Friday, April 29, 2016

Cover Reveal: Love on Tap by Judi Lynn

Love on Tap Banner

Inside the Book:

Love on Tap
Title: Love on Tap
Author: Judi Lynn
Publisher: Lyrical Press
Genre: Romance
Format: Ecopy

There’s a different rhythm to life in small-town Mill Pond, Indiana. And with the easy pace come friendships that are built to last and love that starts out on a slow simmer…

 Charming boutiques, picturesque farms, and a growing foodie scene have turned Mill Pond into a tourist destination. And thanks to the culinary skills of Paula Hull, its beautiful rural resort is leading the way. The widowed mom left behind the stress of the New York City restaurant world to spend more time with her two young children. And now she’s ready to see if there’s more out there for her than being a chef and single parent…

Chase Atwood is the local good guy with a bad reputation. He’s a respected business owner and trusted friend, but the drop-dead gorgeous bar owner usually has women beating down his door—and Paula knows to keep her distance. His burgers and beer, on the other hand, are not off limits. But their mutual admiration is always on the back burner—until Chase turns up the heat. Soon he’s determined to prove to Paula that he’s the one key ingredient missing in her life…  

 photo addtogoodreadssmall_zpsa2a6cf28.png  amazon (1)

Meet the Author

All of my works are available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, smashwords, Scrib’d, Kobo, and more.

I’m a member of Goodreads and my author page can be found at: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5023544.Judith_Post

I’m lucky enough to be represented by Lauren Abramo at Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. I’ve been a member of Summit City Scribes for more years than I care to remember, and they’ve made me a better writer.  Thanks, guys!  




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Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Cover Reveal: The Christmas Tree by Allyson Charles

The Christmas Tree Cover Reveal Banner

Inside the Book:

The Christmas Tree
Title: The Christmas Tree
Author: Allyson Charles
Publisher: Lyrical Shine
Genre: Romance
Format: Ecopy

DECORATING WITH THE GRINCH

It was one little fender bender. Sadie was only in picturesque Pineville, Michigan, for a day, trying to handle the ramshackle house her grandmother left her and juggle the sale of her failing design business at the same time. Her debtors don’t care that it’s almost Christmas. But then neither does the big bad contractor whose truck got squashed.

Colt McCoy might be the least festive person she’s ever met. He’s gruff, rude, and way too upset about a minor accident. Of course, he is nice to look at, with dimples hiding in his scruffy beard and a body like a lumberjack’s. And Sadie will have plenty of time to enjoy the view, since their community service sentence has put the two of them in charge of Pineville’s jinxed Christmas tree.

But as their squabbles over ornaments turn to laughter, anyone can see Colt and Sadie have something electric. The hard part is guessing if they’ll light each other up—or just keep blowing the fuse . . .
 photo addtogoodreadssmall_zpsa2a6cf28.png amazon (1)

Meet the Author

40b077_91d50e4a2bda4d39bc55e29b6a8f75a9 

Allyson Charles lives in Northern California. She’s the author of the contemporary romances Putting Out Old Flames and The Christmas Tree. A former attorney, she happily ditched those suits and now works in her pajamas writing about men’s briefs instead of legal briefs. When she’s not writing, she’s probably engaged in one of her favorite hobbies: napping, eating, or martial arts (That last one almost makes up for the first two, right?). One of Allyson’s greatest disappointments is living in a state that doesn’t have any Cracker Barrels in it.

For More Information

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In the Spotlight: Scorpio's Kiss by MC Domovitch & Win Books!




Title: SCORPIO’S KISS
Author: Monique Domovitch
Publisher: Lansen Publishing
Pages: 588
Genre: Romance

Scorpio's Kiss is a spell-binding tale of love, ambition and greed that will keep the reader turning the pages until its surprise ending. Set in New York and Paris amid the glamorous and competitive worlds of art and real estate, Scorpio's Kiss takes the reader from the late 1940s to the 1960s through the tumultuous lives of its heroes.

There is Alex Ivanov, the son of a Russian immigrant and part-time prostitute. He yearns to escape his sordid life and achieve fame and fortune. His dreams of becoming a world-class builder are met with countless obstacles, yet he perseveres in the hope of someday receiving the recognition he craves.

Half a world away, Brigitte Dartois is an abused teenager who runs into the arms of a benefactor with an agenda all his own. When she finds out that her boss has an ulterior motive, she flees again, determined to earn her living through her art. This career brings her fame, but also the unwanted attention of her early abuser.

Domovitch’s novel is a compelling tale, filled with finely etched characters and a superb understanding of the power of ambition. Scorpio's Kiss promises to resonate with all who once had a dream.

