Father of One by Jani Anttola – Q&A and Giveaway

August 12, 2025 By 6 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author 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.

What perspectives or beliefs have you challenged with this work?

Let’s be clear, the genocide in Srebrenica was a monstrous, evil undertaking. The same goes for any of the bloody rampages in our collective history, whether it’s Bucha, My Lai, Rwanda, you name it. But while those who carry out or enable such atrocities should be held responsible, we sometimes forget that there are always perfectly rational and humane individuals within any national or ethnic group, too. It wasn’t explicitly my intention, but I hope Father of One evokes the idea that demonizing and stereotyping people based on their culture, religion or identity isn’t very constructive.

Did you include any hidden messages or Easter eggs in this book?

If I did, I wouldn’t advertise them. I don’t want to lead my readers by the hand, so it’s best they interpret everything through their own lens.

Do you work with editors? If so, what has your experience been with them?

When my first books got published in Finland, I was fortunate I could work with two very good editors. It was a major publisher and back then they had their own editors. A good one does far more than just fix grammar and typos, so it was like having someone in the literary trenches with me. My latest novel is through an indie publisher in the UK. This time I didn’t have the luxury of collaborating with a personal editor, but I commissioned a structural edit. It was also very helpful. Whether it’s been a full content edit or a light evaluation, every time working with an editor I’ve learned something, and I’ve come to enjoy the re-writing process. This is important for indie-published authors who, at the end of the day, must do most of the editing themselves.

What is your favorite television show?

I don’t have a TV or Netflix or such, so I wouldn’t know about any shows. I travel a lot, so I sometimes watch movies on airplanes. I usually go for anything that was filmed before the 2000s. I find the new CGI-riddled slop insufferable. It boils down to the same fundamentals as good literature: storytelling, dialogue and substance often suffer when a work relies too much on gimmicks meant to impress you.

Quote somebody from the top of your head.

“Don’t believe in anything they say – the day after yesterday is all it takes.” Buddha said so – take it from me.

Maka, a young Bosnian soldier, has survived three years under siege. When the enemy forces launch their final attack on his hometown, he must escape to the hills. But traversing the vast woods is a task against all odds: to stay alive, and to find his infant son and his wife, he is soon forced to make a desperate move.

Set against the harrowing background of raging guerrilla warfare and the genocide in Srebrenica, Father of One is, at heart, a story of deep humanity, compassion and love. It is the account of one man’s desire to reunite his family, separated by war, and of bonds unbroken by trauma, sustained by loyalty and tenacity. Writing in a voice that rings with clarity and authenticity, Jani Anttola lays open a dark moment in Europe’s recent history.

Enjoy an excerpt:


They walked up to the plaza where narrow streets led from the ancient town gate towards the centre of the promontory and the Saint George’s church and its cemetery gardens that overlooked the old fishing town. Most of the shops lining the plaza were shuttered. Turning up towards the rectory, they came to the café bar. A young, lean man in a dress shirt and round eyeglasses was sitting by the window with an espresso and listening to the radio that the waiter had placed on the counter. A newscast was on and a woman newsreader was talking in rapid, tense sentences about something.

“Good morning,” said the waiter. “Lovers up so early?” He was an acquaintance of the hotel owner, a smooth-mannered boy who came from the lavender country in Istria. The old man had recommended the place for their shop-roasted coffee.

“Good morning,” Maka said. Amelia dismissed the innuendo with a little laugh. “How are you?”

“I’m good as always.”

Maka, leaning to the counter and taking off his sun hat, looked at the radio. “What’s the news?”

“Their Teritorijalna Odbrana got the orders to start a counteroffensive.”

“No,” Amelia said, looking at the grave-faced waiter.

“When was that?” Maka asked.

“Last night. There’s armoured columns advancing towards Ljubljana. Six JNA brigades.”

“It’s happening too fast. They declared independence only three days ago.”

“Well, it’s happening, all right,” the waiter said. “Yesterday they shot down two helicopters. Now there’s fighting on the Italian border. The Slovenians have bogged the tanks down and are busting them.”

“But it’s insane,” Amelia said. “Everybody’s lost their mind.”

“The generals seem to think it makes perfect sense,” said the bespectacled man by the window. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling, his head leaning back, then stared out to the street, where a group of loud young men was passing, waving Croatian flags.

Jani Anttola is a Finnish novelist and a medical doctor. In the 1990s he served in Rwanda with the French military and fought in Bosnia as a soldier of the Bosnian army. His works have been published in the UK and Finland. He has spent most of his adult life abroad, working in Africa, the Middle East and the Asia-Pacific.

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Mad Season: Elles Garity’s Story by Gregory Armstrong – Spotlight and Giveaway

July 11, 2025 By 8 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Gregory Armstrong 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.

Fifteen years ago, Elles Garity’s world came crashing down, in more ways than one. Now in her mid-twenties, long since removed from the small island town that she grew up in and never dealing with the pain of her loss, life is calling her back home. In the affirmant of recent unfortunate events Elles finds herself at a turning point once more. This time though, she’ll be forced to confront both her unresolved grief and the people and places she left behind. It won’t be easy. Along the way Elles will learn the truth behind a new friend’s dark connection to her tragic past and be the last to uncover unthinkable family secrets that will unravel everything she ever knew about the family she thought she lost.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Now, I was questioning all of it. I didn’t deal with things well. I didn’t allow anyone to help me deal with things. My life, the road I was on, the lane I had shifted into when I took the wheel, to put it quite figuratively, looked dark and dismal. I was solely responsible for switching my life into cruise control before ever giving myself a chance to learn to drive the damn car.

All these things ran through my head. I didn’t speak to Loyal about any of it. Where would I start? How could she possibly understand my position? Not that I gave her a fighting chance. Time sort of stood still as I sat there frozen, empty. I started this. I made this mess. I had no fucking clue how to fix it. I closed my eyes for a while, and when I opened them, it hit me like a slap to the head. The answer was staring me in the face. Where it all went wrong is where it needed to begin again.

“Grace, I’m worried about you.”

She had never said those words to me before. Ironic, though, how it came across, how I took it—her spotting the wreckage and expressing concern to the very person who was entangled in the heap. Out of upheaval, I took solace in a clouded idea to uproot myself once more. I emerged partially from my funk, oddly enough,

with a wayward smile and slightly brighter outlook. I turned to Loyal, sincere. “Everyone must think I’m horrible.”

