Creating Lottawatah, Oklahoma

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Despite what readers from eastern Oklahoma believe, Lottawatah, Oklahoma doesn’t exist except in the Brianna Sullivan Mysteries series. I’ve given several library talks concerning the reluctant psychic stuck in a small town, adjacent to Lake Eufaula, just south of Interstate Highway I-40. Everyone thinks they know exactly where it is, some are certain that they’ve been there.

But, really guys, Lottawatah doesn’t exist. I made it up. Well, sort of. There is a road named “Lotawatah” (note: we changed the spelling so we’d have deniability in the case any angry Lotawatahians showed up, offended and seeking compensation for the pain and suffering our portrayal of his/her road had allegedly caused.)

Anyway, the real Lotawatah Road intersects I-40 a few miles west of the lake. Anyone who has driven I-40 east from Oklahoma City to Ft. Smith, Arkansas has seen the road sign. I’ve driven by it hundreds of times. I loved the name, I loved saying the word. And believe me, if an author loves something, it’s going to show up in a book.

My co-author and I have written seven Brianna Sullivan Mysteries. (Yes, seven, the last one, Missing in Lottawatah, is going to be born later this week. It was a long, difficult pregnancy, and at one point we feared we’d need drugs and metal forceps to get it out, but it’s done.) The first book in the series, I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries, had psychic Brianna stopping in Lottawatah for gas and fried pies – not in that order. A ghost hopped in her motor home, begging for her help with a kidnapping. Brianna made the mistake of trying to convey that information to the local police, met the surly but handsome Cooper Jackson, and the rest is history.

Creating the town of Lottawatah was done one or two businesses at a time per book. As you leave I-40 and drive into Lottawatah proper, you’ll pass by Tiny’s Diner. It’s your typical small town diner; abeit a little more rundown than most.

Good EATS…World Famous Apple P…rust Me. The diner hadn’t had any glory days, even in its glory days. The linoleum was butt ugly when it was first installed, maybe 30 years earlier. Flecks of brown on a tan background. Maybe the idea was to hide the dirt…it wasn’t working. I slid onto the cracked red vinyl stool at the Formica counter and looked expectantly at the guy with a stained t-shirt, standing behind the counter.

I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of their world famous pie, then surreptitiously rubbed the grease from the menu on my jeans. I briefly wondered if they sold wine, but decided that a healthy glass of Maalox would be the perfect beverage to accompany my dinner.

The next place Brianna visited was the Lottawatah Police Station.

I shifted on the chair and finished the last stale peanut in the cellophane bag I’d purchased from the station’s only vending machine. 10 pm. I’d been waiting more than three hours. Most of the police force, all 8 of them if you include the secretary and maintenance man, had been marching in the Fourth of July parade over on Main until about an hour ago. I’d been stuck with the pregnant staff sergeant whose swollen ankles precluded her joining the Independence Day celebrations.

Even in a small town, a girl has to go somewhere to get her roots touched up and find clues about whodunnit. Sheer Artistry Hair Salon was just the place.

Margo stole a side glance at Sunny, before turning back to me. “Candy and I had a little chat while she did my nails this afternoon. She mentioned you’d been asking around about me and Martha. You’re a smart woman Brianna. Sheer Artistry is the place to go to find out where all the bodies are buried.” Darn, Beverly. Between her and Candy, the women were unstoppable gossip machines. The whole town probably knew my business.

Since Brianna arrived in Lottawatah in her motor home, she needed somewhere to park it and a part-time job to cover expenses. She found both at a resort on Lake Eufaula.

Ghost or no ghost. Cooper or no Cooper, it was time to get to work. I pulled on my uniform, a pair of khaki shorts and a green polo shirt, with LEC in block letters next to a pine tree and a fish. I thought it suggested that the area was full of dead fish lying next to trees, but Jack Fulsom, the owner, testily informed me that I was missing the high concept nature of the design. High concept my behind! But in exchange for a free full hookup for Matilda, and a commission for every time-share sale I made, I was more than willing to sing the praises of this new, promising condo and cabin lakeside resort. And that meant wearing the cheesy t-shirt. I walked out of air-conditioned Matilda into air so thick you could chew it. The sales office was down a pine-canopied path near the water. I might be getting a free hookup for Matilda, but I wasn’t getting a lake view.

