Tag Archives: new release

New Release: Reclaim My Heart by Donna Fasano

Awarding winning author, Donna Fasano, has a new romance novel out this week!

Sixteen years ago, Tyne Whitlock cut all ties to her past and left town under the shameful shadow of a teenage pregnancy. Now her fifteen-year-old son is in trouble with the law and she is desperate for help. But reaching out to high-powered attorney Lucas Silver Hawk will tear open the heart-wrenching past in ways Tyne never imagined.

Forced to return to the Delaware Indian community where Lucas was raised, Tyne and Lucas are tempted by the heated passion that consumed them as teens. Tyne rediscovers all the reasons she found this man irresistible, but there are scandalous secrets waiting to be revealed, disgraceful choices made in the past that cannot be denied. Love is a powerful force that could heal them both—if the truth doesn’t rip them apart.

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Amazon: Reclaim My Heart

Author Bio:

Donna Fasano is a three time winner of the HOLT Medallion, a CataRomance Reviewers Choice Award winner for Best Single Title, a Desert Rose Golden Quill Award finalist, and a Golden Heart finalist. Her books have sold over 3.6 million copies worldwide and have been published in nearly two dozen languages. Her books have made the Kindle Top 100 Paid List numerous times, climbing as high as #17.

What others are saying about Donna’s books:

“…complex, funny, and realistic…” ~Wilmington News Journal

“Excellent!” ~Bookreview.com

“Could not help myself from reading excerpts to my husband and friends. This book is well written, the characters are real, everyday folks. It is very easy to identify with them. Donna Fasano is a talented author.” ~Elizabeth M. Caldwell on Amazon

“…a fast paced riotous look at family life today. Donna Fasano is right on target!” ~Donna Zapf, SingleTitles.com

Why I Write Romance Novels

By Donna Fasano

I can’t tell you how many times over the course of my 20-plus year career as a published romance author I have been asked, “When are you going to write a real book? You know, a [insert genre of choice: mystery, historical, thriller, etc].” So I’d like to take this opportunity to tell readers why I write romance novels.

I suffered a lot of tragedy while I was growing up, the worst of which was the death of my mother just as I was entering my teens. I felt as though I went from 13 to 35 overnight, and when my friends were off having fun, I was cooking and cleaning and helping my little brother with his homework. Romance novels were an escape for me. The Wolf and the Dove, The Far Pavilions, Whitney My Love, Rebecca, The Thorne Birds… if the book featured one man and one woman falling in love, I read it! Romance novels offered me hope for a happy future filled with love (hokey, maybe, but I was a naïve teen). As a young wife and mother, I discovered Silhouette Romance Novels. These books were short and sweet and uplifting. Each and every story put a smile on my face, and the happily-ever-after endings always boosted my spirits. Are romance novels real? No. Does every real-life relationship end in HEA? Of course not. But if I wanted doom and gloom, I’d watch the evening news.

As an author, I can’t think of a better way to use my talent than to bring pure enjoyment to my readers. I tell people that I write cotton candy for the mind. Think about that. When you were a kid and you put a small cloud of that wispy confection on your tongue, what did you do? You smiled. And maybe you even laughed. That’s the reaction I’m going for with my short, upbeat stories. That’s why I write romance novels. So if you’re looking to get lost for a few hours in a fun, cheery story, I hope you’ll try one of my books.

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NEWLY RELEASED BOXED SET: NIGHT TRILOGY — Three Night Novels by Carol Davis Luce

For the first time in one volume, three of the ‘night’ novels by Night Writer, Carol Davis Luce. The ‘night’ books are standalone thrillers that go bump in the night.

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Over 48 Five-Star Reviews. This volume contains two Amazon bestselling novels, and the newest release.

Link to Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/NIGHT-TRILOGY-Three-Novels-ebook/dp/B00CDTEISQ/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1366480657&sr=8-13&keywords=Carol+Davis+Luce

NIGHT STALKER:

Things were looking up for Alexandra Carlson. With her divorce behind her and the mysterious death of her father fading in her memory, she was moving on. Then things began to happen. Anonymous phone calls full of heavy breathing. A broken tree branch outside her bedroom window. Her cat gone without a trace. A moving shadow above the skylight. Surely it was all her imagination…

Then one day she picked up the phone. In the background she could hear a scratchy record—an old song that brought dark memories out of the shadows. That night something woke Alexandra out of a sound sleep. This time, the heavy breathing wasn’t coming from the telephone. Someone was in house with her. And she was at his mercy.

NIGHT GAME:

4 weeks in the Top 100 Best Sellers in Kindle Store.

The exclusive King’s Club resort casino is a glittering playground for gamblers with everything to gain…and the hunting ground for a shadowy killer with nothing to lose. So far, the odds are in his favor. Until casino owner Jay King places his bets on a beautiful private investigator. . .

Kasey Atwood is an expert at undercover surveillance, and no stranger to this dazzling world of high stakes and low morals. Her attraction to the sensual, enigmatic King is immediate—and incendiary. As their love affair heats up, she becomes a pawn in a dangerously seductive game of passion and revenge. Then more innocent blood is shed, and Kasey knows she can’t afford to make one false move. At risk is nothing less than her heart—and her life. . .

NIGHT WIDOW:

Murder. Mayhem. Madness. . .

“NIGHT WIDOW has all the ingredients of a first-class thriller: a reclusive former movie star, a strong and capable heroine, and a story that twists and turns like Mulholland Drive. Nothing is as it seems in this present day story of Old Hollywood, obsession, and murder. As Luce delves deeper into the life of fading film star Sybil Squire, the stakes escalate to a stunning climax.”
–J. Carson Black, author of DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN

“A Twisty Mystery. Enthralling…well written…the twists keep coming.”
–The Book Keeper

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Guest Author, Indie Chicks Writer and friend,Tonya Kappes. Welcome Tonya!

Who wants a Fairy God Cat?