About the Author:
Born in Westerly, Rhode Island, and a Connecticut native all my life, my family eventually moved to Norwich in 1977, where I grew up. I attended and graduated from Norwich Free Academy in 1991. It was there, in my final two years, where I acquired a passion for writing. At the time, the school provided a writing center, a classroom filled with computers, designated as a creative writing outlet for the students, and overseen by the now accomplished author Wally Lamb. Here, we were free to use our time working on our own projects, developing, learning, and sharpening our writing skills. Each class, we would gather in a circle to show and share our work with Mr. Lamb and the rest of the class by either reading or having our material read aloud, and hearing feedback from our peers.

Mr. Lamb’s writing center instilled a desire in me to one day write a book and become an author, just as he was doing, putting the final touches on his debut novel, She’s Come Undone. Unfortunately, for me, that is when that dream of mine became a struggle that would last decades. At the age of three, I contracted meningitis, which caused me to go completely blind and left me hospitalized for several weeks. Despite doctors believing my vision would never return, it did, slowly and to a certain degree, although my optic nerve had sustained too much damage and I was declared legally blind.

Growing up was a struggle. Socially, I was quiet, shy, uncomfortable knowing I was different from all of the other kids, because of my physical limitations and lack in self-confidence. Reading was also a challenge. Even though I soon got my first pair of glasses, which made my vision clearer, being able to see the print on a page was still a major issue. For those reasons, I have never been much of a reader, and how does someone who doesn’t read, who doesn’t study the art of literature through books, because it was a strenuous activity on my eyes, learn how to write?

The fact that I found myself stuck, without the necessary tools and unsure of my own talents and abilities to be a quality writer, all the other insecurities of my childhood at play, I gave it up for a time. My active imagination for storytelling did not. As I got older, and into my teenage years I started listening to more music to fill a void. The more I listened, the more I began to broaden my tastes in artists, groups and genres, and the more I heard stories in the songs. Music, along with television and movies, were combining to strengthen my inspiration to be an aspiring author.

One such movie, which mirrored many of my own self-imposed hurdles, was Eddie and the Cruisers. The character of Eddie Wilson, lead singer of a fictional rock and roll band, was consumed by the notion that his music was never good enough, that if they were going to be a band, they had to be great, if they were going to release an album, it had to be great as well. I had obviously grown-up learning and hearing about the great authors and novelists of all time, the great classic books. I had always put that pressure on myself, the same way Eddie Wilson did. I was convinced that I didn’t know how to write, and even if I did, would it be good enough? I had been told, taught by teachers and others, that there were rules to the writing game, including creating a story outline, character development, a whole assortment of proper steps to follow and processes before the writing even began.

Over the years, I started a novel a time or two, hating it, and giving up again. I met my future wife, got married, started a family, and quit my average job to become a stay-at-home dad. Through all of it, thirty-plus years, that ever-present need to write gnawing at me, the urge still there, my vivid imagination still running wild—I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had to let that creativity out and give it a real and focused purpose. With the rough idea of a plot in mind, I sat down at the computer and finally let all of those insecurities go. With a shot of determination and a relaxed mind, I slowly but surely discovered my own writing style, and found my storytelling voice. To hell with all the rules, the unrealistic expectations I placed upon myself, the result—a deeply, emotionally charged story of tragedy, personal reflection, and redemption, that is Mad Season.

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Guest Post from Aaron Christopher Drown author of A Sister to Butterflies

June 11, 2025 By Leave a Comment

There are books that sparkle with surface magic—and then there are books like A Sister to Butterflies, which glow from within. This is a quiet, aching story of transformation, told through the lens of grief and memory.

The narrator, an ancient voice speaking to an infant, reveals the story of a fateful choice: the moment she left her realm of light for the world of flesh. There, she met a boy who taught her about love—but also about loss. The relationship between them becomes a thread that pulls at the seams of reality, and what begins as a fairy tale becomes something deeper, sadder, and far more human.

Aaron Christopher Drown is a multidisciplinary storyteller with a deep love for nuance and language. With roots in Maine and a home in Washington, he’s published widely in fantasy and speculative fiction. He’s received numerous literary accolades, including the Darrell Award, BIBA, and Imadjinn Awards. When not writing, he speaks at events on topics like branding, authorship, and design. His creative world blends art, myth, and emotional truth—and this latest novel may be his most resonant yet.

Enjoy a guest post from the author:

You’ve heard it before. A hundred times. A thousand times.

It’s the track that almost didn’t make the album that wins the Grammy. It’s the actress who’d been passed over but then given one last look who takes home the Oscar. It’s the idea just about everyone dismissed as crazy that ends up taking the world by storm.

For writers, amateur and established alike, the lesson there is that it takes just one person to say yes. Just one person who’s willing to accept a little risk on your behalf is often all that lies between you and your deserved triumph. Which is why the task that’s even more arduous than all the long days and late nights of writing, editing, and changing is simply not to give up until you find that one person who recognizes your work for the worthy thing it is.

Someone told me early on that if you’re not receiving a steady supply of rejection letters, then you’re not doing it right. You’re not really trying to break through as a writer. Because everyone gets rejected, repeatedly and mercilessly. But that’s the game. That’s the lottery you can’t win if you don’t play. And as you persist, take comfort in the impressive company of rebuffed authors you’re keeping:

Stephen King’s Carrie received dozens of rejections before finally selling—but only because his wife found the manuscript in the trash and insisted he try one more time. The Lord of the Flies was turned down twenty times. One publisher who read Anne Frank’s diary found it scarcely worth reading because it didn’t “have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above the ‘curiosity’ level.” John Grisham’s A Time to Kill had to make its way through a dozen publishers and sixteen agents before seeing the light of day. Dune received twenty-three rejections. Publishers dismissed Watership Down repeatedly because no one thought children would understand its prose. A Wrinkle in Time has twenty-six rejection letters under its belt. Gone with the Wind has that beat with thirty-eight. A publisher thought the collective verdict of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds would be, “Oh, don’t read that horrid book.” Even Chicken Soup of the Soul, which went on to sell a metric-gazillion of copies, let alone its infinite list of follow-ups, was turned down more than one hundred times. And the first book of the Harry Potter series was rejected by nearly every publisher in the U.K. before going on to make J.K. Rowling literally richer than the Queen of England.

