Bitroux: High Country by Jordan Harcourt-Hughes – Interview and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. A randomly drawn winner will be awarded a $25 Amazon/BN gift card. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Are you a big listener of podcasts?

I love everything about podcasts. I listen to them, make them and teach others how to create podcasts as well through my creative courses. And I also love audio books – I listen to them whenever I’m on the road.

Tell us about the podcast that you created as part of the process of creating artworks for the book.

I thought it would be really interesting to create a podcast that explores the process of starting and finishing a creative project in six months; hence the name of the podcast (168 Days of Magic). The podcast has three thematic pillars – creativity, wellbeing and meaningful productivity.

What were the creative goals that you set out to achieve, and talk about during your podcast, as you were working on the artworks for Bitroux: High Country?

As an artist and a writer, I wanted to create an illustrated book for adults, but I’ve always struggled to find anything like what I wanted to create. So, I just had to create my own framework. The goals I set for myself included creating a distinct style of visuals for the book, integrating my paintings and my ideas about language, and actually getting the book over the line! And, of course, I wanted to improve as a writer and an artist in the process.

Are you a fan of project management frameworks for writers?

I’m more about the value and benefit of creative projects just for the fun of it. I don’t think the size of the project matters. It doesn’t have to be a novel. It can be journaling, gardening, painting; anything really.

But in my professional life working in marketing and communications, we use project management frameworks a lot. And they’re useful for really asking good questions. What are you doing this for? Who are you doing it for? What do you want to get out of it? Who will benefit?

As much as anything, those kinds of questions can really help us to define our own creative, personal and life goals. And that’s fun and it’s healthy and it allows us to add our own meaning to our work, which is important.

What would you recommend to other artists, writers and creative practitioners?

I think that all artists – writers, designers, painters –whatever creative profession you’re in, the question of why you are doing the work is helpful. You don’t have to tell anyone else, but you should at least be able to answer that question for yourself. Why is this meaningful an important to me? Why am I investing my time and energy into this work? I often encourage people to write their own creative manifestos because if you know your why, it helps you get through the parts of the work that are more challenging.

If Merouac ever thought his life’s work would culminate in leading the metal workshops of the Transcontinental Railroad Project, he was sorely mistaken.

Now, his true challenge lies in navigating the other-worldly abilities he’s only beginning to understand—abilities that allow him to tune metal to interdimensional frequencies.

While trying to be a guardian to his niece, Evra, he’s realising she may have more to teach him than he ever expected. At the same time, his decision to help an interdimensional race find refuge underground puts him at the centre of an even deeper mystery.

As reality reshapes itself around him, Merouac faces a growing realisation: the world of Ahm is on the brink of a profound transformation, and everything he thought he knew may soon be shattered.

Enjoy an Excerpt

There was something about that zone of quiet concentration. It was always somewhere in the middle of those quiet moments where the blue light of the Top Hats had started to appear at the edge of his gaze. It had always been hard to see the things directly in his sight; they shifted and moved and always seemed hazy and insubstantial. He wondered if, in those moments, he had drifted into the Maolfi state without realising it.

He kept working. The surges of static came and went, heating his body, and then leaving, giving him a sense that his whole body was buzzing, vibrating. He kept moving, concentrating only on the wood. And things started to shift, but not in the way he had anticipated.

Soon, two piles had been moved and Merouac was starting to feel a welcome feeling of tiredness. He contemplated leaving the last pile of wood for the morning but kept moving instead. Then, something sounded.

He looked up. Nothing. Had anything made a noise at all? He felt sure he had heard something. All was still. What was it that he thought he had heard? Like someone or something was crashing through the trees, perhaps. He shook his head. Nothing unusual stirred, the flickering lights continued and below he could see hummers and their fluorescent markings shimmering in the trees.

Then he realised. He hadn’t heard it. He’d felt it.

He closed his eyes, tried to make his way to the place the Faurin called the Maolfi state. Kii had wanted him to find a place of deep listening. And perhaps what he was just starting to understand was, that you could listen with all your body, and feel sound in other ways than just noise.

After a time, he opened his eyes again and saw spheres hovering in the air, full of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Reaching out to touch them, they felt full and weighty and yet his hand could partially pass through them. They were not solid, and yet they were full. Like bubbles being blown by some invisible child, they formed and hung in the atmosphere.

They grew larger, then fuzzier, then collapsed from their own weight, dripping a strange sentience that dispersed back into the atmosphere. Often, they formed again straight away, the same spheres, the same size and colour, the same weight, only to burst and disperse once again.

Some of the smaller ones were only as large as his hand. Others, twice the size. And then hovering at greater height, larger spheres his whole body could have walked through. They shifted and mutated, formed and faded, pulsed and glowed. They were magical.

