, Reverend?”
The air tasted of copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he would kill himself.
How ironic was that?
“Right, Reverend?”
Mirrors were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend? Can you hear me?”
The guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The lash hung in the air, ready to strike at its new prey.
The Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized him as one of the first guardsmen he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but well-intentioned.
Most of him didn’t want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone; the sound as it snapped would be . . .  
A symphony rivaling Tchaikovsky.
The second guard—the younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to draw his gun.
“No! No, don’t!”
That from the first, on his knees as if praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his family before heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make it home safely from work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip his throat out or gouge out his eyes. Right now, he was waving his free hand at his partner to get his attention, to stop him.
The younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t shoot, Ed!”
“Let him go!”
The older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
The look that crossed his young partner’s face in that moment was precious: primal fear. It was an expression the Reverend had seen many times in his life, and he understood the thoughts going through the man’s mind: he couldn’t imagine how he might die in this cell, but he believed he could. That belief stemmed from something deeper than what his eyes could see. A terror so profound it beggared reality.
An immutable silence hung in the air. Both guards twitched and shifted, one in pain and the other in terror. The Reverend was immovable, a statue in his sanctuary, eyes boring into the man’s soul.
“Don’t shoot,” the guard on his knees murmured. “You’ll miss, and we’ll be dead.”
“I have a clear shot. I can’t miss.”
This time, the response was weaker. “We’ll still be dead.”
A hesitation. The guard lowered his gun in confused fear, pointing it at the floor. The Reverend curled his lips and released, freeing the kneeling guard.
The man rubbed his shoulder and climbed shakily to his feet. He backed away from the Reverend and stood beside the other, red-faced and panting.
“I heard you,” the Reverend said. The words were hard to come by; he’d rarely spoken these last five years. 
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” the guard replied meekly. “My mistake.”
“Bring me to Frieda,” he whispered.
“You don’t—” the younger guard began. A sharp look from his companion silenced him.
“Right away, sir.”
“Steve, we should cuff…”
Steve ignored him, turning and stepping outside the cell. The Reverend looked longingly at the lash in his hand before dropping it onto his hard bed. His cultivated pain had faded to a dull ache. He would need to begin anew when he returned, restart the cleansing.
There was always more to cleanse.
They traveled through the black-site prison deep below the earth’s surface, past neglected cells and through rough cut stone. A few of the rusty cages held prisoners, but most stood empty and silent. These prisoners were relics of a forgotten time, most of whom couldn’t even remember the misdeed that had brought them here.
The Reverend remembered his misdeeds. Every day he thought of the pain and terror he had inflicted, and every day he prayed it would wash away.
They were deep within the earth, but not enough to benefit from the world’s core heat. It was kept unnaturally cold as well to keep the prisoners docile. That meant there were only a few lights and frigid temperatures. Last winter he thought he might lose a finger to frostbite. He’d cherished the idea, but it wasn’t to be. He had looked forward to cutting it off.
There were only a handful of guards in this section of the prison, maybe one every twenty meters. The actual security system relied on a single exit shaft as the only means of escape. Sure, he could fight his way free, but locking the elevator meant he would never reach the surface.
And pumping out the oxygen meant the situation would be contained.
The Council didn’t want to bring civilians in on the secretive depths of their hellhole prison. The fewer guards they needed to hire, the fewer people knew of their existence, and any guards who were brought in were fed half-truths and lies about their true purpose. How many such men and women, he’d always wondered, knew who he was or why he was here?
Probably none. That was for the best. If they knew, they never would have been able to do their jobs.
As they walked, the Reverend felt the ritual wash away and he became himself once more. Just a man getting on in years: broken, pathetic, and alone as he paid for his mistakes.
Finally, they arrived at the entrance of the prison: an enclosed set of rooms cut into the stone walls backing up to a shaft. A solitary elevator bridged the prison to the world above, guarded by six men, but that wasn’t where they took him.
They guided him to one of the side rooms, opening the door but waiting outside. Inside were a plain brown table and one-way mirror, similar to a police station, but nothing else.
A woman sat at the table facing away from the door. She had brown hair and a white business suit with matching heels. Very pristine; Frieda was always so well-dressed.
“Here we are,” the guard said. The Reverend didn’t acknowledge the man, but he did walk into the chamber. He strode past the table and sat in the chair facing Frieda.
He studied her: she had deep blue eyes and a mole on her left cheek. She looked older, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to visit him.
Probably not since the day she helped lock him in that cell.
“Close the door,” Frieda said to the guards while still facing the Reverend.
“But ma’am, we are supposed to—”
“Close the door,” she reiterated. Her tone was exactly the same, but an undercurrent was there. Hers was a powerful presence, the type normal people obeyed instinctually. She was always in charge, no matter the situation.
“We will be right out here,” Steve replied finally, pulling the heavy metal door closed.
Silence enveloped the room, a humming emptiness.
He stared at her, and she stared at him. Seconds slipped past.
He wondered how she saw him. What must he look like today? His hair and beard must be shaggy and unkempt with strands of gray mixed into the black. He imagined his face, but with eyes that were sunken, skin that was pale and leathery. Doubtless, he looked thinner, almost emaciated.
He was also covered in blood, the smell of which would be overpowering. It disgusted him; he hated how his daily ritual left him, battering his body to maintain control, yet he answered its call without question.
“Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?” the Reverend asked finally, facing Frieda again.
“We need your help,” Frieda said, ignoring his question. “You’ve been here for a long time, and things have been getting worse.”
“You quoted Nietzsche, that first meeting. I thought it was pessimistic and rhetorical,” he continued.
“Crime is getting worse. The world is getting darker and…”
“I thought you were talking about something that might happen to someone else but never to me. I had no idea just how spot on you were: that you were prophesizing my future,” he spoke. “Do you remember your exact words?”
“We need your help,” Frieda finished. Then she added softer: “need your help.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he said: “Do you remember?”
She sighed. “I do.”
“Repeat it for me.”
She frowned. “When we first met, I said to you: ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’”
He nodded. “You were right. Now I am a monster.”
“You aren’t a monster,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “I am your monster.”
Rage exploded through his body, and he felt every muscle tense. “That is not my name!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. It made a loud crashing sound, shredding the silence, and the wood nearly folded beneath the impact.
Frieda slid her chair back in an instant, falling into a fighting stance. One hand gripped the cross hanging around her neck, and the other slid into her vest pocket. She wore an expression he could barely recognize, something he’d never seen on her face before.
She was afraid of him. The realization stung, and more than a little bit.
The Reverend didn’t move from his seat, but he could still feel heat coursing through his veins. He forced his pulse to slow, his emotions to subside. He loved the feeling of rage but was terrified of what would happen if he gave into it; if he embraced it.
He glanced at the hand in her pocket and realized what weapon she had chosen to defend herself. A pang shot through his chest.
“Would it work?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but a minute trace of shame crossed her face. He stood slowly and walked around the table, reaching a hand toward her. To her credit, she barely flinched as he touched her. He gently pulled her fist out of the pocket and opened it. In her grip was a small vial filled with water.
Will it work?” he asked.
“Arthur…” she breathed.
The name brought a flood of memories, furrowing his brow. A little girl playing in a field, picking blueberries and laughing. A wife with auburn hair who watched him with love and longing as he played with their daughter. He quashed them; he feared the pain the memories would bring.
That was a pain he did not cherish.
“I need to know,” he whispered.
He slid the vial from her hand and popped the top off. She watched in resignation as he held up his right arm and poured a few droplets onto his exposed skin. It tingled where it touched, little more than a tickle, and he felt his skin turn hot.
But it didn’t burn.
He let out the shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Thank God,” Frieda whispered.
“I’m not sure She deserves it,” Arthur replied.
“We need your help,” Frieda said again. When he looked at her face once more, he saw moisture in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from relief that the blessed water didn’t work, or sadness that it almost had.
“How can I possibly help?” he asked, gesturing at his body helplessly with his arms. “You see what I am. What I’ve become.”
“I know what you were.”
“What I am no longer,” he corrected. “I was ignorant and foolish. I can never be that man again.”
“Three girls are missing,” she said.
“Three girls are always missing,” he said, “and countless more.”
“But not like these,” she said. “These are ours.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Rescues?”
She nodded. “Two showed potential. All three were being fostered by the Greathouse family.”
He remembered Charles Greathouse, an old and idealistic man who just wanted to help. “Of course, you went to Charles,” Arthur said. “He took care of your little witches until they were ready to become soldiers.”
“He volunteered.”
“And now he’s dead,” Arthur said. Frieda didn’t correct him. “Who took the girls?”
“We don’t know. But there’s more. It killed three of ours.”
“Michael and Rachael Felton.”
“And the third?”
He cursed. “You know she wasn’t ready. Not for this.”
“You’ve been here for five years,” Frieda said. “She grew up.”
“She’s still a child.”
“She wasn’t anymore.”
“She’s my child.”
Frieda hesitated, frowning. He knew as well as she did what had happened to put him in this prison and what part Abigail had played in it. If Abigail hadn’t stopped him…
“We didn’t expect . . .” Frieda said finally, sliding away from the minefield in the conversation.
“You never do.”
“I’m sorry,” Frieda said. “I know you were close.”
The Reverend—Arthur—had trained Abigail. Raised her from a child after rescuing her from a cult many years earlier. It was after his own child had been murdered, and he had needed a reason to go on with his life. His faith was wavering, and she had become his salvation. They were more than close. They were family.
And now she was dead.
“What took them? Was it the Ninth Circle?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Our informants haven’t heard anything.”
“A demon?”
“Probably several.”
“Where did it take them?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“What is it going to do with them?”
This time, she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“So you want me to clean up your mess?”
“It killed three of our best,” Frieda said. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”
“What does the Council want you to do?”
“Wait and see.”
“And you disagree?”
“I’m afraid that it’ll be too late by the time the Council decides to act.”
“You have others you could send.”
“Not that can handle something like this,” she said.
“You mean none that you could send without the Council finding out and reprimanding you?”
“You were always the best, Arthur.”
“Now I am in prison.”
“You are here voluntarily,” she said. “I’ve taken care of everything. There is a car waiting topside and a jet idling. So, will you help?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m not that man anymore.”
“I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I do.”
“What happens if I say ‘no’?”
“I don’t know,” Frieda said, shaking her head. “You are my last hope.”
“What happens,” he began, a lump in his throat, “when I don’t come back? What happens when I become the new threat and you have no one else to send?”
Frieda wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.
“When that day comes,” she said softly, staring at the table, “I’ll have an answer to a question I’ve wondered about for a long time.”
“What question is that?”
She looked up at him. “What is my faith worth?”

