ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

Posted by: Genene Valleau

Current project: Nine-book series

Status: Progressing nicely!

Even though it seems Thanksgiving only receives slight notice as our society rushes toward Christmas, it is a time for me to pause and list some of the things that fill me with gratitude. I have a long list, even in this chaotic economic time. Here is a sampling--some of them serious, some of them silly--that hopefully will bring a smile or a nod to you.

-- My house is warm and mostly dry--except for the window I forgot to caulk when we were remodeling.

-- My sons are alive and mostly well after health crises for both of them in late summer.

-- I can see that darn blinking cursor, and most of the time there are words beside it.

-- I have a steady source of income and other jobs that add to it.

-- My dogs adore me--as long as meals are on time--and love to cuddle.

-- I have the power to heal and sometimes I quit whining long enough to use it.

-- My car is paid for and my bills are up to date.

-- Flowers are still blooming in my yard and the sun still shines between rain storms long enough to get out and enjoy them.

-- I can walk, I can run--though kinda slowly--and I can laugh.

-- My grandkids take time out from their video games to play cards or board games with me.

-- My kids sometimes call just to say hello.

-- My "work" is things I love to do.

-- I have yummy food to eat and not all of it is chocolate.

-- The piles of laundry on my dining room table are clean and dry.

-- The lights still come on when I flip the switch and the thermostat on the furnace works.

-- The dishes are washed and the dusting can wait another few days.

-- I have a whirlpool tub in my beautifully remodeled bathroom.

-- After 14 years, one of my animal companions transitioned without assistance. His physical presence will be terribly missed, but he is free from the constraints of a physical body that no longer served his beautiful spirit.

-- I can write, I can see, I can feel, I can love.

AND...other writers who take the time to support each other and to share their thoughts. Please share one or two of your own special items of gratitude if you are so inclined and aren't too exhausted from shopping. :) 

Watch for my soon-to-be-updated Web site at www.genenevalleau.com and the release of CHASING RAINBOWS, a romantic comedy novella, in "A Valentine's Anthology," February 2010.

Eat Your Peas; or, How the Dog Ate Thanksgiving

This is Frankie- newest member of our family. He is a perfect gentleman cat who has completely won over the unhappy Jinx by being so nice, so social, so friendly, and always giving her whatever she wants. Now he comes and gets her and they go out and play together. And to think, I went looking for an entirely different kind of cat! He has almost perfect brown spirals on his sides. I wish I could get a picture of his beautiful pale blue eyes but they just won't photograph well.

But back to my story.

I grew up int the late 1950's when moms like mine were terrific cooks. My mom completely lived for holidays when she could cook her wonderful turkey and dressing and all the trimmings. Naturally we lived for the, too

We had a wonderful dog, too, a Weimaraner named Greta, who Dad had gone all the way to Minnesota from Illinois to get, back when they were very rare. And she was perfectly trained when it came to family meals. Never begged or snitched anything.

One year a friend of my father's promised to bring us a wild goose from his hunting trip. Mom had never cooked a goose before, but she got out all of her cookbooks and even bought a new one, and she pored over them until she had a plan. A menu that had us all but drooling in expectation.

We all had to clean the thing- and we did it outside because cleaning fowl is a stinky business. But Mom did all the cooking. I was only allowed to do the extra things like setting the perfect table, sometimes peeling vegetables. It was a really big goose for a large family, and the preparations took all day long, but the final result was a beautiful sight. And the house filled with wonderful aromas that were different from anything we'd ever had before.

And so we gathered, all seven of us, and took our seats, napkins in our laps, ready for the best treat ever. Greta was probably salivating too, although none of us noticed her at the time. All we could think of was digging in. Dad carved. We passed our plates for the tantalizing meat. We passed around the dishes of vegetables, dressing, cranberry sauce, Mom's unforgettable Thanksgiving rolls. We said grace.

Then, like the big family we were, we dove in, all at once.

The first mouthful. In unison a huge groan of disgust roared forth. Shock registered on everyone's faces as we all looked at each other. Even Mom.How could anything that smelled and looked so fabulous taste so horrible? The most disgusting thing I think I've ever eaten! It was like biting and chewing a whole garlic clove all at once.

