Shirl Henke: MADE FOR EACH OTHER:

I never set out to write about Indians. Okay, Native Americans. But you see, when I began my career in historical romance back in the late Pleistocene, the name—or misname (blame Columbus for that one)—was Indian, or American Indian. I’d grown up reading Zane Grey, Luke Short, Edison Marshall and many more western writers. Not a big surprise that my first two novels were western romances, tales of Old California about horse breeders, gold miners and ranchers. I don’t do cowpokes, lonesome or otherwise.

But then this idea with a hero as an outsider came to me—a man disowned as unworthy by his father. The father (villain of the piece, of course) would force a young woman into marriage, intending for her to give him a pure-blooded heir. Now this could be anything from a Medieval to a Victorian. It could be set lots of places. But I’d just watched a PBS special on the High Plains Horse Indians (yes, they did have televisions back then). After some research, I decided my hero’s mother would be Northern Cheyenne and his cruel father would be a cattle baron. The lovely, unhappy young wife (who becomes a widow midway through the book) would fall in love with the half-breed hero.

The thought of a mystical bond between the lovers was not part of the equation. This was going to be a relationship-oriented love story about a man finding acceptance through the love of a woman who was brave enough to defy the bigotry of white society. But when I began to write the opening chapter, a peculiar thing happened (cue the eerie music…or maybe a slowly beating tom-tom). The hero came to me as a youth on his vision quest. When he saw the hawk swooping down from the sky to carry away a wolf cub, my seven-year-old heroine awakened a thousand miles away from a frightening nightmare. She had just shared his medicine dream.

I swear I am not making this up.

Well, okay, I’m a fiction writer. I did make it up. But I had never consciously considered it when I outlined the plot. Hawk and Carrie shared a bond that endured over miles and years until destiny brought them together, through the mystical power of his Cheyenne grandfather.

Since then I’ve written many romances with Cheyenne, Apache, Taino, Muskogee and Sioux characters. Some were heroes or heroines, others wise medicine men or women. Armchair shrinks could say I’m just using another manifestation of Jung’s “Old Wise Man Archetype. I won’t disagree. Like the idea of “the West” itself, this is a primal, powerful myth.

Through Native American mysticism a grand design created for special lovers completes the circle. Their lives are guided so that they fulfill their destiny by learning to understand each other even though they come from different worlds. Being part of this mystical universe allows them to understand themselves and how they are fated to live out their lives together. That is the bedrock of any good romance.

In my July release, Chosen Woman, I added another layer of conflict to the mystical elements. Fawn, my Cheyenne heroine, is the Chosen Woman who inherits her grandfather’s gift of prophesy. Her recurring visions while she is being educated back East involve a red prairie wolf that she comes to consider her totem, her protector. But when a cocky red-haired Irishman appears to guard her on her journey home to her people, she feels an irrational aversion to him. He, in fact, terrifies her. This arrogant white man could not be her protector…could he?

At first Jack believes Fawn is simply a spoiled brat, but after she saves his life by knocking him from his horse just before a bullet whizzes by his head, he gets a creepy feeling. Maybe there is some truth to what her white adoptive father told him about her ability to see the future. On the trip from St. Louis to Oklahoma Territory, Fawn realizes that she is developing greater control of her powers with Jack at her side. When evil men kidnap her, she projects her vision of them to him. Through her eyes, he sees them and the place where they hide. At story’s end, he understands and she accepts that he is her Red Wolf, her spirit guide and protector. Neither is complete without the other.

Call it a match made in heaven…or a design decreed by the Powers. Either way, it’s pure romance magic.

Deborah Grace Staley on the Angel Ridge Series

In 1995, my family and I purchased a fabulous circa. 1867 farmhouse on seven acres in the rolling hills of East Tennessee . On one side of the house, there's a breathtaking view of the mountains of North Carolina . On the other side you can see the backwaters of what is now Tellico Lake . The home has a unique "butterfly" design. That means that on either side of the front door, there are two wings--capped by two bay windows--that jut out, making a V shape around the trapezoid-shaped front porch.

Now, I am a lover of old homes. I have traveled extensively in the south and have toured more than I can name. I not only love the homes for their beauty and unique architectural elements, but also for the history surrounding them. So, naturally, when I moved into my own historic home, I immediately set out to research its roots. The more research I did, the more interesting facts I learned about the area surrounding the home.

The first settlers that came to this part of East Tennessee (present day Vonore, Greenback, and Maryville ) settled along the Little Tennessee River . They built their homes near the river, grew cotton and other crops. Some had received these parcels of land as Revolutionary War pensions. One notable person who purchased land in the area was the father of Sam Houston. In fact, the man who built my house, A.B. Howard, was Sam Houston's brother-in-law. Additionally, the gravesite of Sam Houston's mother and the Sam Houston Schoolhouse are only a few miles from my house.

The people who lived in this area were wealthy. They lived well. Their homes were not quaint frontier cabins, but rather elegantly appointed plantations. They had weeklong parties when the paddleboats came up to the docks to pick up shipments of crops. Their children went to private schools. They rode fast horses. They intermarried. They stood together against Indian attacks. They feuded. But it all ended.

The river on which the people built their homes frequently flooded making rich bottomland in which to grow crops. It also left wide spread destruction each time it flooded. The Tennessee Valley Authority was established by the federal government to deal with this flooding problem. The plan was to install a system of dams to control the levels of the water along the rivers in Tennessee and also to create lakes for recreational purposes. Creating the lakes required flooding large areas of land along the river. So, most of those fine plantation homes that once stood near my home are now inundated. Covered by what is now Tellico Lake .

At this point in my research, I went into "what if" mode. What if you had lived this type of lifestyle and suddenly had it taken from you? What if you had to move up into town and live with all the other people? How would that affect you? How would you mix with everyone else?

That is the basis for the Angel Ridge Series. The McKay's and the Jones's, they were some of those displaced people. They moved up into a town called Angel Ridge , which had formed on a high ridge above the river, safe from the flooding. A town with quaint Victorian homes, now spotted with elaborate Victorian mansions more suited to its new residents. The McKay's? They owned the bank, were lawyers, accountants, professional people. The Jones's? Well, they got their money the old-fashioned way. They married money. Unfortunately, they lost it to gaming and drinking.