Book Trailer:

Tour is sponsored by 4
Nonne Jules & Co. 
Just like the wheels on a car, our strong Wills keep you moving forward. 

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Good Morning: A new adventure

Good morning, 

Today I'm going out to have a new adventure. I'm traveling into Indiana to give a presentation, talk, workshop about "Waterlilies Over My Grave" to a senior citizens residence's book club.  I've given talks before, but never to a book club before. Bringing alone lots of questions and ice breaking ideas that I got from an Internet article. (A couple, actually.) 

After this book, if all goes well, they'll be reading "In the Arms of the Enemy." The book about the horse industry. 

Can't wait until "Legacy of Danger" comes out. That's the one with the castle and ghosts. I hope you all get a chance to read it and give me your feedback. The date is set for sometime in September or October. I'll keep you informed. 

Have a good one. 

Patricia A. Guthrie (Pat) 

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Good morning fellow: bloggers, readers, writers and everyone who's been following me.

Good morning fellow: bloggers, readers, writers and everyone else who's been following me. You are appreciated. 

What am I working on? Really want to know? A real-life murder/paranormal mystery. Not a romantic suspense this time, although it has its romantic moments. That's all I'll mention at the moment. I'm still working out the plot line. 

If you've been following, you know that "Legacy of Danger" will actually be coming out in the fall. 
Young woman inherits a castle in Romania and is stalked by assassins and helped by a hostile ex-boyfriend and her deceased husband. Yes, that's right her DECEASED husband. He's a ghost. She (they) run into all kinds of friends and enemies along the way, including a young nine-year-old Romanian boy who adores all things American, the Bears, both team and his horse. Can't wait until its out. 

