Monday, October 28, 2024

Book Tour ~ Making Up Stories by Susan Myhre Hayes

 

 

Historical Fiction

Date Published: August 28, 2024

Publisher: Universum Press


 

All families have their secrets. How far will they go to keep them hidden?

 

Savannah Schaeffer believed she was protecting her daughter by keeping the dark truths of their family’s secrets. Now, facing her imminent mortality, Savannah realizes her efforts may have caused more harm than good. With little time to waste, she finds a way to work around her inability to speak the truth. She prepares a scavenger hunt to reveal the secrets of her past that she had withheld from her daughter, Chloe.

The scavenger hunt will lead Chloe to two explosive journals—her great-grandmother’s and her grandfather’s—to reveal how intergenerational trauma impacted Savannah’s life and why she kept it secret. Chloe also has plans for the final week of her mother's life. She has promised to honor her mother's wish for a peaceful passing.

A palliative care physician, Chloe is ready from a medical standpoint but feels unprepared personally. She has called off her engagement at her mother's request and is now second-guessing her decision. She also wants to understand her mother's choice never to marry.

 

Making Up Stories: A Novel tells the story of family secrets and explores a mother's and daughter's desire to break free from intergenerational trauma. It's a story about their love for each other and the sacrifices they're willing to make for each other. Complex characters and situations raise profound, sometimes unanswerable questions about family, life's gray areas, and the promise of hope.


A  Five Star, Must Read review from ReedsyDiscovery  and Making Up Stories: A Novel, touched me in so many ways. I have not had a book affect me in so strong a way for a long time. This one will stay with me for awhile. As I was reading I could take a few seconds, close my eyes and see it playing out like a movie. It was that intense for me.

 

The story is told in multiple perspectives and boy, does each character have a story to tell. Chloe has agreed to help her dying mother, Savannah, in her last days, to leave this earth peacefully. Her mother has left her journals written by her and important family members. Those journals tell a very different story than what Chloe always believed. Her instructions for her daughter are to read the journals in the order she has requested and to do it while Chloe is sitting vigil with her.

 

Secrets are never good but all families have them. I could easily put myself in Chloe's shoes, reading the journals I felt like I was sitting beside her. They were at times extremely hard to read, especially where her grandfather wrote about Nazi Germany and the horrific things he saw as a doctor who was there when the camps were liberated.

 

Chloe's shock, horror and frustration came through so well in the author's words. Imagine learning so much about your family history, having questions and your only parent is not able to answer them due to her illness! Chloe, like her mother, is a very strong woman.

 

There is a lot happening in this book and I admit, at times I got a bit lost but soon things became clear. I have to say that Dwayne was my favorite character. He's smart, supportive and you could feel his love for Chloe.

 

About the Author

Susan has had many successful careers in philanthropy, public relations and education, but when she wrote the book, Peace in the Puzzle: Becoming Your Intended Self, she found her true purpose. Utilizing the material in her book and her personal experience, she is passionate about supporting both individuals and groups become who they were born to be.

Susan’s coaching is tailored to each person’s unique needs, and each group presentation is crafted to align with the interests and needs of each specific audience.

Through compelling stories, she engages individuals and groups by taking them through her journey to find purpose, shares the tools she developed and encourages them to do the same.

 

Contact Link

Website

 

Purchase Link

Amazon


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Book Tour ~ Treasure Hunting in the Underworld - A Guide for Healing and Claiming What's Yours by Lillian Moore

 


 

A Guide for Healing and Claiming What's Yours

 

Self-help, personal development, psychology, spirituality, trauma healing

Date Published: August 5, 2024

 

 

Everything you want: all the riches of the world, the depth, beauty, the fun.

Everything you want is in the underworld of your psyche.

This is where our capacity to experience lives.

Yet, most of us barely know what is happening in our own mind and are at least a little terrified of who we might really be.

Just as our wishes and dreams live in the underworld of our psyche, so do our worst fears, the things we desperately want to run from. This is the treasure.

Our traumas, patterns, addictions, seedy desires, and repressed memories once welcomed and transformed by the light of our consciousness give us our greatest power, creativity, and magnetism.

This is your guidebook to your underworld that you might claim everything that you are.



About the Author

Lillian is a co-founder of Mindlight and the Mindlight Institute, which has trained thousands of people to integrate trauma. She has been studying and practicing the healing arts since she was a child. She was a volunteer for the Stress Project that helped veterans heal from PTSD, has led trainings for Google Vitality Labs and SXSW.

 

Contact Links

Website

Instagram


Purchase Link

Amazon


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Book Blitz ~ How to Solve A Murder with A Grump by Laura Pauling

 

How to Solve a Murder with a Grump
Laura Pauling
Publication date: October 8th 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Mystery, Romance

Barrie:

I am determined to make my best friend’s wedding weekend perfect. That includes editing the best man’s speech and making sure he doesn’t drink too much.
Except, he’s the worst kind of grump with a capital G.
Not only that but when this perfect wedding unravels, I find myself the object of his wrath.
He blames me.
So I run.
And I’m wearing the wedding dress. (Don’t ask.)
As I hide out in a small town, following my dreams, I stumble upon a decades-old murder mystery.
Turns out texting the grump might be my only lifeline. And I’m definitely not flirt-texting. Nope. Not me.
Because falling for a grump can only lead to a broken heart.
Right?

Miles:

For the record, I am not a grump.
It’s not me. It’s them.
It’s women.
I’m looking forward to the wedding this weekend. My best friend is getting married.
And the maid of honor texts me.
Not just once.
Oh, no, because that would be much too sensible. Nope. Try a dozen. It felt like a hundred.
I can tell by a glance at the texts that she’s one of those micro-managing, in your business, thinks-she-knows-everything type of woman.
Forget it.
I don’t want her number. I don’t want coffee. I don’t want a date.
I don’t want a single conversation.
Okay, fine. I’m a grump.
But can you blame me?