‘This is different,’ he said out loud, and grinned.

About the Author: Jordan Harcourt-Hughes is an abstract painter, writer and communications professional. She’s passionate about all aspects of creativity, life-long learning and personal wellbeing. Over the last fifteen years she’s led, coached and developed creative professionals across the Asia-Pacific region.

Jordan’s books, studio workshops, courses, coaching and resources are an invitation to explore the rich landscape of creative experiences open to all.

High Country is Jordan’s second novel set in the world of Bitroux.

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Inn the Dead of Winter by Rhonda Blackhurst – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Rhonda Blackhurst will be awarding a free e-book of Inn the Dead of Winter or book one, Inn the Spirit of Murder to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Welcome to Spirit Lake in the dead of a Minnesota winter, where the brutally cold temp isn’t the only thing to fear.

Andie Rose Kaczmarek, a six-year sober life coach and owner of the haunted Spirit Lake Inn, has learned the hard way that the living are far more dangerous than anything in the spirit world.

When a controversial guest fails to return to her room on the same night a body is discovered in a fish house on Big Spirit Lake, Andie Rose teams up with her sponsor and sidekick, Sister Alice, and her emotional support red retriever, Aspen, to solve the case.

After Andie Rose discovers illegal activity on the inn’s property that ties to the murder, the investigation shifts into high gear. As she uncovers shocking secrets of those she thought she knew, someone is intent on keeping her quiet at any cost.

Can the inn’s resident ghost save her from impending harm when it seems the ones closest to her pose the greatest threat?

Enjoy an Excerpt

We were in the dead of winter in Spirit Lake, Minnesota, a town dubbed the paranormal capital of the nation. I gazed through the frosted windowpane at the ominous fog that hung low over Whisper Lake.

I crossed my arms in front of me, briskly rubbed my biceps, and shivered. It was a brutal cold that seeped deep into the bones and seemed to even send the inn’s resident ghost into hibernation.

The library’s gas fireplace clicked off by itself, the dancing flames disappearing. I guess I wasn’t in the room alone after all. I shuddered and glanced down at my feet where Aspen, my red retriever emotional support animal, stretched lazily on his side, eyes half closed, unfazed.

Since the 1940s, guests of the Spirit Lake Inn, home to the famous apparition, have heard a woman’s whispers on the lake, earning its name, Whisper Lake, the fireplace in the library turned off and on by itself, the espresso machine in the coffee bar hummed to life, and many other unexplainable incidents, all while no one else was present.

The old grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked methodically as the pendulum swayed back and forth. When the clock’s St. Michael chime announced the top of the hour—and fifteen minutes until teatime downstairs—Aspen rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto all fours.

“Come on, boy,” I said, ruffling the fur on his neck. “Snack time.”

Abut the Author: Rhonda is an avid reader, writer, coffee and dark chocolate connoisseur, and certified life coach. She has 10 independently published novels: The Inheritance, a contemporary fiction novel; seven books in the Melanie Hogan Mysteries; and Finding Abby and Abby’s Redemption in the Whispering Pines Romantic Suspense duology. She was awarded the 2022 Master of Literary Arts Award from the Brighton Chamber.

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These are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) by Donovan Hufnagle – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Echoing Chuck Palahniuk’s statement. “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known,” this collection explores identity. These poems drift down rivers of old, using histories private and public and visit people that I love and loathe. Through heroes and villains, music and cartoons, literature and comics, science and wonder, and shadow and light, each poem canals the various channels of self and invention. As in the poem, “Credentials,” “I am a collage of memories and unicorn stickers…[by] those that have witnessed and been witnessed.”

Enjoy an Excerpt

Refurbished

Susan taught me that poetic energy lies
between the lines, white noise scratching
and clawing between images, ideas,
things…

And like a poem,
the chair was molded by my Tio’s hands,
an antique wooden upholstered desk chair.

My Tio moved from Durango, Mexico
to Forth Worth in 1955.

He became a mason and wood worker.

He bricked the stockyards

He built the signs

He died in 2005.

Now,
matted. Worn. Faded floral design. Wood
scarred like healing flesh.

The arms torn, ratted by the heft of his arms
and the stress of the days. The foam peeks
out.

The brass upholstery tacks rusted. I count
1000 of them. With each,
I mallet a fork-tongue driver under its head.
A tap, tap, tapping until it sinks beneath the tack,
until the tack springs from its place.
I couldn’t help but think of a woodpecker.
A tap, tap, tapping into Post Oak,
a rhythm…each scrap of wood falling to the ground
until a home is formed.
Until each piece of wood like the tacks removed
shelter something new.