Jobs in Lottawatah don’t last too long. By February, Brianna was working at a new job and our fictional town of Lottawatah got another new business.

If I was late for my job at Pearl’s Soak and Spin one more time, I’d be unemployed and would almost certainly have to hit the road in search of gas and food money. Lottawatah’s economy, if it ever had one, had crashed long before the rest of the nation. Jobs, as Miss Pearl had reminded me, didn’t grow on trees.

Even though Tiny’s Diner was the local hotspot, every town needs more than one place to eat.

By the time Will Dobson let me answer the phone, we’d pulled into the local barbeque joint’s parking lot on the edge of Lottawatah. Actually you could be at one end of town and almost see the city limits on the opposite side. Will Dobson had decided that we were going to get on I-40 and head west towards Oklahoma City. The shortest route was right through Lottawatah.

Will just laughed as I struggled with the dog. He didn’t notice I snagged my cell phone off the truck floor during the fracas. Outside, I bent down, like I was going to set the dog on the ground, but instead I ran, Leon under my arm like a furry football. I managed enough for a first down before sliding out of bounds under Arnold–the six foot high concrete pig, beloved mascot and icon of the Pig Palace Barbeque Joint. Will Dobson got off one shot. Arnold lost his manhood, but Leon and I just kept sliding until we buried up in a snow bank.

That’s all the time (and word space) that I have for our short tour of Lottawatah. To learn more, check out the books. Or you can take that exit off I-40 and see if you can find it. I dare you!

Rhonda
aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David

Brianna Sullivan Mysteries – e-book series
I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

Sullivan Investigations Mystery – e-book series
Murder Off the Books Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Murder Takes the Cake Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Riley Come Home (short story)- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

Romances
Love Lessons – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

The Beast of Chapter One

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By Laura Spinella



Original Draft from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind



I had a different five letter B-word in mind for the title of this blog, but I heard Susan McBride whisper in my ear, “Hey, Miss Laura, try to keep it civil and polite…” I defer to her impeccable manners. I think first chapters will do that, more so than any other part of a book, bring out the worst in you. This first chapter wasn’t an inception, but a revision, which I firmly believe to be more riddled with landmines than any initial attack. Sure, there’s the daunting prospect of blank pages and zero word count when you begin something new. But there’s also gutsy intuition and the promise of unabashed wordsmithing. This just looked like work. The initial first chapter of any book is a sketch. It has to be, unless you’re a writer who outlines every chapter on index cards, tacking them sequentially to a corkboard before turning on your computer. It’s the same methodology used by people who alphabetize condiments or coordinate their closet by color and season. It’s something Patrick Bourne would do, a character in my novel, who I happen to be in love with and also happens to be gay. But I assure you, along with Patrick, that organizational skill set escapes me.



Me at work



When I first considered the revisions for this book, I almost trashed the entire thing: switch from first to third person, rewrite the main character’s motivation, and match the tone in BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, which, apparently, I failed to do. But like BD, this book, these characters, convinced me to hang on, saving their lives and story in the process. So after I committed (or was committed, the insane never know they are) the first thing I did was chop off Chapter One. There was no point to it, not until I’d coerced and cajoled the other 375 pages into submission. Fast forward three months and I was there, ready to rewrite the first chapter. I will give myself credit; it was the right move, as those other countless changes left me a detailed blueprint. Of course, there’s a reason draftsmen get a flat fee while contractors get an inflatable check. Execution is everything, and if the foundation sucks, well, the rest of the project is essentially a house of cards.



Night and day for the past two weeks this is where I’ve lived, inside Chapter One. During that time, I made a whirlwind trip to Athens, Georgia, taught a community class on writing/publishing, and banished a 14-year old boy to house arrest after seeing his interim progress report. None of these were simple tasks, but none were as daunting as that chapter. I thought I knew these characters, I really did. But like a weak eyeglass prescription, you’re awed by the clarity when the proper adjustments are made. What I had was that sketch, the one to which I’ve already confessed. Now I have a hand slamming against my forehead, a voice (not Susan McBride’s) saying, “You idiot, why didn’t you see this the first time around!” I suspect it takes me longer than the average author to get to know my characters. I’ve no idea why—I’m slow to peel back layers or simply slow out of the gate. I often envision the entire writing community receiving an old fashioned telegram, complete with character instructions: Single woman, STOP. Tumultuous childhood, STOP. Fearful of her own sexuality,STOP. Lingering denial reaches impasse, STOP. There are a hundred more directives and stops, but you get the idea. Fluidly connect the stops and you’ve got a first chapter. A telegram is an antiquated analogy, but I like the idea of vital information being hand-delivered in a sealed envelope.
Fortunately, I appear to be on the downside of the first chapter mountain, my stinky pack mule having finally lumbered into camp with the goods. I am satisfied, to the extent any neurotic writer can be, that this Chapter One has its house in order. But in the end, we’ll see, because as we all know, the writer’s word is hardly the last one.