Tomorrow "Waterlilies Over My Grave" comes out again. This time, we're going to a book club meeting where I'll be presenting the book to senior citizens, who've already read it, and, I understand, have a LOT of questions. I've worked out a few plot and character questions for them, too. This should be fun. 

Anyone want to host a blog tour? Let me know.

Everyone, have a great day. 

Patricia A. Guthrie

Monday, May 2, 2016

BOOK REVIEW: "Finding Katie" by Harmony Kent The story of one girls struggle for survival and overcome the traumas of childhood. As suspenseful as any thriller

This is a well-deserved five star book, the story of one girl's struggle for survival and to overcome the traumas of her childhood. We start our journey as Kate wakes up in the hospital, is admitted into a mental ward and subsequently learns her parents don't want her anymore. Seventeen-year-old Kate now abandoned and locked up. Why? Because of the horrific self-infliction of wounds that we learn is part of the "Gothic" culture--but not in Kate's case. She's not Gothic, just horribly abused and in need of getting rid of her pain. This is her story, but not hers alone. There are the friends she makes along the way, fellow abused patients, a caring staff, which is good to see after all the stories told about abusive mental health workers. Not here. If ever a child had a way of regaining self-esteem and road-to-recovery, it's Kate. Harmony Kent did a brilliant job of research, character development and plot design. Good work to Ms. Kent and "Finding Katie."

Patricia A. Guthrie

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

D.E. Howard Winner of Rave Review Book Club's "Push Forward Week."

Congratulations to D.E. Howard for winning Rave Review Book Club’s “Push Forward Week.”

D. E. Howard -
Blog or Website:
Twitter: @dehauthor
Facebook Page URL:

            Assaie’s Gift
Human love can last a lifetime, the love of a Goddess is eternal.

Kia Deering is a normal teenage girl looking forward to celebrating her 18th birthday in style. What she didn't anticipate was the revelation that would change her life beyond recognition. 
The Goddess Assaie fell for a human and gave up everything, including her identity, to be with him, sacrificing everything she ever knew in the name of true love. 
When Kia discovered she was a descendant of the Goddess she had a year to embrace all that it meant or to turn her back on her destiny forever. 
Kia had always believed herself to be ordinary but now she was extraordinary she had no idea if she could handle the potential of the power within her. Perhaps the handsome young man she meets in a nightclub could be the distraction she needed, or perhaps he will open up a whole new set of questions himself. 

“A pantheonic love story with several twists on the theme, I can highly recommend this first novel by this author”
“Amazing book from start to end”
“I shall be recommending it to my friends”

Events from the past come together, in this fantastical romance, to change the present and nothing will ever be the same again, for any of them. 

Read D E Howard's début novel Assaie's Gift and follow a love that began in another era. 


Do you believe in magic?

Ellie Forrester didn't. 

Raised an only child by a mother who never hid her resentment Ellie learned from an early age to be self sufficient. 

Finally moving away from her mother's negative influence Ellie thought her small run down flat was a little piece of paradise. 

The old book she found hidden away didn't seem to be anything remarkable but Ellie soon discovered that it contained far more than just the words on the pages. 

Ellie soon discovered that not only did magic exist but it was within her reach. 

Do you believe in magic? 
Ellie Forrester does!

Patricia A. Guthrie

In the Arms of the Enemy
Waterlilies Over My Grave
Legacy of Danger (coming soon) 

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Good Push Tuesday Morning for Linda M. Filler

Good morning!

Rave Review Book Clubs Push  Tuesday winner is Linda M. Filler and her book, "Target In The Sun."


An infant loses both his parents tragically and spends his youth and young adulthood in disconnected search and longing, surviving on the streets of coastal Mexico where the beauty and allure of his homeland mix with his relentless desire to belong. 

Anticipation builds as powerful human emotions span a search for love, acceptance and belonging to existence in a world wrought with escalating illicit drug trade from the depths of lush Mexican jungles across borders in a vast network of distribution throughout America. An expansive coalition of drug enforcement agencies on both sides of the border mount a fierce campaign of surveillance and seizure with swift and destructive assault on the drug lords their ultimate objective. 