I do! I do! What could be more purrrfect than to have a Fairy God Cat? There’s only one thing cooler than a cat, and that’s a cat with magical powers.  Check out the 3rd in The Magical Cures Mystery Series, A Charming Wish. It’s kittielicious!

 

Image of Tonya Kappes

Tonya is an Amazon Movers and Shakers, and International bestselling author. She writes humorous cozy mystery and women’s fiction that involves quirky characters in quirky situations.

Splitsville.com, the first novel in the Olivia Davis Mystery Series, is a double finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards in the Mystery and Humorous Categories.

Carpe Bead ‘em is a finalist in Amazon’s eFestival of Words in the Women’s Fiction Category.

When not being the princess, queen, and jester of her family of three teenage boys, an adoring husband, and three fury kids, she travels to various writing groups as guest speaker on “How to Market and Promote Your Novels Effectively,” where she is known as a marketing guru.

Become a member of Tonya’s STREET TEAM! It’s a gathering place of readers who love Tonya Kappes novels and Tonya gives away monthly prizes! To sign up for Tonya’s STREET TEAM, newsletter, view book trailer, and upcoming news, check out Tonya’s website, Tonyakappes.com.

And be sure to stalk her on Facebook and Twitter!

Life was good. I mean real good until Isadora Solstice decided to stick her nose into my business. Granted, she was the one responsible for picking me to be June Heal’s Fairy God Cat.

Yes, you read that right. FAIRY GOD CAT. Being a Fairy wasn’t just for cute little winged creators, though I am a very cute white, male cat.

After all, it wasn’t that hard to find a place in June Heal’s heart on her tenth birthday. I knew she had always wanted a charm bracelet because it was very well known that she prayed every night for one. I made sure that I had snuck a charm from the shop Bellatrix Baubles, in the magical town of Whispering Falls, before I showed up on June’s front door step with a cute turtle charm dangling from my tattered collar.

It took a lot of rolling around in sticks and muddy water to get that collar to look all ratty. But I had to get in June’s heart somehow, in order to protect her from evil spiritualist that would do anything to have her powerful gift. After all, my name wasn’t Mr. Prince Charming for nothing!

Little did I realize, she was going to have a place in my heart. I was there to do a job. . .protect. . .not LOVE.

Like I said, life was good. June had taken over her mom’s homeopathic cure shop at the local flea market, A DOSE OF DARLA. She had just started honing her spiritual gift of knowing how to cure what A Dose of Darla client’s really had. They might think they had heartburn and wanted June to make a homeopathic cure for it, but in reality June knew they were suffering from a broken heart. With a few “special” ingredients, June healed the client and A Dose of Darla took off.

That was until Izzy showed up realizing that June had her late father’s spiritual gift and she made June a deal to move to Whispering Falls to open her own shop. That was when June found out that she wasn’t a “typical” person and I wasn’t just a stray cat.

We moved. And life hasn’t settled down since. I’m having to keep June safe at each stage of her life by adding protection charms to her bracelet. Plus her budding romance with Whispering Falls’ sheriff Oscar Park, leaving her little time to give me a good scratch. Not to mention Madame Torres, June’s snarky crystal ball was high-maintenance and requires a lot of June’s free time.

But it was all up to me to help keep June safe and out of trouble, even when villagers show up dead with June’s prints all over the evidence.

Sometimes I wish for those long days back in Locust Grove where I could smack around cicadas all day and warm my belly in the beating sun.

http://www.amazon.com/Charming-Magical-Mystery-Series-ebook/dp/B00BSRYYH4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1365292444&sr=1-1&keywords=a+charming+wish

Get to know Mr. Prince Charming and the magical gang of Whispering Falls in THE MAGICAL CURES MYSTERY SERIES. A Charming Crime is the first novel in this fun series, followed up by A Charming Cure. And the fun doesn’t stop there. A Charming Potion is a holiday short story. The third novel in the series, A Charming Wish released on March 14th.

For more of Tonya Kappes novels, be sure to check out any online book seller for ebooks and print.

Check out Tonya’s website, Tonyakappes.com,to join her newsletter, view book trailer, and upcoming news.

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New Novel Release — Cut and Run by Traci Hohenstein

Read an excerpt of Cut and Run by Traci Hohenstein

Traci Hohenstein in Indie Chicks Cafe
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TRACI HOHENSTEIN
CUT & RUN excerpt

Matthew O’Malley’s Story
Helping people get out of jail has always been a part of my life, just like stepping over the drunks on Bourbon Street. My grandfather started O’Malley Bail Bonds in 1943. By the early sixties, my father was at the helm. I couldn’t have been more than seven when he first started taking me to work with him everySaturday. I’d wait on those wooden benches at the courthouse, watching as he bailed out the most hardened criminals in the city. By the time I was a teenager, I knew every crook in the city of New Orleans. And they knew me and my family. Late-night phone calls from drunk drivers, domestic abusers, and murderers were the norm for us. So it was only natural that when I graduated from Louisiana State University—with a degree in business management—I officially joined the family business. Little did Iknow that I would one day find myself on the wrong side of the law, and need someone to bail me out.

I had to give my grandfather credit. He had set up shop in the right place. For decades, New Orleans ranked among the top five cities in the United States for murders per capita. That meant we had more work than we could handle. Then Hurricane Katrina came along in 2005. After the notorious storm, business slowed quite a bit. Most of our clientele moved on to greener pastures in Texas, northern Louisiana, and other states along the Gulf Coast. I took advantage of that lull and started getting more involved in my children’s school and extracurricular activities.
I became the soccer coach for my son’s team, the Red Devils. Patrick was eleven and a star soccer player. He loved playing goalie—a position that was perfect for his tenacious personality. With his fierce blue eyes and dark wavy hair, Patrick was the spitting image of me when I was his age.

He’d learned plenty from his older sister, Mary Katherine, who was also a star soccer player. She was thirteen and held her team’s record for most goals scored in a single season. Mary Kate, as we called her, had her mom’s beautiful blonde hair and green eyes. But she had my street-smart attitude and tough-as-nails exterior. Even though she was becoming a teenager, an age that most dads feared, I didn’t worry about her. I knew she could handle herself when it came to boys and their hormonal urges. She’d already been sent home from school twice for beating up a boy who’d just looked at her the wrong way.