How to Solve a Murder with a Grump is a full-length hilarious romantic mystery with a swoony, heart-thumping, happily-ever-after kind of ending complete with glitter bombs, snapping turtles (imaginary or not), a decades-old murder, and grand romantic gestures.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

I take one look at him. Oh yeah, he’s a grump.

Definitely.

But I don’t have time for grumps right now.

You see, I’m running late and the elevator is taking forever to get to the bottom floor. My best friend is getting married in two days, and I’m the maid of honor. I’m trying to compose a text to the best man so we can talk about the speeches. I should’ve reached out to him ages ago, but this weekend came fast. It snuck up on me.

Then, a man near me clears his throat, like he’s trying to send me a message. I take one look at him.

No doubt in my mind he’s a Mr. Grumpy Pants, because I can pick them out a mile away. They’re easy to spot once you know the signs.

Of course, sometimes you’ll get lucky. You’ll make a quick exit. Or he’ll spill his coffee. Someone else will grab his attention.

But there will be times you have to interact with this particular species of men.

Just so you know, there are many ways to deal with a grump. I could write a book on it.

First, don’t be fooled by those flashing white teeth and sexy smirks. Don’t be fooled by a blue shirt, almost the color of tropical ocean water that offsets the gray of his eyes. Don’t be fooled by the rippling muscles underneath the blue shirt.

Nope.

Sexy grumps are the most dangerous, because they’ll steal your heart then stomp all over it.

Author Bio:

I write about spies, murder, and mystery. I love a lot of things about writing and reading stories that have mystery and romance. I love the puzzle of a whodunnit and witty banter between characters who love to hate each other. Especially, when they don’t know they are falling in love.

There are about a gazillion books in the wilds of Amazon and maybe half of them are mysteries. If you want to make sure you know when I have a new release in a current series or the start of a new series then visit www.laurapauling.com and sign up for my newsletter.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter


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Book Blitz ~ Pity Present - Pity Series by Whitney Dineen

 

Pity Present
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series #5)
Publication date: October 24th 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Molly
I haven’t beeninterested in dating since my ex dumped me for a new girl at his law office. Since then, I’ve thrown myself into my work as a hotel gift shop designer. While being single isn’t what I expected, there’s truth to that old saying, “Once bitten, twice shy.” And the bite of a cheater stays with you.

Christmas can be a particularly vulnerable time, which is why I accepted a job right before the holidays. I had no idea the lodge that hired me was also hosting a singles’ event. Imagine my surprise when they had a last-minute cancellation and asked me if I wanted to join them.

Blake
When I left LA for my dream job in Chicago, I never dreamed by first assignment would be spending two weeks in Elk Lake, Wisconsin, covering the Midwestern Matchmaker’s new venture to set up Chicagoland singles. I’m a sports journalist for Pete’s sake, not some airheaded twit who writes about the lovelorn.

Unfortunately, the job I transferred for isn’t open yet, so here I am. In Wisconsin. Living my worst nightmare. There is no way anybody is going to find love at this thing. No way.

So, imagine my surprise when the most awkward woman in the world trips over me …

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

When the train pulls into the Elk Lake stop, I jump to my feet and practically run for the exit. Unfortunately, I don’t see the foot blocking the aisle. As such, I wind up making a spectacular display as I trip up the aisle for several yards. My performance is akin to a vaudevillian physical comedy routine. Luckily, a hand reaches out to steady me before I hit the ground. “Whoa there. I’ve got you.”

I take a moment to catch my breath before turning to thank my rescuer. One look at his hazelly green eyes and chiseled jaw renders me nearly speechless. Is that a tan? I finally manage to say, “Thump queue.”

The Adonis stands up and reaches toward his overnight bag. “Excuse me?”

“Thump queue,” I repeat before forcing my mouth to form proper words. “I mean, thank you.”

His lips curve ever so slightly before he responds with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

I know I just told my sister I wasn’t interested in dating and that she was crazy to suggest I might be about to embark upon my very own cheesy movie experience, but for a split second, a wave of possibility washes over me. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You aren’t a lumberjack by any chance, are you?”

His eyes widen. “No.”

Feeling foolish, I try to think of something to say that will make me seem less weird. I decide to go with, “Me neither.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Good to know. I hear it’s hard work.”

I’m going to be single forever. While I claim to be fine with that outcome, I secretly want to find the man of my dreams, get married, have two point five children, and then adopt a Bernese Mountain puppy or three. The house in the suburbs and white picket fence are a given.

Turning around, I continue to make my way off the train while chastising myself for being such an idiot. I step down to the ground before lugging my suitcase to my side. The gorgeous stranger is behind me, but he doesn’t stick around to continue our inane small talk. Instead, he veers to the right and exits the platform.

I don’t move as quickly. I simply look around at my charming surroundings. There’s nothing like a small-town train station decorated for the holidays. The depot windows are strung with colored lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps lining the walkway are festooned with flocked wreaths, and Christmas carols are booming from the speakers against the side of the building.

Laughingly, I tell myself, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Not that Chicago is at all comparable to Kansas, but a certain Wizard of Oz magic seems to have overtaken me.

I appreciate my surroundings for long enough that by the time I turn around, I’m the only person left on the platform. The text I received from the Elk Lake Lodge said they would send a driver to pick me up. As such, I make my way through the depot to the other side of the building.

