Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Finn-agled is LIVE!!!


Finn-agled
A Finn’s Finds Mystery

It’s LIVE!!!

A secret message hidden inside of an antique wooden box, an unidentified dead body, and a mother determined to marry her off to the high school crush whom she hasn’t seen since…well…high school.  There’s no doubt about it; Finn Bartusiak’s life in the seaside town of Port New is about to get interesting.

Coming into possession of a 19th-century, bronze and mahogany writing box under somewhat suspicious circumstances, Finn’s accidental discovery of a coded note leads her and Spencer Dane, bestselling novelist and love of her life (though he doesn’t know it yet), on a quest to unravel the mystery behind the jumble of letters.  But they’re not the only ones interested in the cryptic message.  There’s a con man on their trail, and he’ll stop at nothing, including murder, to claim the ‘treasure’ for himself. 

Get it here.


A slip of paper slightly larger than an index card fell from between the seams and floated ever so gently to the floor. Almost dropping the case in my elation (wouldn’t that just be my luck?), I set it gingerly on the table and retrieved the note.
Zubcd Yefemeby
Xlw k Wrlm no
Vpqre Upbpqee

Huh? What kind of crazy language is this?
I attempted to sound it out, tripping over my tongue because – let’s face it – it’s impossible to pronounce words that have no vowels. Thinking I’d stumbled onto either an ancient, and possibly forgotten, language, or a secret military code, I hopped back on the computer for some serious research. It wasn’t until the Gothic cathedral mantel clock perched on the shelf above a row of whiskey barrels chimed twelve that I realized I’d been staring at the screen for the better part of three hours. That would explain my grainy eyeballs.
“Time to call it a night. Come on, Garfunkel. Let’s go home.”

Shutting off the computer, I slipped the note into my pocket, leaving the writing case in my office for the time being. Who knew what other mysterious messages might be hidden inside? Turning off the light, plunging the room into darkness, I walked out front to collect my sleepy hound, dim lumens from the street lamp outside filtering in through the plate glass window, illuminating my way and casting shadows along the floor and walls. Headlights from a passing car briefly lit up the interior of the shop, glinting off the wind chimes that hung over the front door.

If only I’d had the forethought to hang a set of chimes over the back door as well. Then, perhaps, they would’ve warned me about the person who jimmied the lock, crept up behind me, and wrapped his fingers around my neck, squeezing until everything went black.
Get it here.

Friday, April 5, 2019

A Different Kind of Motherhood...

It's easy to look back and miss those things in life you wanted that, for whatever reason, never became a reality.  It's harder, sometimes, to look around and appreciate - deeply appreciate - those things that took the place of your dreams.

Recently, I was asked in an interview what I'd wanted to be when I grew up.  I hesitated for a split second before answering with the truth.  I wanted to be a mother.  That's it.  That's all I wanted.

Growing up, I had the best mom in the world.  Still do, actually.  The youngest of four, I was her 'baby', and my earliest childhood memories are of the two of us listening to music as I 'helped' her with housework, snuggling in her lap as she read to me, baking Christmas cookies together, even going grocery shopping.  She was there every morning when I woke up, and she tucked me in at night, and was there all of the hours in-between.  She had this way of making every holiday special, whether it was a big one like Christmas or something more obscure like Abraham Lincoln's birthday.  Mothering, to her, was such a joy and more than anything else, that's what I wanted for my life.

I remember when I was twelve I told her that; that I wanted to be a mommy when I grew up, and that desire stayed with me throughout adolescence and into adulthood.  The only career path I wanted to follow was motherhood.  In my mid-twenties, I met a wonderful man who shared my dream, and together we made plans to have a dozen children.  Yeah, I know, but the way I look at it, if you're going to dream, dream big.  So we did.  And we got married and started working on baby number one. 

And nothing happened.

Months of doctors' visits and samples and tests and ovulation schedules became the norm.  Then, one day, the stick turned blue.  Our elation was short-lived, though, because I miscarried in my first trimester.  I'll spare you the tale of my emotional upheaval.  Suffice it to say we didn't give up.  We tried again.  And again.  And again.  For ten years, we tried; trips to fertility specialists, hormone treatments, multiple laparotomies, eight IUIs, and more money than we could afford, we attempted to realize our dream.  Of course, our plan for twelve children was gone.  We just wanted one.  One baby.

Unfortunately, four additional miscarriages  - two of them ectopic requiring emergency surgery on two separate occasions to remove my ruptured fallopian tubes - and my dream was gone.  We considered adoption; spoke with an agency, met with an attorney, came very close to adopting twins, but it didn't work out for a multitude of reasons.  My heart was broken.  I was never going to be a mom.

The Universe, however, in its subtle way, had been providing me with an alternative opportunity to mother.  During that decade of infertility treatments and surgeries and pregnancies and miscarriages, my husband and I had been rescuing strays.  Dogs, cats, puppies, kittens - even ferrets; any animal that needed a home was welcome at ours.  Caring for them fulfilled my nurturing needs, and though it wasn't immediately apparent, I realized I didn't have to have human children to be a mom. 

It's been more than a decade since my reality shifted.  I'm almost fifty-two now, and sincerely believe that my life to this point has worked out the way it was supposed to.  I was meant to mother these creatures who depend on me to keep them warm and fed and healthy and safe. 