If you believe in your work, if you can look in the mirror and say wholeheartedly what you’re submitting is the cleanest, tightest, absolute best you can possibly make it, then keep going. Don’t stop. Send it out again. And again. And again. Don’t dare let those interested in merely capitalizing on what’s safe—on what others have heard before a hundred times; a thousand times—decide whether your writing is worth being read by the world. That one person’s out there. Right now.

But keep in mind, sometimes that one person is you.

About the book:

There are lures irresistible regardless of peril, because some yearnings renounce all wisdom.

There are bonds that compel no matter how faraway, because some needs are dire enough to defy all cost.

But when reason, distance, and danger go unheeded, that price can be devastating despite all the magic in one’s grasp.

A Sister to Butterflies tells a different sort of once upon a time, a shimmering tale of a creature torn between worlds, whose wondrous deeds would become fable, and whose terrible mistakes would alter the destinies of everyone around her.

Enjoy an excerpt:

This is not the first time you’ve heard this. Nor, I hope, will it be the last.

What’s amusing—or shameful, depending on how you come to see it—is how often I think I’ve sufficiently untangled my mind to tell my tale, yet still find myself uncertain where to begin. Part of me wishes not to have to begin at all since you’re too tiny to understand it anyhow. But the rest of me knows this is much more for my own benefit than yours—for the time being—and that as far as penance goes, what I’ve apportioned myself can hardly be considered severe.

So, for both our sakes, I’ll muddle through as best I can. Again.

The thing I always try to explain first, so that what I have to tell you makes any sense at all, is that there are indeed other worlds than this. A great many people take a great deal of comfort from believing that what they can reconcile with their eyes and ears constitutes the summation of existence. But I dearly hope you believe me when I say that creation is much too grand to contain but a single realm and a single way of being.

Some of these other worlds are far removed from here. Others press right up against this particular where and when but lie hidden—in the shade of a high hill, within the eddies of a brook, or even under one’s bed at a certain time of day. A drifting speck of dust flaring in a beam of afternoon sun might easily be the birth, life, and demise of an entire civilization.

And how can I state this so unequivocally?

Because one of those other worlds is mine.

And though it still grieves me to think about my home, worse is knowing I no longer remember it correctly. Not the tall, prismatic grasses of the countryside through which I ran and hid. Not the apricot scent of my father’s pipe after supper each evening. I know there are colors there that simply cannot exist here, hues so vibrant and tinges so subtle no mortal could ever appreciate them, but I also know they are beyond me now even in my imagination. The distance between myself and what I once held most dear has grown so great, it’s become nonsensical.

But my tale begins not so much with my world as it does with what lies at its edge, with what separates it from yours—
A shimmering veil of mist.

The first time I ever crossed the mists is still as clear to me as the day you were born. Of course, as I said, there’s little comfort in that clarity since I’m certain my recollection is entirely wrong.

I finished my regular chores that bright blue morning as quickly as I could. I threw some odds and ends into a knapsack and slipped away before my father could invent more for me to do. Father, a broad man browned and bleached by the sun, disapproved of my gadding about. He believed the best ways in life were fashioned from hard work and sweat and that, as far as he was concerned, having a few tasks too many was just the right amount to keep me out of trouble. That’s not to suggest any sort of cruelty on his part, though he could be quite stern—and quite remote—and he was most assuredly set in his ways.

The dew still clung cold and heavy on the ground as I headed out, so I sloshed to the nearby meadow to meet up with my two best friends—my two only friends, really—Whistle and Smudge.

Those weren’t actually their names, mind you. Just the names my human self has given them.

I most often picture Whistle as tall and spindly with a disheveled tabby coat of white and orange fur. His face was long and oval, and on either side of his mouth drooped lengthy mustaches like a catfish. When he spoke it was the merry chirp of a piccolo, which belied his normally dour nature.

Smudge, however, never let anything bother him, and among us he was often the voice of reason. While all of my kind can work magic to an extent, those who display exceptional talent are schooled in the deeper arts, and Smudge was that sort. I remember him looking like a field mouse that some prankster had inflated into a sphere. The ends of his grey fur always seemed strangely indistinct, as though he’d been scribbled with charcoal and then blurred by the artist’s thumb. That made staring at Smudge uncomfortable and might be why Whistle rarely won arguments with him. Smudge had a low, soothing croak of a voice and a fondness for peppering his language with mild vulgarities—a harmless and amusing trait, because he didn’t do it very well.

I found my friends that morning where we normally gathered—amidst the pink and tangerine hillocks by the forest’s edge—already engaged in some game. Against a backdrop of crimson trees, Whistle brandished with theatrical flourishes a sword he’d made from two bits of stick tied together. Smudge stood impassively facing the opposite way with a wooden shield strapped to his back. Whistle bellowed things like, “Have at you!” and “Back, foul beast!” and then for all he was worth whacked the shield Smudge wore. Rather than respond in kind, Smudge instead gave his attentions to conversing with a speckled butterfly wobbling past. Like most apprentice magicians, he preferred games like Stone, Paper, Dagger—which, by the way, he never, ever lost.

“Good morning!” I called.

Smudge turned, causing Whistle to miss his target and tumble into the wet grass.

“Good morning!” he replied, with a smile.

Whistle picked himself up, brushing dirty clots from his soggy fur.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Good morning, good morning.”

“Did you have a lovely breakfast?” Smudge asked. For some reason he’d always concerned himself with whether I’d eaten recently and whether what I’d eaten had been sufficiently nourishing. Well, not for some reason; I’d been known to make myself sick by getting so caught up in whatever I happened to be doing that I simply forgot to eat.

“Yes, thanks,” I said. “Berry jam on toast and orange blossom tea.”

“Oh, that does damn sound lovely,” Smudge agreed.

“So, what’s in store for us this time?” Whistle asked, ignoring Smudge and sounding impatient to get the day started.

Of the three, it usually fell to me to make the plans. Smudge was happy to go along with whatever activities crossed his path, and Whistle knew that if he thought something up and it turned out less than entertaining it’d be his fault, leaving him no room to complain. Normally, I concocted our amusements on the spot, whether it was a game or contest or other such sport. But that day I’d arrived with an aim already well in mind.

“Today,” I said, “we undertake a harrowing expedition.”

Smudge seemed intrigued. “What sort of expedition?”

“Another trip out to the Duchess’s cottage, I’ll wager,” Whistle said.