Now the Jones home stands abandoned at the end of town, next to the McKay property, a shell of its former glory, decaying and damaged by fire. The Houston 's are known for doing their civic duty. There has been a Houston mayor in Angel Ridge for as long as anyone can remember.
It would be safe to say that the older generation is set in its ways. It would also be safe to say that the new generation of Angel Ridge residents is determined to make their mark on the town and bring it into the Twenty-First Century. People like Cole Craig, Josie Allen, Dixie and Blake Ferguson, Candi Heart, Sheriff Grady Wallace, and even the town's current mayor, Patrick Houston.

You'll notice that the names of the town residents are Scottish, English, or Irish surnames. These are all names that are found on old tombstones in the area near my home. Some are still found on mailboxes and street signs.

And my home? Well, at the turn of the century, it sported gingerbread trim that was taken down when a former owner decked it out in crisp, white vinyl siding back in the 80's. But that trim is still in the barn, and my husband and I plan to restore it and put it back up in the eaves of the house where it belongs. The predominant feature of the trim is the fleur de lis and angel's wings. Thus the town name, Angel Ridge . And if you haven't yet guessed, I live in Miss Estelee's House.

I look forward to chatting with you today. Who knows? Maybe even Dixie or Miss Estelee will show up, so tell all your friends to come over, sit a spell, and have a chat. We’ll even give out some prizes along the way!

Ya’ll take care now!
Deborah Grace Staley

Darlene Gardner asks: How much does hearsay play into your perception of others?

I've been thinking about that question a lot this month with the release of my book The Hero's Sin, the first in a new series from Harlequin Superromance.

At the beginning of the book, Sara Brenneman witnesses Michael Donahue risk deadly whitewater to save a child from drowning. She thinks of him as a hero before she finds out that many people in town have another name for him: Murderer.

No matter what anyone says, she won't change her mind. She believes only what her heart tells her.

My editor tells me the kind of blind faith Sara displays is a hallmark of my books. Of my life too, I think. I once worked with a woman who was disliked by most of our co-workers. I heard story after negative story about her. Yet she was always perfectly lovely to me so I chose not to believe the gossip.

Naivety? Maybe. Many a woman has gotten burned for not believing friends who told her the guy she was in love with was a player.

What do you think? How can you tell when it's okay to listen to your heart?

Darlene Gardner

Geri Krotow asks: What’s In a Title?

Looking at my latest release, What Family Means (Harlequin SuperRomance 2/09), I’m at once thrilled to again be published in book-length fiction, in awe of the cover art that depicts the perfect Buffalo, New York snowstorm, and amazed at the title. My working title for this story was “Remember Paris.” While Paris does play an integral part in the romance of my hero and heroine, it isn’t what the book is about. This story is about love against all odds, and just as important, family against all odds. So you see, What Family Means turns out to be the perfect title for this story.

Family means so many different things to all of us. Family of origin, extended family, birth family, adoptive family, step-family, blended family. Then of course the adage that you can choose your friends but not your family. I think of my closest friends as indeed a part of my family. But what really connects us all? What provides the cement, the glue that keeps people, related by birth or choice, together?

I dug deep to try to find at least one answer to this question—the answer that worked for Debra and Will in What Family Means. Debra is from a white, economically-challenged part of Buffalo. Will is African-American and his father a successful doctor. Debra and Will meet as children in the 1950’s, and fall in love with one another through the 1960’s and early 1970’s. I tried to be true to history and honor the struggles couples like Debra and Will faced. But I also honored what kept them together, allowed them to marry, have children, and thrive as a couple. Love.

It’s a thrill for me to blog here at NovelTalk. It’s always been my dream to be a published author and well, here I am—book number two already! I can’t thank all the wonderful folks who read my first book, and have asked “when’s the next one coming out?”

I’ll leave you with my gratitude, and something to mentally chew on. Happy St. Valentine’s Day in advance!

What’s your definition of family? What struggles have you been through to protect and nurture your love?

Geri Krotow

Susan Vaughan: CONFESSIONS OF A TRIVIA JUNKIE

My name is Susan and I'm a trivia junkie. I love learning something new. A new word, an unusual little fact, a new process, no matter how obscure or weird. I've always enjoyed crossword puzzles, partly because of the new things I learn as I do them. And now as I get older--not that old yet but hey--crosswords keep my brain firing on most cylinders. Scrabble is fun, too, but more a search of the brain for words I already know. Here's an example of the trivia I have picked up from lord knows where. My neighbor was worrying about his father whose doctor had just told him something seemed to be going on with the older man's heart. My neighbor couldn't figure out the term the cardiologist used, couldn't figure out how to spell it to look it up. But once he said the word, I knew the spelling: i-s-c-h-e-m-i-a. Ischemia means coronary heart disease, or narrowing of the arteries. My neighbor was happy because now he could learn more on Web MD. See what I mean about trivia?

As a trivia junkie, I love acquiring new information as I research my books. I think it would be so difficult to write historical novels because of all the research involved, even the clothes and activities of daily life. But you'd be surprised how much research goes into contemporary novels as well. I found with my first book, Dangerous Attraction, I was looking for information constantly as I wrote the book. For my new release, Primal Obsession, I did a lot of direct research, personal research, with a canoe and camping trip. My husband and I took a six-day trip in the Maine wilderness with a guide and three other campers. I used the skills and experiences of the week to help me give authentic background and to plot the book. Later I had other research to do, either online, in books, or by calling people.

I did a blog post awhile ago on research being fun, but I saw one recently by another author who listed what she learned in the process of writing a book. I thought it would be fun to do the same. Here are ten things I learned while writing Primal Obsession.

1. In the state of Maine, the Maine Criminal Investigation Division handles murder cases. Only the cities of Bangor and Portland have homicide detectives. All other jurisdictions defer to the state.

2. Police often use cell phones instead of police radios because they can keep the calls more private. No one can listen in with their scanners at home.

3. There's never been a serial killer in the state of Maine. (Mine's the first!)

4. A serial killer's signature makes his crime stand out with his personal compulsion, which remains static and represents what he is. A signature is different from a modus operandi, which can change. I learned this from Mindhunter, by John Douglas, one of the founders of the FBI Investigative Support Unit.

5. The Cessna Caravan pontoon airplane can carry the pilot and eight passengers.

6. Maine Guides were first licenses in 1897. Guiding at first was primarily for hunters and fishermen but today Maine Guides are licensed for recreational guiding as well. That first year 1316 guides were licensed. The first licensed guide was a woman, Cornelia "Fly Rod" Crosby.

7. When navigating rapids in a canoe, watch for "funnels," rocks with water streaming before them. Head down the V's between the funnels/rocks.

8. Use a Radical Paddle--pull the paddle in to the canoe to make a quick turn--then power paddle through the V. The rear paddler sets the direction by switching sides and by pulling back in a J move.