Felled by Fruitcake – Amy Alessio

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Thanks for letting me stop by the Stiletto Gang today. I was thinking about Joelle’s great blog from earlier this week about the freedom to cook without a recipe. If she ever needs some cookbooks to get inspiration from, I have over 450 in my house. That’s right. And I won’t even count the Retro Crafting section.

I’ve been blogging about Vintage Cookbooks for the past five years, something I did to teach myself some new technology for my job as a teen librarian. (http://www.stdl.org) My cookbook collection spans from Civil War through 1980, and I have some modern cookbooks as well. No, they aren’t arranged by Dewey. Having these older recipes means there is always Crisco in my house, though no Spam currently. I also collect handwritten recipes in boxes. I can’t stand to see someone’s prized clippings and recipes sitting lonely on an antiques store shelf when it could come be with lots of friends on my shelves.
Two years ago a friend suggested I do programs on my cookbooks “as you’re always talking about them.” True enough. I’ve now done over 100 shows on 23 different topics. Who knew so many people like Jello? This was supposed to be a little hobby to pass time while my agent sent my YA mystery around. I now have a VINTAGE WARDROBE. A month ago I had to give a librarian talk – and I didn’t know what to wear, since I was unable to don any of the polyester a-lines I am now used to wearing.  I now answer email about recipes folks want to track down or how to make retro crafts like woven oven mitts. Admit it – you still have some of these…
Amidst the Moon Pies and Fruitcake, I’ve managed some writing. My YA mystery, Taking the High Ground, will be out in 2013, and I have a new reference book out with another coming next year. I’ve also written some short stories about a woman who has a booth in an antiques mall. Alana solves local cases with the help of her smart teen son while trying unsuccessfully to cook some of the things in her beloved cookbooks.  Write what you know, right?
I’ve recently put up the Alana stories on Amazon for Kindle with recipes. The first story is Treasures, the second Missing Andy, and the third is Felled by Fruitcake.  In Felled, Alana is trying to find out what is in some mysteriously popular fruitcakes and what happened when a local church is robbed. A Valentine’s Day adventure with Alana will also be coming that will be published with novellas by Margot Justes (http://www.mjustes.com) and Mary Welk (http://www.marywelk.com).   

As for Fruitcake, I serve it at my Vintage Holiday shows, mail ordered from an abbey in Kentucky (http://www.gethsamanifarms.org) . I’ve converted quite a few non-fruitcake eaters. My Grandma Curtin used to make it with the tiny amount of spare money she had.  She’d begin at Halloween and baste it with bourbon right up until Christmas, when she would give it to the neighbors. She left no recipe, but my Mom insists this one is just like hers.  That’s good, because while there are a lot of things I would do for this new career that came out of waiting for publication, but basting a cake with bourbon for two months is not one of them.
__________

Amy Alessio is an award winning librarian and an author. She has presented at RT, ALA, RWA, PLA and more. Her young adult mystery Taking the High Ground will be published by 4RV Press. Her reference titles include the co-authored A Year of Programs for Teens 2 (ALA Editions, 2011) and Mind Bending Mysteries for Teens (ALA Editions, 2012). She is a regular contributor to Booklist, Teenreads.com and Crimespree Magazine.   http://www.amyalessio.com