It was true that our missions to the Duchess’s summer home had been numerous, but it was also true those missions yielded Whistle a considerable haul of underwear from her laundry line. The Duchess, being rather gigantic, had unwittingly provided him enough material to fashion a roomy tent after only our second trip, so in my opinion Whistle had no room to grouse—unlike Smudge, who’d toppled headfirst into her fishpond trying to yank down a particularly heavy garment.

But the Duchess was not what I had planned.

“My comrades,” I said, “today I am heading deep into the forests … to cross the mists!”

Whistle sighed loudly. Smudge looked disappointed.

“Oh, pleh,” Whistle grumbled. “We do that almost as much as we go to the Duchess’s.”

“We damn do go there a lot,” Smudge agreed.

“Ah,” I said, “but this time will be different.”

Whistle crossed his arms. “And how’s that?”

“Because today,” I said, “I really am going to venture through.”

My friends looked at one another, then at me.

“Like we haven’t heard that before, either.” Whistle said.

I’m obliged to admit he had another point. Many times, my boasting had painted me into corners from which there’d been no escape without considerable bruising to my pride. This particular corner had one wall comprised of my incessant desire to explore the mists and the other of my unfailing reluctance to actually do so. I still can’t say what it was about that morning that set my mind to finally going through with it. I don’t recall the sky being any bluer or myself feeling any taller. All I know is I awoke that day with an unshakable certainty of what I wanted to do, and there was no question in my mind that in the end, one way or another, I’d be doing it.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose the only way you’ll find out is to come along and see for yourself.”

With that, I strode between the two of them, pushing Whistle’s stick sword aside, and headed toward the forest. They didn’t take long to fall into step behind me.

About the Author:

Aaron Christopher Drown is a native of Brunswick, Maine, who’s lived all over and whose stories have appeared in equally numerous magazines and anthologies. His debut novel, A Mage of None Magic, won the 2010 Darrell Award for Best Novel, and as he’s promised his publisher for years, he’s hard at work on the follow-up. An award-winning graphic designer as well, Aaron resides in Washington state with his wife, Sarah, their dog and cat, and his trusty Macbook, Sancho.

🔗 aaronchristopherdrown.com
📸 @aaronchristopherdrown
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Amazon: https://bit.ly/4desf8s

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/232027101-a-sister-to-butterflies

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THE BAKER OF LOST MEMORIES and My Life Experiences by Shirley Russak Wachtel

May 27, 2025 By Leave a Comment

We are excited to introduce THE BAKER OF LOST MEMORIES, now available as an !! Check out this pick by Amazon for only $1.99!!

THE BAKER OF LOST MEMORIES and My Life Experiences

As with all my writing, aspects of my own experiences are evident. Like Lena, I am a child of Holocaust survivors who was born in Brooklyn. However, while Lena’s parents find it difficult to speak of their trauma, my parents often freely discussed their closeknit families in Poland and their devastating losses.

My mother and two brothers were the only survivors in a family of eight, while my father was the only survivor, his mother, two sisters and a brother having died in the fires of Auschwitz. He was a runner in the black market in the Lodz ghetto, just like Josef in THE BAKER OF LOST MEMORIES. In researching the book, consequently, I was satisfying my own curiosity about his experience.

I came upon the idea of a bakery because I thought it was a good setting to span the past with the present; but I also recall that my mother told me of an aunt, Tante Rachel, who owned a bakery in Poland and how she often assisted her there. As a child, I was obsessed with learning all I could about my grandparents, the aunts, uncles and cousins I never knew. I have only a few photos of them, none of my grandparents. As my younger brother and I were born after World War II, I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if I had
had a sibling who was murdered by the Nazis. Although it was emotionally difficult for me to write, I wanted to explore this idea with Lena and how such a loss might have affected her life so many years later.

Other aspects of the novel also stem from my life. The bungalow colony which appears in the introduction is drawn from my memories of visiting my aunt and uncle in the Catskills and babysitting my younger cousins there. Some Brooklyn scenes including Lena’s visit to Doc’s, a real place from my childhood where we would order egg creams and Rock and Root root beer sodas in frozen glasses; walking to the library, going to the Loews Theater, and taking early morning classes at Brooklyn College are all fond memories. One interesting note is Lena’s meeting with Luke on the bus. I did have the
same meeting with a charismatic student who was not my usual type. However, unlike Lena, I did not give him my real telephone number. I have often wondered what would have happened if I had. With Lena, I was able to find out.

Growing up in 1960s Brooklyn, Lena wants to be a baker just like her mother was back in Poland prior to World War II. But questions about those days, and about a sister Lena never even knew, are ignored with solemn silence. It’s as if everything her parents left behind was a subject never to be broached.

The one person in whom Lena can confide is her best friend, Pearl. When she suddenly disappears from Lena’s life, Lena forges ahead: college, love and marriage with a wonderful man, the dream of owning a bakery becoming a reality, and the hope that someday Pearl will return to share in Lena’s happiness—and to be there for her during the unexpected losses to come.

Only when Lena discovers the depth of her parents’ anguish, and a startling truth about her own past, can they rebuild a family and overcome the heart-wrenching memories that have torn them apart.

About the Author: Shirley Russak Wachtel is the author of A CASTLE in BROOKLYN, the moving story of a Holocaust survivor whose dream of building his own home and raising a family in Brooklyn is threatened when unexpected tragedy occurs. This highly touted debut novel reflects the aspirations of anyone who dreams of a better life. Other of her books include THREE for a DOLLAR, an anthology of her short stories, THE STORY of BLIMA, the journey of the author’s mother in the Holocaust, IN THE MELLOW LIGHT, a book of poetry, and several books for children. Her short stories and poems have appeared in various literary journals. Born and raised in Brooklyn, Wachtel is now a college professor in New Jersey where she lives with her husband, Arthur. She has earned a Doctor of Letters Degree from Drew University, and in 2017 she received the Middlesex County College Scholar of the Year Award. But her proudest achievement are her three sons and two granddaughters, Zoey and Emmy.

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The Last Door, Ajar by Michael Holly Barrett – Spotlight and Giveaway

April 23, 2025 By 1 Comment

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Michael Holly Barrett 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.

It is 1945. The infamous Max Smartz, superspy; Eva Braun, wife of Adolf Hitler; Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister; and Otto Klugg, intelligence officer, do not die at the end of World War II, but trick the guards in the Fuhrerbunker tunnels, allowing them to make their escape. Their escape plan is to reach war-neutral Southern Ireland, where Maxwell Smartz has an established base and is familiar with rural south Kerry and its people. They evade capture and eventually reach France. Here, they meet with a good friend and colleague, an undercover agent called Maurice Le Blanc, who asks them to assist him in retrieving some stolen gold bars.