For More Information

  • Scorpio’s Kiss is available at Amazon.
  • Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
Book Excerpt:
The days were getting shorter. The boy looked up in surprise at the sky, which had suddenly grown dark. He pulled his worn sweater tight against the October chill, blew warm breath into his cupped hands and hurried on. The newspaper bag strung across his shoulders was almost empty. He no longer had to put it down at every street corner to massage his sore back. He was almost home.
Alexander Ivanov lived at the end of the world. To the twelve-year-old, that was exactly what Brooklyn was; the end of the world. Maybe because the one time he had been to the city, what he called Manhattan, it had taken forever on the subway.
Alex hated living in Brooklyn, and never more so than when his mother talked about her youth in Leningrad with tears running down her face. She would revert to Russian, which he didn’t understand, but the passion in her eyes spoke more volubly of the beauty of her old country than words could convey.
Every day on his way back from school, weighed down by the load of newspapers, he passed the same dusty old stores, their signs barely legible from the peeling paint; the same ratty tenement buildings in which people suffocated in the summer and shivered in the winter; the same old women in their ritual wigs and shapeless dresses, vacant and blank expressions of hopelessness etched on their faces. Hopeless, that was how he sometimes felt; and then he would remember Manhattan and feel better. If there was one thing Alex wished for, it was to live in Manhattan. He yearned for Manhattan the way his mother pined for her old country.
Alex walked along Main Street, where pickles marinated in barrels, salamis swung from hooks, and sausages dried in their cotton bags. He was oblivious to the sights and smells around him. One by one, he took the papers from his bag, and with a quick, experienced motion, he threw them. His aim was almost perfect.
Tomorrow was collection day. He would stop at each house along his route and wait while his clients went to get their money. After making change, he would thank each one of them politely even though most never bothered to leave him a tip. His work would take him more than twice as long as on normal delivery days. Still, he looked forward to it. Collection day was when he could go home, count out his profits and decide how much of the money he could save. This week, if all went well, he might reach the fifty-dollar mark in his bank account. Fifty dollars! It was a fortune.
He reached into his bag, pulled out the last newspaper and aimed it with unerring precision at the Kodesky’s front porch. At that moment the door swung open and old man Kodesky stepped out. The paper flew through the air like a projectile and landed with a thud in the startled man’s well-padded stomach.
“Hey, you no-good little piece of shit!” He waved his fist. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Alex did not hear a word. He was a million miles away, dreaming of the day he would escape the hell of living at the end of the world.
Even now, two years later, he could still remember every detail of his trip to Manhattan. After a long subway ride, he’d emerged in the city surrounded by skyscrapers so tall, he could only see the top by looking up high and leaning back. People on the street rushed about in the lightly falling snow, pushing and jostling each other, their arms full of brightly wrapped packages. It was one week before Christmas and there was a dizzying feeling of joy in the air. Alex had been almost drunk from the excitement. This must be what Leningrad was like.
Deep in his dreams of unlimited delights, he walked home. Three blocks later, Alex climbed the stairs to the dingy one-bedroom apartment where he and his mother lived.
Before he was born, his mother had tried to make the apartment look warm and inviting. She hung pretty paper on the walls and crisp curtains over the windows. The furniture was inexpensive but attractive and functional. Whatever nesting instinct had once inspired Marlena Ivanov’s efforts had long disappeared. For the past twelve years she had done nothing more to improve her home. Indeed, she had not done even the most basic of repairs. Over time, the wallpaper had become worn and faded. The curtains lost their freshness and the once attractive furniture became old and shabby. The sour stench of poverty clung to the apartment like old dirt.
Alex closed the door behind him and dropped his canvas bag on the floor. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. From the kitchen came the smell of boiled cabbage.
“Is dat you Alexander? Vere ver you? Is nearly six o’clock and dinner is been ready for hour,” his mother’s heavily accented voice called out from the bathroom. “I getting ready to go out. You vill ave to eat alone.”
Through the thin door came the sound of the toilet flushing. A moment later Marlena appeared wearing a tight pink sweater set and a black satin skirt. Her dark hair was freshly coifed, the marks of the bobby pins still imprinted between each wave. Her mouth was painted crimson in the shape Joan Crawford had made popular a decade earlier. From ten feet away the smell of vodka on her breath was overpowering.
“Will you be coming home by yourself?” asked the boy suspiciously.
“Vat you vant me to do?” She picked up her purse abruptly and threw in her lipstick. “You vant to eat. I not do dis for me. A boy need food to grow big, strong. Someday you understand.” A moment later, she was gone.
Marlena Ivanov was a bitter woman. She made no secret of the fact that raising a boy by herself was a heavy cross to carry, one she deeply resented. Alex sometimes thought his mother hated him almost as much as she did his father. He had never seen his father. He knew, only because his mother repeatedly told him, that Pavel Ivanov had been a gambler and a womanizer. Whatever wages the man had earned, he just as quickly spent on those two vices. The day Alex was born was the day Pavel Ivanov decided that married life was not for him. He disappeared, leaving his seventeen-year-old wife to deal with the struggles of working and raising a son by herself.
After a dinner of cabbage soup, Alex turned off the lights and climbed under his blankets. In the dark, he could clearly see his mother’s empty bed a few feet from his own. He turned his back to it and curled up.
Hours later, the muffled sound of laughter woke him up. The bedroom door swung open and the light turned on.
“Turn dat off. You vake up boy,” his mother ordered in a shrill whisper. The light flicked off. “Das better. I like dark.” She laughed. “Now, come to Marlena.” Clothes rustled. From his cot, in the corner of the room, Alex guessed every gesture, every movement. Old springs creaked. The sounds were loud, magnified by the stillness of the night.
Alex covered his ears. By trying hard, maybe he could keep the noises from reaching him. It was too late. The guilty stirring in his loins had already begun. His mind swirled in a mix of emotions too strong for him to understand. Maybe if he thought of something else. Someday I’ll drive in from the city in a brand new Cadillac. I’ll show them all…
The next morning, Marlena kissed the man goodbye and turned triumphantly to Alex. “See dis?” She pulled out a ten-dollar bill from between her breasts. “Dis can buy food for whole week.”
Alex looked away, embarrassed and ashamed, and returned to the picture he was drawing on the back of his spelling book. 