I remove the staples, the foam, the fabric,
the upholstery straps
until it’s bones.
I sand and stain
until its bones shine.

I layer and wrap its bones with upholstery straps,
foam, fabric, staples and tacks.
New tacks, Brass medallions
adorning the whole, but holding it
all together—
its bones
its memories,
its energy.

About the Author: Donovan Hufnagle is a husband, a father of three, and a professor of English and Humanities. He moved from Southern California to Prescott, Arizona to Fort Worth, Texas. He has five poetry collections: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), Raw Flesh Flash: The Incomplete, Unfinished Documenting Of, The Sunshine Special, Shoebox, and 30 Days of 19. Other recent writings have appeared in Tempered Runes Press, Solum Literary Press, Poetry Box, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, Subprimal Poetry Art, Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others.

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Bad Guy by Ana Diamond – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Ana Diamond will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Luke Daniels has done his fair share of bad things. But when the FBI offers him a deal in exchange for infiltrating the local Mafia’s infamous Costa Crew, Luke has no choice but to accept the challenge.

Beautiful, smart and tough, Sophia Costa wants out of the Crew. Appointed boss by her brother after he’s sent to prison, she wants no part in the murder, deceit and secrecy typical of Mafia life.

Just as things heat up between Luke and Sophia, a mysterious hitman targets Sophia, and Luke’s handler starts to wonder if Luke is up for the task.

As the lovers face the possibility of losing everything in order to be together, the line between loyalty and betrayal blur.

Enjoy an Excerpt

At the entrance, a burly guy with a pug nose and dressed in a long black trench coat scanned the bar, like he was looking for someone. Kid turned toward the other end of the bar, signaling to a guy wearing a black fedora, who then promptly disappeared into the back room.

Pug Nose took notice of Kid’s intervention and barreled toward him with gritted teeth. But before he could get his hands on Kid, Luke elbowed him right in the center of his face. He fell back, clutching his bloody nose, while Luke continued the onslaught until he sensed surrender. Then he jumped off him while the others in the crowd lifted Pug Nose off the floor. Blood ran down his face and soaked his shirt. The room fell quiet as the sound of stilettos clicking on the floor became louder by the second.

Luke shook off the pain in his knuckles as he watched the dark-haired beauty approach.

She stopped and stared at Pug Nose’s injuries, quickly glanced at Luke, then back at Pug Nose. “Take this message back to your boss. We’re not afraid of you and if you come back, we’ll kill you one by one.” She nodded at her crew to take Pug Nose away, then turned to Luke.

A nervous tickle made him clear his throat as she stared up at him with deep sapphire-colored eyes. He couldn’t imagine what role she played in this dirty game full of thugs and thieves.

“I have to personally thank you for stepping in for Kid. What’s your name, Fighter?” she asked with a tiny smirk on her full red lips.

“Luke Daniels. May I ask who you are?”

“My name is Sophia Costa. I’m the boss.”

About the Author: When Ana Diamond isn’t writing about tough gals finding love in unexpected places, she’s at work by day in the medical field. She writes romantic mystery novels with feisty strong women and alluring men who can’t resist them. Her books are fast paced, entertaining and heartfelt all at once.

Ana is a 2020 Tara Contest Finalist for Body Conscious and 2015 Melody of Love contest finalist. She lives in New York with her husband, two children and two needy but wildly entertaining kitty cats.

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Character Interview by Dana Hammer – Guest Blog and giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Dana Hammer will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift certificate to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Character Interview

In Fanny Fitzpatrick and the Sirens, Fanny attends a summer camp for aspiring sirens. As you might have guessed, the camp has…issues. What follows is an interview between a disgruntled parent and Lotus, one of the sirens who runs the camp. The parent’s name is Tiana Jost.

Lotus: Hello, this is Lotus, how may I help you?

Tiana: Hi, Lotus. I’m Tiana, Cleo’s mother.

Lotus: Oh…

Tiana: Yeah. What kind of camp are you running there? What is the matter with you people?

Lotus: Well, we all have our flaws, Tiana. We are imperfect beings, just trying to exist on this imperfect planet. You know?

Tiana: No. I don’t know. My daughter got stung by a poisonous something or other-

Lotus: Portuguese man-of-war.

Tiana: Yeah. That. And then your lack of medical care sent her into a coma! A coma! What do you have to say for yourselves?

Lotus: I can assure you that she was given the best medical care we could, given that we are located on an island with no hospital. But sometimes things just don’t work out the way we want them to. You know? Like, this one time I made a whole batch of peanut butter balls, and I stashed them in my nightstand, thinking I could ration them out and eat one every night before I went to bed. But you know what happened?

