Picasso’s Lovers by Jeanne Macken – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jeanne Mackin will award a randomly drawn winner a $25 Amazon/BN GC. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

You know Pablo Picasso. Now meet the women behind the masterpieces. The women of Picasso’s life are glamorous and elusive, existing in the shadow of his fame – until, in the 1950’s, aspiring journalist Alana Olsen determines to bring one into the light and discovers a past complicated by secrets and intrique.

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People used to say of my lover that he lived only for art, that women and politics did not matter to him the way his art mattered. But people change. When Franco and Hitler destroyed that Spanish town, Guernica, Pablo Picasso changed. You cannot look at that painting, at the screaming mothers and violence and think, this is a man who does not care about people and politics.

I have seen how his face changes when he speaks of Francoise, the woman who is leaving him.

“I think it will be a fine day,” I said. “But come back to bed, Pablo. It is still early.” I smoothed and pattered the rumpled sheet that was still damp from our little bacchanal…

Pablo returns his gaze to his own image in the mirror and studies it, drawing the razor through the white foam on his cheek and making a curve, olive flesh showing through a white background. Another work of art…

He throws a towel at me. “Get up. The car will be here soon.”

“Lisen to you, my love. A car. A chauffeur. I remember when you had holes in your boots, when you were my young love.”

“That was long ago.”

About the Author:

Jeanne Mackin is the author of several historical novels, including The Last Collection, which has been translated into five languages, and The Beautiful American, which won a CNY award for fiction. She has taught in the MFA Creative Writing program at Goddard College and won journalism awards, and is currently at work on her next novel.

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My take on Critique Groups by Lisa Ard – Guest Post and Giveaway

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

My take on critique groups

Critique groups are invaluable, but that doesn’t mean every critique group is valuable to every writer. If you’re committed to producing your best work, then be choosy when looking for a critique group. Consider the following tips for the best experience:

1. Work with other writers that write in the genre you write in.

Publishing expectations vary depending on the genre you work in. For instance, picture books have a particular page count and structure that stem from printing and book production. Young adult fantasy will have a longer word count than novellas, memoirs, or other forms of fiction. Non-fiction is a different beast altogether. Length is only one of the attributes that differ by genre. Critiquing within the same genre ensures that all writing partners are working toward the same goals.

2. Join the right size group

Each critique member will bring a unique perspective on your work. One person will hone in on the voice in your work. Another will have opinions on the point of view. Another might be expert in spotting showing vs. telling. You want enough helpers to round out the critique, but not too many that you’re infrequently up for review. What’s the right amount? That depends on the group composition, the operating rules of the group, and your expectations. As a general rule of thumb, I’d suggest 4-6 writers.

3. Be open to constructive criticism

Develop a thick skin. Whether you’re submitting an early-stage or polished piece, you’re looking to make it even better, which means someone’s going to tell you what’s not working. Remember that good critique partners want you to succeed. When you receive critique, you should leave inspired to get back to work–because you now know how to improve the submission.

4. Adopt a set of guidelines

Decide together how often each person submits for critique, an acceptable word count, how polished it needs to be, etc. Agree on a format for offering critique. My group likes the Oreo approach: start with what you like, outline ways to improve the piece, and wrap up with encouraging remarks. Another way to say that is: commendations, recommendations, and encouragement.

5. Be clear about the type of input you’d like

Help your critique partners help you by stating what you’re looking for. That might mean asking: Is the story arc apparent? How’s pacing? Do you care about this character? Is there too much backstory? Also be clear on what you don’t want. For example, when submitting an early draft, you might not care about punctuation or detailed line edits.

6. Take what you like, and leave the rest.

Listen for the consensus of the group. If everyone says you need to lighten up the backstory, believe it. If multiple people point out improving the piece by using more active (rather than passive) verbs, consider it. In the end, it’s your work, and you decide what changes you make and what you leave behind.

The 19th century women’s rights movement and the rise of public education intertwine with one woman’s story of struggle, perseverance, and love.

When her father dies and the family inn falls to ruin in 1882, western North Carolina, thirty-year-old Alice Harris is compelled to marry Jasper Carter, a Civil War veteran twice her age. Far from home and a stranger in a new family, Alice remakes herself. She learns to farm tobacco, mothers her stepson, and comes to love her husband.
However, Alice uncovers pending trouble with the family’s land holdings, which threatens their livelihood on the farm. The growth in Asheville promises a different future—one of manufacturing, transportation, tourism, and wealth. Alice believes this future demands an education and she rebels against the limited rural instruction. She joins forces with other women campaigning for Asheville’s first public schools. Her actions spark the rebuke of the Carter men.

Tragedy strikes and Alice’s newfound security is ripped away. The family challenges her property rights and files for guardianship of her stepson. Battered but determined, Alice turns to the law—and a friendly court clerk—to fight for her independence. Will Alice lose everything? Not if she can help it.

Lisa Ard’s debut historical fiction novel will resonate with readers for its parallels, between then and now, on women’s rights, inequality, and racism.