My wife, Erin, was a stay-at-home mother as well as an artist. When the kids were at school, she painted watercolors that she put on consignment in local art galleries and a few select upscale restaurants and cafés. I’d always supported her creative side, until it put our marriage in jeopardy. I knew I’d have to confront her eventually, but I couldn’t stomach it yet. Instead, I kept busy with the family business and took on more responsibility in our kids’ lives to avoid her.

Going through the motions helped me sustain a sense that life was normal, which was why our Wednesday night family ritual seemed more important than ever. We hadn’t deviated from it for nearly a year. I’d leave work early and head home to change into shorts and a Red Devils jersey. Then I’d load up the family SUV to make the short drive to the soccer fields at the city park. From four to six, the kids had soccer practice. Afterwards, we’d head home, and while Erin helped the kids with homework, I’d grill steaks on the back deck. My older brother Chris, who was also my business partner, would come over with his wife, and we would all eat dinner together. Every Wednesday night, without fail, this was our thing. At least, it was until one Wednesday, when everything changed. Instead of getting ready to leave for practice, I found Erin lying down in our bedroom with a washcloth covering her forehead.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked quietly.

“Headache. Not sure if I feel like going to soccer practice tonight.”

“Did you take anything?” I asked her, growing concerned. With the exception of morning sickness, which she’d had with both pregnancies, Erin was never sick. It crossed my mind she could be pregnant, but then I dismissed the idea. This was the person I teasingly called superwoman because she never missed any activity the kids were involved in. I loved her. No matter the skeletons she was keeping in her closet.
The lights were off and the blinds were closed tightly. Only a sliver of light snuck in from the adjoining bathroom. I fumbled around the nightstand to turn on the lamp.
She moaned when the light came on.

“Just some aspirin. Turn the light off, please. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get ready.”

I left the room to check on the kids. Mary Kate was in her room, lying on the bed and listening to her iPod. She was already dressed in her practice clothes. She looked up, smiled at me, and gave a small wave. I pointed to my watch and put up my hands.

“Ten minutes,” I mouthed to her. She gave me a thumbs-up sign, closed her eyes, and went back to listening to her tunes.

Patrick was in the study playing on the computer. I could hear the ping-ping sound of some game he was engrossed in. He looked so grown up behind my battered oak desk.

“Hi, Dad. Mom’s sick,” Patrick said in his squeaky voice. Not quite boy, not quite man.

He was going through that horrible stage of adolescence that I remembered only too well.

“Just a headache, son. She’ll be fine. What are you doing?”

“Playing Warcraft. I’ve leveled up again,” Patrick said, his attention back on the screen.

“Nice.” I looked through the mail Erin had put on my desk. It seemed amazing that she was still capable of taking care of the details like this, sorting the mail and paying the bills and keeping a grocery list. I guessed she was working as hard as I was at keeping up a normal facade. “Ten minutes and we’re out of here.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I went through my usual routine of getting everything ready for practice, putting the situation with Erin at the back of my mind. I grabbed some oranges from the fridge, tossed them into a container, and carried them outside. In our detached garage, I pulled a bag of ice from the deep freezer. I poured filtered water into the lime-green ten-gallon portable cooler and then loaded everything up in the back of our Dodge Durango.

We lived just one street off St. Charles Avenue, in the heart of the Garden District. When my father died, he willed the house to my brother and me. My mother had died some twenty years earlier, of multiple sclerosis. My brother Chris, who liked to be as far away as possible from the daily grind of New Orleans, liked living in the suburbs of Metairie. So I bought out his share of the family home, spent some dough renovating the hundred-year-old Victorian mansion, and moved my family in. The imposing main house was four thousand square feet and situated on a prominent corner lot facing Valmont Street. We had a large pool, a hot tub, and an outdoor kitchen that were well used. The garage faced a corner street, and we’d put in an apartment above it to serve as my wife’s art studio.

Just as I closed the hatch of the Durango, I turned around and came face-to-face with a stranger. I jumped back and banged my elbow. A tall black man stood before me, his clothes soiled and torn and his posture stooped, although his frame still appeared strong and muscular.

“Mister, can ya help me out?”

I was used to homeless people asking for handouts around the French Quarter, but it had never happened in my own backyard. I looked at the gate and saw it was standing wide open. I had forgotten to lock it when I came home. Even though I felt we lived in a relatively low-crime area of the Garden District, we always locked the driveway gate as well as all the doors and windows to the house and apartment. We also had an alarm system in the main house, but like most people, we usually forgot to set it when we were home.

My heart began to slow to a normal pace as I reached into my front pocket. “What’s your name?” I asked the gentleman.

“Moses.” When he spoke, I could see perfect, straight, white teeth which looked out of place with the rest of him. He wore a filthy trench coat, even though it was almost eighty degrees outside. His shoes were caked with mud, and his fingernails were long and had dirt underneath them. But those teeth were sparkly white and straighter than mine ever could be.

I handed Moses a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thank you and God bless.” I watched as Moses walked through the gate and disappeared. I started to follow him to lock the gate, but something stopped me. I looked up at the second-story window and saw my wife peeking out through the blinds. She quickly shut them. As I stared at the window, I tried to shake off my uneasy feeling.

I headed back inside. “Time to go!” I yelled from the kitchen. I heard the kids bounding down the stairs. When they reached the kitchen, I instructed them to get in the truck and wait for me.

When I walked into the family room, Erin had her back to me and was rooting around in her purse. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt.

“You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling well,” I told her.

When she turned around, I saw that she was wearing dark sunglasses. She had a smile on her face. The one where her lips were tightly shut and the corners of her mouth were struggling to maintain an upward battle. I instantly recognized that kind of smile. It was usually reserved for when she was trying to act like everything was okay, but she was mad or upset. I usually ran the other way when I saw that smile. But now I just wanted her to come out with it so we could go back to being honest with each other.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“I’m fine.” Erin slung her purse over her shoulder. “Who was that man?”