All the while a young boy struggles with the heart-wrenching prospect of a life of loneliness, sadness, anger, and an unwavering resistance to commitment. Amidst the turmoil of surroundings and circumstance a boy becomes a man in a search for belonging that leads a troubled soul on a dangerous romp from the sultry Mexican Riviera beaches to the heat of coastal nightclubs and salacious entanglements behind closed doors. 

As time passes, Mia’s visits to Puerto Vallarta become more frequent and her relationship with Carlos becomes ever-clearer. At first mere carnal instinct, a conquest of pleasures, life events and new acquaintance bring discovery, emotional attachment and a burning desire for enduring love as it was always meant to be. 

‘Target In The Sun’ is an impassioned story of search and longing for the ultimate connection.

This looks interesting. Why not pick up a copy? 

Monday, March 14, 2016




Indie writer, Harmony Kent is an award winning multi-genre author. Her publications include:

The Battle for Brisingament (Fantasy Fiction) AIA approved.
The Glade (Mystery/Thriller) AIA approved/BRAG Medallion Honouree/New Apple Literary Awards Official Selection Honours 2015
Elemental Earth (YA Fantasy Fiction)
Finding Katie (Women’s Fiction)
Slices of Soul (Contemporary Poetry)

As well as being an avid reader and writer, Harmony also offers editing, proof reading, manuscript appraisal, and beta reading services.  As well as reviewing and supporting her fellow indie authors, Harmony works hard to promote and protect high standards within the indie publishing arena.  She is always on the lookout for talent and excellence, and will freely promote any authors or books who she feels have these attributes. 

Well, that’s the official biography … Harmony also has violent tendencies and forced me to add a not quite so official version …

Harmony Kent is famous for her laughter, and has made quite the name for herself … she’s also, um, a writer … and fairly well known for that too. She lives in rural Cornwall with her ever-present sense of humour and quirky neighbours. She is single and not admitting to her age.
Here are ten things she thinks you ought to know about her …
  1. Born in 2013 (at least the author was …)
  2. Really boring
  3. Has absolutely no sense of humour
  4. Biographer is a compulsive liar
  5. Reads … a lot
  6. Writes … even more
  7. Completely sane(in)
  8. Neighbours are nuts
  9. If you’re feeling extra brave, she’s around
  10. Online …

Here’s where you can reach her:
Twitter: @harmony_kent 

I hope you enjoy her books.

Patricia A. Guthrie

Friday, March 11, 2016

BOOK REVIEW I'm Not Crazy, I'm Allergic by Sherilyn Powers

I'm Not Crazy... I'm Allergic (Kindle Edition)

Allergies vs Depression or Allergies CAUSE depression? Who would have thought? 

I've had bad allergies from childhood (hay fever back then) and I've suffered depression all my life. I always knew I had allergies, but didn't really know about the depression until I researched material for a speech class that covered teen suicide. 

I discovered I had many of the same symptoms and discovered that I had better look deeper into this. This is he first book I've discovered that shows the possible correlation between allergies and depression, so I thank Sherilyn for discovering this. Sherilyn had to do a lot of research for this book, it's well covered, organized and well written. I'm giving "I'm Not Crazy...I'm Allergic 5 stars because the book DESERVES IT.