Giveaway!

Monique Domovitch is giving away 5 paperback and 5 ebook copies of SCORPIO’S KISS!


Terms & Conditions:
  • By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
  • Five people will be selected to win one of five paperback copies and five people will be selected to win one of five ebook copies of SCORPIO’S KISS
  • This giveaway begins April 18 and ends on July 18.
  • Winners will be announced on Monique’s tour page on July 19.
Good luck everyone!

ENTER TO WIN!




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About the Author


Monique Domovitch has had many careers, starting with being one of Canada’s top models. When she retired from modeling she moved on to a career in the financial services as an adviser and planner, specializing in helping women attain financial freedom. During those years, she was also one of the first women in Canada to host her own national financial television show. During all those years, Monique’s dream was always to someday become a writer. Ten years ago, Monique attended a writer’s conference where the first line of one of her novels was read out loud in a workshop, attracting the attention of a publisher and an agent.

Since that life-changing conference, Monique Domovitch has published nine books, four with Penguin using the pen name Carol Ann Martin, two with Harlequin using her own name, and another two with Lansen Publishing. Scorpio’s Kiss was previously published as two novels, Scorpio Rising and The Sting of the Scorpio. Scar Tissue, her latest, is her ninth novel and she is hard at work on her tenth.

A great believer in the energizing power of writers’ conferences, she says that if not for that first conference she attended, she would not be published today.
For More Information
 
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Monday, April 25, 2016

Book Feature: The Flower Fairy Superhero by Noam and Bryan Atinksy - Win a KINDLE!



 

Inside the Book:


Title: The Flower Fairy Superhero 
Author: Noam and Bryan Atinsky 
Release Date: January 24, 2016 
Publisher: Amazon Digital 
Genre: Children's 
Format: Ebook/Hardcover

A read-along eBook (enhanced with audio),has a powerful message; it is a heartfelt example of a father honoring the memory of his daughter. Beautiful and creative Noam wrote this story as play to perform for her family on her 5th birthday. Her tale of a flower fairy that possesses very special powers able to help the meanest of people and change them into good and happy human beings is the perfect way to illustrate to children the power of a positive attitude. Written in Noam's words, it speaks to a young audience and is easy to understand and relate to the story. The children can follow along while voice professionals act out the the story with Noam's words. Part of the proceeds from the book will go to The Children's Hospital of Wisconsin.

AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE ON ITUNES




MEET THE AUTHOR

I am currently owner and Chef at a restaurant in Milwaukee. Before the death of my family, I was, for many years, a journalist and Executive Editor at a news organization based in Jerusalem. Being able to do a good percentage of my work from home, I was able to be an at home father, facilitating my wife to be able to work full time at a biological science lab. Because of this, I was deeply involved in bringing up Noam and my son, Ya’ari, from an early age.