Writing is Like Getting Punched in the Face

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or
Your Sensei-ism of the Day

by Bethany Maines

A member of my writer’s group, who is at the relative beginning of her writing journey, recently turned in a story for critique and my response was that clearly the middle sucked and it needed to be totally restructured, but other than that the story was great. Or at least, that’s probably what I sounded like to her. She understood that I wasn’t trying to be mean, but, as another member of our group pointed out, she probably hadn’t been expecting a critique of that magnitude, and was probably more hoping for a stamp of approval, with maybe a “just change a few lines here or there.”  And then I had a sharp memory that I used to feel the same way (and occasionally I still do).
One of the other things I study, besides writing, is karate. Now, the first thing everyone asks is, “What belt are you?”  So let’s just get this out of the way now. I’m a third degree black belt. Most people have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive, so they give enthusiastic nods. (Or if you’re that dillhole trying to date a black belt, you make an ineffectual grab and say, “What would you do if I did this?”  Um…. Throw you on the floor and then watch how you never call again?  Right, that’s what I thought.)  There are many belts between white (absolute beginner) and black, and each one is an achievement that is worthy of being bragged about. Sadly for poor karate students talking to random acquaintances, if it ain’t black, it ain’t nothin’.  So if you know a karate student and they say “green,” congratulate them on their hard work and, unless they’re six, please don’t ask them to show you anything. If they’re six, then ask away, because that’s just plain adorable. But, word to the wise, if you’re a dude protect your crotch (unless you’ve got the video camera rolling and want to win $10,000 on America’s Funniest Home Videos), because we all know how coordinated your average six year old is.
Anyway, back to the point (why does everyone always doubt I have one?). I’ve been a sensei (teacher) for long enough that I’ve started to see trends or traits in the course of a karate student’s journey. One of the most common beginner traits is that once a student has learned a technique, say reverse punch, they consider it complete. Why would we revisit the topic? And then I have to break it to them that I’ve been learning my reverse punch for about eleven years now. And I’ll learn some more about it tonight when I go into the dojo. Each time I cross the threshold and bow to the dojo, whether or not I’m teaching the class, I’m there to learn.
But when you’re a white belt, you’d really just like to get your reverse punch signed off so you can test for the next belt. Being told to go back and do it again can be very disheartening, but from the black belt perspective it can also be very freeing. I’m free to get the first one wrong (and the third, and the fifth, and the twenty-fifth) because I’m going to do it again.  With karate, and with writing, there is always the opportunity to go back the next day and do it again.
I know that when I started writing, I didn’t want to edit.  And then I rewrote my first novel 9.5 times.  And believe me, I wanted to stop at about 6.  But after awhile, I started to think that a novel is a fluid thing with endless permutations of how it can be put together. I can’t be hamstrung by the idea that the first draft has to be the finished draft; by accepting that I’m going to be wrong I free myself to create something better.
They say there are very few masters in karate, but many students – meaning that, while some may be more advanced, we are all still learning.  I believe the same can be said of writing. 

A pinch and a dash

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by: Joelle Charbonneau

I love to cook. There is nothing more gratifying that chopping stuff up, throwing it in a pot and watching it become dinner. So few things in life bring that same kind of immediate gratification. Hard work = payoff. Cool! So while many people treat cooking like a chore, I look forward to the adventure and I’m always beyond delighted when people love the food I make.

Until someone asks for the recipe.

Recipe? What recipe?

I mean, I understand the concept and I use them when I’m baking, but in every day cooking I tend to be a bit more freeform. I look in the fridge, pull out a bunch of stuff and throw it together with a dash of this and a sprinkle of that. I can always tell you what went into the dish, but the exact amounts – um – I haven’t a clue.

Which probably shouldn’t be a surprise. I love making to-do lists, but very rarely do I actually follow them. And while I’ve tried to follow an outline when I write, I tend to go off track somewhere around page 70 and the outline becomes obsolete. I love the idea of being prepared, but there is something about improvisation that motivates and interests me. Which is kind of a problem when I’m writing. I mean, I write mysteries. In theory, I should know where I’m going when I start. I should know who the killer is so I can leave clues. But even when I think I know what ingredients I’m going to add to a story, I find myself adding a pinch more pepper and a lot more basil and suddenly my initial vision is completely changed. Hopefully, for the better.

For me, cooking and writing seem to require a flexibility to go with what works as opposed to what is outlined or expected. Just because a recipe says you are supposed to add a teaspoon of something doesn’t mean you have to. Just because a mystery typically contains certain ingredients doesn’t mean you can’t change things up.

At least this is what I’m trying to tell myself as I work on my new manuscript and plot dinner for tonight. So tell me Stiletto readers and writers – do you use always use a recipe when you cook? And if you are a writer and use a recipe – do you also find you are inclined to use an outline to get the story from the beginning to The End? Inquiring minds want to know.