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The dressmaker probably saw every kind of bride—joyful, nervous, excited, even frightened, yet rarely two sisters on the same day and seldom ones of our advanced age. At thirty years old, I’d long since abandoned the idea of marriage. The War had ended when I was thirteen and with battlefields turned to cemeteries, the marriage prospects in the South had dimmed considerably. I didn’t favor the title spinster, but I valued my independence. Especially now, as it slipped from my grasp.

“Shorter, Miss Harris?” Miss Shackton asked. “You might wear it after the wedding.”

“Yes, thank you. It’ll make a fine church dress.” My cheeks warmed at the suggestion for thrift. My thoughts thundered over my family’s losses. A hastily arranged marriage to a man I barely knew was my only option.

While Miss Shackton circled to pin the dress’s hem, my eyes swept the neatly kept shop. It was narrow, not two wagons’ breadth across with a front counter crafted from a rich, dark slab of wood laid on top of postmaster shelving. The many nooks and crannies held the dressmaker’s tools of the trade: threads, spools, pin cushions, bolts of fabric, scissors, and more. The orderliness soothed me.

“I’m almost finished here. Be with you in a minute,” Miss Shackton announced to my sister.

Jennie slumped on a faded settee and dabbed her eyes with a damp handkerchief. She’d always been delicate and our rushed marriages, and that of our two sisters, Louise and Ina, didn’t help.

About the Author Lisa Ard is the author of the new historical fiction novel Brighter Than Her Fears, which is based on her great-great-grandmother’s experience in 19th century western North Carolina. Her previously published children’s books include Fright Flight, Dream Team, and the Kay Snow award finalist Saving Halloween. When not writing, Lisa enjoys reading, hiking, golfing and sharing her love of history as a bike tour docent with the Palm Springs Historical Society. She and her husband live (and golf) in both Palm Springs and Portland, Oregon.

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What Scares Me the Most as an Author by Traci Wooden-Carlisle – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Traci Wooden-Carlisle and D. Tina Batten will be awarding $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

What Scares Me the Most as an Author
As an author, what scares me the most is taking full responsibility for my work and not being able to piece one thought with another to finish a message.

Let me explain.

I consider my writing a ministry. I see it as a collaboration between me and God where He gives me a message to express through my characters or a way to express a subject with a different perspective, and it is my job to listen to Him while guiding the character’s dialogue or interaction to relay that message in the story.

If I deviate or start filling in pieces just because I think they should be there, then I will have to take full responsibility for the message that is conveyed. That burden is too heavy because I am too afraid of getting the message wrong.

As long as I deliver God’s message as He intends, I’m okay with both good or not-so-good reviews. When readers share their feelings, thoughts and yearning to draw closer to God when reading my books, it makes it all worth it.

I began to have problems with my sight when I was six and it took a couple of years before I was properly diagnosed. In the meantime, I went through private tutoring in phonics, reading comprehension and grammar because my parents believed I had a reading, not seeing problem. I ended up reading at the 9th grade level in the 3rd grade and became a voracious reader. When I couldn’t read, I would write myself stories and have done so since I was eight. I absolutely love my imagination and the ability to find the right word to relay what I see in my imagination. I love the stories and thoughts I am able to piece together from one idea. I would truly feel like I have lost a huge part of me if I could no longer take one idea and weave it into a story.

The first novel I published started with me writing a story to myself. It wasn’t until I reached the seventh chapter that I realized that I might have to share it with others.

There is a thin line between the natural and the spiritual realm.

Ms. V., a humble servant of the Lord, has been placed on assignment at Center of Hope Christian Academy.

By day, she serves as a trusted counselor for students, giving them a safe haven to pour out their innermost feelings while providing professional and honest truth wrapped in a firm kindness and love that inevitably draws them closer to Jesus. Not to be outdone, the faculty also bends her ear from time to time.

By night, Ms. V. enters the spiritual realm and takes her place on the battlefield as one of God’s faithful prayer warriors. She wields her whispering sword, slicing through the enemy’s plans to bind the precious hearts under her charge.

Her assignment’s burden on her physical body is taxing, but can she withstand the strain and remain victorious?

Saving souls is her true mission, but at what cost?

Readers are in for a journey of spiritual intrigue and biblical insight as they experience the ramifications of each character’s life-altering decision.

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The mist settling over the earth was about five inches high. It nearly obscured the ground in front of her as far as her eyes could see. She was reminded of mud-covered battlefields with little to shield one from enemy fire.

The clouds hung low, making the whole scene look like something out of an apocalyptic dream. The fallow ground before her was vast. It was a wasteland, offering only the promise that nothing would ever grow there again. The desolation could have gone on forever, except for the demonic presence that lined itself up like a dirty barrier of windows used to dim and conceal what was on the other side.

She felt them, though. She felt each and every one of the children held in bondage on the other side of that transparent demonic force. The thought brought to mind a scripture, and she looked down at the writing on the sword in her hand. She could have spent time thinking about how odd it was that she didn’t remember taking a sword with her, but there were more pressing matters, and she was happy to have the weapon to wield.