The sidewalk is covered in fresh snow, so I’m careful to step into the footprints left by others. I look around for a van with the hotel’s name on it, but the only vehicle at the curb is a dark blue Suburban. Before I can approach it, a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a gray parka steps out. “Molly Anders?”

I throw a hand up in the air and reply, “That’s me!”

He walks over and takes possession of my suitcase before putting it in the back hatch. Then he opens the door for me. “Name’s Paul. You’re my last pickup which is good because we’re expecting more snow.” I’m glad I decided to come tonight and not wait until morning.

Getting into the back of the truck, I’m greeted by a familiar face. “Hey, there.” It’s the hottie from the train.

“Hey, hi. Fancy meeting you here.”

The driver gets in and asks, “You two know each other?”

Before I can answer, my seat mate explains, “We met on the train. Neither of us are lumberjacks.” Kill me now.

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries -- not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram


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Book Blitz ~ The Emerald Isle - A Path Seekers Novel by KaSonndra Leigh

 

Emerald Isle
KaSonndra Leigh
(Path Seekers, #2)
Publication date: October 24th 2024
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Suspense

A year ago, Tandie Harrison learned she was a Pathseeker, a shaman who can manipulate time. With the help of her soulmate, Eric Fontalvo, she was able to break a 300-year-old curse. Now she has established herself as a private paranormal investigator in the quiet little old southern town of Bolivia, North Carolina. With the past behind her, she’s prepared to embark on a new journey of love and success.

However, the past has a way of coming back to haunt you when you least expect it. Enter Saul Chelby: the handsome real estate tycoon who stepped aside to allow Tandie happiness with Eric. Now a new entity threatens everything Tandie, Saul, and Eric worked to conquer. Will Tandie and Eric’s newly reignited love will pass this latest test?

Love, ghosts, witches, old houses, handsome heroes, and a secret that will threaten everything Tandie and Eric fought to achieve. The Emerald Isle, a Paranormal Time Travel Mystery.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Waves from the Atlantic Ocean pummeled the coastline of the small dune known as Shelly Island. A scent like rotten eggs drifted past them. The sun’s last rays gave way to nighttime’s watery embrace.

A strange pang lit up her chest. Something behind that window called Alyssa. Or rather some force called to the supernatural side of her, a gift to call upon spirits, passed down through the females in her family. Alyssa had impressed her future sorority mates with tales of the way she attracted ghosts. Going inside and calling up one shouldn’t be a big deal, right?

The initiation included calling up the spirit and taking photos. Alyssa removed her phone from her pocket and aimed the lens at the structure. Darkness loomed around the trio, and she stilled her thudding heart.

“Let’s get these photos done,” Alyssa said.

“We can leave Rodney out here to keep watch. I don’t want him puking all over the floor and making us fall,” Chris said.

“Screw you.” Rodney stood tall. “I can do this.”

“No one’s leaving anyone,” Alyssa said. “We do this thing together.”

Alyssa and her friends turned toward the strange house and went up the stairway. The house cried out in pain.

“Make sure we don’t fall through the floor,” Chris said, his confident look replaced by worry. He pushed on the first step and hesitated.

Alyssa turned to Chris. “Now who’s the pussy?”

“Yeah, right. I got yours right here.” Chris grabbed his crotch and shook it.

“Oh, please.”

Alyssa wouldn’t let the thought of going inside in the dusk bother her. At night, a demon prowled the area. Or so they said. Sharks washed up on shores at the oddest times. The so-called demon was probably one of those beasts thrashing about.

She turned the knob. The door creaked open. A pungent scent of rot and mold wafted out, engulfing the three friends. It was time for the séance.

Alyssa led the way inside the dark and musty structure. The floorboards creaked underfoot with every step, as though the house was alive and protesting their intrusion. Though she tried to stifle it, a feeling of unease creeped up her spine. This was different than anything she had ever experienced before. It was almost as if the house was alive and watching them.

Chris shone his flashlight around the room, illuminating piles of discarded furniture and debris. The air was thick with dust, making it difficult to breathe without coughing.

“This place is creepy,” Rodney said. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Don’t be such a wimp,” Alyssa snapped, her nerves beginning to fray.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Chris interrupted. “What do we do first?”

Alyssa pulled out a bag of candles and matches from her backpack. “We light the candles and begin the séance.”

They found a small, decaying table in the center of the room and set the candles on top. Alyssa lit them one by one, watching as the flames flickered and danced in the dark. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting her mind clear as she focused on calling forth the spirit of the master.

“May the spirits of the other world hear our call,” she said in a low, steady voice. “We ask that you come forth and make yourself known to us.”

At first, nothing happened. The only sounds were those of the candles flickering and the winds outside. But then, Alyssa felt a cold breeze brush against her skin and a low, guttural growl filled the air. The table began to shake as though something was trying to push its way through from the Otherworld into this one.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in front of Alyssa, appearing out of nowhere. It was tall and shadowy, with glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. The chill of terror ran through Alyssa’s veins as the smoky figure grew. It moved with a swift, eerie silence that sent chills up her spine. Then an inhuman howl pierced the darkness, echoing off the trees and sending a shockwave of dread that froze Alyssa and her friends to the spot. Before she could react, the mysterious figure vanished into thin air.

“Guys, listen,” Rodney said.

Alyssa stood and walked outside. “You hear that?”

“I thought this island was deserted.” Chris turned to Alyssa.

“What are you looking at me for? Rodney was supposed to check.”

Two more howls cut through the silence. The wind picked up, and the waves crashed against the shores harder than before. The full moon pushed her hand against the water.

“We need to go back,” Rodney said.