Poor Mom! "But I followed the recipe to the letter!" she said. I knew, because I'd read them with her, and she had done everything exactly as the cookbook said. It wasn't spoiled. It just tasted like pure wild garlic and onions. And the stuffing, my favorite part, was completely ruined by the giblets in it.

Dad did his best to console her, and even apologized. He'd heard sometimes wild geese feed on wild garlic, and it must have just recently had a lot of it. Mom thought maybe wild geese had to be cooked differently, but she hadn't found any recipes for game, so she'd used what she had. And we all agreed Mom was the best cook ever, so it couldn't be her fault.

So what were we going to do with the bird? Should we feed it to the dog? Greta sat a bit too near to the table for proper dog manners, her tail thumping wildly on the hard floor as we discussed the possibility.

Dad got up and took a slice of goose and laid it in Greta's dish. Sometimes we called her Hoover because of how she ate, sucking up food like a vacuum cleaner. We nearly changed her name for the way this piece went down.

And so Greta was taken out to her enclosure with a nice dog-sized helping of wild Thanksgiving goose, and we had vegetables for our Thanksgiving meal. And pie. The pie was great.

"Eat your peas," Mom said, like she always did. "There are children starving in China." I never quite understood that and quietly wondered if somehow those poor kids might like wild goose. But I always loved my vegetables and never failed to eat them. That year I was more grateful for them than ever.

And for a week after, nobody wanted Greta's attention because she smelled like garlic all over.

WARNING: Family In Need of Cat!

Everyone knows a writer must have a cat. Even Hemingway did. He had his multi-toed kitty when he lived in Key West. And now the entire area is populated with polydactyl kitties which are known as- you guessed it- Hemingways.

After old Shadow died at age 19 in May, we kind of had a hard time thinking about another cat. Jinx has done her best to take care of all three of us, but it's pretty clear she needs another cat. Even though she and Shadow never got along, yet!

Let's face it, there's an empty place in the household. Shadow, like the ones we've lost before, will never be forgotten, but the empty spot needs filling. Usually, though, when we are n need of a cat, the cat finds us. But it hasn't happened this time. And so we've started looking. Amazing how helpful the internet is, even for kitty searches.

The hard part is, we're particular. We can't afford a special needs kitty, and we're not up to losing another kitty anytime soon if we can help it, so a senior kitty isn't a good idea either. Can't do de-clawed kitties or others that have to be kept in because Jinx is used to going and coming during the day. Any kitty must get along well with other cats, not be too shy or too aggressive, and since Jinx will likely be a little jealous, it must stand up for itself.

Oh, and with lovely indoor manners too, please.

And we'd like to not have a black cat this time, just because we've had so many in the last ten years or so. And my son gets the final choice because ultimately it's his kitty. Although we've discovered it's really the cats who make that particular choice. And we like them active, funny, talkative. Loving, affectionate, alert, loving, affectionate, loving, affectionate...

Lap cats. Computer cats. Cats that chase laser dots. But please, we'd like to not be gifted with any more birds, mice or baby snakes...

NaNo Virgin

For the first time in my writing career, I'm a National Novel Writing Month entrant. Yes I have joined the hundreds of thousands who every November try to write a novel in thirty days. Many

NaNo attempts fall by the wayside, but many "Win" as well, by making it to the 50,000 word goal by November 30th. Many of the "winners" never see the light of publishing day, but some do. Her Cinderella Complex by our own Jenna Bayley-Burke started out as a NaNo winner.

The whole purpose of NaNo is to, as NYT best selling author Cherry Adair would say, "Just write the d!@# book!"

So I am going to write the book. In book 3 of my Scorpion Moon Trilogy, Until the End of Time. The actions of the hero from Book 1, my debut novel, Widow's Peak, come back to haunt him. Here's a sneak peak at things to come:

Avice climbed the stairs to answer the knock at the door of the only place she’d known as home since she’d come to England. In this busy market town Damien had allowed her to make a home. Though they lived on the ground floor of the tower, he had made it into a palace almost matching the grandeur of the King’s suite, three stories above.

She liked their rooms better than the King’s suite. The space at the base of the tower was much bigger than the room at the top of the stairs. They could have an anteroom, where the King had only a bed chamber.

She pulled back the bolt and opened the door, but what she saw was wrong.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

Nothing would have made her ready to see Damian cradled in the arms of his best friend. It should have been the other way around.