“Just some homeless guy.”

Erin raised her left eyebrow. “You didn’t give him money, did you?”

I shrugged.

She shook her head and walked toward the back door.

This is how we communicated lately. With body language instead of honest words. Sometimes I felt more like her child than her husband.

“You sure you’re okay?” I called after her. She still looked a little pale, and it worried me.

“Yeah, of course.”

I felt my concern ease a little. It seemed she wanted to pretend things were normal as much as I did.

“I need to drop off a painting with someone at Antoine’s on the way home if we have time.”

“Do you need me to grab it from the studio?”

“I can get it.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to the city park. As we drove down St. Charles Avenue, I looked for Moses, but didn’t see him. I thought about his white smile and unusual name.

Practice went well, as usual. But the whole time, I couldn’t get Moses out of my mind. The more I thought about him, the more I was sure that I knew him from somewhere. I didn’t think he was a past client, but O’Malley Bail Bonds had helped thousands of people and I couldn’t remember all of them. We had what my brother termed “frequent flyers”—those people who we’d bail out of jail on a monthly basis—and I was pretty sure Moses was not one of those.

On the ride home, my brother Chris called to see if we needed anything from the store. “Baking potatoes,” I told him after consulting with Erin. I let Chris know that we’d be running a few minutes late since Erin needed to drop off a painting to a client..

After stopping at a gas station to fill up the Durango, we headed for the French Quarter. Antoine’s was a popular French Creole restaurant for tourists and locals alike.. I knew Erin was excited to finally get her artwork displayed there. As we were on the outskirts of the Quarter, I heard a thump come from the back of the truck and felt the vehicle become suddenly unsteady on the road.

“Damn. I think we have a flat.” I pulled the Durango over in an empty parking lot that faced the area known as the Riverwalk. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

I got out and inspected the rear tires. As I’d suspected, the left rear tire was flat, and I could see a gaping hole in it.

How the hell did that happen? I thought to myself. Just as I was getting up, I felt a hand on my shoulder. For the second time in the space of a couple of hours, my heart thumped loudly in my chest and an uneasy feeling washed over me and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

I slowly turned and came face-to-face with the figure standing behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Buy Cut & Run at: http://tinyurl.com/bk3vfvc

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Guest Author Faith Mortimer. New Novel Release: A Very French Affair.

Please welcome Amazon bestselling author and friend, Faith Mortimer. She has a new novel out this month!

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Blurb: A VERY FRENCH AFFAIR

When Margaret discovers her fiancé is cheating on her, she leaves England for the south of France in search of a new life and a fresh dream. Beautiful yet self-effacing, Margaret is determined to put romance out of her mind and avoid forming personal ties.  Things are looking up, until a series of events draw her into meeting handsome Frenchman Jean-Paul. Despite her reservations, Margaret begins to let down her guard with inevitable consequences.
Can she trust him with her heart?.. Has she found a safe haven?

Or is she poised on the brink of the abyss…


Now let’s talk a little about, ‘A Very French Affair’.

When asked about the inspiration for, ‘A Very French Affair’, I immediately think of my fans and followers. Yes, I do have some! My first book, ‘The Seeds of Time’ (Part 1 of The Crossing), is a mix of genre. It covers action, adventure; it’s historical in parts, a saga, relationships and that favourite of many, romance. I didn’t realize I could write romantic scenes until a very good friend said how much she enjoyed my romantic touches in Seeds. “Why not try writing a pure romance”, she said. So I did. To me, she was my first inspiring follower.

I often think romantic novels are looked down upon in certain areas of society. To many readers they represent a ‘light’ read. So, what’s wrong with that? I can write literary. I can write heavily described novels. And I can write about all different manner of things, especially if I’ve had experience in them. But romance and love is all around us and hey, romantic novels don’t have to be ‘light’! Think of all those classics… Since writing, ‘A Very French Affair’ I’ve received some wonderful reviews and comments. Readers have enjoyed the book – so much so I’m going to be writing more! Whether I’ll continue in the, ‘A Very **** Affair’ theme, I’ve not decided. It’s a good title for a series so…maybe.  It will be a fun series to write!

So, What Makes ‘A Very French Affair’ so sexy?
Come on. You have to admit this. When you’re watching a French actor or actress who has a gorgeous sexy voice your heartstrings get a good, hard tug. You pause, your eyes follow them, you watch them smile that slow, languorous sexy smile…and you get tingly all over.
What is it that makes, ‘A Very French Affair’ so sexy? You might be too young to remember the famous French singer, Sacha Distel (swoon), but click on the link above and take a listen on You tube….Who wouldn’t find my hero, Jean-Paul drool-worthy? When a man is that sexy, a complicated chemical reaction takes place in a woman’s brain that makes her think…mmmm, now that’s sexy. Let’s have some more…and you read on…

Author Q&A

1.What attracted you to writing in the first place?

Loving literature as I do, I’d always wanted to write – whether it was novels, plays or poetry. As a child I used to write stories for my sisters and then as I grew older, my short stories became much longer until they resembled novellas. But it wasn’t until the early 2000s that I started writing my first full-length novel 

2.What genre are you most comfortable writing?

There’s more than one and I like to switch from one to another making sure I don’t become stale with my writing. I love crime writing; murder mystery suspense, but I don’t do real hard core violence – I prefer to let the reader’s imagination take over after I’ve laid down some hints. I love writing adventure and action mixed in with romantic suspense. Finally I’ve recently begun writing pure romance. A few fans of my adventure books like the romance I’ve included in them, so I thought, why not?

3.How has your upbringing influenced your writing?

I’ve lived an amazing life – and God willing I’ve got a lot of living still to do!  Since the age of five I’ve been fortunate in visiting many countries and six of my tender years I spent living in Malaya and Singapore. I think living abroad and mixing with different cultures and class has enriched my life and hopefully my writing.