Noam wrote the play, which became the Flower Fairy Superhero book, for her birthday, only 3 months before she was killed while visiting family and friends in Israel. Soon after the accident, a Hebrew version of her play was published in a national newspaper in Israel. This got me thinking that publishing her play as an illustrated children’s book would be the best way to honor her memory and creativity as a living memorial. I had thought of going to Francisco X. Mora, an artist and family friend who knew Noam, and has illustrated many children’s books over the years. Quite unexpectedly, he came to me, after reading a copy of Noam’s play, and requested that he be able to work with me to make Noam’s play into an illustrated children’s book. I jumped at his offer.
I believe that people live on through the memories of those whose lives they touch. I saw that publishing Noam’s creative and ethical story could not only spread her creativity to a much wider group of people, but that the story itself was life affirming and teaches the very positive lesson that kindness and caring are some of the most powerful tools we have in this world. Further, I felt that having a portion of the proceeds of the sale of Noam’s work go towards helping other children in crisis, would be an honor to the memory of Noam. I have given the book to many libraries around the Milwaukee area and donated over 500 copies to community organizations.
Similarly, my wife Efrat was a Plant Disease Biologist at the University of Athens, Georgia. After the accident, a memorial garden, highlighting her love of plants and nature, was established in Athens.

On the terrible day of March 7, 2010, Noam, her mother Efrat, her nine-month-old brother Ya’ari, and her grandmother Esther Gamliel, were killed in a car accident in southern Israel. But a few months before that day, on Noam’s 5th birthday, she wrote a puppet play—a superhero story!—to perform in front of her family and friends 
at her birthday party. She dictated the story to my wife and I, and I wrote down what she said into our computer. We performed the play at our home in Athens, Georgia. Noam played the Flower Fairy, my wife Efrat played the Queen, and I played the Ogre.


WIN A KINDLE


a Rafflecopter giveaway


———————

Tour Schedule

Monday, April 18 - Book reviewed at The Children's and Teens Book Connection
Tuesday, April 19 - Book reviewed at Bound 4 Escape
Wednesday, April 20 - Book reviewed at K&A's Childrens Book Review
Thursday, April 21 - Guest blogging at Curling Up with a Good Book
Friday, April 22 - Book featured at Harmonious Publicity
________
Monday, April 25 - Interviewed at I'm Shelf-ish
Tuesday, April 26 - Book featured at A Title Wave
Wednesday, April 27 - Book featured at FU Only Knew
Thursday, April 28 - Book featured at The Literary Nook
Friday, April 29 - Book featured at The Dark Phantom
________
Monday, May 2 - Book reviewed at Book Babble
Tuesday, May 3 - Book reviewed at 100 Pages a Day
Wednesday, May 4 - Book reviewed at The Blended Blog
Thursday, May 5 - Book reviewed at Fascinating Quest
Friday, May 6 - Book reviewed at Room with Books
________
Monday, May 9 - Interviewed at Deal Sharing Aunt
Tuesday, May 10 - Book featured at Around the World in Books
Wednesday, May 11 - Guest blogging at The Noise Beneath the Apple
Thursday, May 12 - Book reviewed at Laura's Interests
Friday, May 13 - Book featured at Voodoo Princess
________
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Book Spotlight: The Black Sheep Shadow by Ashley Terrell



Title: The Black Sheep Shadow
Author: Ashley Terrell
Publisher: Ashley Terrell LLC
Pages: 136
Genre: Christian/Religious/Memoir

The city lights blind your amazement. The sound of the traffic challenges you to be alive. Families ask bystanders to make magic and capture the moment with photographs. Newly engaged couples seal their union by kissing under shooting stars while loving by crossing their hearts.
 But what if your heart was under arrest, wouldn't want to embrace something to feel something like others?
Go inside the world of one courageous sheep as she discovers that her heart was under attack by darkness. As she travels on a spiritual journey to understanding her purpose, overcoming the understanding her purpose, self-acceptance, and the importance of inspiration, she rose against the odds with forgiveness and strengthening her faith.