This time, neither Alyssa nor Chris teased him about the suggestion.

All three kids turned toward the growing fog surrounding the house. A damp and rancid smell, one that was even stronger than the scent of wet wood coming from the house, filled the air.

“All right, we’re going back to the boat,” Alyssa announced, punching in the ferryman’s number on her cell phone.

No one hesitated as Alyssa walked away from the house, and Rodney and Chris followed close behind her.

Another howl sliced through the air. The wind screeched an eerie wail, adding to the burgeoning feeling of terror inside Alyssa’s belly.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Rodney said.

The group headed toward the spot where the boat should’ve been. However, the pier sat empty.

“Thought you said this was the spot?” Chris turned on Alyssa, his face swollen with rage. “I never should have listened to you. This shit’s gonna get us killed.”

“Shut up and let me think!” Alyssa said.

The fog thickened, and the chill caressed Alyssa’s skin. The touch almost felt human.

She shook off the thought and focused on the situation.

At once, Chris’s body went airborne, his screams echoing through the air. Wails of terror.

“What the fuck?” Rodney asked in a strained voice.

“Stay close to me!” Alyssa shouted. The fog thickened and stung her eyes. “Chris! Where are you?”


Author Bio:

Meet your word sculptress...

Author of the International bestselling novels, the Prelude and the Lost Immortals Saga, KaSonndra is also a mother, designer, reader, gardener, home renovator, and a slayer of undead Egyptian mummies in Tomb Raider. She believes in karma, coffee, and seriously wishes that the producers of Xena would bring her favorite show back.

KaSonndra was born in the race-car city of Charlotte, NC, and now lives in the City of Alchemy and Medicine, NC, when she's not hanging out in Bardonia (Lost Immortals Saga setting). Most of her characters are based on people that she has met throughout her travels and adventures.

People tend to stop and start conversations with KaSonndra as if she has known them her entire life. Does this freak her out? Not really. Her mom says that one day she’ll get kidnapped by one of these folks. KaSonndra's response? She told her mom that if it weren’t for these lovely people, then she wouldn’t be able to create such fabulously romantic stories!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok


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Book Blitz ~ Marrying the Mechanic: A Small-Town Clean Romance by Shanna Hatfield

 

Marrying the Mechanic: A Small-Town Clean Romance
Shanna Hatfield
(Summer Creek, #7)
Publication date: October 24th 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A heartwarming journey of love, growth, and the bonds that tie hearts together even when life leads down unexpected paths.

Mechanic Jace Easton grapples with the sudden changes happening around him. His younger sister, Tassie, has always relied on him, but now she’s off traipsing around the globe with the prince of her dreams. As Tassie prepares to step into her future, Jace is confronted with the harsh truth that she has matured, and so has her best friend, Deena. The deepening attraction he feels for Deena—a pull that becomes increasingly difficult to ignore—leaves him further unsettled and struggling to accept his new reality.

Deena Durant may earn her living welding farm equipment, but her true passion lies in crafting metal sculptures. Alongside her artistic dreams, she clings to the hope that Jace might eventually see her as more than his sister’s friend. Until then, she conceals her feelings and does her best to encourage him as everything familiar shifts into unchartered territory.

When Jace and Deena work together to help Tassie’s dreams come true, will they discover their own path to true love?

Marrying the Mechanic is a celebration of unexpected love, personal growth, and the power of relationships in a wholesome, small-town romance.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

“Have you talked to Tassie recently?” Deena asked as they headed out of town.

“Last Sunday. She and the prince were on their way to dinner with one of his brothers.” Jace glanced over at Deena, who seemed to get prettier by the minute. “Why? Have you heard from her?”

“Just a few texts and photos. She sent one yesterday of her and Eli with two of his grown nephews. They were heading to Paris for a festival.”

Jace felt a prick of annoyance that Tassie kept Deena more updated on her travel plans than she did him. Then again, he couldn’t blame his sister. Most of their communication started and ended with him asking when she was coming home and reminders to be careful and safe and to not trust strangers.

He probably sounded like a lame recording set to repeat.

No wonder Tassie only called him once a week and rarely sent a text. It was his own fault for acting overbearing and no doubt coming off as angry, even if he was. Tassie wasn’t the one who’d stirred his ire. Most of that ferocity was directed at himself, with a substantial portion attributed to the stupid prince with the charming smile who had turned everything in Jace’s world upside down.

Well, maybe not everything.

Deena was her own kind of surprise. Jace had yet to decide if the changes in her were of the good or bad variety.

A touch drew his gaze to where Deena’s hand rested on his forearm. He debated shaking it off or covering those long fingers with his own dirty paw. Instead of following either inclination, he focused on her sunglasses even though all he could distinguish was a reflection of himself.

With his face red from the heat and too much time in the sun, compounded by his current embarrassment, it was a vision he didn’t really need to see.

“Don’t beat yourself up if Tassie is doing her own thing,” Deena said with a note of encouragement in her smooth voice. “This is what she’s always wanted. What’s she’s dreamed about her entire life. All we need to do is be happy for her. Right?”

“Right,” Jace said, although he’d rather offer a dozen reasons why Tassie was going to eventually come home with a broken heart. Her experiences with Eli were going to make it that much harder to live in Summer Creek when this … whatever was going on with his sister and the prince, came to an end.

Deena’s eyebrow lifted above her sunglasses again, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. She refrained from commenting, though, and pulled a U-turn in the road, stopping behind his service rig.

“Want me to wait for you to make sure you get it running?” she asked.

“No. I won’t keep you longer than I already have, but thank you for the ride both ways. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Jace. Call if you can’t get it to start, and I’ll come get you.”