4.Where do you get your inspiration and ideas from?

All sorts of places. A snippet from an overheard conversation, talking with friends, reading an article in a magazine or something from the television. I have an antennae that turns towards interesting themes and I log on!

5.Do you have any writing rituals or listen to “mood music” when you write? Where is your favorite place to write?

I try and write in the morning for a few hours, then break and do something else. If I have time and the inspiration I’ll pick up and carry on. The next day I go over the previous day’s work and edit it. I rarely listen to music – I need quiet and I write in our ‘snug’.

6.What’s your favorite place in the entire world?

Being with my husband and family.

7.Fame or fortune, which would you prefer?

Both! Seriously I’d like to try fame and see what it is all about. I get a kick when I’m recognized in the street or supermarket and love signing books!

8.What was your favorite part of this book to write? Which part was the hardest?

I loved writing the middle and end parts. I suppose the more I got involved the more I was that heroine. The hardest…making sure I got my facts and dates right. I spanned twenty years and had to keep remembering there was no internet or mobile phones back then!

9.When you were a child, what did you want to be when you “grew up”?

A veterinary surgeon.

10.If you couldn’t be an author, what would your ideal career be?

Either a surgeon or an actor.

11.Give your fans three fun facts that they may not already know about you.

I’m a qualified Yachtmaster. I regularly ‘tread the boards’ (stage act). I’m a ‘hasher’.

12.If you were stranded on a desert island what 3 things would you want with you?

Unlimited supply of water and food. My reading glasses and books. My mate.

13.Please tell us in one sentence only, why we should read your book.

If you’re a romantic who loves stories with a bitter-sweet ending, a heroine and hero who have problems and worries just like you and me, and a gorgeous setting.

14.So what’s next for you as an author? Any last words?

I’ve just finished the fifth Diana Rivers Murder Mystery Suspense, ‘Evil’s Unfinished Business’, I’ve started writing a short romance set in Egypt and I’m drafting a new full-length psychological thriller! Busy days!

Author Bio.

Faith Mortimer is a bestselling Amazon author. Born in Manchester & educated in Singapore, Malaya and Hampshire, England. A Registered nurse and in later years changed careers to oversee a number of travel and sport related companies. Faith is happily married and has two children. The same time the children attended University, Faith joined them in reading for a Science degree in 2005. After gaining honours for the Natural Science degree Faith believes the dedication & stamina she needed gave her the confidence to finish writing her first novel.
BOOKS so far:

THE ASSASSINS’ VILLAGE ~ CHILDREN OF THE PLANTATION ~ THE SURGEON’S BLADE ~ THE BAMBOO MIRROR ~ THE SEEDS OF TIME ~ HARVEST ~ CAMERA ACTION…MURDER!  ~ A VERY FRENCH AFFAIR. and soon: ~ EVIL’S UNFINISHED BUSINESS.

Link to Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/A-Very-French-Affair-ebook/dp/B00BEYZ5FQ/ref=sr_1_9_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1362155511&sr=1-9&keywords=Faith+Mortimer

Link to Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Very-French-Affair-ebook/dp/B00BEYZ5FQ/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1362339635&sr=1-8

Link to B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-very-french-affair-faith-mortimer/1114586468?ean=2940016341620

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GUEST AUTHOR, KARIN COX. Q&A

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Welcome author, Karin Cox. Karin is a talented writer and skilled editor. I’m honored to have her on my blogsite. Her new debut novel release, CRUXIM, is a Gothic vampire tale that is collecting rave reviews at Amazon. http://www.smarturl.it/cruxim

Author Q&A:

What attracted you to writing in the first place?

I’ve been a writer as long as I can remember. My earliest memory of writing is winning a poetry contest when I was in about fourth grade, so I was probably about eight or nine. With my (enormous) earnings, I bought a kite and I thought, Now this is a gig I could get used to. I still make about the same amount of money per annum. J

English was always my favorite subject at school, but when I applied for university, I listened to all the naysayers who said, “You’ll never get a job if you do an Arts degree.” So I enrolled in a Science degree in the hope of becoming a zoologist. Big mistake.

Within a year, I’d transferred to a Bachelor of Arts to study English Literature, Communication Studies and Myth and Ancient Literature, which led to my career in editing and to my job as an inhouse author for an Australian publisher, rather ironically writing books about … zoology and natural history! Writing has always been a natural state for me. I’m one of those people who jolts awake in the wee hours to scribble ideas in a notepad by my bed or to put them in “notes” on my iPhone. It’s cathartic, a necessary process of working through my own tumultuous thoughts and emotions.

How has your upbringing influenced your writing?

My dad was always a writer, and my sister, too, so I think it is fair to say that writing runs in my family. They have always supported me and encouraged me to follow my dreams. I think that is the best gift parents can offer a child: belief in their dreams

Do you have any writing rituals or listen to “mood music” when you write? Where is your favorite place to write?

I get very absorbed in my world, so I prefer to write late at night, from 9 pm to 2 am. I like the silence then, when my kid and my partner are asleep and my imagination can run away with itself. The biggest writing ritual I have at present is a program called Write or Die. I’ve spent so many years editing that it can be hard for me to let go and just hammer out a first draft. Very hard. And I am a terrible procrastinator, so if I have to fact-check, I’ll spend an hour googling a place or an object for historical reference, even if it only appears for one line in the novel! I set Write or Die to kamikaze, which means it will start eating my words if I linger for too long, and I force myself to do 1000 words in an hour. Then, I later edit, research, fact-check and rewrite the heck out of it. It works for me.

I write in a recliner in my living room, or on my deck overlooking the pool.

What’s your favorite place in the entire world?

My bed. Good stuff happens there … like sleep, and dreams. It smells and feels like home. J

Fame or fortune, which would you prefer?