Tiana:…

Lotus: Ants. Ants happed, Tiana.

Tiana:…

Lotus: Because ants love sweet treats, so-

Tiana: I DON’T CARE ABOUT ANTS!

Lotus: That’s a shame. Ants care about you.

Tiana: I can’t handle this. Is there someone else I can talk to?

Lotus: Well, my partners are…indisposed. They’re in deep water, so to speak.

(Giggles)

Tiana: I have no idea what you’re laughing about. My daughter could have been killed, and it seems like you don’t even care.

Lotus: Do you like poetry? I do. When I get all worked up about stuff that’s out of my control, I like to recite this little ditty to myself. It’s by Alabi. It goes: Life may not let me choose my lot,
But whether I’d be happy or not…That is my choice. Lovely, right?

Tiana: No. It’s infuriating, and I need some actual answers from you.

Lotus: Alright. Here are some answers. Your daughter was the victim of an unfortunate stinging. We don’t know why she went into a coma. Maybe her body had some kind of severe allergic reaction. When we realized the extent of the damage, we shipped her home to you, where she could receive proper medical care. We were informed that she came out of the coma, and is fine now.

Tiana: Yes, but-

Lotus: Not finished. It has been four moon cycles since she was sent home. Why are you calling me now, after all this time?

Tiana: Because…

Lotus: Whatever the problem is, I’m here to listen.

Tiana: I just…

Lotus: You can tell me.

Tiana: There was a…chemical spill.

Lotus: Oh no!

Tiana: Our house is damaged beyond repair. We don’t have any money to buy a new house. It’s all just…

Lotus: I understand. You were hoping that I could give you money. Is that right?

Tiana: Hey! I’m not out of line here. My kid was seriously injured!

Lotus: Of course she was. But, moving on — tell me about this chemical spill. How did it happen?

Tiana: It was a hazmat truck. It crashed on the overpass, and all the contents spilled onto our house. It was some kind of radioactive stuff. We had to evacuate, and our house is totally uninhabitable.

Lotus: That is completely unacceptable. Something has to be done.

Tiana: So…you’ll give me some money? For damages?

Lotus: No way! I can’t afford that kind of payout! We live on a self sustaining island. All I have to offer is chickens and sand — I would have to sell organs to pay you more than a few hundred dollars.

Tiana: Oh.

Lotus: But there is something else I can offer you.

Tiana: We aren’t interested in attending your camp again.

Lotus: I’m not offering that. I’m offering something much better. Justice.

Tiana: What?

Lotus: Toxic waste is a huge problem, not just for you, but for the whole planet. It ruins everything, destroys ecosystems, makes humans sick, and is just plain evil. I think that the way this toxic waste was handled is deeply problematic. We on Feather Island have ways of solving these kinds of problems.

Tiana: What ways? What are you talking about?

Lotus: Well…I’d rather not discuss it on an unencrypted line. But maybe I could pay you a visit, so we can discuss our options?

Tiana: Um…I guess.

Lotus: Great! Sit tight, and I’ll be there within the week. Tell Cleo I’m excited to see her.

Tiana: I will. But what’s going to happen? Are you going to get them to pay me for damages, or…

Lotus: You’ll see. Everything is going to work out perfectly. Don’t you worry about a thing.

(Call ends)

It’s the end of the school year. For most kids, it’s time to relax and get ready for summer. For Fanny, there’s work. She has a brand-new baby brother, and she’s been hired by Zeus to look after his “injured” son. And she still has her and her friends’ cheesemaking business! Fanny is overwhelmed.

But then she meets three sirens who want Fanny to join them on Feather Island for a summer of singing, instrument playing, and fun at the beach. The program is totally free and could start an amazing musical career-the thing that Fanny has always wanted the most.

Athena and Gemma are dead set against it. Athena says that the sirens are bad news; that their whole purpose in life is to lure men to their deaths with their beautiful singing. Gemma says that Feather Island is part of a network of unmappable islands, the type of place where criminals and sketchy organizations hoard their wealth and do their crimes.

Surely, the sirens don’t do that anymore, right? All that stuff was a long time ago. If the sirens want to keep their island paradise a secret, well, that’s not so weird, is it? Fanny has talked to them, and she just knows that they aren’t as evil as everyone says. They are perfectly nice ladies.

Right?

Follow Fanny Fitzpatrick as she navigates big sisterhood, friends who disapprove of her life choices, burning ambitions, and a bunch of sirens luring her away to their private island.