After finding the fortune, the friends attempt to retrieve it in an old Dutch van but are continually thwarted and risk losing everything. To complicate matters, they learn that Max’s brother, Victor, has been incarcerated in the notorious Spandau prison and is being tried for Nazi war crimes. They hatch a plot to save him, but is it worth the danger of going back to Berlin and being caught?

Enjoy an Excerpt

After the D-Day landings, things started to go all wrong for Hitler and his Third Reich. Even before that, things started to go wrong for Hitler. He was not a good military strategist, in fact he was a bad one, and he meddled where he shouldn’t have poked his nose in. Invading Russia and attacking England were two big mistakes. That weakened his former strength. When 1945 came, it was near the end for him. By April the 20th, his birthday, it was almost all over for Germany. The bunker was built as a last resort, tunnels were dug out as escape routes when the worst came to the worst, and the worst did come to the worst. But all was not lost for Herr Hitler and he didn’t know it; his wife of only a few weeks, had other plans. She was not about to give up her life to some mad dog Russians or Yankee Americans. Now she was scheming on how to broach the subject with the boss. When is the best time to let him know of their plans of escape? She already had made contact with people on the outside who could help her, them. The Russians and the English, Yanks were all involved in a race to get into Berlin first and claim the head of the monster, Hitler. Goebbels was given implicit instructions when the final day would come to commit suicide, and he would have to dig a hole outside the bunker and then set fire to their bodies and fill in the hole. It was all so depressing for the newly-wed woman — the honeymoon was short-lived, and her grave was just a few hundred yards away.

About the Author: My humble beginnings in a terrace house with an outdoor toilet and indoor rats. The drinking water was got from a public pump in the street. We were all sailing in the Titanic,Third Class, but we were not aware of anything better. We had so much fun, swimming in the river. As kids we had wonderful imaginations.The only luxuries we ever saw were in the Cinema, usually American films, people smoking and drinking alcohol.

Everyone in the town of County Cork, Ireland seemed to be in the same boat; we made the best of it until the swinging sixties came along and changed everything. In spite of our poverty, I managed to get a College education. But opportunities were as scarce as rich Uncles. The Christian Brothers were brutal, and handy with the cane, in National School. I was lucky like many fellows my own age to get an apprenticeship as a diesel mechanic. Soon developed a taste for Alcohol, and got into trouble pretty soon, was lucky again to find A.A. and get my act together in 1978.

My hero died in 1977, Elvis Presley, the music stopped, the sixties was over, the Beatles were broken up, CCR, too. So getting sober was the best thing to do, under the miserable circumstances. I got a job as a Pipe Welder with ASME 1X certificate and began working around Europe, finally settling in warm Spain, Barcelona and met a Catalunya woman. Started writing for the first time, mostly comedies, Peter Sellers style, another hero of mine.

This is my second published book, I also self published earlier works Like ,’Gorilla Days in Ireland’ by Michael Barrett, on Amazon. The Frankie Stein Enigma, and others, I paint oil and acrylic pictures, write mountains of poetry, sing and play the guitar.

‘ I do just about everything, that doesn’t make any money for me.’ But love doing what I do, writing poetry is mind stimulating, energising.

My favourite actors are William Holden, Warren Oates, Gregory Peck, and favourite detective the great Peter Falk in Columbo, a genius and Clouseau, Peter Sellers, and Peter Ustinov.

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Research Tips by Judith Works – Guest Blog and Giveaway

April 21, 2025 By 8 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Judith Works will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Research Tips
One of the most interesting and sometimes frustrating tasks in creative writing is research to ensure the external elements of the scenes are accurate to the time frame and cultural position of the characters. A child reading Katzenjammer Kids in the Sunday comics, a Medieval village in Andalucía, a dress made of flour sacks, a Viking hall, a teenager wearing saddle shoes, the sweet smell of a Paris pastry shop, a junked Packard or Model T, an old or new TV show should plunge the reader into the scene. In my current work-in-progress I refer to green Jello salads to put a reader into the 1950s as part of a backstory. Sometimes just one well-described object can set an entire story in motion – a piece of 17th century jewelry, a tin whistle, a rusted sword, or a moth-eaten fur coat that falls into the hands of the protagonist and leads her on the journey that is your plot.

But where to get information about the history of the time or what objects looked like? Search engines like Google and Bing are obvious places to start with questions like “What were favorite foods in 1950s MidAmerica?” Librarians are always happy to assist with more specialized information or point you to specific websites. Photo sites like Getty can bring settings to life. Wikipedia is a goldmine for information about places and people. Talking with old-timers who lived during the time when your story is set can be informative. For those novels set further back in time, there are groups who re-enact historical events such as Civil War battles or the Napoleonic Wars in Europe to help you picture the era. Old census records, business records, and diaries can be useful; maybe the contents of an attic, a garage sale, the local history museum, or a junk shop will lead you to learn more about how your characters might have lived. Travel to the places mentioned in your story is invaluable to develop a sense of place – climate, architecture, odors, vegetation, and landscape.

It’s important that stories of importance to special interest groups be accurate. I had a friend who was writing about World War II in the Pacific. The type of planes, the armaments, uniforms, geography, and climate needed to be correct. She made a mistake on the model of a fighter and was corrected by readers who pointed out that it was not produced until the following year thus losing credibility. Guns can also be a topic where some readers are only too happy to pounce if there is an error.

For a memoir, sometimes talking with family members can be illuminating, always remembering it is your story to tell. The contrasts from their memories with yours can add to the narrative to highlight emotions or events. For my memoir of Rome, Coins in the Fountain, I asked husband and daughter about their memories of events they’d participated in – it was interesting how they perceived them differently than mine. Sometimes I agreed they were correct, sometimes I ignored their take. I dug out my photos and looked at travel guides to refresh my memory. For my new novel, The Measure of Life, I studied maps of Rome, perused Italian cookbooks and tasted recipes, and looked at pictures of churches on Getty, and for one unusual object, I went to Flickr. I wanted to have my protagonist’s environment portrayed accurately but her reaction to them had to be consistent with her personality.

Remember the results of your research should amplify, not dominate the story: the addition of even a small detail can make a story sing.