Nothing would have prepared her for the red staining his tunic. She had just brought it from the laundress this morning.

Nothing should have kept her from crumpling to the floor in anguish. This should never have happened. He was…too good.

But she was prepared. Damian had told her a thousand times exactly what to do should this moment ever occur. And she would follow his commands to the letter.

Without a word she stepped aside and he carried Damien’s body down the stairs.

Damien’s friend—Damien’s student—Damien’s finest student followed her to the bed chamber. Set his body on their bed. The bed they had shared with Damien for five years. The bed where, tonight, she had planned to tell him.

He had accused her of getting fat. She had always been slender. He liked her that way. Tonight she would have said, “I am not getting fat Damien, I am getting ready to welcome your son.” She had hoped it would give him reason to consider retiring. He had money enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. The masters had seen to that.

He stood back looking as if he had lost his way, swaying to and fro as though might fall dead as well. This thief who had stolen her life.

He handed her the key, the key Damian always wore around his neck, and she noticed the blood oozing from his arm.

She clutched the key tightly in her hand, wishing she could plunge it into his heart like he had plunged the knife into her beloved.

Could she kill him? Probably not. Damian had trained him. And if he was good enough to kill Damian, he could easily kill her, even in his current condition.

She placed the key in the wooden box atop the ornately carved cupboard standing next to the bed. Damien had had it sent over from outremer just because she said she missed the one she had in her old room. There was probably not another like it in all of England.

She pulled a roll of thinly stripped linen from the cupboard. Led the thief to the anteroom table. Poured the cup of whiskey she would have served to Damien.

He drank and she poured another, then unable to stand his presence any longer, she picked up the bowl and went to the cistern for water.

The faint scent of roses filled her nose as she crossed the yard, but the promise of their full bloom smelled salty, like the blood of her beloved that somewhere stained the ground. She faltered, nearly broke and cried as her reflection glared back at her in the moonlit pool.

Not yet. She must get through this. Everything now depended on her. Her ability to survive, the life of her child, the lives of a hundred men, all depended on her.

One despondent, forlorn spy.

I better get back to writing or I'll never get done by the 30th.

Hanna Rhys Barnes

Widow's Peak - Available Now in Print & E-book Formats From The Wild Rose Press

www.thewildrosepress.com

http://hannarhysbarnes.blogspot.com

www.hannarhys.com

SLIDING IN AN EXCERPT

Posted by: Genene Valleau

Current project: Nine-book series

Mood: Productive

I wanted to slide in one more excerpt on the blog; this one from the first chapter of my novella that will be released as part of an anthology in February 2010 by Rogue Phoenix Press. This story is a romantic comedy, which is a departure from my other releases, which have been more dramatic action romances. Hope you enjoy!

            Chapter One

       Ka-boom! The blast shattered the settling peace of dusk as Marissa Madison pulled into the circular drive. Rissa threw open the car door and sprinted toward the gray stone house.

            "Please, no blood this time," she whispered as her feet hit the rough-hewn steps leading up to the broad double doors.

            A bespectacled man stepped through the doorway amid a confetti shower of envelopes and leaflets. His silvery hair stood in startled spikes around a balding pate as if it too had been a victim of the explosion.

            "Too much torque in the mail conveyor," he muttered with a frown.

            "Please turn it off, Uncle Horace!"

            "Right." The old man disappeared back into the house. Within moments, the clanking stopped and silence fell over the rolling hills once again.

            Just another normal day, Rissa thought, as she surveyed the day's mail scattered in gay abandon across the landscape.

            The sullen gray sky rumbled ominously and tossed a few raindrops against her face. Rissa grabbed a check out of the privet hedge, an overdue bill off the bird bath, a shampoo sample from the branches of the azaleas, and a plain brown envelope from the lawn.

            I hope I didn't miss anything important. Rissa scanned the inner courtyard once more. Lightening crackled across the sky, hurrying her steps back to the navy blue sedan to grab her briefcase and a bag of groceries. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her as a gust of wind pushed fat, sloppy raindrops against the mullioned windows.

            Maybe Uncle Horace should invent a mail dryer instead of a mail conveyer. Rissa dropped the soggy mail on a cherry wood table as she stepped out of her shoes.  With the bag of groceries balanced on one hip, she padded barefoot toward the kitchen. A tall figure in a sweeping lavender print dress stood at the sink.