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The thing with funerals is, you have to be sad. Or at least, you have to act sad, because it’s ghoulish and weird to be happy at a funeral, even if you really, really didn’t like the person who died. But when someone dies, you can’t say you didn’t like them. You have to pretend that whoever died was a nice person, who you will miss very much.

That’s the situation I’m in today. I’m at a funeral for my cousin, Ava May. And it IS sad that she’s dead. OBVIOUSLY. My aunt and uncle are devastated, and my mom has been crying all morning, and even my dad got a little teary, and I don’t think he liked Ava May either, but of course he can never say that, because she’s dead.

The thing with Ava May is, she was never nice to me. Ever. She was always saying terrible things about my family because we don’t have as much money as hers. My aunt is an oceanographer and a college professor, and my uncle is an investment banker, and together I think they make a lot more money than us, but that doesn’t mean my family is trash or whatever. My family is fine. But Ava May was always like, “Oh my god, who doesn’t have a pool in this day and age? Don’t you get hot in the summer?” And “I can’t believe you’ve never been to France. You’re so provincial.”

But now Ava May is dead, and I can’t be mad at her anymore, because A) it would be petty and B) it wouldn’t do any good.

About the Author: Dana Hammer is a novelist, screenwriter and playwright. She has won over forty awards and honors for her writing, few of which generated income, all of which were deeply appreciated. She is not a cannibal, but she is the author of A Cannibals Guide to Fasting. Dana is also the author of middle grade fantasy My Best Friend Athena which was inspired by a desire to write something her 9 year old daughter could read.

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Night of the Hawk by Lauren Martin – Guest Post and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Lauren Martin will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

“Ten things people don’t know about me” I immediately think, “have I told people everything about me now that I put out this book?”

Poetry is so vulnerable and I think mine is certainly direct. That said, my life as a shaman has required very private seeking and ritual. I spent years fairly nomadic seeking spiritual answers. I’ve become habituated to living in two different worlds and one which is very difficult to share. So the process of writing work that expresses my deepest joys, pains and regrets feels very exposed. But I have found it deeply rewarding to meet so many other thoughtful writers and readers who have either been moved by my words or have shared their own convictions. The world is full of people trying to be better and understand themselves. Even if we are told otherwise.

Ifá. Nature. Illness. Love. Loss. Misogyny. Aging. Africa. Our wounded planet. In this sweeping yet intensely personal collection, Lauren Martin tells the untold stories of the marginalized, the abused, the ill, the disabled—the different. Inspired by her life’s experiences, including the isolation she has suffered as a result both of living with chronic illness and having devoted herself to a religion outside the mainstream, these poems explore with raw vulnerability and unflinching honesty what it is to live apart—even as one yearns for connection.

But Night of the Hawk is no lament; it is powerful, reverential, sometimes humorous, often defiant—“Oh heat me and fill me / I rise above lines”—and full of wisdom. Visceral and stirring, the poems in this collection touch on vastly disparate subjects but are ultimately unified in a singular quest: to inspire those who read them toward kindness, compassion, and questioning.

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A SEA OF KISSES

One kiss to
Make me stay
Two to
Start the day
Three and
I’m on my way.

About the Author:

Screenshot

Lauren Martin is a psychotherapist, poet, and a devoted Ìyânífá. Born in Boston and spending many years in New York and Paris, she currently lives in Oakland, California. Lauren studied psychology, photography and poetry at Sarah Lawrence College. She spent years writing without submitting her work due to a long shamanic journey, which led her to both Ifá, and to the writing of several books (including this collection of poems.) The upcoming publication of Night of the Hawk (SheWrites Press, 2024), reflects a deeply personal experience of illness, isolation and true shamanism.

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Embracing Failure by Hannah Jordan – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Enter to win a $25 Amazon/BN gift card.

Embracing Failure
The worst part of being a writer, for me, has always been the rejection. As a parenting blogger, I had internet trolls comment on my actual life, but that’s the price you pay for putting your words into the world. Over time, I grew a thick skin.

As a romance author, it’s my stories and characters that face criticism. No matter how thick I believe my skin to be, a critical review still hurts. I read them anyway. I want to continue to improve as a writer, so I read the comments and reviews—even the ones that break my heart a little.

At some point in my writing journey, I received this little nugget of wisdom:

If you’re not failing, you’re not striving.

Fearing failure keeps us from taking (or better yet making) opportunities. If every risk you take ends with success, you’re probably not reaching high enough. If only my friends and family read my novels, I wouldn’t have to worry about hurtful reviews. But then I wouldn’t be sharing my work with people beyond my social circle.

The second piece of advice that completely changed my view of rejection was this:

No doesn’t mean never. It means not this or not now.