For More Information

  • The Black Sheep Shadow is available to purchase at Amazon.
Book Excerpt:
I have always been told that with success on any level comes with costs, struggles and journeys that can take you off road and from the things that you have always known. In my mind as well as my life, I always considered myself one that would never understand what it was to succeed. I did not have the best support system - especially on any day ending in a Y.
Growing up, I remember the white picket fence in some instances, though they were blurry. What I do remember the most is the feelings I bottled, the conversations that pierced more than my self-esteem, but it factored into my confidence, my beliefs and my lifestyle.
You never know what someone is thinking or how their life has been affected no more than you know how damaging words and actions can be.
As one that was affected by the “what happens in this house, stays in this house” policy, I began to not say much. Unlike other households that had an “open door policy,” things were very strained in the Davis household. As I grew older, I felt like my opinion didn’t matter and affected how I treated others. It also had a bearing on how I treated myself.
My life isn’t ordinary. I was not a person that used to be happy. I was not a person that enjoyed the company of friends, nor did I have the desire to be a socialite. I was determined to come out from under the stigma of being the black sheep.
In all my years of living, the thing I found most profound is the power of God. God will have you speak to someone to deliver His words because He knows that person who is consulting with you will listen. That is trust. When God began to use people to speak to me, it was groundbreaking. It was scary. I never thought I was special enough to have such a privilege.
As I was sitting with my mentor to write an alternative book, we were brainstorming on paraphrasing when suddenly I blurted out, “There are no alternate words to describe my brother being murdered. There are no alternate words to express my darkness. People see the success of what I have done, not the pain that I endured to get there.”
Within that moment, I knew my time had come - I didn’t know for what though. My mentor slowly looked around, and I noticed his leg overreacting under the table.
“That’s your story,” he hissed.
I paused. For the first time, I felt like a big, fat old-school Jawbreaker was lodged in my throat.
“No one wants to hear my story. They want to know how to go from sleeping on air mattresses and eating Ramen Noodles to how to go on tour, promote and do the stuff celebrities do,” I replied.
Just from the tidbits I had told my mentor, I have never seen his face more flushed. “If you don’t tell your story,” he paused and looked away, “then the Devil wins.”
I noticed the goosebumps that wildly appeared on his arms. His body was still reacting. The scent of the air changed. His advice was no longer suggestive, it was pushing and piercing.
“Your story is the raw truth, this book here we are editing is pretty. We need truth. Help someone break out from feeling alone. Help others take a step forward to want to be better. Your story is compelling and can do that,” he told me.
For the first time ever, I confidently agreed with him - in silence.              
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Interview with Sherri Elizabeth Tidwell, author of 'The Daffodils Still Grow'








The Daffodils Still Grow was inspired by diary entries of the author/illustrator, Sherri Elizabeth Tidwell, after the death of her mother when she was 14. “My mother committed suicide when I was 14, and after nearly a year of crying and hurting, I was surprised -- almost shocked -- to see the daffodils she planted right before her death still bloom again. It was a big wake-up call to me that, even though she was gone, I could still carry on without her FOR her. Somehow, our loved ones still find a way of communicating with us when we need it the most." Sherri Elizabeth now attends Seton Hill University’s MFA program in Writing Popular Fiction. She has a BA in both communications and studio arts from Austin Peay State University. She hopes that every parent will know how irreplaceable and loved they are to their children and that every child who has lost a parent will know they are not alone. Remember, the daffodils still grow!

For More Information

Title: The Daffodils Still Grow: A Book for Grieving Daughter
Author: Sherri Elizabeth Tidwell
Publisher: Mascot Books
Pages: 38
Genre: Children’s Picture Book

The Daffodils Still Grow is a full-color illustrated book that portrays life after a loved one dies as seen from the observations of a motherless child. “Beautiful and inspiring.”

For More Information

  • The Daffodils Still Grow is available at Amazon.
  • Pick up your copy at Barnes & Noble.
  • Watch a narrated video of the book at YouTube.
  • Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.


Thank you for this interview!  I’d like to know more about you as a person first.  What do you do when you’re not writing?

Play with animals, paint and take photos

When did you start writing?

When I was four, I started writing poems and stories and illustrating them.

As a published author, what would you say was the most pivotal point of your writing life?

Not being scared to share what I write and being able to accept both criticism and praise

If you could go anywhere in the world to start writing your next book, where would that be and why?

I'm such a home body, I would probably stay at home, but if not, I would love to go someplace on the water.

If you had 4 hours of extra time today, what would you do?

Write and create artwork, definitely.

Where would you like to set a story that you haven’t done yet?

In the 1940s, like a film noir kind of setting

Back to your present book, The Daffodils Still Grow: A Book for Grieving Daughters how did you publish it?

After a frustrating experience with another publishing company, I called the CEO of Mascot Books, Naren Aryal, and spoke to him about The Daffodils Still Grow. I emailed him a link to a narration I did of the book on YouTube, which he watched while we were talking on the phone, and we decided to work together.

In writing your book, did you travel anywhere for research?

No, it came from my childhood experiences.

Why was writing The Daffodils Still Grow so important to you?

I wanted to give other children who had lost a parent a voice and allow them to see that they were not alone.

Where do you get your best ideas and why do you think that is?

I simply go by the old advice, “Write what you know.” I think that by doing so, the writing comes from an authentic place and has the ability to connect with others on a deeper, more personal level.

Any final words?

A quote from Natalie Goldberg: “Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.”


Read More »

Book Excerpt: The Black Sheep Shadow by Ashley Terrell




Title: The Black Sheep Shadow
Author: Ashley Terrell
Publisher: Ashley Terrell LLC
Pages: 136
Genre: Christian/Religious/Memoir

The city lights blind your amazement. The sound of the traffic challenges you to be alive. Families ask bystanders to make magic and capture the moment with photographs. Newly engaged couples seal their union by kissing under shooting stars while loving by crossing their hearts.
 But what if your heart was under arrest, wouldn't want to embrace something to feel something like others?
Go inside the world of one courageous sheep as she discovers that her heart was under attack by darkness. As she travels on a spiritual journey to understanding her purpose, overcoming the understanding her purpose, self-acceptance, and the importance of inspiration, she rose against the odds with forgiveness and strengthening her faith.