            "I couldn't tell if the grocery list said chips or cheese, so I got both." As Rissa moved closer, the person she thought was her aunt turned toward her. She shrieked and dropped the groceries. "Ryan!"

            Rissa's twin brother grinned at her from beneath the purple feathers of one of her aunt's collection of hats.

            "Do I want to know what's going on?" Rissa asked warily.

            "I'm going to a Valentine's party tonight," Ryan replied.

            "Dressed as Aunt Madelaine?" Rissa retrieved a head of lettuce and a package of marshmallow pinwheel cookies from the marbled tiles.

            "It's a great way to pick up women." Ryan bent down and caught an escaping tomato. "You'd be amazed at what they tell dear Aunt Mads."

            "You've done this before?"

            "Sure. Madelaine thinks it's a hoot."

            "Where is Madelaine anyway?" Rissa pushed aside a stack of unwashed dishes to set the tattered grocery bag on the counter.

            Ryan shrugged. "She's been gone all day. By the way, I left your food in the microwave since I knew you'd be late."

            Rissa opened the microwave and poked at the still-warm entree.

            "It's beef tips over rice--one of your favorites."

            "Thanks." Rissa glanced over her shoulder. With the hat pulled low across his face, Ryan bore an uncanny resemblance to their tall, raw-boned aunt. She couldn't resist one jibe. "You'll make someone a wonderful wife some day."

            Ryan fisted a hand on one hip and struck a pose until Rissa chuckled.

            "Come with me," Ryan urged. "When was the last time you went out?"

            "Thanks, but I'm tired."

            "You work too hard."

            The truth of her brother's statement stirred a wistfulness in Rissa, which she quickly pushed away.

            "I think Madelaine might have a special surprise planned for tonight." Ryan grinned wickedly.

            "What are you scheming now?" Rissa frowned at her brother.

            "Guess you'll have to come with me to find out."

            "Oh, no. I'm not falling for that trick. I'm going to eat this gourmet dinner you so thoughtfully prepared and go to bed."

            Ryan shrugged, and Madelaine's lavender feather boa slid off his shoulder. "Well, you can read about it in the morning paper anyway."

            Rissa's fingers gripped the plate holding her dinner. Ryan was baiting her. That was all. He wouldn't really do anything too foolish.

            The muffled thud of the front door echoed her brother's departure.

            He'll go to the Pink Flamingo, have a few drinks, pick up another blonde, and come home just before my alarm clock goes off, Rissa told herself. Nothing out of the ordinary.

            Of course, she never would have guessed that Ryan dressed up as their aunt, either--and apparently got away with it.

            "No, I am not going to follow him." Rissa marched to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and spread a napkin across her lap. She even lifted a bite of food to her mouth.

            "Oh, bother and damnation." She set her fork carefully back on her plate. What if her brother really did something spectacularly stupid? Rissa would have to pick up the pieces anyway. She might as well stop the disaster before it got started.

***

VISIT my Web site: www.genenevalleau.com

Busy month in Writer-land

Posted by: Heather Hiestand/Anh Leod
Currently working on: Holly's Pledge
Mood: cautiously optimistic

This has been a busy month in writer-land, as you can probably tell by the dearth of blogs here this month. Heck, I couldn't even get past my first sentence without interruptions. But writers with more interesting lives and cash flows than mine have been up north in King County at a writer's conference this weekend, and my fellow Ellora's Cave/Cerridwen (coasting through another interruption here) authors have been at the first annual publisher-focused conference over the past weekend. Some people probably even made it to the Portland RWA chapter meeting. I was home alone with the baby as usual, though I did get my 500 words written at least. We lead busy lives.

After writing almost nothing over the previous year, I find myself almost finished with a book. I'm on the last chapter of the first draft, though more than half the book is in third draft. It's a wonderful feeling, but also terrifying because in the last year I lost my editor and will be submitting to someone new. So cross your fingers for me next month as I submit this project.

I've also been dealing with the frustration of knowing I have to turn down an unsuitable contract offer. It doesn't fit my schedule or my career, but it is so hard for a writer to turn down any contract, particularly when much of the material is already completed. But, we have to be brave and in charge and know what is best for us. What do we want for our career? What will build our names? What is likely to be bad time wasted after good? Particularly in the small press/e-press world that I dwell in, the latter question is of vital importance.