There are moments I still feel the longing to have children in my life and wonder what it would be like today had things worked out differently.  When friends post pictures of their kids' big events - proms, graduations, weddings - or when they share photos of grandbabies, I feel like I'm missing out.  And then I look around at the lives I've saved, and I know I'm exactly who and where I'm meant to be.


This guy here is Rebel, and for eighteen years he's been a part of the family.  Eighteen.  The same number of years it takes for a child to grow from infancy into adulthood.  He's just one of the many my husband and I rescued, and while I have moments where I feel like I've missed out on that part of my life that never was, when I look around my home, all I see is love.


Thursday, March 28, 2019

A Matter of Perspective...

Social media, for all of its interactive benefits and hilarious memes, has done more to reinforce my feelings of worthlessness than five years of elementary school, three years of middle school, and four years of high school combined.  I know it's me - how my psyche is wired.  I could win a Nobel Prize, an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, a Grammy (assuming I achieved anything worthy of those awards) and hit multiple bestsellers' lists with each book I write, and still not recognize my accomplishments.  It's a battle I fight every day - sometimes I'm victorious and other times not.  Recently, the scales have been tipping towards the 'not'.

I can list a multitude of reasons as to why my WIP is still 'in progress'.  Some would be legitimate; some would be nothing more than me whining like a three-year-old.  The result is the same - the book's not finished.  Now, dependant upon the story I'm writing, my word count on any given day fluctuates between 'not being able to complete a sentence' to 'take a look at that lottery jackpot - I have to buy a ticket'.  (Okay, maybe just the Pick-Four winnings, but it still counts.)  With this particular manuscript, it's been weeks to months of the former.  I'm making progress but at a snail's pace.

So, what do I do?  I turn to Facebook.

As if being online is a constructive way to spend my time, I log into my account and see post after post of authors citing what seem to be unattainable (for me) daily word counts.  5700K, 6300K, 9100K - EVERY SINGLE DAY.  Now, I know there are some who can knock out those kinds of numbers easily.  I'm not saying it can't be done, and kudos to those out there who have both the discipline and ability (are you available to be cloned?), but I'm not one of them.  On either count. 

So, since my story's going nowhere and my brain can't come up with anything clever to write, I roll the dice and take my turn playing the comparison game, losing miserably.  Then I see it - a mention of dictation software.  Then another.  And another.  And, suddenly, it becomes clear.  Some of those authors who are achieving consistently high word counts have found an alternative way to do so.  What's that mean for me?  Hope.

Now, before you say it, I understand that I'm still going to have to put in the time and effort.  The words aren't going to magically appear on the page - though wouldn't it be cool if they could?  I'm going to have to stay offline and WORK, but that's not the point of this post.  The point is, I was so busy feeding my insecurities that I lost my perspective.  High daily word counts are achievable with the right tools at my disposal, and with that knowledge, I wage today's battle feeling a little less worthless.

 Amazon Prime, here I come!

  


Friday, February 15, 2019

An Author's Anthem...

Not a day goes by that at least one author friend fails to mention their despair over lackluster readership.   I know I've spent the better part of the past five years searching for mine.  Some say the market is flooded - too many books to go around.  While there are millions of titles to choose from, I don't buy the explanation that readers have too many options.  Don't believe me?  The next time you're at the grocery store, take a look at the condiment aisle.  I bet you'll find at least two dozen varieties of barbeque sauce - and those are just the ones that make it onto the shelf.  People like variety, and while the majority of shoppers might toss a bottle of Kraft into their cart, there are always those folks who'll take home Stubb's or Sweet Baby Ray's.  It's the same with books.  There's an audience for everything - the key is how to tap into it.

Now, I'll admit, I'm not very good with puzzles (jigsaws aside).  My brain has difficulty fitting together moving pieces, especially when they shape-shift halfway through the process.  I'm referring, of course, to the ever-changing book market.  What's hot one day is ice-cold the next.  Sales platforms continually update the hows and whys and what fors, and for someone who, thirty years ago, barely squeaked by their college-level economics class with a passing grade, I find the entire undertaking a mystery.  Sadly, as my opening sentence illustrates, I'm not alone.

I've put a lot of thought into what I want out of this career.  Riches and fame aside - just kidding...well, only a little - I want to entertain; provide readers with a few hours of enjoyment and escapism.  But what I really want is for them to take a chance on me.  That unknown author who no one is talking about that wrote the book no one is reading.  My book.

So the following is dedicated to all of the authors out there who feel the same way.

An Author’s Anthem

You may not know me, but I am not unknown.
Though my covers don’t grace your Kindle
And my characters remain unmet;
My words unread;
My stories are not less.

Days, weeks, months;
Years of emotion and sacrifice are
Inked across each page,
New worlds waiting to be discovered
Anticipating exploration by curious minds.

I understand; my reviews don’t number 100, or 50, or 10;
Not necessarily a reflection of quality,
Nevertheless, you’re wary of investing money and time
Into works unfamiliar.
What you don't realize is I’ve invested much more than that.

Time away from family and friends,
Lack of sleep, of proper nutrition, of sanity.
Of believing I can succeed when portents around me suggest otherwise.
My heart and soul are etched into each word; each paragraph;
Each story.

I write of happiness and despair; second chances and renewal.
Of failure and hope and excitement and expectation.
Life abounds between the pages.
My life – your life.
THIS is why you should know me.

Time to take a chance on something new...