For More Information

  • The Black Sheep Shadow is available to purchase at Amazon.
Book Excerpt:
I have always been told that with success on any level comes with costs, struggles and journeys that can take you off road and from the things that you have always known. In my mind as well as my life, I always considered myself one that would never understand what it was to succeed. I did not have the best support system - especially on any day ending in a Y.
Growing up, I remember the white picket fence in some instances, though they were blurry. What I do remember the most is the feelings I bottled, the conversations that pierced more than my self-esteem, but it factored into my confidence, my beliefs and my lifestyle.
You never know what someone is thinking or how their life has been affected no more than you know how damaging words and actions can be.
As one that was affected by the “what happens in this house, stays in this house” policy, I began to not say much. Unlike other households that had an “open door policy,” things were very strained in the Davis household. As I grew older, I felt like my opinion didn’t matter and affected how I treated others. It also had a bearing on how I treated myself.
My life isn’t ordinary. I was not a person that used to be happy. I was not a person that enjoyed the company of friends, nor did I have the desire to be a socialite. I was determined to come out from under the stigma of being the black sheep.
In all my years of living, the thing I found most profound is the power of God. God will have you speak to someone to deliver His words because He knows that person who is consulting with you will listen. That is trust. When God began to use people to speak to me, it was groundbreaking. It was scary. I never thought I was special enough to have such a privilege.
As I was sitting with my mentor to write an alternative book, we were brainstorming on paraphrasing when suddenly I blurted out, “There are no alternate words to describe my brother being murdered. There are no alternate words to express my darkness. People see the success of what I have done, not the pain that I endured to get there.”
Within that moment, I knew my time had come - I didn’t know for what though. My mentor slowly looked around, and I noticed his leg overreacting under the table.
“That’s your story,” he hissed.
I paused. For the first time, I felt like a big, fat old-school Jawbreaker was lodged in my throat.
“No one wants to hear my story. They want to know how to go from sleeping on air mattresses and eating Ramen Noodles to how to go on tour, promote and do the stuff celebrities do,” I replied.
Just from the tidbits I had told my mentor, I have never seen his face more flushed. “If you don’t tell your story,” he paused and looked away, “then the Devil wins.”
I noticed the goosebumps that wildly appeared on his arms. His body was still reacting. The scent of the air changed. His advice was no longer suggestive, it was pushing and piercing.
“Your story is the raw truth, this book here we are editing is pretty. We need truth. Help someone break out from feeling alone. Help others take a step forward to want to be better. Your story is compelling and can do that,” he told me.
For the first time ever, I confidently agreed with him - in silence.
Read More »

First Chapter Reveal: Wild Within by Christine Hartmann


Title: WILD WITHIN
Author: Christine Hartmann
Publisher: Limitless Publishing
Pages:
Genre: Romantic Suspense

A year after a family tragedy, Grace Mori embarks on the journey of a lifetime…

Two thousand, six hundred miles of blistering heat, wilderness, and soul searching—that’s what Grace signed up for when she decided to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. It’s not a voyage for beginners, but with no husband and her family still recovering from her bother’s death, Grace is more alone than ever. 

This trail meant something to her brother, and she’ll hike it in his memory, but she can’t do it alone. So with her brother’s gear and a small group, Grace takes the most important first steps of her life.

Grace finds something more than peace and magic on the trail…

When her first day of hiking ends in heat stroke, Grace is rescued by a handsome, red-haired hiker who calls himself Lone Star. Grace has an immediate connection with him, and their brief encounter leaves her fearing her soul mate has slipped through her fingers. Although he vows to keep in touch, Grace doubts she’ll ever see him again.

When fears become reality, the only people Grace can rely on may be killers...

Grace is surprised to find notes left at supply posts along the trail. Lone Star’s eloquent letters keep Grace going, clinging to the hope she’ll find him—and happiness—at the end of her journey. But as the trail becomes more perilous, menace grows within the group. And when Lone Star’s letters mysteriously stop coming, Grace fears the worst. 

As tensions flare and a killer emerges, Grace must battle to survive…and reunite with the man she’s sure is her future.