9. When using a simple compass, place the red N arrow in the red section pointing north, or put "Fred in the shed," as our guide said.

10. When heading for a target spot in the woods, plot your course in short distances. Aim for a rock or tree ahead, then recheck the compass and choose a new target.

This isn't a picture of our guide but who cares. This is Sam from Primal Obsession. Watch for my book trailer, where you'll see Sam again.

Susan Vaughan

Life can bring you some zany surprises, can't it? Two years ago, right after an unexpected death in the family, I was away from home, picking out a casket on my birthday because the next of kin were too devastated, when I got a call from Marsha Zinberg at Harlequin, asking me to be a part of the upcoming Harlequin NASCAR series.

Her request, while something I told her I was completely unsuited for, was the one bright spot in a very dark day. I didn't tell her what was going on in my life right then, but when she urged me to consider the request and offered to send me more information, I reached for that ray of sunshine and said okay.

Even though, as I'd told her, "Not only do I know nothing about NASCAR, Marsha, it looks like a really dumb sport, cars just driving around in a circle."

Famous last words.

Fast forward a few weeks. I'm back at home, we're all trying to settle back into real life. I get the information and start researching. I find Nascar.com. Discover the Speed channel. Start filling up my DVR with pre-race shows—Trackside Live, coverage of qualifying, of practices, even wading my way through episodes of Performance, where crew chiefs talk about the innards of the cars (my mechanic granddaddy would have been so proud of me!!!) I pore through NASCAR for Dummies. Start absorbing terms like camber and tight and loose and downforce. I watch my first race (Bristol spring race, if anyone's interested.)

And get hooked on the continuing drama that is NASCAR—feuds and friendships, folks to cheer, others to boo, something new each and every week. At last, I understand just how complex the sport is, how much strategy plays a part, right along with skill and cunning and Lady Luck.
And then, I attend my first race, the Bristol night race—called the hottest ticket in NASCAR. And have to inform my indulgent honey, who is endlessly amused at this new fascination (okay, obsession) of mine, "Um...you know how I said all this was just research for a book? Hate to break it to you, darlin', but...I'm pretty sure I'm still going to be following racing even after I finish writing."

Of course, during all this, I have friends and family who think I've lost my mind. Who can't imagine anyone less likely to be a fan and think I'll outgrow it. I also discovered—in all sorts of unexpected places—interesting people who just happen to be race fans. (One in four Americans is a NASCAR fan, and nearly half of those are women, just so you know.)

So here I am, one Christmas novella and one 2008 book later, now unveiling the first of two books in the 2009 series, with two more stories coming in 2010...who knew?!?! The three series all have connected stories and a continuing cast of characters. Black Flag, White Lies, my February release, is about Will Branch, one of the twin driver sons of Maeve Branch, heroine of Extreme Caution, my December 2008 release. And in 2010, I'll be doing the story of Will's twin Bart.

But for those of you who, like I did, think you don't give a hoot about NASCAR, well, hey, that's your choice, for sure. You might turn out, like me, to need to eat a little crow, should you decide to check into it—or you might not. Regardless, rest assured that these book are, first and foremost, romances, so even if you're not a race fan, you'll find the same qualities in these books as my others—powerful emotion and complex characters I hope you'll root for to find love in the end.

And for those of you who were NASCAR fans long before me, well, what can I say? I came late to the party—

But I'm here to stay!
Jean
Visit Jean's website!

John Wayne, John Belushi, and Me - Barbara Bretton

For years I avoided watching The Quiet Man. WPIX played it every St Paddy's Day and by the time Sean Thornton showed up in Innisfree, I was usually heading for the kitchen to clean the oven or do something equally entertaining. I hated John Wayne back then. I hated his movies. I thought he was a lumbering, strange-looking, no-talent actor and that The Quiet Man perfectly showcased all of those qualities.

And then on St. Patrick's Day 1980 I fell in love. I don't know if I'd opened my mind to the movie or to the man, but suddenly The Quiet Man became one of my all-time favorites. I loved the theme, the scenery, the wonderful faces of those character actors in the supporting cast, but mostly I loved John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. I loved seeing strength pitted against strength. I loved the way she gave as good as she got in every situation and hung onto the things she believed defined her as a woman and as a wife. I loved (and still love) the scene in the doorway of the rose-covered cottage with the storm outside and within, the wind tangling both her hair and her emotions. She pulls away from John Wayne but he doesn't let go of her wrist. I see them, caught almost in a dance move of exquisite tension and possibilities, There is between them love and respect and desire that went deeper than reason. It's a lusty, bawdy, funny and touching movie and I almost missed it.

What was it about The Quiet Man that revealed itself to me that day that had eluded me all the times that had come before? You see, I have a theory about how certain movies turn into beloved gotta-buy-the-DVD favorites and it has to do with timing. It's a lot like love at first sight. On another day you might very well have turned away from the love of your life and wandered aimlessly and alone across the romantic horizon for the rest of your life. Same way with movies. (And with books, for that matter.) You need a serendipitous blend of mood and atmosphere and magic to turn an okay movie into one of your personal never-fail favorites.

Don't laugh, but that's how Animal House ended up near the top of my Can't Miss List of Favorites. I was in a rotten PMS mood the night The Husband and I went off to see Animal House during the summer of 1978. And to make it worse, I was retaining water. You could've used me as a buoy in the Great South Bay. After supper (which I skipped in favor of mass quantities of chocolate brownies) The Husband suggested we take in a movie. Animal House was playing at the theatre next to the bowling alley. I said I'd rather be strapped to my seat and forced to watch a Clint Eastwood Festival than go see Animal House but it was a miserably hot and humid night and the thought of air conditioning finally lured me out the door.

So there I was thirty minutes later, slumped down in my seat, determined to hate the movie with every fiber of my being. But to my surprise I didn't hate it. I loved it. I laughed until I cried. I loved Flounder and Bluto and Otter and Boone and Katie and every other idiotic character. I fell out of my seat when they trashed the new applicants to Delta. "Toga! Toga! Toga!" became my mantra. If Belushi had arched his brow in my direction that night I might have run away with him.

I've often thought that the manuscript buying process in publishing is a whole lot like Delta's screening process for pledges. Flash a manuscript page on a screen and watch overworked, underpaid editors throw crushed beer cans in its general direction. First editor to score a direct hit with a crushed can of Coors gets to make the live-or-die pass-or-buy decision.

You have no idea how much I love that image.

Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.
--Dean Wormer, Animal House

Donnell Ann Bell: Just be professional... It's not that hard

A couple of years ago, I had the opportunity to participate in my local sheriff's office citizens' academy. After sitting through six weeks of law enforcement demonstration and opinion, I believe the experience brought realism to my writing. Out of all the personnel I met during this time, there was one sergeant who impressed me above anyone else. Her words still resonate with me to this day.

Just be professional, it's not that hard.

Sadly, I can't remember her name, but I took note of her words. She was a beautiful Hispanic woman and when she stood before the class and explained that she worked in the jail -- unarmed -- among male inmates, I thought, Holy cow, this lady won't live long. Silly me. She'd worked among them for years. What's more, she was required to turn her back on this criminal element -- often.

For anyone who's been in a jail, you know there's intense security and surveillance, and the deputies can call upon immediate assistance. But knowing this didn't make me feel better. I kept thinking she could be injured or dead before help could arrive.

Turns out she hadn't made sergeant for nothing and understood the risks. What's more, she carried herself with amazing grace and an even more amazing sense of who she was. She didn't look tough on the outside, but as she called one six-foot naysayer to the front and brought him down with such ease, she filled me with a whole new appreciation and respect for who she was and what she did for a living.

After she dropped my classmate to his knees, she modestly helped him up and shook his hand. Then she turned to the class and said, "Just be professional, it's not that hard."

She also went on to explain that as a Hispanic female charged with watching over incarcerated inmates, it oftentimes presented problems. Particularly, when many of those inmates were Hispanic and grew up in households in which men did not take orders from women. So not only did the sergeant face an authority issue, she encountered a cultural barrier.
How did she handle it? By treating everyone with respect. "Those men don't know me," she said. "Their slurs and insults can't reach me. When my shift ends I go home to my family whose opinions do count."

So why do I tell you this story? Because today I'm seeing exactly what she talked about -- a reduction in professionalism. Worse, we are not inmates. I'm seeing dry wit replaced by so-called snarkiness (I have another term for it). What's more, this type of behavior is applauded. In an on-line society, where we are faceless individuals behind a computer screen, it's so easy to react and push send and forget there's a real live, flesh and blood human being on the other side.

I recently listened to a radio ad in which two actors portrayed school-aged girls, one of whom said the most horrible things to her peer. I sat back stunned, thinking what on earth? Then at the end of the message, the voice over said, "You wouldn't say it to their face, why would you say it on line?"

I don't know about you, but for anyone to even feel the need to air such a public service announcement made me incredibly sad. As for me, I think I'll follow the sergeant's example. I'll take her words to heart. I’ll strive for professionalism. I learned from the very best that it's not that hard.

Natalie Dunbar: Musings From An Edited Author

When a reader purchases an author's book, the credit or the blame for the quality of the reading experience usually goes to the author, whose name is on the book. Many readers do not understand that prior to the book getting on the shelf it goes through an editing process that the author usually participates in, but often has less than optimal control. As a multi-published author I have been edited many times. Sometimes the experience has been gratifying such as when an editor has shown me ways to make the work better as in ways of tightening a plot or character focus, removing or changing words I use too often, suggesting more effective words in some areas of the work, suggesting additional scenes to heighten the focus or impact.... The list can go on.

The relationship can be difficult, such as when you find yourself trying to reach a lofty goal of perfection that only the editor knows when it has been obtained, or when large portions of the work are summarily deleted to save paper or meet a specific word count, leaving a short and Spartan echo of the original, or new errors are somehow introduced in the editing process, or your editor is a repressed writer who really wants to write your book. In the non vanity publishing houses an editor makes the decision to buy an author's work and once it is purchased, that editor works with the author to make it the best it can be.

The relationship between an editor and the author of the work is really a partnership and when it is good, an author can flourish and grow, and when it is bad, it can stifle author creativity and turn away readers. What can an author do? Making sure that author approval is required for the final manuscript version by contract helps, but nobody introduces mistakes to a manuscript on purpose and I've seen and heard of this instance and previous manuscript versions ending up on the bookshelves in error. It should also be noted that when you are a new author you generally have little power to dictate what happens to your book. If you want your work to be published and you don't want to be self published, you don't usually get to choose your editor. They choose you by making the decision to buy your book.

This blog is not intended to bash editors. They're just doing their job. I've had some very good ones and some not so good ones. As the occasional recipient of sometimes pointy fan criticism for books with errors, books that were too short, or elements that were too much, I wanted to say that a writer can keep their work as it is for their personal use and enjoyment, but if they want to sell it and have it published, the work will most likely be edited and changed in some way, hopefully for the better and hopefully with author agreement.

What are your thoughts on the editing process? Have you been burned? Or is your editor a dream to work with?

Natalie Dunbar

Vegas Bites Three of A Kind, Parker Publishing

Pamela Ford: The best season for romance?

After shoveling the five inches of snow we got last night, I sat down at my computer to work on my work-in-progress, and, like any good writer, began to procrastinate. What, I wondered, did readers think about books set in the winter months? With the North wind blowing, snow flying, temperatures dropping, a bottle of red wine, hot chocolate and cuddling by a roaring fire. Is winter the best setting for romance novels?

Or is it Summer, with its hot, sultry nights, Margaritas at an outdoor café, long walks on the beach, sunburned noses, and peeling off clothing to make love beneath the soft breeze of a ceiling fan?

Maybe it's Fall, the season of sweatshirts and jeans, of crisp night air and bonfires, of holding hands and kicking through the leaves, of hot apple cider and clear, dark nights.

Then again, perhaps Spring is the best setting for a romance novel. It is, after all, the only season where, officially, love is in the air. With the sun raising the heat of the day, daffodils and tulips blooming yellow and red, white wine making a comeback, and lovers dashing through the rain sharing an umbrella and a kiss...maybe Spring is the best.

I can't decide! My current release, The Wedding Heiress, is set in early summer; another of my books took place in winter, in Maine!

So what do you like best? What's your favorite season for a romance novel?

Pamela Ford

Barbara Bretton: Past-Life Regression

So let me set the scene for you: it's 8:30 on a cloudy Saturday morning in central Long Island and I'm running across the parking lot of the Hauppauge Ramada Inn toward my very first past-life regression. I am clutching my bed pillow and the belief that something fabulous is going to happen.

Am I excited? How do I answer that question without hurting your ear drums? I am so far beyond excited that it's downright embarrassing. I've already told you about my still-futile ghost hunt but I had high hopes for the past-life regression. I am there with my four favorite writer friends and I'm wide open to anything that might spark a new book idea and maybe open a window to a whole other world of experience.