She began reading the inscribed scripture out loud, her voice ringing across the barren land slick with mud. “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood,”

As the words left her lips, they solidified in the atmosphere, charging toward their mark like a spear. They reached the barrier, causing it to shift and ripple but not tear.

About the Authors:

D. “Tina” Batten is a loving mother, wife, sister, daughter and Mima to her grandchildren. She is a gifted visual storyteller who is passionate about bringing encouraging messages of inspiration and hope to the world.
Tina Batten, a writer for over eighteen years of various dramatic works of performing art via stage, and film, encompasses unique ways of creating fascinating story concepts that touch the heart of most who view or read her work. She is both honored and thrilled to have teamed up with long-time friend, sister in the gospel and co-author Tracy on this phenomenal collaborative book project. With such a humble heart and desire to bring people together in love and unity, Tina Batten will continue her work as a visual storyteller spreading the good news of Jesus Christ one project after the other.

As Always, D. “Tina” Batten gives God All the Glory!

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Traci Wooden-Carlisle began writing to publish in 2011 and enjoys writing stories that provoke thought and evoke emotions. Her desire is to draw readers into the lives of her characters and share messages of God’s love, His faithfulness and peace. The messages in her books speak to her way before they speak to her readers.

Traci lives in San Diego with her husband, David. When she isn’t writing she does some light traveling or assists people with their physical fitness, creates graphics, designs pretty things for her jewelry business and swag for authors.

You can find her on the following social media platforms.

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Sam Time by Donna Balon – Q&A 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.

Are the experiences in this book based on someone you know?

My grandmother told me about her experience riding in a horse drawn carriage. The horse sometimes took a bathroom break in the middle of a busy cobblestone road to my grandmother’s embarrassment. I created a similar chapter scene that takes place in New York City.

How did you come up with the name of your publishing company?

I thought about it for weeks. The difficulty was finding a term that wasn’t already used with “press,” “publish,” or “media”. I searched for Latin words, star names, elements, and precious metals. Everything was taken. Because I live in Las Vegas, Nevada, I often thought of Desert “something”. “Moon” and “Foothills” and so many other words were taken. Then “day” popped into my head. Desert Day Press sings.

What is your favorite and least favorite punctuation?

I like the em dash—for emphasis. The comma is a troublesome child, but I respect it. My least favorite is the ellipsis. It’s often misused in casual writing. It implies incompleteness and laziness.

How do you select books to read?

Friends in book clubs, podcasts, and editorial suggestions by bloggers.

When do you like to write and for how long?

I’m a morning person for doing anything. But writing often spills into the afternoon. I don’t write based on a fixed time. Rather I stop when I’m satisfied I’ve completed enough for one day.

When her fiancé is away on business, lonely Samantha Hunter despairs and absorbs herself in historical research. Her nighttime dreams being so vivid, Samantha believes she’s traveling to a past century. As she navigates the Victorian era rules of dos and even more don’ts, she charms Ulysses S Grant while struggling to maintain her present-day romance.

Enjoy an Excerpt

During the night, Samantha had a vivid dream. She was in a rural town wearing her Victorian-style dress. The weather was cool so she wrapped the crocheted afghan around her shoulders. And her sockless feet were cold in her slip-on shoes.

The few men she saw were in worn, soiled work clothes and walked with purpose. The so-called roadways were not paved but dirt paths. No cars or trucks, but horses and carts. A few wooden one-story buildings scattered here and there.

This must be a dream in which the clock has been turned back, Samantha thought. But where am I?

She strolled, aware she had not seen any other women. Pulling the afghan around herself snugly, she walked with her head tilted down to avoid catching the eye of any man in whatever this place was, glancing up often to learn more of her surroundings.

Then two women hurried toward her, each carrying a wooden bucket of water. Their cotton dresses hung to their ankles, with full skirts gathered at the waist of fitted bodices. Plain white cotton bonnets covered their heads, and shawls were wrapped around their shoulders. They looked at Samantha disapprovingly. Her dress was too fancy for this rural town. Moreover, she wasn’t wearing a bonnet or hat; a bare head was a means of solicitation by prostitutes. She hugged her body with the afghan, which served as a shawl to hide her uncorseted torso.

The dream seemed authentic. Despite her uneasiness, she thought, Enjoy the dream. If I don’t like it, I’ll wake myself up.

Around a corner, she spotted a few men in uniform. Soldiers. Maybe the army. This might be a small town next to an army fort, Samantha guessed. Still, not a good place for a woman.

About the Author: Author Donna Balon debuts Sam Time, a novel well-researched and professionally edited by quality talent from the publishing industry. Donna resides in Las Vegas, Nevada, with her husband.

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Winter Blogfest: Rachel Corsini

This post is part of Long and Short Reviews’ Winter Blogfest. Leave a comment for a chance to win an ebook prize. 