For More Information

  • Wild Within is available at Amazon.
  • Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
First Chapter:
Early morning sun scorched the grimy car hood and forced its way through the window to burn Grace’s bare arms. She fidgeted as she watched the arid plane of sagebrush and light brown dust roll past. The landscape differed completely from the grassy hills, eucalyptus trees, and fog around her native San Francisco. Occasional yucca plants shouldered their way between low scraggly bushes with more branches than leaves. Small boulders peppered the area, looking like enormous grey cottage cheese curds among rolling, sere hills.
This countryside puts the wild in wilderness.
The car bounced past dry pastures and scruffy woods.
Maybe I should have spent more time reading those trail guides?
A glimpse of the Mexican border made her sit up straight.
Who cares? I’m here.
Grace bounced in her seat with excitement.
This is it.
Grace and her friend Celine were the only people at the five square wooden posts that marked the southern terminus of the 2,665-mile Pacific Crest Trail, a route leading from Mexico to Canada. A few yards away, wind forced its way through the steel border fence like the sound of screeching tires. Celine snapped a few pictures as Grace removed the spiral hiker register from its protective metal box. On the first empty page she wrote: Kenji, you’re with me.
She signed with more bravado than she actually felt.
Grace spurted back to the car. “I want to get going.” But her backpack, resting in the backseat, was in less of a hurry. She coaxed it onto her shoulders with much grunting and straining and stood, slightly bent, for one final snapshot.
“I’ve never lifted anything this heavy. What was I thinking? It’s not a trip to Macy’s where I can throw all the heavy stuff into the trunk.”
“You were thinking you might need some supplies.” Celine surveyed her. “Because you’re going to be in the middle of nowhere. For months.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Grace straightened with effort. “I’ve been waiting almost a year for this. They say your pack gets lighter as you get used to it. So where’s the trail?”
Celine shrugged. Grace searched the monotonous sand and brush.
“I’ve got the map on my cell.”
But the phone wouldn’t turn on. Grace depressed the controls repeatedly. The screen remained as black as its case.
Come on. My paper maps are buried in my pack.
She took a mental inventory of what lay above them: a one-person tent, a sleeping bag and mat, a wide-brimmed sun hat, extra socks, the head of a toothbrush, all-weather matches, a travel-size deodorant stick, her mother’s homemade rice cakes, and Kenji’s apartment key fastened with a twist tie to the zipper of a first aid kit. The idea of spreading everything out at the base of the monument made her ill.
She pushed more buttons.
Don’t die now.
The screen flickered. She fiddled more and the contrast increased.
“Typical me.” Her hands shook a little as she pinched the trail map to zoom in on her location. “I turned down the brightness last night to save energy. For a second there, I thought I was going to faint. That would’ve made a good Facebook post. Grace Mori’s one second thru-hike of the PCT.”
Celine grinned and poked Grace’s arm. “It’s good to get all the mistakes out of the way at the beginning. Now try to make it through the rest of the day without any more.”
Grace stepped into the sparse brush.
“I already miss you as much as I miss your brother,” Celine called after her. But the wind whipped away her words.
On the trail, Grace’s pent up excitement gave wings to her hiking shoes. They floated across baked earth that meandered through scrub and around boulders. She raced securely down descents and sailed up ascents.
This is so easy.
She covered the next two miles in under an hour. Her initial destination was Lake Morena County Park, eighteen miles away. But her thoughts were of the Canadian border.
Twenty miles a day, for the next four months, before the northern mountains become impassable with snow. In this heat, that idea feels like a mirage.
She looked at her watch.
Nine thirty. Ten more hours of daylight. So I’ll get to Lake Morena with time to spare.
At first, the white circle rising in a cloudless blue seemed a happy part of the scenery. But bit by bit, the sun blazed an ever fiercer hole in the sky. Her short black hair melted into her head and burned her fingers when she touched it.
I should never have given up lightening my hair. Apparently blondes do have more fun, even in the desert.
Her legs pistoned in long strides that searched for cover. But nothing afforded shade.
A tree. A bush. A houseplant, for goodness sake. I’ll take anything.
The trail eventually crossed a highway and meandered through a grove of cottonwood trees. There, Grace slung off her pack, dropped beside it, and dug through her gear.
She squashed a cream-colored hat onto her sweaty brow. Her parched lips drained a water bottle. A rough trunk supported her back.
My shoulders ache. My feet hurt. And this pack weighs a ton. Why did I throw in everything I thought might come in handy? Pre-moistened body wipes? Am I really going to need those out here?
The previous night, she and Celine had discussed her strategy. “I read somewhere a person hiking in direct sun needs at least a gallon of water for every ten miles.” Grace laid out her water containers on the hotel bed. “But one gallon weighs eight pounds. I’ve got a two-gallon collapsible water container and two one-liter bottles. Do you think I should fill them all? That’s close to twenty extra pounds.”
“I think you should follow the rules.”