The whole thing was Bettye's idea. She knew the trance medium (I'm not sure if it's trans-medium or trance medium) and vouched for the woman's integrity. All we had to do was bring our pillows and trust the process.

Hey, I can do that!

After introductions, we are told to lie down on the floor of the conference room and get comfortable. Comfortable? Was she kidding? My heart was thumping so crazily I could barely catch my breath. I felt like I was on the verge of Something Big. Michelle was scared to death. Darlene was skeptical. Connie was silent. Bettye was her usual ebullient, enthusiastic self.

"Okay," said the medium, "now that you're settled, let's do a few relaxation exercises."

Oh, come on. I'm not here to relax. I can relax at home. I can relax in the coffee shop. Let's get moving.

But the exercises worked and suddenly I found myself drifting toward sleep. The medium's voice snapped me back into the moment.

"Now we begin," she said. "We'll start at the bottom . . . your feet . . . see your feet the way they were . . . "

That's more like it. I knew exactly what I was going to see: dainty feet in glass high-heeled slippers. What else? I mean, I knew deep in my heart that there was a beautiful 18^th century English heroine with a score of eager suitors lurking deep inside me waiting to get out.

Imagine my surprise when I saw two enormous work boots instead! I was horrified. Work boots? What in the name of romantic fantasy was going on? Whose past life was this anyway?

The medium was oblivious. "Now we'll see your ankles and calves," she said.

Oh, great. I saw worn and filthy trousers over thick ankles and we all know that no self-respecting heroine ever had thick ankles. What a disaster this was turning out to be. She worked our way up the body and I got more depressed with every part revealed. No dainty ballgown-wearing damsel for me. I was a man. And an ugly one at that! I was a big, rough-hewn, foul-tempered Swedish coal miner.

Believe it or not, things went downhill from there. She told us to age ten years. "Where are you?" she asked. "What are you?"

I was finally getting married. My wife hated me but she had no choice. She was as homely and old as I was. I saw us on our wedding night and I was a rough and uncaring lover who made her cry. I didn't care. I sat by the fireplace and smoked a pipe. Even my dog didn't like me.

"Fast forward another twenty years," the medium instructed and I see myself sitting by the same fireplace, still smoking a pipe. My dog is dead. My wife is dead. I lost a leg in a mining accident. I am bitter, miserable, and alone.

Hey, I want my money back! Where are my ball gown and slippers and handsome suitors? This isn't what I came here for. I don't want to be a one-legged Swedish coalminer with a bad attitude.

When it was over (and not a minute too soon, I might add) the medium asked us to sit in a circle and share our experiences. I knew what was coming. My friends were all Queen Elizabeth I and Marie Antoinette and Madame Pompadour in their past lives and would share a big laugh at my misadventure.

I couldn't have been more wrong. Michelle froze in the middle of her regression and snapped out of the reverie. She was the 19^th century wife of a powerful man who didn't love her and she died in childbirth. (Footnote: one year later Michelle voluntarily had a tubal ligation. She was thirty-three.) Connie was a highly-paid call girl who lived in a penthouse apartment. The walls were white, the furniture was white, her clothes were white. Susan was a World War II fighter pilot. Bettye was a scribe for Queen Hatshepsut. And Darlene? She was nothing. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't come up with a single past life. The more the medium worked with her, the angrier she got and she exploded in rage at the rest of us an hour later in the coffee shop.

What does it all mean? I've spent a lot of time over the years wondering about exactly that. Am I a believer? Well, I'm not a dis-believer but the jury's still out on the experience. I'm one-quarter Swedish. The man who lived next door to us when I was a little girl had a wooden leg. The week before the past-life regression Sixty Minutes ran a story about female coalminers. Were those the triggers that sparked a little other-worldly fiction in this writerly brain or was it a coincidence?

Any ideas?

Barbara Bretton

We follow the mystics. They know where they are going. They, too, go astray, but when they go astray they do so in a way that is mystical, dark, and mysterious.

Ryszard Kapuscinsk

Susan's Six: Six Things Susan Vaughan Loves About December

1. Well, of course, Christmas is coming. I love the holiday but not all the stress involved in the days running up to Christmas Day, which involves more cooking than this kitchen-challenged woman prefers.
2. Primal Obsession is ready for orders! The ebook has been released this month from The Wild Rose Press. The idea for Primal Obsession grew out of a six-day canoe trip the DH and I took a few years ago in northern Maine. In the three canoes were four other people, including a Maine Guide. He taught us the skills we needed for our excursion, like paddling techniques and navigating with a compass. We paddled ten or more miles a day to various campsites, where we slept in our tents and shared cooking duties. We used compasses to find our way in a "bushwhack" as in the book, and we did paddle white water, but not as difficult as Sam and Annie face in the book. Happily, we had no vengeful killer along for the ride. Here on the right is a picture of the dh and me in our canoe. I hope you'll check out the excerpt of Primal Obsession at my website on the Newest Release page.
3. E-books. I'm thrilled that Primal Obsession is available in more than one format, to reach a wider audience. E-book, what's that, you say? The printed book is in a pdf file that can be downloaded or ordered on a CD-Rom from the publisher's or a vendor's website. You can save it on your computer, PDA, or on a hand-held e-reader, such as the Sony or the Amazon Kindle. Best of all, you can change the font size to suit your eyesight comfort. If you're not into e-books, wit until March when Primal Obsession will be released again as a trade paperback (ISBN 1-60154-390-5) available everywhere online and in bookstores.
4. Christmas food. A friend here, the hostess supreme, has a cookie party. Everyone brings two dozen cookies, which we will share after refreshments--my friend's famous ice cream roll with fudge sauce. The cookies are all displayed on the breakfast bar, and we go around with a plate and select one from here and another from there--snickerdoodles, Swedish tea cookies, fudge, etc.--until we each have two dozen cookies to take home. The DH can't wait every year for the cookie party. And neither can I.
5. Christmas decorations. In Maine, people begin putting up wreaths and lights the day after Thanksgiving. Some people already have their trees decorated by December 1. I love seeing the twinkling white and colored lights on houses and public buildings. I love the carols, the Living Christmas Tree concert given at the Baptist Church here. And decorating our own tree and enjoying the finished product afterward over a glass of wine.
6. And did I say I love Christmas? This year we're doing presents a different way. So many people are hurting in this downturned economy that the Vaughan family decided to give our Christmas funds to the charity of our choice in other people's names. The dh and I chose The Heifer Project. They give an animal--a heifer, a sheep, chickens, bees, rabbits--to impoverished people around the world so they can make a living for themselves. Check it out.