Fortune, hands down. I’m not remotely interested in fame. It seems like fame would come with too many downsides, particularly the kind of life-changing attention authors like Stephanie Meyer or JK Rowling have found. With fortune, I can spend my days writing, reading and learning, and I can use that money to help others. I don’t believe in being filthy mega rich. I think we would all like to be comfortable, but by world standards, I already feel very lucky. I live in Australia, I have food in my belly, I have a wonderful family, a roof over my head, a job. I am already blessed. If my writing could make me enough that my partner didn’t have to do the daily grind of working in construction and I could pay our mortgage and put food on the table with my words alone, that would make me a very happy girl indeed.

What was your favorite part of this book to write? Which part was the hardest?

My favorite parts to write were the love scenes, or what I see to be love scenes: when Joslyn’s love for Amedeo first becomes clear with the passionfruit scene; Amedeo and Danette, and what happens to her; and the scene where he tries to save Sabine from the burning tent.

The hardest part was definitely writing the ending. I worried that some readers would be annoyed about what happened to some of the characters. But much more is explained in the sequel, which I am currently writing and which explains why things turned out that way. Amedeo might just discover that his upbringing isn’t as typical for a Cruxim as he thought it was.

When you were a child, what did you want to be when you “grew up”?

I wanted to be the woman in the pink spangled tutu who did handstands on the back of horses in the circus. Despite some time devoted to practicing this on the back of my childhood Shetland pony, Mr. Ed, it appears I never quite got good enough. But there’s still time.

If you could live inside the world of a book would you choose?

It would be Mary Renault’s The Bull from the Sea and The King Must Die. Ancient Greece. Cretan Bull Ring. Amazon women. But I’d also be pretty happy in Rivendell or Hobbiton.

Give your fans three fun facts that they may not already know about you.

I have two elbow creases on each arm, which sounds weirder than it looks (thankfully).

I can ride a horse like a maniac when I get the chance, and I pretty much grew up on horseback.

I adore cats. They can be cruel and selfish and self-absorbed, but they’re so darn cute and funny and deeply self-conscious at times. I can’t help it

If you were stranded on a desert island what 3 things would you want with you?

My Kindle (loaded with books). My family. Water (It is a desert island, right? If it’s just a deserted island and it has a spring, replace water with wine)

Please tell us in one sentence only, why we should read your book.

Because it will make you think, and hurt, and understand that we all make mistakes and that things are often not how they first appear.

So what’s next for you as an author? Any last words?

Next is the sequel to Cruxim, which I know many of my early readers are eagerly anticipating. I’m hoping to have it out by Easter, and it is tentatively titled Creche. It provides a lot more background into Amedeo’s past—background that even he was unaware of, and also into Sphinxes and the mythology surrounding them. So it explains a few incidents in the first book and why they panned out the way they did.

I’m also working on several other projects, some non-fiction, some fiction and some for children, and running my website for indie authors to find reviews, Indie Review Tracker. I’m always busy. If I only had a few more hours in each day (about twelve more a day would be great!) I could get a few more books out this year too. My book of short stories, Cage Life, is doing really well at present too, so I’d like to take some more time to do a few more shorts in 2013 as well. As for sleep, well…

On a lighter note: Can’t afford therapy? No problem, become a writer!

I think most people would agree that writers are a weird bunch. No one knows that more than me, because, heck, I am a writer. But I’m also an editor, so I have to work with other writers, too, and that makes me fully qualified to tell you that writers are wonderful, hilarious, talented, imaginative, clever, sensitive, and quite insane people. Most of us really should be stretched out on a couch at least once a day, and I don’t mean for a nap in-between tapping out a few thousand words. I mean for a lobotomy, or at least a little psychoanalysis. However, I really think that the constant pecking thoughts in a writer’s brain and the swirl of emotions in a writer’s breast are critical to being an author.

Authors see things differently to most people. They plumb the depths of human interaction and emotion. I don’t know many writers who have never wallowed in the snake pit of a broken heart or felt the paranoid bite of the black dog from time to time. I think perhaps the very desire to explore the world and its people, and to truly feel what others feel, makes writers a little more susceptible to maudlin, profound thought, which, in turn, makes them more than a little bit bonkers.

Now, before you all start jumping up and down and saying, “This editor said writers are all mental. Stone her! One-star her books! Burn down her plantation! (which is probably made-up anyway),” I should clarify. “Writing mental” is a fabulous, hilarious, super-productive kind of jetpack-powered insanity that, while it can drop one into a seething pit of despair, also consists of moments of deluded grander and ridiculous “Cruxim is so amazing that I’m sure I’m going to be the next JK Rowling/Stephenie Meyer/Colleen Hoover/[insert name of next big superstar here]!” style optimism. The psychological afflictions that plague writers are rarely the kind of “I’ll hunt you down and boil your bunnies in molten batshit” mental—and thank goodness for that, although I knew there was a reason I don’t keep rabbits. “Writing mental” is the little voice on your shoulder that sometimes blows trumpets in your ear (or smoke up your bum, whichever you prefer) for your wondrous work and at other times berates you for being clichéd, or boring, or for being a genre writer of paranormal romance and therefore simply not as good as that Man-Booker-Prize-winning author … Now, what was his name again…? Oh, it doesn’t matter; no one reads literary fiction anyway (she says, tongue in cheek).

Writing insanity is a way to take all of your own personal little neuroses and peccadilloes and plot bunnies and vampire-eating angels and cobwebbed skeletons in haunted corners of your tatty little writer’s soul and put them on the page for others to gasp at, laugh at, cry over, or identify with.

We’re nuts, but we’re working through it in our own cathartic manner by putting it all down on paper. We’re making little effigies of our nutty selves—or our friends and relatives (whom we haven’t seen for months because we’ve been writing), or our exes (because good things always happen to them in novels), or the man at the pizza shop, or the lady with the alligator purse at the mall—and we’re plunking them into times, worlds, relationships, and situations we’ve most likely never been in ourselves … and then we’re hurting them. Slowly. And deliberately.