 

A Wonderful Chaos by Rachel Corsini

Boisterous laughter. Swirls of cigar smoke rising to the ceiling. Endless platters of food. Seven fishes. Linguini with white clam sauce. Insalate di mare. Fried calamari. An endless conveyor belt filled our bellies and hearts with joy. The table fit to bursting with family. Loud. Wonderful. Drinking wine.  

My grandfather at the head of the table. My grandma in the kitchen laughing with my mom and my aunts. Helping to fill serving platters. There was always so much food. My grandma fed us all, filling us fit to bursting with her love.

At midnight, a creak on the stairs. Black boots. Fluffy white cuffs. Red velvet pants. Santa at Grandma’s house? I was on his knee in an instant. Squinting eyes looking into his brown ones. Hmm, he seemed familiar. A smile I’d seen many times. There were presents in his giant sack. He pulled one out and placed it in my hands. It was something I wished for. That I’d placed on my list.

I kissed Santa’s cheek and he hugged me before lifting me off his knee. I went to go see what my present was.

“Hmm, I wonder where that Uncle Joe is?” Santa said. My family burst into laughter. It was my cousin’s turn. After each gift, “hmm, I wonder where that Uncle Joe is?

Espresso poured. Cannolis on the table. Stufoli. Cheesecake. An assortment of Italian Christmas cookies: fig, lemon, Pignoli nut. Summoned by Sambuca, Uncle Joe reappeared, and Santa was gone. More laughter while sipping from gold filigree cups.

Us, the kids, curled up on the plastic covered sofa, clutching our precious presents, eyes drifting shut to the sounds of our family talking well into the hours of the morning.

Christmas Eve. A wonderful chaos. A moment as precious as a heartbeat.

When a career-ending injury and a messy breakup send prima ballerina Daniela Verdi back to Queens, New York, she fills her days with countless distractions: meaningless sex, pinot grigio, and video games.

It takes a chance meeting with her brother’s best friend, Vincent LaBate, for her to remember who she was before the stage lights and distractions of the Upper West Side. She’s convinced that Vincent could never love a girl like her: broken, insecure, and stumbling her way through life. What Daniela didn’t count on is that Vincent is as scarred as she is after divorcing his cheating wife and going through an equally messy child custody fight. Soon enough, old vulnerabilities rear their ugly heads, opening a crack in Daniela’s perfectly imperfect romance.

As Daniela and Vincent’s relationship develops, will Daniela learn to accept that a dream life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?

After declaring herself a pretty pink princess during her first ballet class, Rachel dreamt of sugarplums and began pirouetting her way through life. While studying to become a ballerina, she compulsively read books under her covers by flashlight and scribbled in spiral-bound notebooks. The urge to tell stories culminated in her graduation from Columbia College Chicago with a B.F.A. in fiction writing.

Never one to keep her feet on the ground, she traveled the world from Prague to Cape Town. Once settled back in Queens, she dabbled in journalism before working as an Editorial Assistant for a medical publisher. Seeking a more fulfilling career, she earned her MAT from Queens College and currently works as an English teacher in an alternative program in NYC.

Rachel spends her time sipping coffee, trying to cook, and practicing her pirouettes. She currently resides in Freeport, Long Island.

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Winter Blogfest: Hector Duarte, Jr.

This post is part of Long and Short Reviews’ Winter Blogfest.

Leave a comment for a chance to win a free e-copy of Icarus Over Collins.

Noche Buena by Hector Duarte, Jr.

“¡Ño, que hambre!” Is something heard a lot during Noche Buena. In a Caribbean/Latin American household, the night before Christmas holds more weight than the day itself.

Noche Buena starts early. By one, two in the afternoon, family’s already gathered at the host-house. Why? Because the alpha males (many you won’t see til next year) who know best have gathered to figure out the best way to asar el lechon. No caja china here. Don’t insult the masculinity of the yard by bringing it up. Este puerco gets wrapped in banana leaves and splayed over a bed of hot coals burning a hole in the dirt.

But, be patient. This will take hours. Of listening to stories (many on repeat) of the old island; smelling the yard fill with scents of crisping skin and sizzling mojo (sneak a bite every once in a while, but don’t get caught). More listening; if it’s a Republican president in charge, most everyone’s extolling his virtues. A democrat, they’ll say the country’s going the way of Fidel and, “Cuando, Dios mio,” will a Republican take the reins again? This banter will eventually give way to the muttering of, “¡Ño, que hambre!”

Shove as many Islas Canarias croquetas down your throat; man, are they tasty. None of them quell the itch produced by el humo hotboxing la casa entera. Black beans, yuca con ajo, flan, y arroz con leche. And, of course, el cabrón lechón. Burning a hole in your stomach.  

If you’re lucky, it’s unwrapped from its steaming cocoon by nine, by which time you’re likely out of your mind from staring at domino tiles plunked onto a custom-made wooden gaming table emblazoned with some type of Cuban nostalgia.

¡Ño, que hambre!