Mallory Kane say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

And say hello to my holiday kitty, Tweedy. This is Tweedy's 16th Christmas. Isn't she pretty!

This year, my family is changing some of our Christmas traditions. This year is also the first Christmas since my mother died. Some of the changes are because she's no longer directing Christmas dinner, not that I don't wish she were!

For instance, we aren't going to get out the fine crystal glasses for Christmas this year. Almost every year one of them is chipped or broken. We decided the remaining glasses will be divided among the children and grandchildren. Mine is displayed in my china cabinet.

Each time I go by the cabinet and see that glass, I can see my mother's beautiful hands holding it up and saying. "Look how the Christmas lights shine through the crystal."

To me, that's much more meaningful than using it to drink iced tea.

Other changes are coincident with the current economy. We're not drawing names among the adults this year, for the first time in over 25 years. This was a tradition that may have worked back in our salad days, when it seemed to make sense as a way to save money by not giving gifts to every single person. But over the years it morphed and changed, and got more commercial, until we were essentially saying "Here's the catalog, here's the page and here's the item number. Order it and wrap it for me." ICK!!! How un-Christmas-like can you get?

This year we will buy gifts for the little ones, and have fun watching them. Then eat until we can't move! As my brother said, "Your presence is my present."

Whether we're enjoying long-cherished traditions, changing them, or making new ones, I think the important thing to remember is that this time of year is about love and family and peace.

My Christmas present to me this year is a December book from Harlequin Intrigue. High School Reunion goes on shelves on December 9, 2008. It's not a Christmas story, but it's definitely a story of hope, love, family, change, and since it's an Intrigue, even peace--eventually! You can find out more about it at my website

I love the cover. It looks like a fantasy or a dream to me, with her sparkling white dress and the 'disco ball' and all the balloons. The scene is right out of the book--my hero and heroine dancing at the high school reunion where they reconnect after ten years.

But I did not request the black and white balloons, and I've spent some time puzzling over what the art department may have had in mind when they used hundreds of them. No--the high school's colors weren't mentioned, so that's not it. The only thing I can imagine is that the black is supposed to be sinister and the white is supposed to represent innocence.

If any of you want to speculate on why black and white balloons at a high school reunion, please respond. I'd love to hear your theory.

Whether you're cooking, eating, shopping, visiting, or snuggling up with a good book... please be good to yourself this holiday season.

Happy holidays to you all!

Mallory Kane
Edgy, emotional,evocative romantic suspense 
Watch for the Black Hills Brotherhood in 2009    

Cindy Keen Reynders: Mellow After All These Years

As a kid, I couldn't wait to grow up and get away from home. I thought my brothers and sisters were annoying. I thought my parents were straight from the Stone Age. After high school, I went to college, got married, then I was off and running. I lived in Texas, Japan, South Dakota, Colorado, moved back to Japan, then back to Colorado. Finally, twenty-two years later, I moved home to Cheyenne, Wyo. which is full of my relatives.

After all those years and all those places, you'd think I'd sit down and write a book about my travels. Somehow I became fascinated by the dynamics of the home folks; the ups, the downs—everything. So I wrote a book about an off-the-wall family in the small, fictional town of Moose Creek Wyoming. I focused particularly on sisters Lexie Lightfoot and Lucy Parnell.

In my book, The Saucy Lucy Murders and its sequel, Paws-itively Guilty, Lexie has moved back home after a divorce. She finds that with age, she and Lucy have mellowed. Nevertheless, the sisters still manage to backslide into the roles of bossy, older sibling and younger, rebellious sibling. After several mysterious murders occur in town, Lexie decides the local law officers aren't doing their jobs, and she feels the need to intervene. It's only natural that she would call upon her sister for help. Lucy, misguided as she is, lends her church-going spirit and humorously rigid outlook on life to all the cases the sisters decide to sleuth.

So if you like mysteries, if you like sisters and perhaps have one, and if you like laugh-out-loud adventure, try reading my stories. I promise, by the time you're finished, you'll have gained a new appreciation for family.

Cindy Keen Reynders

Karina Bliss: Kids and Romance?

Kids and romance...do they mix?

When I began writing romance I swore I’d never put kids in one of my books. Kids and romance – oil and water.

Two things reinforced this view:

1. Motherhood (but isn’t the baby’s supposed to fit around our lifestyle?)

2. Reading books that shoehorned a kid into the story to show how caring the heroine or hero was without the hero or heroine actually having to do any work.

My son was three months old when I threw a book against the wall because the heroine had twin babies who went down like angels at six p.m. and slept twelve hours. After which she dressed in pre-baby clothes, served her new love – the hero – a three-course dinner by candlelight and engaged in passionate all-night sex. Yeah right!

Then I started writing and a kid sneaked into my first book, forcing my hero to stop being cool and urbane and demonstrate a little ineptness, a little uncertainty. Dragged my hero (and me) out of our comfort zone.

In my next romance, my hero was very good with kids. In fact he had such a special bond with his former girlfriend’s child (wait a minute, what’s a kid doing in this book?) that it really hurt him to do the right thing and encourage the boy’s relationship with his real father. The heroine fell in love with him. So did I.

Determined to stop the tide I pulled back on the kid thing in the third book - after all, it was a very sexy premise - but somehow a smart baby and a sharp-tongued delinquent sneaked in anyway.

This book I stopped fighting my destiny and wrote Second-Chance Family (Superromance November 08) - A guy inherits custody of three kids with his ex wife. Yep, three. You can read an excerpt on my website.

And I made the kids real (in fact I stole some of my son’s, nieces and nephews quirks and best lines). And I made the kids sad and funny and needy in a way that forced my hero and heroine to dig deeper, hurt more, love more and make sacrifices. Be heroic in a very real and powerful way. Pretty much like good parents do all the time. I made these two really earned their happy-ever-after.

So now I’m begrudgingly admitting that sometimes kids can work in a romance.

What’s your view?

Karina Bliss

Melissa MacNeal: Beach Lover

Put me on a deserted stretch of beach, and I don't have to die to go to heaven. Most likely, it'll be daybreak–or, as in this photo taken at Hug Point, north of Manzanita, or we pulled over to take in the view and loved it so much we decided to look at homes here.

Meanwhile, I was already conjuring an idea that became a series proposal: the Oregon shore became the setting for a whole cast of characters who augment their psychic/spiritual gifts by living in a fictional town near the sea.