Sentimental or Silly?

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I just had my dining room chairs recovered. Supposedly the material is able to withstand a full-scale assault of spaghetti sauce and chocolate. Durable was my primary criteria. The chairs are from my mother’s house. I inherited the dining room; my sister took the living room set. Mom had “good” furniture, well-made and built to last forever. But I confess I didn’t like the chairs as a kid, still not crazy about them as an adult. But recovering them was lots cheaper than replacing them with new, so it was an easy decision.

In other words, despite the fact that they are from my beloved mother, the original Evelyn, I could care less if I have the chairs, buffet, and table. I have no sentimental attachment to them. On the other hand, I have a slightly chipped, green square platter that I bring out for every special occasion because I remember my mother used it constantly when I was growing up. I love that platter and I could move from our house into a one-room apartment, and the platter would come with me.

This has all been swirling around in my head since several of my friends have recently downsized. Furniture, china, silver, have all found new homes or been donated to worthy charities. Got me to thinking about sentiment, what resonates, what doesn’t.

Needless to say, every handscribbled note from my kids and husband, parents and sister, is a treasure which is tossed into an ever-increasing group of boxes marked, MEB Memorabilia. But I’m not sure why I have moved my father’s old lawbooks to each of our five houses, since the man never practiced law. Still, he moved them cross-country when he made the decision not to be an attorney, so I keep thinking if they meant something to him, I should continue to schlep them around.

When we were breaking up Mom’s apartment, my husband reminded me that none of the “stuff” was the essence of my mother. He’s right, of course. But it’s not only that I get comfort from seeing these familiar items on special occasions, but I feel like Mom, Dad, and my sister are actually with me, enjoying the moments that I know they would have cherished. So when Riley, my first granddaughter was being born, while sitting impatiently in the hospital waiting room, I would check the watch that my Dad gave my mother. It’s the equivalent of an old Timex, but on my wrist, I had the two of them with me to share the joy.

Not sure if it makes sense – and maybe sentiment doesn’t have to be rational. But this Thanksgiving, if you’re at my house, help yourself to some turkey. It’s on the green platter, of course.

Stiletto Faithful – are you sentimental? What’s your green platter equivalent?

Marian

Brianna Sullivan Mysteries – e-book series
I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

Sullivan Investigations Mystery – e-book series
Murder Off the Books Kindle – Nook – Smashwords
Riley Come Home (short story)- Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

Romances
Love Lessons – Kindle – Nook – Smashwords

The Fine Art of Juggling Time

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by Susan McBride

Although I consider myself pretty adept at a lot of different things, balancing my time wisely is not one of them.  No matter how old I get–and how much wiser in other departments–I don’t seem to have completely grasped the concept that you cannot agree to do 200 things in a finite amount of time and get all of them done. 
I always think I can do it.  Take this year, for example.  I told myself, sure, I can do revisions on Little Black Dress in the first few months, go through the copy edit, check the page proofs, and all else that the production schedule demands of me, PLUS write the first draft of Dead Address, the young adult mystery for Random House AND promote Little Black Dress upon release in late August THEN pen my next women’s fiction book, Little White Lies, all by December 1.  Oh, yeah, and that’s not counting all the real-life hoo-ha that comes in between (take my lovely encounter with skin cancer and Moh’s surgery in May, for instance). 

Piece of cake, yes?

Well, I imagined it would be.  I mean, I kept reminding myself I’d written two books for my two different publishers while going through my boobal crisis nearly five years ago.  I know I’m not Superwoman (at least, not one who doesn’t constantly trip on her cape), but I seem to want to play one on TV.  Or at least in my writing life. 

I used to always meet deadlines.  Heck, I’d turn things in early.  I was such an overachiever that at the first lunch I ever had with my agent and then-mystery editor half a dozen years ago, they remarked on how efficient I was.  “Like a robot,” one of them actually said (though I can’t recall which). 
But back then, I was single.  I had myself, two cats, and a condo to worry about.  It was like living on another planet.  Once I’d met Ed, bought a house with him, dealt with a health crisis, got married, and took on even more responsibilities, I told myself, “You aren’t a robot.  You’re human.  You can only do what you can do.”  That’s a mantra I repeat often, so I’m not sure why it hasn’t completely sunk in. 