Pero, esperate. Got to let los mayores in front of you. What kind of joven would you be if you ate before Abuela Miña? This family’s so big and generational, it adds another fifteen minutes between you and jamando. Ni te atrevas try and sneak a peek off Mami or Papi’s plate!

Finally, you eat, filling your empty stomach with the staples that have teased harder than the episode endings of one of Mami’s telenovelas.

Ño, do they fulfill.

You eat so hard and fast, by the end you’re comatose and ready for bed.

Perfect time to sneak in a nap and wake up in time to arrive home and unwrap gifts.

The older you get, the less it matters what’s under the tree. Until the day it stops mattering all together because you know all too well all those smells, sounds, tastes can’t be wrapped. There isn’t enough gift paper in all the world to cover it. Best you can do, is try to make that noche buena for someone else. If they’re lucky, they’ll get the slightest sliver of such a memory.

Just a sliver, though. Not the whole pie. Some things you got to hoard for yourself.

 

After her friend Sandy Mangual tragically falls to his death, Bailey Cohen discovers images of his grisly corpse have been uploaded and shared through social media, by someone very close to her.

Bailey enlists the help of quiet, unnoticed, underappreciated Bernardo Castillo, who works the luxury Miami Beach high rise in which she stays.

Bernardo and Bailey will have to dredge up the shady past they’ve long worked to tamp down in order to set off on the path toward vengeance. A journey that will reshape and morph each person engulfed along its way.

Icarus Over Collins is a short, punchy revenge story as cracked and slivered as hot Miami pavement.

 

Hector Duarte, Jr. is a writer/educator out of Miami, Fl, where he lives with his wife, son, and cat. His fiction has been published widely online and in print. His first short story collection, Desperate Times Call, published in September of 2018 by Shotgun Honey Books. His debut novella, Icarus Over Collins, was published by Cinnabar Moth in March 2023.

 

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Next Stop, Boston by Iris Dorbian – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Iris Dorbian will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

: Sixteen-year-old Geri Randall’s life is turned upside down when her late sister’s fiance, Dez Deacon, a washed-up rock star, is named her guardian. Whisked away from the only life she knew and taken on a rock and roll tour, Geri is initially desperate to win Dez’s approval. That desire hits a sour note when Dez’s treatment of her becomes too much to bear. What ensues is a battle of wills between her and her temperamental guardian, a collision course that will push Geri to do the unthinkable to get what she wants.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Her skinny fingers rippled across the strings. She played a G chord, one of the few chords he’d taught her in between gigs. She plucked it again, the twangy sound vibrating in her ears.

It was part of her nightly backstage ritual. Most important was polishing and cleaning his guitar. He was persnickety in the way he liked it. Lately, she had gotten the hang of it, but it had been rough going there for a while, as he was never satisfied with anything he asked her to do. Whether it was this task or another, she could never please him. Not until recently.

She’d thought being on the road would be a lot more fun. She didn’t hate it, but she didn’t relish it either. Time was a blur; it was as if school and her other life never existed, with every day seeming to stretch into an eternity.

She scanned the musty room, and when she was sure no one was lurking, Geri picked up the Gibson again and pretended to play the guitar like a rock god. Tossing her head back, she rolled her right arm like a windmill and closed her eyes, faking the strumming and picking motions.

It was dumb, childish as all hell. But, screw it. She needed to let loose.

Of course, if he saw her doing this, she’d never hear the end of it.

About the Author: Iris Dorbian is an arts and business journalist whose bylines have appeared in a wide array of outlets that include Forbes, Wall Street Journal, Reuters, Crain’s New York Business, Business Insider, Buyouts, Venture Capital Journal, Investopedia, Playbill, Backstage, Dance Magazine, Theatermania and Stage Directions, where she served as editor-in-chief for eight years. Her personal essays have been featured in HBO’s Inspiration Room, Boomer Magazine, Jewish Literary Journal, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and Gothesque Magazine. Having previously published “Great Producers: Visionaries of the American Theater” (Allworth/Skyhorse) “An Epiphany in Lilacs: In the Aftermath of the Camps” (original publisher: Mazo Publishers) and “Sentenced to Shakespeare” (Sunbury/Milford House Prss), “Next Stop, Boston” is her fourth book.

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Six Elements Every Historical Fiction Story Should Have by Kate Bristow – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Kate Bristow will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Six Elements Every Historical Fiction Story Should Have
I love reading historical fiction because if written well the story will not only immerse you in another time and place but also inspire you to do a little research for yourself to learn more about the events depicted. Because of ‘Wolf Hall’ by Hilary Mantel, I started exploring Tudor England and the shadowy history of Thomas Cromwell. ‘Lonesome Dove’ by Larry McMurty sent me off on a journey to the Old West. While the historical fiction author needs to focus on many of the same elements as any writer, they need to work a little harder to ensure that the reader finds the story credible.

1. Setting

As in any story, setting is critical in putting the reader into the heart of the novel from the beginning. In historical fiction, the writer must ensure that the location is described in a way that makes sense in the time period. London today looks very different from London in 1823 despite the fact that many of the buildings from two hundred years ago are still standing.