Atmosphere–the way a place makes you feel–can influence your life and writing in big ways!

This isn't the first time I've been so affected by a sense of place. Back when we vacationed in Colorado a lot, it was a chance drive along the winding, unpaved Phantom Canyon road that inspired my very first published novel. Even then, in the late '80's, I realized that "working vacations" were my best inspiration for stories: touring historic homes in Hannibal inspired a book, and digging around in local museum bookstores everywhere I go has provided more fascinating research than I'll ever be able to use in my writing lifetime.

But it's being there that starts the story rolling in my mind. It was wandering the side streets the French Quarter in New Orleans, musing about what went on in those third-story apartments over the dilapidated buildings, that led me to write one of my Black Lace books.

Sitting in the bow of a fishing boat, off the map in Canada on a river so clear we could see the fish all the way to the bottom, while eagles soared over the cliffs around us, I suddenly knew this was where the hero of my WIP had to go to escape the U.S. marshals who were tailing him. Changed the whole last half of the book–but it was the right thing to do!

Several of my contemporary erotic novels take place on cruise ships or exotic islands, inspired by those vacations–and by private tours of the ships' jails, morgues and captains' quarters, where I was invited as an honored guest because I was a writer! Talk about a good feeling!

It occurs to me that I've lived in mid-Missouri for more than twenty years and have yet to set a book anywhere near home…so I guess I'll keep traveling for my story inspiration! We leave for the Oregon coast in a week. Already I hear the steady undercurrent of the waves and feel the damp mist of those forests on my face, and I'm eagerly anticipating the new images and sensations that will lead me to more stories! Maybe to a second home!

Tough job, but someone's gotta do it.
Melissa MacNeal

Julie Miller says "Happy Holidays!"

In all my years as an author--and I just finished #36, so I've been doing this for a while--I've never written a Christmas story before. But I finally got that opportunity with this month's release, Kansas City Christmas. It's the fourth and final book in my bestselling Precinct: Brotherhood of the Badge miniseries for Harlequin Intrigue. I've always wanted to do a story set in Kansas City at Christmas time because it's such a beautiful city at that time of year--let me tell you, the folks down on the Plaza have known for decades about how to decorate up a fancy party for the holidays.

I'm sharing some pictures from the Plaza area, just south of downtown Kansas City. The J.C. Nichols Plaza was one of the very first shopping "mall" districts in the U.S., if not the first. It is designed with striking Mediterranean style architecture, and bears a resemblance to Paris, France with its many public fountains, bridges, walkways, sculptures and works of art. You'll find many nationally and internationally famous stores there, as well as some classy boutiques and specialty shops. Plus, it's a
Mecca for entertainment, playing home to theaters and a wide variety of restaurants from top notch elegance to eat with your fingers casual dining--including, imho, the best barbecue place on the planet!

While it's truly a beautiful city any time of the year, come the holidays, Kansas City does it up right. With well over a million lights, the Plaza is lit up every year on Thanksgiving evening, giving the place an ethereal holidy glow. Every rooftop and and building is lit up with a string of lights (that stay up year round--whew! maintenance is time-consuming enough--can you imagine that project of taking down and putting up that many lights every year?). The lights then are on every night throughout the holidays. Stores stay open late and, of course, you can enjoy the nightlife of entertainment, or take carriage rides (they even have a Cinderella pumpkin carriage for the most romantic of you). You can enjoy it simply by bundling up and walking the wide sidewalks and checking out the amazing store window displays, then step inside for a hot toddy or cup of cocoa. Yum.

So, like I said, Kansas City Christmas is my first Christmas themed novel of romantic suspense. And, because the Plaza and the lights are so much a part of what I associate with the season, I made a point of having my characters, Det. Edward Rochester Kincaid and M.E. Dr. Holly Masterson, stop down on the Plaza. Edward has a real thing against Christmas because of traumatic events in his life--he's a dark and tortured hero if you like the type. Holly, on the other hand, sees Christmas as a way to celebrate life and honor her family (she's endured some trauma, too). This isn't just a story about finally catching the bad guys and healing a wounded family, it's about discovering the power of love and the strength it sometimes takes to love again.

In my family, besides the Plaza, Christmas decorations are a big deal. My mother has a Santa Claus room, decorated for Christmas year round with just about every type of Santa and Christmas ornament--including some rare antiques and handmade ones from kids and grandkids. My hubby has a Star Trek tree. As long as we've been married, his November birthday has been easy to buy for--he wants whatever Star Trek ornament Hallmark is releasing that year. Now we've gotten so many space ships and Tribbles and captains, that we had to get him a tree of his own. Growing up, too, I was allergic to pines and other Christmas trees, so my dad built a Scandinavian cross-bar tree with hooks for all the ornaments. My mom and brothers and I decorated it with paint and ribbon, and over the years it has truly become a work of art. It stays up in the Santa Claus room year-round, too. It'd be sort of like taking down all those Plaza lights if we tried to change it.

So what do holiday decorations mean to you? Autumn colors at Thanksgiving? Lights at Hanukkah? Colorful presents under the tree? A special collection of ornaments? A neighborhood competition to see who can use the most wattage and electricity? A special town or neighborhood?

I hope you enjoy Kansas City Christmas and the rest of my Brotherhood of the Badge books from Harlequin. And I hope you have a safe and wonderful holiday season, decorated just the way you like it!

Best wishes,
Julie Miller

Coming soon:
Out of Control, Harlequin Blaze, April 2009

Kathleen Long: The Power of Hope

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to the idea of hope. Perhaps it's the recent election and the atmosphere of change hanging in the air, perhaps it's the way I look toward each day with a big smile thanks to my toddler daughter and her views on the world. To her, every day is full of new and wonderful experiences. Every day is full of hope.

Perhaps I've been thinking about hope because I write romance and let's face it, romance is full of hope. And not just the promise of hope, but the promise of a happily ever after.

After all, what other genre guarantees that at the end of each book the reader will walk away with a sigh, a smile and the knowledge that true love conquers all?

As a writer, hope is the theme that carries through whatever I'm working on, be that straight romance, romantic suspense or romantic comedy. Hope lights my creative writing fires and keeps me coming back to my stories again and again. As a reader, hope keeps me turning page after page, often into the early morning hours.

No matter how scarred, how desperate or how wounded a character might be, there's hope things will get better, mysteries will be solved and hearts will be healed. There's hope love will conquer all, and even the most stubborn of heroes or heroines will find redemption and wholeness in loving another.