A story of love and loss, lies and truth, begins in Rome when Nicole shares a cappuccino and cornetto with her Italian tutor. The meeting sets off a chain of events that upends the course of her life. While Rome also brings deep friendships and immersion into a sumptuous food scene there is no escape from acknowledging the consequences of her actions. In search of forgiveness and healing, she moves to an island near her childhood home in Seattle only to find the way to reunite the remnants of her family and discover her true path is to return to Rome and face the past.

Enjoy an Excerpt

I read about a new concept called blogging. Intrigued, I studied the process to launch my own blog. After a lot of false starts, I managed to post about the day I bought bread in the bakery Maggie recommended and ended up meeting the old man. I titled it FIAT PANIS (Let There be Bread):

Once upon a time I met an old man out of a fairy tale. He was tiny and perched in a gigantic carved chair where he presided over a treasure trove of books and antiques. And it was the same day I first savored the goodness of real Roman bread. The kind of bread that’s crispy brown on the outside and chewy inside. The kind baked in a wood-fired oven wafting a mouth-watering aroma out the door to compel you to follow the scent back to the bakery where fresh loaves await. I squeezed through the crowd toward the clerk to make my selection while imagining ancient Romans clustered at the baker’s stall—the baker pulling the rounds of whole wheat spiced with poppy and fennel seeds from the hot oven while his wife handed them to house slaves who gossiped about their owners, and matrons who gossiped about the neighbors as they handed over a few coins.

I included colorful photos of the bakery and a loaf of fresh bread on my kitchen table along with frescoes of loaves from the ruins of Pompeii.

About the Author:After I earned a law degree in midlife, I had the chance to leave the Forest Service in Oregon and run away to the Circus (Maximus). In reality my husband and I moved to Rome where I worked for the United Nations Food & Agriculture Organization for four years as a legal advisor to the director of human resources. I could see the Circus that had hosted chariot races during the Roman Empire from my office window.

My husband and I reluctantly returned to the US after four years. But we pined for the land of pasta, vino, art, and sunny piazzas. Then the gods smiled and offered a chance to return to Rome with the UN World Food Program. Six more years or food and frolic in the Eternal City passed much too quickly. The indelible experiences living in Italy and working for the UN were the genesis of my memoir Coins in the Fountain.

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Everything You’ve Ever Wanted by Jess Ames – Spotlight and Giveaway

April 15, 2025 By 5 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jess Ames 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.

Jenna Mitchell has spent her adult life under the control of her husband, her dreams of owning her own bakery pushed aside. But at twenty-eight, she’s finally ready to reclaim her life and pursue her passion. Well… almost.

With the unwavering support of the Sensational Six—her close-knit group of friends—Jenna can finally envision a day where she is in charge of her own destiny, a big step forward for her. As she works at her friend’s café, Jenna begins to discover the strength and courage she needs to break free from her past and begin focusing on her future.

But can she quiet the echoes that keep finding their way back to her? Will the doubts they’ve created make it impossible for her to see—and trust—the path forward before her chance at a better life slips through her flour-dusted fingers?

Fans of Rachel Hanna will enjoy this warm and uplifting story about self-discovery, finding the courage to start anew, and the unbreakable bonds of chosen family.

Enjoy an Excerpt

I was sifting powdered sugar over a just-cooled apple strudel when my husband called from county jail. Leaning over the tiny kitchen table in my tiny new apartment above the café where I worked, I was imagining myself with my apron-covered hip propped against a gleaming stainless steel table, putting the finishing touches on a last-minute order that had come in through my bakery’s website. Back and forth with the sifter… downy, white flakes danced around each other as they floated and settled into their resting places.

B-r-r-r-r-r-t

The rumble of the phone against the white laminate broke me from my time-worn daydream. I reached up to adjust the white baker’s cap that existed only in my mind, pressed pause on my dream, and shook my head to clear it. When I read the caller ID, my stomach folded in on itself.

‘Collect call’

Craig.

I took a deep breath that settled in my chest and refused to return. I set the sifter down on a nearby dish and picked up my phone. For a moment, just a moment, I held it in my hand and considered letting him go to voicemail. But a lifetime of experience told me that ignoring a man who will not be ignored would only delay the inevitable.

“Hello?” I said, forcing the air from my lungs.

My husband’s out-of-touch politician’s voice poured through the phone. “Jenna, sweetheart. Are you busy?” Without waiting for me to answer, he continued. “I need you to do me a favor, baby. Can you please come down here and bail me out? I can’t sit here for one more day.”

I shifted the phone to my other ear and wrapped my free arm around my waist as I paced the twenty steps it took to reach the other end of my apartment and back. He wasn’t going to like my reply. “Craig, I just don’t think I can do that. I don’t have the money for it right now. I’m sorry.”

This was apparently not the answer he was expecting, because, as expected, his demeanor slipped from the fake, sticky sweetness of corn syrup to hot, burning rage faster than a falling soufflé. “You’re sorry? You’re sorry? Be sorry that you haven’t already come down here to get me. I’m your husband, Jenna. Remember the vows you took? Love, honor, and obey?”

Recognizing the opening line to the endless refrain of our marriage, I pulled a chair away from my kitchen table and willed my shaky legs to deposit me safely into it.

“Yes, I do remember, Craig. But I still can’t afford to come and bail you out right now. I have expenses I need to think about.”

The sound of what I could only assume was the phone bashing against a hard surface assaulted my eardrum. “You have expenses because you decided to leave our home and go live above that — that woman’s café.”

“That woman is my boss, and my friend,” I reminded him, “and she’s been nice enough to let me stay here.”

“You don’t need to stay there,” Craig argued back. “What you need to do is come and get me so we can go home together where we belong.”

About the Author: Jess Ames is knocking on the door of fifty, but has the sense of humor of a twelve year old and the body of a fifty-four-year-old (according to her fitness app).

She is “mama” to nine, “mimi” to four, “friend” to all, an adequate wife, and living the dream of the little girl who wanted to be a writer when she grew up.

They are both still waiting for that moment, so she’s writing in the meantime.

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Winter Blogfest: Garth Pettersen

December 24, 2024 By 2 Comments

This post is part of Long and Short Reviews’ Winter Blogfest. Leave a comment for a chance to win an ebook copy of The Swan’s Road (book #1 in the Atheling Chronicles). 

 

Christmas in the Eleventh Century by Garth Pettersen 

I have been wondering about Christmas in the early part of the 11th century when my characters in The Atheling Chronicles lived. I finally found some information. Here is a quick summary. 