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

And the Whippoorwill Sang by Micki Peluso

A book I highly recommend. 
I began writing after a personal tragedy, as a catharsis for my grief. This lead to a first time out publication in Victimology: An International Magazine and a 25 year career in Journalism. I've freelanced and been staff writer for one major newspaper and written for two more. I have published short fiction and non-fiction, as well as slice of life stories in colleges and magazines, including e-zine editions.Two of my horror stories were recently published in "The Speed of Dark", an anthology by author and publisher, Clayton Bye. I'm a professional book reviewer for The New York Journal of Books and Readertoreader, as well as a freelance reviewer. My first book was published in 2008; a funny true family story of love, loss and survival, called, . . . AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG. The book was reissued as a second edition in March of 2012 and won the silver award from NESTA CBC, for writing that helps make the world a better place. I am presently working on a collection of short fiction, slice of life stories and essays, in a book called, Heartbeat. . . Slices of life.
Background Information
Due to extenuating circumstances in my life, like a wacky mom and messy divorce, I eloped at the age of seventeen, with my high school sweetheart, replacing all my dreams with different ones. We raised six kids and had wonderfully comical lives. Butch was the regimental "Sound of Music' dad, whistling for his kids, while I was the nurturer. We crossed country twice, lived in a real haunted house and were living a wonderful life, if not wealthy monetarily, rich in love. A tragic accident happened, changing our lives forever. I could not speak of it, so I wrote and wrote, a long labor of love, until a book was born. . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, written as a catharsis for my grief and salvation for my sanity, as we learned to weep . . .to laugh . . .to grieve . . .to dance.

Micki and Butch face the horror every parent fears—awaiting the fate of one of their children. While sitting vigil in the ICU waiting room, Micki traverses the past, as a way of dealing with an inconceivable future.
From the bizarre teenage elopement with her high school sweetheart, Butch, in a double wedding with her own mother, to comical family trips across country in an antiquated camper with six kids and a dog, they leave a path of chaos, antics and destruction in their wake. Micki shows the happy times of raising six children while living in a haunted house as the young parents grow up with their kids. She bravely attempts to be the man of the house while her husband is working out of town. Hearing strange noises, which all the younger kids are sure is the ghosts, Micki tiptoes down to the cellar, shotgun in hand and nearly shoots . . . an Idaho potato that has fallen from the pantry and thumped down the stairs. The rest of her children feel obligated to tell the world. Just when their lives are nearly perfect, tragedy strikes--and the laughter dies.
There is a terrible accident in the placid valley nestled within the Susquehanna Mountains in the town of Williamsport, Pennsylvania. It occurs on a country lane just blocks from the family’s hundred year old haunted farmhouse. Micki , in a state of shock, muses through their delightful past to avoid confronting an uncertain future—as the family copes with fear and apprehension.
One of her six children is fighting for life in the hospital; in a semi-coma, hovering between this world and the next. Both parents are pressured by doctors to disconnect Noelle, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Her beautiful girl, funny and bright, who breathes life into every moment, does cartwheels in piles of Autumn leaves, singing and dancing down country roads--loves her family with all her soul. How can Micki let this child go? The family embarks upon its unbearable journey to the other side of sorrow and grasps the poignant gift of life as they begin. . .to weep. . .to laugh. . .to grieve. . .to dance--and forgive.
Tagline: Happy time, a sunny day, a driving drunk, eight lives forever changed.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Lori Soard "It's Hard to Go Home." Now on

Once again, I had to take a short hiatus from blogging. I've been spit polishing "Legacy of Danger" and have finally sent it to my publisher (LSPDigitalLLC) I'm back now, working on a marketing plan with help from Alinka Rutkowska (100 Review Book Launch) and 52 Ways to sell More Books by Penny Sansevieri

But, here's something for somebody else:  Lori Soard, author of "It's Hard to Go Home  won Rave Review Book Club's "Push Tuesday" award. 
Here's the synopsis. I just picked up the book and can't wait to read it. 

  Millie Jackson loves the freedom of running through the wooded mountains of wild and beautiful West Virginia. It sure beats going home to the strict mother who reins over her home. She has her two cousins, Josh and Aaron for company. And she can avoid Old Man Taylor, who scares her a little with his daily treks up a steep mountain to visit the grave of his wife. 

When Josh is killed in a car accident, Millie has a hard time accepting his death. At first she refuses to believe he is dead. It is surely a horrible mistake. But the cold, harsh reality starts to sink in and she realizes that he is truly gone forever. She never told him how much she loved him. 

As Millie defies her parents and takes daily treks to the grave, she becomes further involved with Renee, who begins urging her to try some drugs that will "make her feel better." 

Will Millie make the right choice that honors Josh's memory? Or, will she spiral down until there is no return?

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Jessica, the Autobiography of an Infant: How Far Back Can We Remember?