Keep in mind, this one is specific to writing. If you ask someone out and they say no, move on. But if you submit to an agent and they say no, chances are they’ll consider a query from you for a different manuscript. They aren’t saying no to you. They’re saying no to the work because it’s either not what they want or not at a time they want it. The same goes for presses and publications. Often, you’re closer to an acceptance than you think.

For better or worse, rejection is an inherent part of a writer’s life. You have to learn to embrace it. Keep trying. Keep getting rejected. There’s a point where the dreamers stop and the gritty keep going. Learn from your mistakes, especially the ones that gut you, and move on.

When Rowan’s two-year marriage ends with a crash, she returns home to Peace Falls, VA, riding shotgun in her sister’s 1990 Cadillac hearse. Everything about her is damaged: her heart, her pride, her bank account, and her spine—thanks to a tourist, a Segway, and finding her husband getting busy with her boss. But Rowan is determined to reclaim her career and city life as soon as she recuperates and lands a new job.

Caleb “Cal” Cardoso didn’t notice wallflower Rowan in high school, but the former football star, and Peace Falls’s newest physical therapist, can’t take his eyes off the stunning redhead now. Too bad he’s sworn off relationships. After his last hookup purposely tanked his online reputation, Cal stands to lose his job if a single patient leaves his care. Which is why he can’t let Rowan switch to another practitioner, despite the friction between them, and why he definitely can’t act on his growing attraction.

Rowan agrees to remain Cal’s patient if he helps her younger brother train for football tryouts. Though Cal hasn’t touched a football since the accident that killed his best friend, he agrees, and as Cal helps heal Rowan’s body, she begins to heal his heart.

For You I’d Break is a small town romance with a hefty dash of spice, a HEA ending, and a cast of memorable characters, including a goth sculptor who secretly loves to decorate cakes, a fearsome-looking felon with a heart of gold, a hothead with a sweet side, a karma-devoted barista who collects damaged pets and first dates, and a lovable dog with more emotional sense than everyone put together.

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Being a wallflower makes you thirsty, so parched for attention your heart feels brittle. Then after years—or in my case a lifetime—someone finally sees you. The exquisite feeling seeps deep, the attention saturating your life. So, you jump, headfirst. The red flags go unnoticed. Declarations of love tossed as lightly as petals. Maybe you marry him, like I did. Maybe you bloom in domestic bliss with a house in the suburbs and two adorable kids. Maybe a dog. Bare minimum a pet turtle.

I wasn’t so lucky.

After two years of marriage, instead of house hunting in the outskirts of DC, I was riding shotgun in my sister’s 1990 Cadillac hearse, headed back to Peace Falls, VA, with everything I owned stuffed where a coffin ought to be.

I’d cried so much in the past three hours, I could barely make out the foothills rising in the distance. My throat was raw. Crumpled tissues littered the floorboard, and lint covered my leggings.

The tears surprised me. Apart from a couple of late-night phone calls to my mother after I left the hospital, I’d held it together pretty well. I was too busy tying up the loose ends of my life in DC to feel anything but stressed. The moment Poppy arrived to drive me home, the tears started and built with every box, bag, and lamp we slid into the hearse.

About the Author Hannah Jordan grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia but wound up in South Jersey after falling in love with her complete opposite. She’s got all the degrees of a “serious” fiction writer but only smiles when she’s writing romance.

She lives with her husband and two daughters in a picturesque town outside of Philadelphia where she enjoys reading in all genres, especially the spicy ones, and confusing people with her half-Southern, half-Northern accent.

The first book in her Peace Falls Small Town Romance Series, For You I’d Break, launched July 17, 2024.

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Tarnished by Erica Rose Eberhart – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Erica Rose Eberhart will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

In the struggling city of Braewick, a determined 20-year-old gate guard named Ailith MacCree longs for a chance at financial stability and adventure. Little does she know, her wish is about to come true. She accepts a mission from Princess Greer that promises both: escort Princess Caitriona to the Endless Mountains to meet the enigmatic hermit for a great financial reward. Ailith jumps at the opportunity and bids goodbye to all she’s ever known. But as they journey together, Ailith discovers that Caitriona holds a dangerous secret-she possesses powerful magic in a kingdom where magic is outlawed.

Ailith and Caitriona face mysterious attacks and supernatural challenges. But as they delve deeper into the treacherous landscape, Ailith learns of Caitriona’s tragic past and the dark curse that threatens her very existence.

With rebellion brewing in Braewick, and the oppressive king hot on their trail, Ailith must not only navigate her growing feelings for Caitriona, but also fight against relentless foes. As they race against time to stop the curse, Ailith and Caitriona uncover shocking truths about their kingdom, their families, and themselves.