Yes, we’re hurting them! Because all good writers know that conflict is king. Pain and need and trouble drive stories. Basically, we create people we love (and we hope you love them too), or people that we love to hate in the case of exes, and then we make life increasingly horrible for them. Then—just when you, us, and certainly they, can’t take any more—we sometimes deign to let them be happy. We let them find love, fulfil their quest, or attain their wildest dreams. And we feel good for a little while. We feel good because we’ve finally finished that damn novel and now those insistent voices in our head have vanished for a little while. Then we go back to our lonely little desks and we sit down, and we feel content. Then we wash down two Vicodin with vodka and we start again. Okay, I’m kidding … I prefer wine.

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What is Cruxim?

Amedeo is Cruxim, a mysterious, immortal fallen angel. Destined to seek redemption as a vampire hunter, he quenches his insatiable hunger on vampire blood. But when the object of his passion, the novice nun Joslyn, is turned into a vampire and enters a vampire coven, Amedeo’s worlds collide. Shattered by the loss of his beloved, he vows to rid the world of vampires once and for all, even if it means destroying Josyln in the process.

A Paranormal Game of Cat and Mouse
Joining Amedeo on his quest to rid the world of the undead is Sabine. Half-woman, half-lioness, she is a Sphinx, a Guardian who has protected humans from vampires since the dawn of time. Yet Sabine comes to this fight pursued by her own enemies. An evil scientist, Dr. Claus Gandler, knows the secret of Sabine’s mythological past, vowing to torment her for eternity or destroy her forever.

Immortal Ever After
Captured by the evil doctor, Amedeo and Sabine are paraded as sideshow freaks in the Circus of Curiosities. Only vampire Joslyn has the power to intercede. Will she prove Amedeo’s redemption, or his destruction?

Author Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KarinCox.Author

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/Authorandeditor

Author Website/blog: www.karincox.wordpress.com
http://www.karincox.com

 

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New Novel Release — Cut and Run by Traci Hohemstein

Read an excerpt of Cut and Run by Traci Hohemstein

Traci Hohenstein in Indie Chicks Cafe
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TRACI HOHENSTEIN
CUT & RUN excerpt

Matthew O’Malley’s Story
Helping people get out of jail has always been a part of my life, just like stepping over the drunks on Bourbon Street. My grandfather started O’Malley Bail Bonds in 1943. By the early sixties, my father was at the helm. I couldn’t have been more than seven when he first started taking me to work with him everySaturday. I’d wait on those wooden benches at the courthouse, watching as he bailed out the most hardened criminals in the city. By the time I was a teenager, I knew every crook in the city of New Orleans. And they knew me and my family. Late-night phone calls from drunk drivers, domestic abusers, and murderers were the norm for us. So it was only natural that when I graduated from Louisiana State University—with a degree in business management—I officially joined the family business. Little did Iknow that I would one day find myself on the wrong side of the law, and need someone to bail me out.

I had to give my grandfather credit. He had set up shop in the right place. For decades, New Orleans ranked among the top five cities in the United States for murders per capita. That meant we had more work than we could handle. Then Hurricane Katrina came along in 2005. After the notorious storm, business slowed quite a bit. Most of our clientele moved on to greener pastures in Texas, northern Louisiana, and other states along the Gulf Coast. I took advantage of that lull and started getting more involved in my children’s school and extracurricular activities.
I became the soccer coach for my son’s team, the Red Devils. Patrick was eleven and a star soccer player. He loved playing goalie—a position that was perfect for his tenacious personality. With his fierce blue eyes and dark wavy hair, Patrick was the spitting image of me when I was his age.

He’d learned plenty from his older sister, Mary Katherine, who was also a star soccer player. She was thirteen and held her team’s record for most goals scored in a single season. Mary Kate, as we called her, had her mom’s beautiful blonde hair and green eyes. But she had my street-smart attitude and tough-as-nails exterior. Even though she was becoming a teenager, an age that most dads feared, I didn’t worry about her. I knew she could handle herself when it came to boys and their hormonal urges. She’d already been sent home from school twice for beating up a boy who’d just looked at her the wrong way.

My wife, Erin, was a stay-at-home mother as well as an artist. When the kids were at school, she painted watercolors that she put on consignment in local art galleries and a few select upscale restaurants and cafés. I’d always supported her creative side, until it put our marriage in jeopardy. I knew I’d have to confront her eventually, but I couldn’t stomach it yet. Instead, I kept busy with the family business and took on more responsibility in our kids’ lives to avoid her.

Going through the motions helped me sustain a sense that life was normal, which was why our Wednesday night family ritual seemed more important than ever. We hadn’t deviated from it for nearly a year. I’d leave work early and head home to change into shorts and a Red Devils jersey. Then I’d load up the family SUV to make the short drive to the soccer fields at the city park. From four to six, the kids had soccer practice. Afterwards, we’d head home, and while Erin helped the kids with homework, I’d grill steaks on the back deck. My older brother Chris, who was also my business partner, would come over with his wife, and we would all eat dinner together. Every Wednesday night, without fail, this was our thing. At least, it was until one Wednesday, when everything changed. Instead of getting ready to leave for practice, I found Erin lying down in our bedroom with a washcloth covering her forehead.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked quietly.

“Headache. Not sure if I feel like going to soccer practice tonight.”

“Did you take anything?” I asked her, growing concerned. With the exception of morning sickness, which she’d had with both pregnancies, Erin was never sick. It crossed my mind she could be pregnant, but then I dismissed the idea. This was the person I teasingly called superwoman because she never missed any activity the kids were involved in. I loved her. No matter the skeletons she was keeping in her closet.
The lights were off and the blinds were closed tightly. Only a sliver of light snuck in from the adjoining bathroom. I fumbled around the nightstand to turn on the lamp.
She moaned when the light came on.

“Just some aspirin. Turn the light off, please. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get ready.”

I left the room to check on the kids. Mary Kate was in her room, lying on the bed and listening to her iPod. She was already dressed in her practice clothes. She looked up, smiled at me, and gave a small wave. I pointed to my watch and put up my hands.

“Ten minutes,” I mouthed to her. She gave me a thumbs-up sign, closed her eyes, and went back to listening to her tunes.