Jessica, the Autobiography of an Infant
By Jeffrey Von Glahn, PHD
                This is the true psychological process of a troubled young woman who had no sense of “self” no sense of deserving of love, attention or anything good that came her way. Taken throughout over three years of psychotherapy, patient and therapist weave an true story that peals layer upon layer, until all she’s left with is her “me” her inner self. They take us back throughout her life until we reach the core of her birth and a bit beyond.
               This is an incredible journey. Not frightening, but intense none the less. We see her progress and regressions: one step forward, two back as we’re privileged to peek into their sessions and discover a trip few ever see.
                I didn’t realize anyone could remember back so far. Few have. It makes me wonder, could I with the proper guidance? It also makes me wonder, do I want to?
                Excellently written, as some other reviews pointed out, it reads like a novel, and it does. It was hard to put down.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Do You Set Goals? Jessica: The Autobiography of an Infant.

So do you? Set goals?

Usually, when I do, then don't take hold and my goals either change or diminish as time goes by. 

But, here are mine for the New Year, anyway. Hopefully, with setting deadlines and keeping up enthusiasm for tasks, they will not only take hold, but will become achievable. Here goes. 

1. Finish final edits for Legacy of Danger--deadline March 1st. 

2. Start new project, possibly a cozy mystery series. That seems to be popular and usually provides a fun read. (not sure I have that fun of a personality, but I'll try. Romantic suspense has ever been my forte) 

3. Read books and review them for Amazon. I'm on Rave Review Book Clubs a great source of inspiration where members read and review each others' books. 

4. Promote existing published books: In the Arms of the Enemy and Waterlilies Over My Grave (see  Patricia A. Guthrie) 

5. Keep up Writer's Rock, my Facebook writer's group. Many talented, professional and amateur writers are in this group at varying levels. In order to participate in the workshops, you have to be on AOL (Chapter One) Monday nights. You can join and get great information on Facebook. 

Currently reading: "Jessica: The Autobiography of an infant."  Wow, is this ever psychologically deep. If you like psychology this is the book for you. 



Monday, January 4, 2016

Read---Kill Devil: Mystery of the Cane by P.J. Erickson

Here's a book to read in the cold, cold days of winter. A red-hot novel by P.J. Erickson.

KILL DEVIL: Mystery of the Cane by PJ. Erickson (winner of Rave Review Book Clubs Push Week) For Sale on

Someone is clearing the streets of derelicts in a Florida town and the police have other things to do, but when a young girl disappears, Chase Larsen discovers a trail of kidnapping and slavery that leads to a bizarre plantation where two men plot the destruction of America.
Florida's diverse and awesome beauty becomes the backdrop for this novel of kidnapping and murder where one man must bridge the distance between centuries to prevent a deadly conspiracy.
Fast paced action once again embroils Chase and his private investigator, Annie, in mayhem and murder led by none other than their nemesis, Dominick Wilding. The plot weaves through pre-civil war to cyberterrorism with places so vivid you'll see them and characters you'll remember long after you've finished reading.
Don't miss this new adventure. What is Dominick up to now? Will he triumph or will Chase solve the puzzle in time?

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Quote by Franklin D. Roosevelt from Quotable Notes

Happy New Year to everyone who travels through my blogs. Here's a neat quote by FDR. 

" There are many ways of going forward, but only one way of standing still. " Franklin D. Roosevelt. 

I've found writer's block (see my blog) and procrastination to be debilitating. I've also found many ways out. Sometimes it takes a long, long time to get there, other's not long at all. 

This year, I managed to finish a novel I'd started in the late 1990's. It was tough updating some information, trends, social media and electronics, but I THINK I manage to accomplish this. 

So, I did it. I finished the book. Then I enlisted the help from some very good writer/reader beta readers who managed to get me to make a great deal of changes, and MORE changes are still sitting in my files. 

Legacy of Danger is a paranormal romantic suspense novel. I'm hoping it will "get out" this year. Bye Bye baby. It's like sending a kid off to college or the workforce.

Getting back to the quote, I've found many ways back into the writing mode. But standing still is just that. Like sitting in the middle of a traffic jam that won't move. (brain is traffic jam).

Have a great day and a great year.