I still want to say, “yes, I can do that!”  Even if I worry that it’s adding yet another ball to the ones I’m juggling.  “No problem!” I chirp when asked to do things spur of the moment when I realize I should be focusing on writing books and not scattering my energy and time all over the place.

In some ways, I have gotten better about time. I don’t travel nearly as much as I used to.  I do say “no” when an event isn’t doable.  I don’t do Twitter (and never intend to), I’m not LinkedIn or GooglePlussed or anything besides Facebooked.  I’m on two group blogs with other incredible women authors who are busy balancing their real lives and writing lives, too.

And, still, I find myself in binds over and over, where I know at least one thing won’t get done on time.  Where I realize I’ll have to ask for an extension in order to finish my work and do it right.  Man, I hate that.

I’m learning.  That’s all I can say.  Every year when I do too much, I understand the things that I need to cut out the next time.  It might be years before I’m a master at the fine art of juggling time, but I will get there.  So long as no one gives me a deadline.

Romantic Fiction…A Way to Deal With His Vanishing Act

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By Lucianne Rivers

As a romance writer, I’m naturally interested in romance. Recently I became a member of an online dating site that sends out dating advice to its members in emails. One headline caught my eye, “Why Men Go Poof!” We’ve all experienced the disappearance of men we’ve been seeing. Suddenly they stop calling, or texting, or facebooking, or whatever. No reason given. Or the reason they give is some excuse you find hard to understand or believe. At the end of the day, if someone wants to be with you, they’ll be with you, correct?

And yet. When a man goes “poof,” I burn with curiosity. But whyyyyyyyyyyyyy did he just vanish? Was it me? I have a vivid imagination, so you can guess all the variations and possible explanations I come up with. In the last month, this happened to me. A week or so later I got up the courage to ask the man I’d been dating for his reason. And fair dues to him (as we’d say in Ireland) he let me know it wasn’t me; that he is too stressed to think about included another person in his brain and life. And I believe him, weirdly.

Sure, men can vanish because you have a rabbit in your kitchen you’re waiting to boil, or you because you have bad breath, or hate sex, or like it too much, etc, etc. But maybe sometimes they disappear because they have their own issues. Maybe it’s not me or you. It’s them. And that’s why I write romance novellas, because when a man goes “poof” in a story, he always comes back.

Escape his vanishing act by delving into the romantic lives of Jane, Margo and Allison Caldwell as they search the globe for their long presumed dead father, Zach, finding love and danger on the way in, HOLD ME, THRILL ME, ENTICE ME.

Author bio: Lucianne writes romantic suspense for Entangled Publishing and Cobblestone Press. Born and raised in Ireland, she currently lives in New Mexico with her young daughter.
Formerly a stage and television actress, she now manages a non-profit and is NM State Champion in her weight class for Olympic style weightlifting. Long story. Recently she has taken up Crossfit, Jiu Jitsu and boxing.

ENTICE ME by Lucianne Rivers

Heartsick over the untimely death of her mother, Allison Caldwell is blindsided again by the secret revealed in her mom’s will. Her supposedly dead father is alive, and she and her two sisters must find him in order to settle the Caldwell estate.

Robert Rivera, private investigator and former Navy SEAL, alerts Allison to new intel identifying her father as a P.O.W. in Afghanistan. With her sisters out of the country pursuing leads, Allison insists on heading to the war-ravaged country to find him. Robert doesn’t want his naïve client to take the risk. He knows what danger lays in that godforsaken land he’s lived through it. Barely.

But Allison is determined to go, and Robert can’t let her travel alone. Reluctantly appreciative, Allison quickly realizes how much she needs his guidance and protection, and how deeply she longs for his love. Robert struggles to understand her effect on his battle-weary heart.

The path to Allison’s father is blocked by terrorists, traps and treachery-all demons of Robert’s past. Can he survive a second round with the enemy and keep Allison out of harm’s way?

Title: Entice Me (Caldwell Sisters, #3)
Author: Lucianne Rivers
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: Novella
Launch Date: October 2011
ISBN: 978-1-937044-32-9

Buy links:
B&N, Amazon , Diesel

Halloween Past and Present

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I was talking to child #2, a rambunctious 12-year-old boy, about Halloween. He was stuck, not having any blessed idea as to what he could dress up as for his favorite holiday. I suggested my old standby, a hobo.
“What’s a hobo, Mom?”