2. Characters

Often in historical fiction, the cast of characters will be based on a mix of real and fictional people. A good novelist will create living breathing creatures that dress appropriately for the time period and behave in the right way. Women for example lived under very different societal norms in years gone by. My heroine Elena was not encouraged to be educated to the same degree as her male counterparts, nor expected to want a job outside the home.

3. Dialogue

As with the descriptions of characters and their traits, dialogue needs careful research in historical fiction. Characters cannot come out with modern expressions or use language that would be considered inappropriate in that time period. Words can change their meaning over time: ‘awful’ used to mean ‘worthy of awe’ whereas today it simple means something or someone terrible. In my novel, I also had to think about Italians and the fact that they tend to be more formal when addressing elders or people they don’t know very well. At the same time, you want to make sure that the modern reader isn’t struggling to read and understand the text.

4. Plot

The plot is the sequence of events that happen in the story, each of which causes the next thing to happen. In historic fiction, the plot is sometimes drawn from an event that actually took place at some point in the past. But the fiction writer has the ability to add imagined elements to the story and to alter the timeline. My book is based on real life events but I simplified certain aspects in order to give the story a dramatic arc.

5. Conflict

A good story always contains a conflict of some description and historical fiction should be no different. But even when a novel is based on an extreme example of a conflict—in my case, World War 2—it is still critical that the main conflict is at a very personal level. My heroine Elena believes art is worth saving in a time of war: my hero Luca thinks that more energy should be spent worrying about whether there is enough food to eat.

6. World building

World building—the ability of a writer to create a credible fictional world—is of particular importance in historical fiction. The reader has to embrace the world that is being described and understand why the story needed to take place at exactly that time and place. Are the characters behaving in a believable way given the time period? How are the events taking place in the wider world affecting the people in the story? What kind of relationships and conflicts would you expect to see in this particular moment in time? Authenticity is so important. If the reader senses something out of place, they begin to subconsciously doubt the entire premise of the novel. Attention to detail is a must if the world being built by the novelist is to appear plausible to the reader.

I hope you enjoy my historical fiction novel ‘Saving Madonna’ and the glimpse it gives of the lives of ordinary Italians during the war.

Is a painting worth dying for?

Inspired by real events, an unforgettable story of love, courage and sacrifice to save a country’s heritage.

Italy 1943. As the Allies bomb Milan, Elena Marchetti reluctantly gives up her coveted job as an art curator in the city to return to her family farm near Urbino. She takes up a new role assisting Pasquale Rotondi, the Superintendent of Arts in the region, in protecting works of art from all over Italy that have been hidden in the relative safety of the countryside.

At a family celebration, Elena reunites with Luca, a close childhood friend. A shattering event instigated by the occupying Germans deepens their relationship, and they start planning a life together. When rumors surface that Italy’s art is being stolen by the German occupiers, Pasquale hatches an audacious plan to rescue the priceless paintings in his possession. Elena and Luca are forced to make an impossible decision: will they embark on a dangerous mission to save Italy’s cultural heritage?

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Marco looked beyond his home to a small wood that stretched out from the rear of the property down to the narrow white road snaking through the valley toward the distant hilltop town of Peglio. His home was called Ca’Boschetto (House of the Copse) because of these trees, and Marco knew it would soon be time for his father and uncle to gather their friends and bloodhounds for the annual truffle hunt. Their small wood was known far and wide as a fruitful location for the illusive and highly sought-after fungi, and the truffle hunt was one of the highlights of the season.

Beyond the wood, a patchwork of fields that had been parched brown after the harvest in the heat of August was beginning to turn into shades of green from recent rain. Marco spotted a couple of deer making the most of the fresh grass. Something else caught his eye as it glinted in the distance. Marco lifted his hands to his brow to deflect the glare of the autumnal sun. Whatever was flashing in the sunlight was moving toward their farm. The ox-drawn carts that often made this journey on the back road couldn’t move that quickly. He squinted. Something was not right.

“Luca! Luca! I can see a car coming. Look at the road!”

His older brother turned away from the flock and walked over to where Marco was standing. Luca stared at the distant vehicle for a minute and his face darkened. “Marco, Gianni, run down to the house and tell Papà that there might be Germans coming. Move!”

About the Author: Kate Bristow was born in London. She fell in love with reading when she got her first library card at the age of four. Her first attempt at writing and publishing for a wide audience was a local newspaper typed laboriously at home on her mother’s typewriter while at primary (elementary) school in north London. It is surely a loss to cutting-edge journalism that only one issue was ever produced. Kate divides her time between her small-but-perfectly-formed modern home in Los Angeles and her five-hundred-year-old farmhouse just outside Sassocorvaro in Italy.

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Reflections on the Boulevard by L.J. Ambrosio

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $20 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner and an autographed copy of the book to a second randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

As an author, what scares me the most is…

Nothing-really, I must check and recheck my research. That is important.