He would rather chew glass than call Deena for help in his current frame of mind, but he swallowed down the refusal and nodded at her. “Thanks. Have fun at the baby shower.”

“I intend to. Bye, Jace.”

He hopped out, lifted the tools and creeper from the back, then let Cleo deliver a sloppy lick to his cheek. It was the closest he’d come to a kiss for a long, long time.

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries -- not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Pinterest / Bookbub / Newsletter


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Book Blitz ~ The Blue-Eyed Butterfly - A Novel Inspired by True Events by Sharon Suskin

 

 

Historical Fiction

Date Published: Sept. 29 2024

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.


 

Three women, Callie, Lillian, and Lydia faced an adversary that would change their lives forever. He resided in the only home that Callie had ever known, ensnaring her into his vicious web of dominance and cruelty. His insatiable thirst for exacting fear soon traps Lillian and Lydia in his household. In due course, his own demise takes him down the road of no return.


About the Author

Sharon is a first-time author, retired nurse, mother, and grandmother. She grew up in the Appalachian Mountains and writes with a deep appreciation and admiration for women who live there. She chronicles the life of each character so her readers can be inspired by and benefit from their remarkable stories.


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Book Blitz ~ A Thousand Flying Things - A Bridge Between Shores by Kathryn Brown Ramsperger

 

A Thousand Flying Things
Kathryn Brown Ramsperger
(A Bridge Between Shores, #1)
Publication date: September 20th 2024
Genres: Adult, Historical

A Pulpwood Queen’s International Book of the Year
A Foreword Indies Winner
A Sarton Fiction Award Finalist
A Chanticleer’s Hemingway Award Finalist
A Royal Dragonfly First Place in Fiction Award

A love lost. A soul restored. A decade of secrets and separation.

It takes a child to lead them home.

American Dianna Calloway is committed to educating children in the thick of war-ravaged 1990s Southern Sudan. Hampered by disease, a corrupt government and a fierce tribal leader who is harboring a mysterious young boy, Dianna’s passionate calling to help others in a dangerous country is only complicated by the chance meeting of a long-lost love, Qasim. Faced with the choice to protect a child or reconnect with the man she still holds dear, Dianna must make the most difficult decision of her life. Or must she?

Dianna and Qasim can’t be more different. He’s a worldly Lebanese Muslim in his 40s, from a political family, and she’s a 30-something white Christian American. They’ve been challenged by geography, culture, trust, career, and the passing of time. Now there’s a young boy who’s stolen Dianna’s heart. She’ll do anything to get him a visa out of S. Sudan. But when her mother becomes ill, she leaves Africa physically, but her heart remains there, as if it alone can protect the man who loves her and the boy who needs her. What choice does she have now?

Dianna’s alone in Africa, and nothing is as it seems …
It may be that no one needs love more than Dianna …
But a young boy is about to show her the way back home …

Sweeping across continents and cultures, this captivating novel showcases Ramsperger’s work as a humanitarian journalist and will draw readers in with a gripping storyline, gritty details, and profound sensitivity. The novel is both timeless and timely, as war and climate change attack Sudan and S. Sudan once again. A Faulkner Wisdom Literary finalist and a Pulpwood Queen’s International Book of the Year, A Thousand Flying Things is a riveting, poignant read that will work to heal global misunderstandings and encourage conversations about perspectives and assumptions around race, country, and culture while also showing readers that love, not war, conquers all.

A Thousand Flying Things is the stirring, standalone second book in the A Bridge Between Shores women’s fiction series. If you like passionate characters, lyrical prose, and well-researched settings, then you’ll adore award-winning author Kathryn Brown Ramsperger’s international tale.

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EXCERPT:

February 14, 1991

Piecewood Displaced Persons Camp Near Bor, Southern Sudan

Dianna peeks through the smooth, worn canvas flap of her thatched hut. It’s only 30 days since she arrived. It might as well be 300. She pulls on a T-shirt and shorts for her daily run before the heat sets in. She runs no matter where she is. Here, the children, already awake, follow her. It’s a game to them. They’d never imagine her reason for it.

She began running to maintain weight. Then, she ran to forget her past. Now, she runs to avoid thinking about her future. The endorphin rush is better than food, much better than romance. It’s a multi-purpose tool for boredom, anxiety, strategizing, or blotting out thought.

These children mean everything to her because her presence in Africa is what she has left. She has a year to reach them. A year from now, most will join the fighting, or the dead. Reaching even one would be enough reward for the time spent in this restless, ragged heat. Reaching a few would be a miracle. Books are her only tool.

Her eye catches a motion in her peripheral vision. At first, she jumps. It’s a crouching animal, a hyena, or worse. But no, it’s a tiny boy, no more than five. She’s about to stop and ask him why he’s here, but he disappears into the predawn shadows. She keeps running, but she asks another boy who he is.

“Khalil,” the boy answers with a shrug.
“Why is Khalil here?”
“He is with Commander Biel.” She doesn’t like the sound of that. What warring tribal leader would bring a family member? He must have kidnapped him, or worse, bought him. She’ll have to tell her colleagues, especially the social worker, Mirembe, when they visit next month. But she’s not sure who she can trust. Most of her colleagues are five or more kilometers away, not that she minds. The U.N. has a new policy to enlist regional staff for its programs. “Teach a man to fish,” and all that. She can’t trust any of them—or anyone in the bush—white or Black, Muslim or Tribal, Arab or Dinka, aid worker or resident—until they prove their trustworthiness. That usually means divulging their allegiance in this layered war. It’s useless hoping to make friends here.