“Well, it’s a guy who rides the rails with a pouch attached to a stick, his worldly belongings in the pouch.”

“Why is he riding the rails? And what are rails?”

“The railroad. He’s riding because he’s got the traveling jones. And no job.”

“So, he’s homeless.”

“Yes, I guess you could call him that.”

“Mom, that’s not very politically correct.”

Suffice it to say that we were in the car, on our way to Party City to purchase a costume before I could go into the politics of Herbert Hoover, explain what “Hooverville” was, or why the Great Depression created more hobos than any other historical event in our nation’s history.

We purchased a gladiator costume, true meaning of which child #2 did not know either. When he donned it, and I pretended to be a Christian hiding from the Romans who would surely throw me to the lions, he looked confused and singularly unimpressed by my acting performance. I was still bristling over the fact that we had to buy a costume and was trying to make the best of a less-than-stellar situation.

All of this talk of costumes got me thinking about my costumes of the past. Thanks to a very creative aunt and a genius of a seamstress across the street from my house, I had some pretty wonderful get ups. Here’s a sampling with only one picture. Very few pictures exist because…well, I could lie…but my mom got lazy with the camera. (Sorry, Mom!)

1. Rudy Vallee: My ingenious aunt found a size 60 beaver coat that had belonged to her Aunt May. I donned that, even though it was about three hundred sizes too big, was given a pennant to wave, a megaphone to carry, a hat to wear and sneakers to put on my feet and I was transformed into the megaphone crooner of the 1920s. So what that nobody knew who I was, this being the mid-70’s? I was dressed unlike any other trick or treater and was in my glory.

2. A Can-Can girl: My seamstress neighbor had made a dozen or so Can-Can girl outfits for a church show that was being mounted at St. Catherine’s (my home parish) and tailored one costume so that it fit my pre-teen body to a tee. Mom curled my hair and let me go crazy with the blue eye shadow and poof! Insta-Can-Can girl. I went to a Halloween party at the roller rink where I certainly would have won first place—even the cool girls thought so—but since I couldn’t skate and was unable to sashay around the judges, I wasn’t even entered. Another one of life’s shattering disappointments.

3. A Nun: No Catholic childhood would be complete without a few hours dressed as a nun or a priest. In my case, I was fully habited in a floor-length habit with a white rope around my waist. Think six-year-old flying nun and you’ll get a visual. A whole gaggle of us neighborhood girls—thanks to the creativity of the aforementioned seamstress neighbor—were transformed into a little squad of sisters, trolling the neighborhood for candy. The interesting thing? No one looked twice—maybe because there was a convent in our town?

Here’s a shot of the Can-Can outfit, my siblings, and the neighbor kids (the ones whose mom crafted most of our costumes). See, not a store-bought one among them. Those were the days, right?

Maggie Barbieri

About Reviews

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My time recently has been taken up with promoting my latest Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery, Bears With Us.

This is what I’ve done so far: a book launch at our local used bookstore (we have no book stores anywhere nearby), and two days at our Springville Apple Festival (sold about 1/2 the books I did two years ago) and I just finished up on a month long blog tour.

Blog tours always take a lot of time because of the promoting, going back and comment about the comments, plus I ran a contest–the person who commented on the most blogs could have his or her name used as a character in my next book–so I had to keep checking in order to keep track of all those who commented.

Some of the bloggers reviewed my book and all of them were wonderful, but one gave away the whole ending of the book. Eeek! She’s been asked to take that line out and as I write this I’m not sure if it happened or not. Unless she does, of course, I won’t promote the blog nor will I use the review anywhere.

Through the years I’ve received mostly wonderful reviews, but there have been some that were a bit odd, a couple where I could tell the person hadn’t read the book all the way through, and once before an Amazon review gave away a surprise ending. I contacted the reviewer and she eliminated that part. What I don’t understand is why anyone would do that. I work really hard to come up with an ending that might surprise most people and putting that in a review is definitely a spoiler.

Believe me I appreciate the time someone puts into writing a review about one of my books. I’ve written lots of reviews over the years–and believe me I would never give away the ending.

Authors, anyone else ever have that problem?

Readers, how do you feel about a review like that?

Marilyn