In the early 11th century, the good folk of Engla-lond were either Anglo-Saxons (Germanic) or Danes. Both groups had originally been pagan, believing in a whole pantheon of delightful gods and goddesses.

In 597 c.e. Pope Gregory the Great sent missionaries to Engla-lond with the PR strategy of continuity, i.e. keep as much the same as it was. Yule was a pagan festival (not connected with the Winter Solstice) with an association with fertility⸺it may have involved some ceremonial copulation.  

The Church had decided (in the 4th century) that December 25 would be celebrated as the birth day of the Christ Child, so they turned the Yule fertility festival into a Christian feast day. In Anglo-Saxon the word was “Cristesmæsse.“ Easter was the more important festival for the Church, but around Christmas, the English would take part in fasts, vigils, prayers, and the giving of alms both to monasteries and to the common people, for the full twelve days before Christmas. The copulation part was dropped. 

So there we have the beginning of celebrating the birth of Christ and the origin of gift-giving. The last tradition added during the Anglo-Saxon period was the holiday (holy-day) part. One of Alfred the Great’s laws (there were a lot of “Greats” in those days⸺we’ve forgotten all the “Not So Greats” such as Sven the Slackard) stated no one should work during the Twelve Days of Christmas.” This gave the hardworking folk of Engla-lond a much-needed rest and a reason to celebrate. So there you have it.  

Gesælige Cristesmæsse! 

 

In 1030 C.E., Cnute, king of England, Denmark, and Norway, sends Harald, his middle son, to the Kingdom of Dublin to meet with his Norse-Irish allies. Harald’s mission is to coordinate an invasion of the northern Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd, to replace King Rhydderch who is growing too powerful on England’s borders. Harald is reluctant to be involved in affairs of state, but agrees to go, even though his beloved wife, Selia, is unwell. Harald tells Selia he will not have to take part in the fighting.

Harald becomes involved in a conflict with Dublin’s neighbor, and to appease the king of Dublin, he commits to leading their combined forces in the attack on Wales. The plan is to replace King Rhydderch with Iago, the weaker King of Anglesey. The more Harald learns of these monarchs, the more his allegiance leans toward the man he has been sent to kill. 

Will Harald unseat a strong and just ruler to carry out his father/king’s commands, or will he tread a more righteous road, which will destroy the life he and Selia have built in England?

 

Garth Pettersen is an award-winning Canadian writer living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, BC, where he and his wife board horses. Pettersen has a BA in History from the University of Victoria and is a retired teacher. His short stories have appeared in anthologies and in journals such as Blank Spaces, The Spadina Literary Review, and The Opening Line Literary ‘Zine. Garth Pettersen’s historical fiction series, The Atheling Chronicles, is published by Tirgearr Publishing and is available through most online outlets. The latest book in the series, The Sea’s Edge, received a first-place Incipere Award.

 

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What Kind of Writer am I? by Frank S Joseph – Guest Blog and Giveaway

November 12, 2024 By 6 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

What Kind of Writer Am I?

Assignment: What kind of writer am I?

Answer: I’m a Pantser.

You ask: What the heck is a Pantser?

I respond: The opposite of a Plotter.

But not a mere Pantser. What I really am is a Reformed Pantser. Allow me to explain.

Hang around novelists for any length of time and you’ll hear the terms Plotter and Pantser.

A Plotter is one who Figures Everything Out Ahead of Time: Writes notes, draws decision trees, festoons walls with charts and graphs — timelines, connections, &c. &c.

That sure ain’t me. As one given to ADHD, I can’t sit still long enough to plot much of anything, let alone build turreted mind-castles for the stories I think up.

That makes me a Pantser: One who writes by the seat of his pants.

But I’m also one who gets stuck in the Dread Middle.

The Dread Middle is where Pantsing lets me down. The more I write, the worse it gets.

Desperate during one of those Dread Middle jams, I called on a sympathetic fellow writer named Linda to rescue me.

We sat down on Linda’s airy screened porch and began to mind-dump. Before I knew it, I was Plotting. Hooray!

Not sophisticated plotting. More like figuring out what comes between now and the end of the chapter. But it was enough; it got me unstuck. When next I sat down to write, I knew where I was going. The chapter poured out.

I took a lesson from this: When stuck in the Dread Middle, sit down with a friend and dialogue things out. Keep going until light glimmers at the end of the tunnel.

There’s a saying among writers that I treasure. It goes something like this:

Writing a novel is like driving across the country at night with only your headlights to guide you. You can’t see beyond the end of the beams … but you know you’ll get there eventually.

A perfect summation of Pantser, Reformed Variety.

It’s 1965, summer in Chicago, and it’s hot. Pinkie looks white but is being ‘raised Black’ by shiftless Jolene — who’s in it for Pinkie’s child support check and nothing more. But how did Jolene come to be raising Pinkie anyway? Join this daughter of the city’s meanest streets as she sets out on a quest to find the White woman who gave her birth, braving the inner-city riots of the turbulent ‘60s to discover who she really is. An IndieReader Best Book; finalist for Chicago Writers Assn. Book of the Year and First Prize, CWA novel contest; 5 Stars from Reedsy Reviews, Readers’ Favorite and Midwest Book Review.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Ever since I’m little I be wondering who my momma is.

It ain’t Jolene. Jolene’s been raising me but I ain’t her blood. Reminds me of it every chance she gets. Picked me out of a trash pile one day, that’s what Jolene says. Like a maggot out of a garbage can.

If I’m trash I say, why you done it? Just teasing she says, you be worth real money, check for $102.80 on the first of every month. Calls it her Pinkie check. …

Jolene just laughs when I ask about my real momma. One day I be finding her though. See does Jolene laugh when that day comes.

Jolene don’t treat Bettina no better than me even though Bettina be blood and flesh to her. Bettina asks who her poppa was but Jolene pretends she don’t hear. Poor little thing, Bettina, bumping into things like she does. Jolene says Bettina was born with a caul, that’s why she so clumsy. I know better though. Bettina can’t help it. Something wrong inside her head. She plenty smart all right, just something inside there don’t work how it’s supposed to, like a doorbell is busted or a toaster don’t pop.

All Jolene cares about is the money though, $102.80 a month for me and $94.73 for Bettina. And Bettina’ll be worth more soon Jolene says, worth as much as you gal, $102.80 a month when she turns nine. Then in September when you turn twelve, you’ll be worth $106.35, and Jolene grins.