She’s certain now that her teaching is a diversion, that less than a kilometer away, these boys are being prepared to shoot rifles, even missiles. Biel is training them for his war and pretending to teach them to read. Yet perhaps she can save one or two lives.

She must be careful how she presents it to the woman called Mirembe at the delegation. Without Biel’s approval of her mission here at camp, Dianna will be sent home. The government wants her here, but Biel, he’s forced to let her teach to receive U.N. aid. She suspects he’s using her as a ruse for more international fund- ing. A shiver courses down her back with drops of sweat.

That afternoon, the boys straggle into the schoolroom, their mouths curving up when they see her, their dark eyes bright, their fingertips reaching into her pockets, searching for Life Savers or cigarettes she brought to make friends. They speak to her with their eyes instead of their mouths. Her suitcase full of bribes—piles of unboxed Marlboros—is almost empty. Her supposed students turn up their noses at anything, like a pencil, that they cannot inhale with their lungs or bellies.

They are still a bit young to be sticking needles in their arms, but that too will come, once they see some action. She’s observed the dull eyes of teenaged soldiers-in-training too many times to imagine these bright-eyed boys’ futures would turn out otherwise. Young combatants are a tradition and necessity here. Sudan has had conflict, usually civil war, since the late 1950s, when the country claimed independence from Britain and Egypt. They’ve been fighting here as long as she’s been alive. The boy soldiers, only slightly older than the students, are starving for food but laden with pharmaceu- ticals. They march through wasted grassland covering oceans of untapped petroleum. All their fighting will never yield a drop for them.

As she waits to begin, Dianna takes out an emery board, a vestige of home. Her nails are crooked and cracked from the heat, drawing water, and chopping weeds from around the doorway to her hut.

Funny how its rough, sandy surface, which echoes this world but also reminds her of home, comforts her. Right, left, right, left, she files down the nails until she reaches the skin where the nail ends and the finger begins.

She is filing when more children skip in, brandishing a knife, a rusty fishing hook, or a spent grenade.

“What?” an almost-adolescent boy asks, peering at the strange stick in her hands. It’s the first time she’s seen him.

Time and again, Dianna has explained. Time and again, the chil- dren fail to understand. “It’s a tool for my fingernails,” she tells him.

“Need?” he asks, shaking his head, either mystified or judgmental. The children may learn to read before they learn the use of a mani- cure utensil. Yet still, she files. It is her statement of faith.

Some boys don’t ever show. Dianna watches them performing their chores, eating their stewy, beany fu, preparing for nightfall, marching in formation. Still, these rations are infinitely better than the boiled leaves and grass they had before. They never meet her eye, and she knows not to push. They come to her only if their curiosity to learn overtakes their fear of their tribal leader Daniel Biel’s disapproval. These children owe everything, including their survival, to him.

She’s been on the receiving end of Biel’s judgment and wouldn’t want to be in the path of his anger. It arrives without warning like a snake coiled under the brush. He’s not happy she’s here. The government forced this relationship, probably to meet some sort of educational quota. Countries with abuses of human rights and low literacy rates don’t receive much international aid. He wants money to fund the military he’s building that’s full of children, and he’s getting it by calling his training ground a language school. She’s little more than a babysitter.

Biel’s a funny one. She can’t figure him out entirely. She’s seen him take time with each boy, ensuring they have enough to eat, that they are groomed, that they have moments of play in addition to work. He calls them his “little men.” They worship him, and so they fear getting close to her.

She stretches, rolling her head to get out the kinks, rubs off the cold sweat, flicks away a minute, insistent insect. She wanders outside to see if anyone else is showing up and notices a flowering bush she can’t remember being there yesterday. She strolls over to smell its perfume. Bending over the plant, she expects a jasmine blossom’s gentle, white scent. Instead, thousands of swarming in- sects fly every which way. She backs up, shocked, trying to avoid them, batting them away from her face. What she thought were white petals are flapping wings that have eaten any bud that tried to appear. Things in the bush are never as simple as they appear. Impressions of people are even more deceptive. Like Biel. Maybe like Mirembe at the delegation, too. Even though she likes her, she can’t trust her.

Today she’s reading from The Jungle Book, but none of them are listening. The few boys in front of her are exhausted before the day begins from yesterday’s hard work and training. They probably have little time in their day for fantasy stories with talking tigers and snakes. Nothing like their lives. Mowgli is Indian, and the story is implausible and sometimes racist. A colonialist wrote it over one hundred years ago.

She sees Thon sneer each time she reads the label “Man Cub.” She should have thought to call him Mowgli throughout. Twenty years ago, when she was about Thon’s age, Dianna fell in love with this novel because of its foreignness, its animals, and its message, but it’s not what she should be reading aloud here.

“This book was written a very long time ago, and it’s about a jungle, not Sudan,” she explains, her gaze fixed upon Thon.

“Men are not animals,” the boy answers, picking at his front tooth with a blade of grain.

She nods in agreement and puts down the book, but Alier protests. “I want to hear what happens to the boy!”

“Shhhhh!” The entire room shushes him and shames him. His head hangs down.

She looks around the room. “We call this story a fable. It’s meant to have a message. It’s not meant to be reality but to reflect reality. Shall I continue?” she asks no one in particular, least of all Alier, though he gives her a pleading glance.

Chol rests his chin on his hands, almost asleep. Jok’s eyes wander around the room. Mabior comes up to her “desk,” made of two crates, and tries to dig into her pocket a second time. She hears the first threads rip from cloth. There, he’s ruined her jeans.