The hardest part about writing is…

Exhaustion. I can only write 2 hours a night because I write stream of consciousness; I must keep on going not to lose thread of the moments of the story

Character interview with Michael:

“Michael, what do you think of Ron in Reflections on the Boulevard?”

He taught me a lot about my truth and my freedom; I do not want to neglect how to sit on benches.

“What do you think about yourself in Reservoir Men?”

I had a painful journey, but I learnt the true mystery of life sitting by the river.

Ideal writing space

I write in my office overlooking my garden

Michael’s story continues from “A Reservoir Man” (2022) where we find him teaching at a university ready to retire. He unexpectedly meets a young man named Ron who becomes his protégé and journeys with him in a haphazard adventure throughout America and Europe. In Michael’s final journey in life, each twist and turn of the road brings unexpected adventures. The journey taken is one of joy, friendship, and discovery.

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On one particularly bumpy part of the trail, Michael assured Ron.

“You look great and natural on that mule! Like Gene Autry!” Ron was falling over now, off the mule. Ron had some choice language for Michael. After a minute he also asked, “Who is Gene Autry?”

“He was the cowboy who sang ‘Don’t Fence Me In’!”

The mule train proved to be extraordinary. The views were spectacular; being inside the canyon was the best. The formation of the rocks was either tilted, straight, or flat. The horizontal layers of rocks produced the colors yellow, red, and blue. The mule and Ron were no problem; he was a natural mule rider. Thank heavens he told the mule about his relationship with Rhonda – that was the key to their bonding. Ron had a wonderful time, even if his butt was in pain. He felt the saddle was still attached to his bottom even after they left.

They found a bench looking at their incredible view of the North Rim. Michael turned to Ron telling him how nice and cool their friendship was. Michael agreed.

“I had so many friends and partners, but I was never able to have as much fun and conversations as I have had with you, Ron.”

“Partners like Gail, your former business partner?” Ron asked.

Michael playfully responded, “No, like loving, and those other things.”

About the Author:

Louis J. Ambrosio ran one of the most nurturing bi-coastal talent agencies in Los Angeles and New York. He started his career as a theatrical producer, running two major regional theaters for eight seasons. Ambrosio taught at seven universities. Ambrosio also distinguished himself as an award-winning film producer and novelist over the course of his impressive career.

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Welcome to Wonderland by Bobbie Candas – Spotlight and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Bobbie Candas will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

A recently fired biologist with mommy issues, a successful entrepreneur with a dead wife, and an immigrant hiding from gang violence…These three have only one thing in common.

They’re all screwed up

Biology researcher, Violet Hill, was just let go and is devastated. She found the solitary lab and long hours the ideal respite for her anxiety issues–doing meaningful work while avoiding people and conversation. Now unemployed, with diminishing finances, Violet is forced to face the enemy, her mother.

For years, Turner Cooper was consumed with building his company’s client roster, until the sudden death of his wife throws him totally off kilter. Now, instead of work, Turner’s guilt and alcohol issues consume him.

Living a reclusive life in Dallas, Rosario Guzman is hiding from a Mexican cartel while working in the shadows at three part-time jobs. Finally, the item she covets the most, a Green Card, arrives in her mailbox. But Rosario quickly realizes the paper card doesn’t solve all her problems.

While navigating social issues, private demons, and nightmare memories, these three lives collide as they find each other at a place none of them ever imagined they’d be working at. As their mutual relationship evolves, Violet, Turner and Rosario lean into each other and unexpectedly find their lives unfurling in remarkable and magical ways.

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Violet is Blue
Violet Hill

Mother considers me awkward, graceless, and socially challenged, but always has hope for improvement. I disagree and think of myself as critically shy. Is there such a diagnosis? I’ve learned I do best when I can control limited social encounters. That’s why I’m better working alone, in a world I’m comfortable and familiar with, the study of soil, seeds, and grasses.

I’ve been working as a research assistant with Dr. William Hirshfield. After finishing my masters at UT in Austin, I gratefully found my hidey-hole at the UT School of Environmental Sciences. After being hired, I realized it was the perfect job for me. For a year, we’ve been running experiments and collecting data on soil absorption, attempting to come up with a microbial substance that will turn arid lands into potential blooming fields of agriculture. All well and good for keeping me in my cozy, solitary research lab, but with the added bonus of working toward saving a warm and crowded planet.

Then yesterday happened.

Dr. Hirshfield called me unexpectedly to meet in his office. We normally only met every two weeks for consultations on experiments. I sat down across from his desk, with my sweating palms gripping the arm rests of the chair. The meeting opened with congenial small-talk. I said, “Hello.”

As with most people I conversed with, I found it difficult looking at Hirshfield when he spoke. Today I found his floorboards especially interesting. Wide wood panels which had me wondering, were they deliberately distressed or actually marred from age? As he shuffled papers on his desk I reached down and touched the floor. Definitely faux distressed.