Will their burgeoning romance survive the trials ahead? Can they break the curse and save their homeland from tyranny? Join Ailith and Caitriona on a thrilling quest filled with magic, danger, and heart-pounding adventure. Fans of high-stakes fantasy will not want to miss this epic tale.

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“I see the way you look at her. I see how she looks at you. You know that even at the end of all of this, if all goes according to plan, you’ll never be able to be near Ailith again, don’t you? After all of this, father wants to marry you off and will have her head. We’ll have to ensure she can live peacefully far from Braewick. She’ll be gone from our lives.”

“Does the sun love the moon?” Caitriona interrupted. She looked at Ailith’s sleeping form and everything within her yearned to reach forward and touch her. She was like a moth to a flame, pulled so immediately the sensation was bewildering. “Even though they’re often apart, they still manage to share the sky every once in a while.”

About the Author: Erica Rose Eberhart grew up in the Catskills region and spent many formative years in both Eastern Pennsylvania and Northern Virginia. She now resides with her family and cat in the Finger Lakes region of New York. A technical editor by trade, she has a Master’s degree in English and Creative Writing. Erica has written stories since she was able to write sentences and has found comfort in fantasy her entire life, whether by consuming fantastical stories or creating her own. Beside the comfort of books, Erica adores nature walks, crocheting, embroidery, cats, baking and autumn. You can follow her many adventures on social media @ericaroseeberhart. Tarnished is her first published novel.

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Where do ideas (for writing projects) come from? by Jonathan Weeks – Guest Post and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jonathan Weeks will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Where do ideas (for writing projects) come from?

There are a variety of ways you can “turn your brain on” and generate creative energy. Though it works a little differently for everyone, here are a few simple suggestions to get started:

GO FOR A WALK

Being outside on a warm, sunny day or even on a cool, foggy night can produce a stream of conscious thought. The brain reacts dramatically to setting and tone. Harness those thoughts into something useful.

PAY ATTENTION TO THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU

Have you ever tried just sitting in a public place and discreetly watching others? You will notice a lot of very interesting details. This might trigger some useful associations.

TAKE ON A NEW HOBBY

It’s never too late to pick up a new skill or engage in a new activity. Learn how to play a musical instrument. Get involved in an arts and crafts project. Take some photos of subjects that interest you. Get your creative powers flowing.

YOU CAN’T HAVE OUTPUT WITHOUT INPUT

No great idea is created in a vacuum. Exposing yourself to the creativity of others will enhance you own abilities. Read books. Watch movies. Listen to music. Be an active, not a passive watcher or listener.

THE POWER OF DREAMS

Some of my best ideas have come to me in dreams. But those ideas are fleeting. Dreams typically fade from our consciousness within minutes of waking. If you feel so inclined, keep a sleep journal near your bed and write your dreams down in it when you wake up. There may be a brilliant idea buried somewhere beyond the wall of sleep.

There is no right or wrong way to shake out a good idea. Whatever works for you is fine. Don’t be afraid to try something unusual. Ernest Hemingway often wrote standing up, believing it kept him clear and alert. Leonardo da Vinci slept in brief intervals throughout the day, claiming that it increased his productivity. Ideas come from outside and within. You need to be prepared to grab them when they present themselves.

Good luck!

Mays’s spectacular catch in 1954, Bill Mazeroski’s walk-off homer in 1960, and Kirk Gibson’s pinch-hit blast in 1988 are just a few of the memorable moments that have dominated highlight reels. The outcome of the Series has not always been terribly surprising—especially during the late 1940s and early 1950s when the Yankees captured five consecutive championships, breaking their previous record of four straight titles from 1936 to 1939. But despite its predictability at times, the Fall Classic has taken many unexpected turns. The 1906 Cubs lost to the weak-hitting White Sox after establishing a new regular season record for
wins. The 1955 Dodgers avenged seven prior October failures with an improbable victory over the seemingly invincible Yankees. And in 1969, the Mets finally shed their image as “loveable losers,” dethroning the powerful Orioles. In more than a century of World Series plays, a number of similar scenarios have emerged; twenty-two of those stories are told in Shocktober.

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To understand why members of the White Sox conspired with gamblers to throw the 1919 World Series, one must take into account the financial climate of baseball in the early-20th century. Players weren’t paid exceptionally well (at least in comparison to today). Before the advent of free agency, owners held most of the advantages when it came to negotiating contracts. Players were more or less stuck with the clubs they had signed with until team executives decided it was time to get rid of them. Typical deadball stars were minimally educated and rough around the edges. In their free time, many gravitated to bars and pool halls, where men of questionable integrity could be found. Some players developed relationships with members of the underworld—especially bookmakers who were willing to tamper with the outcome of games in order to turn a profit.