About the Author: Frank S Joseph’s “Chicago Trilogy” novels — TO LOVE MERCY, TO WALK HUMBLY and TO DO JUSTICE — tell a story of lives forever changed by racial turmoil that marked and marred Chicago at mid century, a great city going up in flames.

Frank lived it. He came of age in the ’40s and ’50s as a sheltered White boy in comfortable South Side neighborhoods undergoing racial turnover and “white flight.” And in his 20s, as an Associated Press correspondent, he covered the ’60s riots that wracked Chicago’s inner city as well as the ’67 Detroit riot, where 37 died, and the notorious ’68 Democratic National Convention street disorders.

Frank left Chicago in 1969, landed at The Washington Post during Watergate, and went on to a career as an award-winning journalist, publisher and direct marketer. His Chicago Trilogy novels all have won award after award, most recently TO DO JUSTICE winning the Chicago Writers Assn. novel contest and being named an IndieReader Best Book

TO DO JUSTICE, Trilogy Book III, is out from Key Literary. TO LOVE MERCY, Trilogy Book I, and TO WALK HUMBLY, Trilogy Book II, are forthcoming from Key Literary. TO LOVE MERCY was previously published in 2006 by Mid Atlantic Highlands.

Frank and his wife Carol Jason, an artist and sculptor, live in Chevy Chase MD. They are the parents of Sam and Shawn.

An IndieReader Best Book
First Prize, Chicago Writers Assn. Novel Contest
Finalist, Chicago Writers Assn. Book of the Year
A Readers’ Favorite® Five Star Selection
Five Stars — Reedsy Reviews
Midwest Book Review – 5 Stars

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Georgia’s Folly by Deborah Chase – Spotlight and Giveaway

November 10, 2024 By 6 Comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will be awarding a $50 Visa card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

For fans of “Antiques Roadshow” and “American Pickers” – this is the one for you!

Beginning at a cluttered flea market and ending at a glittering art auction, Georgia’s Follytells the compelling story that blends past and present and the search for a valuable and illusive antique. Chloe Bishop grew up in foster care. She loves shopping at flea markets, picking up family heirlooms like old pottery or vintage furniture to fill in for the family and home she never had. As Chloe walks through the Brooklyn Flea Market, she stumbles upon the diary of Miss Georgia Potter, a young woman who had lived in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania during the Civil War. The yellowed pages reveal the impact of the war on daily life and spotlights the role of women including Harriet Tubman, Clara Barton and Louisa May Alcott. Like Chloe, Georgia Potter was a passionate collector and her diary lists her collection of valuable antiques—including the Holy Grail of 18th century furniture—a Chippendale settee. Well versed in antiques, Chloe is aware that There are only five known examples and a sixth settee would be worth more than $4 million.

Chloe immediately contacts Ben Thompson, the man who sold her the diary. Ben is a picker who drives his RV across America, searching for collectibles to sell to dealers. He is estranged from his wealthy, prominent family who cringe at his chosen career. Ben agrees to take her along to search for the valuable and iconic settee. As Ben and Chloe head to Gettysburg, they are unaware that Gregor Petrov, a shady antiques dealer and Harrison Kent, a respected but unscrupulous art expert are trailing them.

The search for the settee takes Chloe and Ben on fast paced journey from the Gettysburg battlefields to the 18th century street of artisans in Philadelphia to a historic mansion on the banks of the Hudson River. Traveling together in the small RV, Ben and Chloe draw closer. In the confines of the RV, embroiled in an unimaginable quest, Chloe confides that she is also in search for the father she never knew while Ben struggles to explain his complicated family to a woman who never had one.

In a thrilling ending, the rare Chippendale settee is not Chloe’s only valuable discovery.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Chole Bishop felt her pulse quicken as she walked to the jumbled tables at the Brooklyn Flea market. Under the soaring arches of the massive bridge, the piles of pottery, jewelry and tacks of vintage clothing sparkled with the promise of discovery. Every time she walked into a thrift shop or flea market, she remembered stories of the discovery of a long-lost Picasso or a rhinestone ring turned out to be a flawless diamond. But she really wasn’t treasure hunting—she just loved finding what she called “pieces of history.”

She never knew what she was going to find, but she knew it when she saw it. And there it was, as if it had been patiently waiting for her. Next to a vintage tin sign for motor oil and under a cracked ironstone pitcher, she could see the trim edges of a ladies lap desk. Chloe smiled to herself. I have always wanted ne and here it is under the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge. She walked over to the table, gently removed the pitcher and placed it on the table.

The lap desk was clearly not a family heirloom. It was a very basic lap desk with a faded, stained finish. She opened the lap desk and smiled to see the worn well-worn, blue felt padding. The top and bottom offlaps were intact- a great sign for a well-used laptop more than 150 years old. Two small partitions on the bottom were stained from the ink bottles they once held. The bottom section was empty except for two vintage ladies hair pins but the top lid was jammed. A lady often kept personal letters there and Chloe was instantly curious. What secret romances could the lap desk hold?

About the Author: I grew up in a family filled with art and antiques. On the high end, my uncle, William Lincer, lead violist at the New York Philharmonic, was an art lover whose collection was sold at Sotheby’s. On the low end, her father, writer Allen Chase took me to flea markets and estate sales. He sparked a lifelong fascination with tales of lost treasures that ranged from plundered Egyptian tombs to trainloads of art stolen by the Nazis. It was this love of history and antiques that inspired my first novel, Georgia’s Folly

I was a founding editor of the Berkeley Wellness Newsletter and the author of 12 books including The Medically Based No-Nonsense Beauty Book (Alfred Knopf), Extend Your Life Diet (Pocket Books), Fruit Acids for Fabulous Skin (St Martin’s Press), Every Bride is Beautiful ( Morrow), and with her husband Dr Neil Schachter co-author of Life and Breath (Doubleday) and The Good Doctor’s Guide to Colds and Flu (Harper). The books have been a selection of the Book of the Month Club and my articles have appeared in Ladies Home Journal, Self, Glamour, Redbook, Family Circle, Parents and Good Housekeeping.

I am a graduate of Bronx High School of Science and a winner of the Westinghouse Science Talent Search. A graduate of New York University I earned a degree with a dual major in journalism and history.

A native New Yorker, I like to spend my weekends at an upstate home where a big kitchen and an endless supply of estate sales indulge my dual passions for cooking and collecting.

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