We may differ in the things that ignite our hopes and keep our hopes alive, but I'd venture to say we all agree that hope is one of the things—if not the main thing—that drives us forward. Hope is the thing that leads and inspires our thoughts, our actions and our dreams.

One of my favorite quotes follows:

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer." –Albert Camus

People often ask me when I started writing and why. The short answer is that I started writing when I was in second grade and never stopped. Yet, I didn't get serious about my writing until the summer of 2001. It was then that I knew I had to write.

My transforming moment came several months after our first daughter died. I picked up a book—a romance—by Barbara Delinsky. For the first time in a very long time, I was transported away from my broken heart. My grief fell away. I lost myself in the pages of that book and found a wonderful, safe escape.

I found hope.

I vowed then and there that if my writing might someday provide a similar escape for a reader, I had to try. Hope, after all, is an incredible thing to find between the covers of a book.

These days I can point to a spot in each of my books where a character realizes there's hope, be it hope for the future, hope for survival or hope for true love. In my newest release, Christmas Confessions, hope pervades every aspect of story and characterization.

My heroine, Abby Conroy, hopes she can find a way to ease her guilt through her work at her confession site, Don't Say a Word. Yet when a killer uses her site to confess his crimes, her hope becomes focused on uncovering the truth, on trusting the hero, on surviving.

Abby realized her only hope of survival now was a Christmas miracle…named Jack.

(Christmas Confessions, Harlequin Intrigue, November 2008)

For my hero, Jack Grant, hope died years earlier with the brutal murder of his sister and the killer's acquittal. Now, with the anonymously-made confessions, Jack has hope of finding justice and closure, not just for himself but also for the families of four other victims. Yet as the story progresses, Jack's hope shifts from the past to the present, narrowing to the hope of saving Abby, no matter the cost.

He was a brother who had lost a sister, a detective who wanted justice, and a man who wanted the woman he loved to live to see the years of life ahead of her.

For them both, the hope of love and trust and healing hovers at the edge of every move they make, every look they share, every moment they spend together.

She still held on to hope Jack might show up on her doorstep one day. For Abby, Jack Grant had unlocked far more than a case. He'd unlocked her heart.

That's the beauty of romance. The power of hope. The promise of a happy ending.

Just for fun, share what you're reading now. What genre gives you your favorite escape? And what hopes keep you turning the pages late into the night?

Until next time, happy reading!

Kathleen Long
Christmas Confessions
"...a first-class mystery with a wickedly surprising ending."
-RTBookReviews

Mallory Kane says: Reunions can be deadly.

I have a book coming out in December from Harlequin Intrigue called High School Reunion. Since it's an Intrigue, the tag line reads, naturally, Reunions can be deadly.

That tag line has also been my attitude about reunions. I swore years ago that I'd never attend my high school reunion. My recollections of high school are of embarrassment, tears, longings, frustrations...you get the idea. I was the geek, the bespectacled bookworm, the gawky late-bloomer.

Oddly enough, so was Laurel, my heroine in High School Reunion. Laurel became a forensic specialist with the FBI. An old friend tries to talk her into returning to her home town for her tenth year reunion. She refuses--until a snapshot from graduation night makes her think a student who supposedly committed suicide that night was actually murdered.

Laurel goes to the reunion, figures out what really happened, nearly gets herself killed in the process, and finds happily ever after with her high school crush, who's now the Police Chief.

I went to my reunion, had a much better time than I ever thought I would, renewed some friendships, and for a brief moment, was a celebrity, because I write books. Oh, and didn't solve a single murder.

My friends are all over the map on their opinions of reunions. I have friends who were the cheerleaders, who dated the football captain, were class favorites. And I have friends who were more painfully shy than I was, and that's saying something. But at my reunion, I discovered that I had a lot more friends in high school than I remembered having.

It was hard for me to go to that reunion, but I'm glad I did. Who out there gets hives at the very mention of revisiting high school days? And who thought high school was the best time ever?

Mallory Kane  (Visit her MySpace page.)
     Available now: Solving The Mysterious Stranger
     Coming in December: High School Reunion 

Barbara Bretton asks: Do you believe in ghosts?

I think I do but until one of them taps me on the shoulder and says hello I can't say for sure. Over the years I've gone out of my way to put myself in the path of random ghosts but so far to no avail. Haunted inns, ghost walks up in Maine, hanging around old houses that are supposedly riddled with ectoplasmic activity. You name it, I tried it without so much as a cold chill or a tiny whisper in my ear.

I open myself up to the possibility. I clear my mind. (Not that hard to do . . . ) I try to project the image of a congenial hostess, eager to show the spirits that, horror movies notwithstanding, we really can all get along just fine. But nothing happens. Nobody appears. No wraithlike woman in flowing white garments. No angry guy with a machete. Just me and my belief that sooner or later somebody from the other world is going to take pity on me and drop by to say hello.

Now before you think I'm totally crazy, let me give you a little background information: my mother was psychic. Not foretell-the-end-of-the-world psychic or 1-888-I'LL-MAKE-MONEY-OFF-THIS psychic. Just the everyday, scare-the-pants-off-her-daughter kind. She knew things she shouldn't have known, saw things nobody could have seen, predicted family deaths that were so random and unexpected as to be downright shocking. Maybe because I grew up with it, I never gave it much thought but lately I've been thinking a lot about something that happened to her and to her father before her not long before they died.

My grandfather lived 100 years, the last eight of them blind. About ten days before he died, he told us that a woman had come by the hospital to visit him. A plump, happy woman in a bright blue dress who talked with him, and laughed, and had a dimple in her right cheek. She said she'd be with him through it all. Which was just great except Grandpa shouldn't have been able to see that bright blue dress or that dimple. My grandfather was sharp right up until the end and when we asked, "How is that possible?" he shrugged and replied, "I don't know, but it happened." And, to be honest, I believe it did.

Three years later my mother dreamed that a big, round woman in a bright blue dress came into the bedroom she shared with my father, sat down in the rocking chair near the window, and started to knit. She had a sweet face, a happy laugh, and a dimple in her right cheek. The dream didn't unnerve me until my mother told me about the time her dead paternal grandmother came to visit her. She wore a bright blue dress and (you guessed it) liked to knit.

None of which is all that scary except for the fact that my mother died three months after that second visit, less than forty-five days after a cancer diagnosis we never saw coming.

Ghostly visits? Precognitive dreams? I don't have any answers. I wish I did. All I can say is beware knitters in blue dresses.

Have you ever seen a ghost? Do you believe they're out there? I'd love to know.

Barbara Bretton
CASTING SPELLS – on sale now!