Ty Cobb, one of the biggest names of the era, was paid $20,000 in 1919—equivalent to about $348,000 today. No one else was making that much at the time—not even Babe Ruth. Pitcher Eddie Cicotte, at a little over $9,000, was the highest paid member of the Chicago conspirators. The others were earning significantly less.

A common misconception among contemporary fans is the idea that Chicago team owner Charles Comiskey was a nefarious miser who drove his men to commit the crime of the century. Multiple myths have persisted regarding Comiskey’s penny-pinching ways—the most salacious being the story about how he delivered a case of flat champagne to his players as a World Series bonus in 1917. Other fallacies have been handed down over the years.

In reality, Comiskey was prone to acts of generosity. He allowed a number of Chicago organizations to use his ballpark for free and gave out complimentary grandstand tickets to school children. During World War I, he donated a significant portion of his annual income to the Red Cross. While it’s true that he could also be frugal, charging players for laundry fees, he actually paid his men pretty well. The White Sox Opening Day payroll in 1919 was among the highest in baseball.

While the specific motivations of each conspirator have been endlessly debated, it’s safe to assume that the primary incentive was financial gain. By his own account, it was first baseman Chick Gandil who approached gamblers with the idea of a fix. At the time, the club was divided into two social cliques with tension existing between the two. The educated players fell under the influence of Ivy League graduate Eddie Collins. The rest of the joiners cast their lot with Gandil—a former boxer with an attitude toward authority. Shortstop Swede Risberg played a major role in the fix as well, helping Gandil lure other players (ones who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut) into the fold. Boston-based bookmaker Joseph “Sport” Sullivan convinced New York underworld kingpin Arnold Rothstein to bankroll the plot. Others involved included “Sleepy Bill” Burns (a former pitcher) and Abe Attell (a former featherweight boxing champion). Both were associates of Rothstein’s.

About the Author: Jonathan Weeks has written several sports biographies and two novels, one of which was a posthumous collaboration with his late father. He grew up in the Capital District region of New York State and currently works in the mental health field.

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Bullets and Dandelion by Gail Koger – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Gail Koger will be awarding a $15 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

My name is Tess Reynolds, and I’ll admit few people would think I’m a badass Army sniper called the Scorpion. Afterall, women snipers were unheard of in 1990. People look at me and see a petite blonde who is cute as a button. My father calls it my natural camouflage.

My time in the Middle East has been full of unforeseen complications. I have a rogue CIA agent trying to kill me and I caught the attention of a Force Recon Marine by the name of Alexander Stone. Wowzer! He’s hot but he’s also the biggest jackass I have ever met. To make things even more interesting, I need the Jackass’s help to stay alive.

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My jaw dropped. Three naked men were floating in the shallow water. They all had dog tags and looked to be American, probably the Force Recon team. My gaze locked on the biggest guy. Yowzer! He made my heart go pitty-pat. Too bad a thick, black beard covered his face. His body was utter perfection. He had to be at least six-feet-seven, with a massive chest, bulging biceps and heavily muscled thighs.

My gaze froze on his groin, and I suddenly knew what Sally meant when she said a guy was hung like a stallion. Would that thing even fit? Since Pops never allowed me to date, I had zero experience with men. Never been kissed and the one kid that tried ended up with a busted jaw: courtesy of my father.

C’mon handsome, roll over and show me your butt.

A coyote howled.

I frowned. There weren’t any coyotes in the Koh-i-Baba Mountain range or were there? I quickly surveyed the area. Nothing moved and there was no sign of any critters. I turned my attention back to the lake and my stomach knotted. It was empty. Somehow, they knew I was here. One of their scouts must have spotted my footprints.

Damn, I wasn’t in any shape to go up against a Force Recon team. I could always ask them for help, but since I was the Army’s secret weapon, that might get me booted.

About the Author: I was a 9-1-1 dispatcher for the Glendale Police Department and to keep from going totally bonkers – I mean people have no idea what a real emergency is. Take this for example: I answered, “9-1-1 emergency, what’s your emergency?” And this hysterical woman yelled, “My bird is in a tree.” Sometimes I really couldn’t help myself, so I said, “Birds have a tendency to do that, ma’am.” The woman screeched, “No! You don’t understand. My pet parakeet is in the tree. I’ve just got to get him down.” Like I said, not a clue. “I’m sorry ma’am but we don’t get birds out of trees.” The woman then cried, “But… What about my husband? He’s up there, too.” See what I had to deal with? To keep from hitting myself repeatedly in the head with my phone I took up writing.

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