Patrick was in the study playing on the computer. I could hear the ping-ping sound of some game he was engrossed in. He looked so grown up behind my battered oak desk.

“Hi, Dad. Mom’s sick,” Patrick said in his squeaky voice. Not quite boy, not quite man.

He was going through that horrible stage of adolescence that I remembered only too well.

“Just a headache, son. She’ll be fine. What are you doing?”

“Playing Warcraft. I’ve leveled up again,” Patrick said, his attention back on the screen.

“Nice.” I looked through the mail Erin had put on my desk. It seemed amazing that she was still capable of taking care of the details like this, sorting the mail and paying the bills and keeping a grocery list. I guessed she was working as hard as I was at keeping up a normal facade. “Ten minutes and we’re out of here.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I went through my usual routine of getting everything ready for practice, putting the situation with Erin at the back of my mind. I grabbed some oranges from the fridge, tossed them into a container, and carried them outside. In our detached garage, I pulled a bag of ice from the deep freezer. I poured filtered water into the lime-green ten-gallon portable cooler and then loaded everything up in the back of our Dodge Durango.

We lived just one street off St. Charles Avenue, in the heart of the Garden District. When my father died, he willed the house to my brother and me. My mother had died some twenty years earlier, of multiple sclerosis. My brother Chris, who liked to be as far away as possible from the daily grind of New Orleans, liked living in the suburbs of Metairie. So I bought out his share of the family home, spent some dough renovating the hundred-year-old Victorian mansion, and moved my family in. The imposing main house was four thousand square feet and situated on a prominent corner lot facing Valmont Street. We had a large pool, a hot tub, and an outdoor kitchen that were well used. The garage faced a corner street, and we’d put in an apartment above it to serve as my wife’s art studio.

Just as I closed the hatch of the Durango, I turned around and came face-to-face with a stranger. I jumped back and banged my elbow. A tall black man stood before me, his clothes soiled and torn and his posture stooped, although his frame still appeared strong and muscular.

“Mister, can ya help me out?”

I was used to homeless people asking for handouts around the French Quarter, but it had never happened in my own backyard. I looked at the gate and saw it was standing wide open. I had forgotten to lock it when I came home. Even though I felt we lived in a relatively low-crime area of the Garden District, we always locked the driveway gate as well as all the doors and windows to the house and apartment. We also had an alarm system in the main house, but like most people, we usually forgot to set it when we were home.

My heart began to slow to a normal pace as I reached into my front pocket. “What’s your name?” I asked the gentleman.

“Moses.” When he spoke, I could see perfect, straight, white teeth which looked out of place with the rest of him. He wore a filthy trench coat, even though it was almost eighty degrees outside. His shoes were caked with mud, and his fingernails were long and had dirt underneath them. But those teeth were sparkly white and straighter than mine ever could be.

I handed Moses a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thank you and God bless.” I watched as Moses walked through the gate and disappeared. I started to follow him to lock the gate, but something stopped me. I looked up at the second-story window and saw my wife peeking out through the blinds. She quickly shut them. As I stared at the window, I tried to shake off my uneasy feeling.

I headed back inside. “Time to go!” I yelled from the kitchen. I heard the kids bounding down the stairs. When they reached the kitchen, I instructed them to get in the truck and wait for me.

When I walked into the family room, Erin had her back to me and was rooting around in her purse. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt.

“You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling well,” I told her.

When she turned around, I saw that she was wearing dark sunglasses. She had a smile on her face. The one where her lips were tightly shut and the corners of her mouth were struggling to maintain an upward battle. I instantly recognized that kind of smile. It was usually reserved for when she was trying to act like everything was okay, but she was mad or upset. I usually ran the other way when I saw that smile. But now I just wanted her to come out with it so we could go back to being honest with each other.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“I’m fine.” Erin slung her purse over her shoulder. “Who was that man?”

“Just some homeless guy.”

Erin raised her left eyebrow. “You didn’t give him money, did you?”

I shrugged.

She shook her head and walked toward the back door.

This is how we communicated lately. With body language instead of honest words. Sometimes I felt more like her child than her husband.

“You sure you’re okay?” I called after her. She still looked a little pale, and it worried me.

“Yeah, of course.”

I felt my concern ease a little. It seemed she wanted to pretend things were normal as much as I did.

“I need to drop off a painting with someone at Antoine’s on the way home if we have time.”

“Do you need me to grab it from the studio?”

“I can get it.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to the city park. As we drove down St. Charles Avenue, I looked for Moses, but didn’t see him. I thought about his white smile and unusual name.

Practice went well, as usual. But the whole time, I couldn’t get Moses out of my mind. The more I thought about him, the more I was sure that I knew him from somewhere. I didn’t think he was a past client, but O’Malley Bail Bonds had helped thousands of people and I couldn’t remember all of them. We had what my brother termed “frequent flyers”—those people who we’d bail out of jail on a monthly basis—and I was pretty sure Moses was not one of those.

On the ride home, my brother Chris called to see if we needed anything from the store. “Baking potatoes,” I told him after consulting with Erin. I let Chris know that we’d be running a few minutes late since Erin needed to drop off a painting to a client..

After stopping at a gas station to fill up the Durango, we headed for the French Quarter. Antoine’s was a popular French Creole restaurant for tourists and locals alike.. I knew Erin was excited to finally get her artwork displayed there. As we were on the outskirts of the Quarter, I heard a thump come from the back of the truck and felt the vehicle become suddenly unsteady on the road.

“Damn. I think we have a flat.” I pulled the Durango over in an empty parking lot that faced the area known as the Riverwalk. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

I got out and inspected the rear tires. As I’d suspected, the left rear tire was flat, and I could see a gaping hole in it.

How the hell did that happen? I thought to myself. Just as I was getting up, I felt a hand on my shoulder. For the second time in the space of a couple of hours, my heart thumped loudly in my chest and an uneasy feeling washed over me and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

I slowly turned and came face-to-face with the figure standing behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Buy Cut & Run at: http://tinyurl.com/bk3vfvc

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