He nervously coughed and then continued, “Violet, I must say, your work has been exemplary, but…”

Oh shit… The proverbial but. I shuddered slightly.

As I pretended to be intrigued with the floor, Hirshfield said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news to share.” He coughed again. “I’ll just get right to it. I hate to tell you this, but our next year of NIH funding has been cut. They haven’t renewed the terms of our project at the previous level and claim our results are not going as quickly as we initially projected.”

He seemed to be talking to himself now, explaining his problems to the ceiling as my eyes nervously flitted up occasionally to watch. “Seems our study is on the low end of their priority scale regarding research grant money. But our idea has so much merit! It dovetails perfectly with climate change issues and food production for overpopulated areas. Anyway…it’s probably all politics. Therefore—” He coughed a third time. Nervous tick or avoidance? Either way, not a good sign. “I’m having to cut most of my research staff, including your position.”

Please no. Had I heard correctly? I was praying he’d single me out as too good to let go. But of course not. My eyes became moist and my body went cold. I had finally found my place in this chaotic world, my comfy, musty den. Where I could reach my fingers deep into sandy soil and disappear into another world within my microscope. I’d clock in for hours of uninterrupted work, eat a sandwich over my work station by myself, needing to only interact with others regarding information I was knowledgeable about.

Now apparently all that was gone.

And what remained? Going home to Mother? I was devastated. I felt like laying down on those faux floorboards and curling up in a ball.

“Dr. Hirshfield, p-perhaps p-part-time. Tw-Twenty-five hours a week?”

In case you missed that, I have a noticeable stutter, which seems to come into full bloom during times of stress.

“I only wish that were possible, Violet. The grant has been downgraded to include lab equipment, supplies, and compensation for only a few key personnel. I’m so sorry. This has all come as quite a surprise. So, we’re making adjustments immediately; I can keep you for another two weeks. I wanted you to hear it from me, personally.”

I mumbled, “Th-Thank you,” then stood up, wrapped my arms across my chest, and meekly asked about a possible reference letter. He went back to shuffling papers and nodded, agreeing to my simple request. I quickly walked out with my head down, making my exit before he had the chance to shake my perspiring palm.

I spent the next few weeks desperately attempting to find a position with another research team within the department. There were several available for volunteer and credit work, but all paid positions were fully staffed. Although my educational credentials were excellent, my interviewing skills were a little shaky. I considered customer service positions, but they never seemed a good match, and I truly wanted to continue within my field of study.

At the end of the two-week period, I decided to call in for financial reinforcement. Via email, I sent my mother news of the change in job status, then requested funds to keep me in Austin while I continued to look for work, but instead of an electronic deposit, she offered this:

Dear Violet,
So sorry to hear about your job loss. I know you’ve been happy with your little research position. Sometimes these minor hiccups work out for the best. I think you need more stimulation and interaction in your work. When I visited, your lab job seemed so sterile and lonely. I’m sure I can line something up for you through my contacts in Dallas. Come home, darling. The guest house was recently redone and you’re welcome to use it. It’ll be fun hanging out together again. I believe I’ll call Lexy and see if she can revise her schedule and set aside sessions for you. What day should I expect you? Can’t wait to catch up! –Mother

She was not going to be sympathetic to my cause. I made a second stab at job hunting, knowing it was only a delay tactic. Was I being an ungrateful little bitch? Sort of. But I knew I’d have to deal with my mother’s incessant smiling face, popping in without warning, spewing false cheer, urging me to conform to her standards, and always sending out subliminal messages regarding her underlying sense of disappointment in me.

It had been five years since I’d lived at home. My first year in the dorms had been a disaster. I was happier on my own, renting an apartment for three years while earning my bachelor’s and another two for my masters, comfortably surviving in my small, quiet efficiency.

In contrast, Mother’s home was palatial, but for me it was a luxurious prison sitting on a green oak-studded hill overlooking White Rock Lake in Dallas.

I dragged out my move. I felt no incentive to rush home knowing what lay ahead; struggling through painful interviews, going through clothing issues and social events with Mother. Yes, still a tender issue at age twenty-four. Then, once again, I’d start sessions with my speech therapist, Lexy.

Unfortunately, research assistant’s pay was low, Austin rents were high, and the guest house at Mother’s was free. Economically, it made sense. Emotionally, I was an unhappy wreck.

And who could I complain to? Call 911 — My mother is inviting me to move into her newly renovated guest quarters. Put her on trial? — She insists on buying me new clothing suggested by her personal shopper at Neiman’s. Lock her up? — She’s offering me therapy for an affliction which admittedly has recently become worse.

I was a pathetic whiner. Time to get up, pack it in, and get moving.

About the Author:

Bobbie Candas lives in Dallas, Texas with her husband, Mehmet Candas, a stray gray cat, and a jealous tabby who does not enjoy sharing affection with the interloper. Bobbie attended The University of Texas in Austin, earning her degree in journalism. She took a detour with a career in retail management, and found her happy place when she returned to writing fiction about nine years ago.

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