“That’s a lot of extra weight.” Grace hefted a container from the hotel sink. “Maybe I’ll fill two bottles and leave my larger container partially empty. I’ll drink a lot before I start. And Hauser Creek is on the trail. I can get more water there.”
Celine pursed her lips contemplatively and tossed an empty bottle to Grace. “What if there’s no water in the creek?”
“Then they wouldn’t call it a creek.” Grace chucked the bottle back at her. “It’ll be fine. Like I said, I’ll hydrate like crazy before we set out.”
In the morning, after a brief rest under cottonwoods, Grace continued her hike. She chased lazy clouds in search of shade. They vaporized before she reached them.
Why did I wear pants?
She longed for the hiking skirt in her pack. Then the trail narrowed, and waist-high chaparral brush clung and tore as she battled through. Rough, aggressive limbs and thick, unforgiving leaves pulled at her hiking poles. Grace held them above her head, unable to see her feet. After five minutes of struggle, she reached the other side. Her face dripped with sweat. She looked down.
I love you, pants.
Grace drained her second water bottle as she climbed. At the top of the hill, she paused. Perspiration dripped into her eyes and mouth, but she was too hot to care. In the distance, the border wall and Mexican mountains were still clearly visible. She thought of fishing out her phone for a picture.
Too much effort.
The path leveled out. Her pace slowed. The heat irritated her.
I should have had my hat on from the beginning. Why didn’t I start hiking earlier in the day? Where the heck is Hauser Creek? I need more water.
She wiped a hot tear from her cheek.
What a mess. But there’s no point in crying. Come on Grace.
Grace was the kind of person who prided herself on being someone people could count on. When her mother’s first attempt at baked Alaska set the kitchen window curtains aflame, teenage Grace doused the inferno in chocolate syrup, then helped her mother take down the gooey mess.
“People in Alaska originally lived in igloos. They probably didn’t have window curtains.” She wiped the counter with a Lysol-soaked dishrag. “Some desserts don’t translate well across climate zones.”
As an adult, Grace volunteered her services as a psychologist for the Friday overnight shift at the Berkeley women’s crisis hotline. There, she comforted agonized rape victims, beaten girlfriends, and conflicted housewives with a sympathetic ear, sensible advice, and a list of referrals she’d personally vetted.
“You’re ready to move out? Don’t forget to take his Rolex. He owes you big time.”
And when tragedy struck her family a year ago, it was Grace who negotiated with the funeral home and the florist. Phoned relatives in San Diego, New Brunswick, and Tokyo. Late at night, in bed alone, she lay exhausted but sleepless.
“How am I going to get through this by myself?”
That blistering day on the trail, she began to lose faith. The merciless, prodding sun became her enemy. It evaporated her enthusiasm, diminished her stamina, and gnawed at her judgment. Her feet dragged along the sandy path without any of their initial eagerness. She refilled her water bottles from the large container in her pack and ignored the voice that told her she would soon run out of fluids.
After another mile, the trail merged with a Jeep road. In the distance, Grace saw a disappearing cloud of dust.
That was a car. I could have asked them for a ride. Maybe they had air conditioning. Some extra water. Maybe they were on their way back to San Diego and would have taken me to a hotel. I could have started the trail again in a few days, when it’s cooler.
She checked the phone’s GPS. Four miles to Hauser Creek.
I’ll make it if I ration my water.
By the time the trail dove into Hauser Canyon’s shaded grove of oaks and sycamores, Grace hated the sun more than she’d ever hated anything. She squinted at the wooded valley. But the only hint that a creek had ever flowed across the parched land was a strip of slightly darker sand meandering through a pile of rocks. Grace’s knees wobbled.
Even in the shade, sweat poured down her face.
It’s past noon. I should eat.
She felt nauseous. Her head pulsed like molten lava in a live volcano crater.
I need to rest.
Her shoulders shrugged out of the pack straps and she sank to the ground. Before thinking better of it, she drank the rest of her water. A small Japanese folding fan, the parting gift from her sister, offered some relief. The hot desert air drew out the fan’s sandalwood scent. The breeze evaporated her perspiration.
She kicked off her shoes and socks, then changed into her skirt. But after thirty minutes of inertia, sweat still dripped from her chin. Sitting made her dizzy, so she lay down. The violent sun tortured her through the leaves, shafts branding her face and body like flames.
I need more water. Have to keep going. A road’s not far ahead. If I lie down in the middle, somebody will find me.
But the idea of crawling out of the partial shade into the glaring sun was too much.
Bees droned near her head.
What’s that? Airplane? Maybe they can see me down here. Call in a rescue.
Her mind drifted up, into the sparse tree branches. It hung there briefly. Then ascended into the smoldering, cloudless sky.
Later, another idea broke through her confusion.
I’m going to die. On my first day on the trail. Kind of a waste. All this equipment. All that money. Geez, I could have spent it on those cell phone-operated blinds for the living room instead. There was that coupon in the Saturday clipper magazine…
Her tongue ran along dry lips.
Hmm. I’m licking a lizard. I wonder if he’ll lick back.
Then Grace thought of nothing.
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