“Stop it!” Dianna hisses at him and almost slaps his hand but catches herself. He’s just a child, and she can’t afford to make enemies here. She catches his eye. He’s laughing at her. She feels new sweat trickling down from her forehead to the wrinkled crow’s foot that’s getting deeper beside her left eye, to the nape of her neck to the bare part of her blistered shoulder. Abe, almost a teen, sucks on an unlit cigarette. She doesn’t allow them to smoke in her presence, even though she’s their dealer. At least she’s kept that much under her control.

School is over for her as much as for them. They’ve been here almost an hour. She slams the book shut and drops it with a thud on her crates.

After class, the boys play football with an ancient, deflated soccer ball. They use tent poles as goal posts and the younger boys as goalies. She brings her old Polaroid camera out. The boys drop their football and race toward this contraption, a camera from
her past, but an object these boys have never seen. The resulting yellow, blurred images create quite a stir in this little camp. The children love to see themselves. They delight in making faces for the camera. They even primp sometimes, hoping she will choose to snap one of them. It is more than a conversation starter; it is a showstopper, marketing her words with their pictures.

She lets the boys roam around the pile of dusty photos and moves back to the shade of the canopied “schoolroom.” Its stale air reminds her of her days in her North Carolina frame house, pre-air conditioning. As a girl, she lay in her four-poster, the air settling above her bed like a bubble too thick to prick. Moist but unyielding, it hovered as she lay in wait to leave that bedroom, that house, just as she is standing by to leave this place. She lets her thoughts unravel, barely noticing the boys at play.

She is hard pressed to determine which makes her feel emptier. This “schoolroom” is not much more than a tent. On rainy days, they must retreat to the tiny cinderblock closet of books,which is even more stifling. At least in North Carolina, she could visit the library. Books could make her forget the heavy air, the heat electrifying her spine, her mother lying down in the next room, in her own sort of limbo. Books could even rid her of the pain of her monthly cycle or empty stomach when she was sent to her room without dinner. Reading’s more important than running. Reading is more import- ant than food. It fills the emptiness of this place when she longs for love and attention. Yet would words ever mean as much to these boys as they did to Dianna? Would they lay down their rifles to turn the pages of the books she provided? Her mind pushes against the languid heat that presses her into the earth, and her lungs try to take in more air. The smell of overused cooking oil, reminiscent of the many meals fried in it, cuts the air like a scythe. She longs for just one ice cube. That is when she sees a young child’s hand.

The hand waves at her from behind a large nearby rock. Flat on top, nature’s idea of a throne, the stone hides the rest of the child’s body. The hand itself, though, is a work of art. It is a hand a hyena could tear off with one swift chomp. Tiny, ragged fingernails, dirt caked over hidden fingerprints, flies buzzing this way and that. Yet the wrist is another thing altogether. Smooth and shiny and strong. She takes up her Polaroid and begins snapping. The shutter clicks, and the photos whirl out until the film is gone. They fall at her feet, creating a small dust storm. The specks float suspended in the air, then rest one by one on the photos.

She wants to wash his hands to see what lies beneath this grime, so she walks around the rock obscuring the body that owns this miniature man’s hand. It’s the boy from this morning.

“Hello?” She wonders if he will understand even that simple greeting.

“Hey,” he answers.

Her eyes go wide. How does he know that word? Most boys know “hi” or “hello,” but seldom use it because she greets them in their own language. And this boy looks barely old enough to speak many words at all.

“I teach myself book.” The boy smiles. “You help?”

“Do you speak English?” Dianna fumbles in a mixture of English, Arabic, and Dinka.

“Engoish.” The little boy smiles again, attempting to mimic her sounds. Then, he slaps her hand with his, reaches in her pocket, finds an English tea biscuit, and pops it whole into his mouth. “Tank.”

Dianna laughs at the mispronunciation, wondering how long it took him to learn the sentence he greeted her with. Her heart is in her ears. She may have found her student.

“Name?” she asks.
“Annee,” he answers.
She laughs again, this time a broad, imp-like Dianna laugh, a laugh she barely recollects.
“No, that’s my name. I’m Dianna.” Her fingers point to her chest, correcting him, showing him that this is how to pronounce her name. His beautiful, muddy palm slips around them. “You?” She points at his chest.

“Ka. Leel,” he answers, sounding it out just as she did for him. She does not know if both words form his name, whether it is a varia- tion of some Nuer pronoun, or whether he has made it up himself.

“You mean this name?” She writes it out for him in the sand, and he nods. “How do you know my name?” she asks.

He doesn’t understand the question. He simply stares at her with a certain fascination. Biel must have mentioned her to some of the boys. That was a good sign.

Khalil giggles, and his broad smile, still with its baby teeth, makes her want to hug him, but she doesn’t. It is possible he was plucked from his village before he even answered to the name his mother called him. Many of these boys were orphans, and still, others were sent away, pawning, they called it. They were lent to others so that they—and the rest of the family—would not starve. The official word was that they were child laborers. Yet turning over this practice to reveal its dirty underside showed a far grimmer picture: slaves, sex slaves, child soldiers. Sacrifices, yet sacrifices with the hope of a fuller belly, and fuller for the conscripts than for their parents.

They walk hand in hand toward the canopy. They plop onto the ground, and he curls his elbow into her lap. Polaroid pictures look up at them through the earth like a faded carpet. Khalil picks up his image and squints. “Khalil?” he asks.

“Khalil.” Dianna puts away her camera while smiling at his realization that he is the subject of the photograph. She chooses a book from a nearby stack, opens it to page one, and begins to read. As she mouths each word, he repeats it after her. He points at the detailed illustrations of leafy branches and curvy women in full skirts and stays. He points at the letters. Beatrix Potter’s bunnies and hedgehogs dance in a land of cobras and hippos. He’s interested in books! She wants to get to know him, help him succeed.

She has just broken a professional and personal credo—never get close to anyone again, especially not a client or student. She smiles in dazed but sated wonder. She always thought it would be a tall, dark man walking through camp who posed the most risk to her heart. And here, this little boy has grabbed it with one sentence and a few fingers. She will give him a good washing, make sure he is free from parasites, give him a T-shirt and a book all his own. Tomorrow, she will speak to Biel. This boy could not possibly be old enough for military training.

Khalil seems in awe of her classroom, the only one of its kind in the camp. He runs his hands over the wall and floor, and his deep-set, round eyes rove up and down again. People here at camp reside in thatched mud huts or sleep under flimsy tents. Many boys sleep in the open air. This “schoolhouse” has one cinderblock wall, though the other sides are open to the air. His delicate hands glide over each brick’s cold, rough surface, one by one, as though it were a sculpture. If he even knows what a sculpture is. She fills a vat with all the cold water they can haul, pours soap into it, and orders him in. Khalil is having none of it. He is not getting his uniform wet. He crouches in the corner, still all smiles, but head wagging from side to side, “No.” She hauls him in his strange uniform, which resembles ragged shorts and surgical scrubs more than fatigues, and dumps him into the vat. He couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, but he is arms and legs and sharp nails, flailing, no other sound. Then he is still as she pours the soapy water over him—and scrubs, scrubs his work-torn fingernails. He relaxes and blows bubbles. And gradually, the smooth, burnished skin shines through.


Author Bio:

Kathryn Brown Ramsperger began her writing career with newspapers, then investigative reporting. As a researcher and writer for National Geographic and Kiplinger, and later, as a humanitarian journalist working throughout Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, she met countless courageous people facing disaster, famine, and war. Their stories inspired both of Kathryn's novels. Kathryn now lives in Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC with her husband. They have two adult children, bound for their own creative adventures.

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Sunday, October 27, 2024

Cover Reveal ~ The Geography of Happiness - A Mackenzie Country Story by Jay Hogan

 

The Geography of Happiness
Jay Hogan
(Mackenzie Country, #4)
Publication date: November 21st 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance

One thing I know about Terry O’Connor—the man has complicated relationship written all over him, something I’ve avoided for pretty much forever.

One thing I know about Terry’s hometown, Painted Bay—it’s a long, long way from my life as a Mackenzie Country vet and dedicated, carefree bachelor.

All in all, good news.

No reason to look twice at the gorgeous man currently staying at Miller Station with his daughter.

No reason to daydream about his soft lips, quirky sense of humour, sexy smile, or the way he blushes whenever he catches me staring which is far too often.

No reason to second guess my future plans or reconsider the no-strings lifestyle I’ve worked hard to perfect.

And absolutely no reason to feel disappointed that Terry is even less interested in a relationship than I am. I should be relieved.

Then why can’t I stop thinking about him and how right it feels when we’re together? Why does my heart spin at the very mention of his name? And why does the thought of moving on without Terry and his daughter in my life feel like the loneliest decision in the world.

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Author Bio:

Heart, humour and keeping it real.

Jay is a 2020 Lambda Literary Award Finalist in Gay Romance and her book Off Balance was the 2021 New Zealand Romance Book of the Year.

She is a New Zealand author writing mm romance and romantic suspense, primarily set in New Zealand. She writes character driven romances with lots of humour, a good dose of reality and a splash of angst. She's travelled extensively, lived in many countries, and in a past life she was a critical care nurse, nurse educator and counsellor. Jay is owned by a huge Maine Coon cat and a gorgeous Cocker Spaniel

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Saturday, October 26, 2024

Book Blitz ~ Why We Fall - Why Pain and Suffering Are Our Greatest Teachers by Daniel Martinez

 

 

Why Pain and Suffering Are Our Greatest Teachers

 

Self-Help

Date Published: August 26, 2024

Publisher: Mindstir Media



Have you ever questioned the importance behind the pain, suffering, and desperation we feel in life? Often times, it's easy for us to lose ourselves in the moment and not see the big picture of things. Yes, pain is uncomfortable, suffering is horrible, and desperation makes us feel like we're losing ourselves before we've had the opportunity to find ourselves. Often times, these emotions have so much they can teach us, yet we avoid them because we don't want to experience any kind of suffering in our lives.

In Why We Fall, I take you through a journey to uncover the truth behind the importance of these emotions in our lives. I walk you through the importance of learning to understand them and how to find the best way to cope with them. It's not an easy journey, but once you grasp the concepts and ideas that we'll discuss in the pages of this book, you'll find that living a fulfilling life and one that you feel satisfied with, has never been easier.

 

About the Author

It’s not easy. Before we move on, remember this. It’s like going against your own nature. You’re programmed to behave in a certain way. Your genetic code tells you that it’s ok to be the victim and to believe that everything that happens to you happens because there is a certain type of secret conspiracy working against you. We enjoy and crave being the victim. It’s comfortable and we like it. Easy things are what the mind naturally cherishes the most. Well, we’re going against this. We’re going to challenge ourselves to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and instead begin to think in a “problem-solving” mentality.

A true warrior has their values so aligned with God that no matter what happens they know that everything is happening according to God’s plan. There’s no need to feel scared or uncertain because they know that God is testing them and making sure that they’re following the right path. A true warrior knows that they’re going to be tough times and that they need to find ways to solve them because only then will they be able to say that they got stronger. Only then can they actually find a sign of improvement. Only then can they feel like they’re making progress and moving on. Even when they fall, they fall forward. Falling back is not an option for them, because they know that that’s letting the victim’s mentality kick in, and they don’t do that anymore.

 

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