Everything is a balancing act, in our lives and careers. Make good choices!

This morning, I woke up feeling renewed. At last fall has arrived in the Rose City. My favorite time of year. Cool and rainy. For the last few weeks, the change has been threatening to happen, but finally on Tuesday, the change took hold.Outside my window, green leaves are starting to turn yellow and red. Birds are starting to fatten up for flights south. And today a hummingbird came to drink at my fountain.

This fall is extra special for me. On September 23^rd, my debut novel, Widow’s Peak, was released in both Print and E-book Formats from The Wild Rose Press.

Here’s an excerpt:

Morning sun streamed in through the open windows as Amye sat next to the young man’s bed, silently reading her book of poetry. The small volume was the last gift Thomas gave her before leaving for Outremer. He must have spent a fortune to have a cleric copy the poems and bind the pages together in the leather cover. The parchment corners were worn smooth from the many times she had read through it. Amye did not know all of the men who penned the words, but they ardently expressed the love that she and Thomas had shared.

In the few moments he was conscious, the young stranger seemed to be in some pain. She had worried when he became fevered in his sleep, but now his deep full breaths told her he rested comfortably. He was quite handsome, almost angelic looking. The two-day growth of beard covering his swarthy face matched the dark curly hair that fell just to his shoulders.

She had ordered him brought to a guest room where she and Sela had washed his body, and then Amye dressed his wounds with healing ointments. It was then she noticed the tattoo.

A crescent moon, the mark of the Saracens.

The same mark Sir Edward had carried when he brought her Thomas’ ring. Only this moon surrounded a symbol she had never seen before. A scripted letter M with an arrow at the end. What were the two men doing in that tree?

It had been obvious to her from the first he was no knight. His body was well muscled but lean, rather than bulky. And unlike a knight, his hands were smooth with only small calluses on the fingertips. The belongings on the horse they found confirmed him as a troubadour.

Though they had never really met, she remembered seeing him at summer court one year. His bags held a book of songs and some scraps of parchment on which had been penned some verses of lyric poetry. Also, a beautiful psaltery carefully wrapped in a black velvet sack. The finely made stringed instrument must have cost a king’s ransom. The clothing he carried was of the highest fashion. He must have been on his way to one of the courts to the south. Entertainers of his quality hardly ever stopped this far north.

“My Lady, where am I?” The quiet, deep voice startled her from her musings, and she looked into stunning green eyes. She’d not noticed the vibrancy of their color before. But as he peered straight at her, Amye’s heart began to pound so hard she thought it might leap from her chest. She took a deep breath as she stood and the beating slowed.

“You are awake. This bodes well.” She put down the book and moved toward the bed. “I am Lady Amye de Barnard. You fell from my tree and were brought to the castle so I might tend your injury.”

“I thank you, my Lady Barnard, for your aid. I am Alain de la Vierre. Most call me Laine.”

“Yes, I know.”

The troubadour looked at her askance.

Amye walked over to the bedside table and held up his book of songs. “I beg your pardon, but I had to search your things. I could not have a thief or a rogue loose in my home. I have charges to consider.”

“And how, my lady, can you tell I am not a rogue?” He arched a brow to emphasize his question.

“A rogue would not write in such a civilized manner. That aside, I have seen you at King Henry’s court. You are a very fine court troubadour. You must sing for us when you recover.” Amye felt a heated blush rise to her cheeks as a smile spread across his face.

“At your leisure, my lady.” He tried to sit up but with a slight touch, she pushed him back against the pillow.

“Stay. You are still too weak. You have been unconscious for more than two days. I worried your injury might be too great for you to recover.” A sharp breath as he grasped at his side made Amye fold back the bed cover to check the cause of his discomfort.

“Your wound was quite severe, so I thought it best to close it. I need to see to your stitches.”

Surprise crossed his face. Though obviously still in pain, he smiled. “It seems I was most fortunate to fall from your tree and not some other.”

Amye picked up a cup from the bedside table and held it to his lips. “Drink. This should help ease the pain.”

He drank until she pulled it away. “My lady, does the king know you have such a fine brew wife. He would surely steal her away. I have never tasted such a fine ale in all my years. This house does boast a most delicious drink.”

“Thank you.” She helped him sit up so she could unwrap the binding. “You lost a bit of blood and though I could find no broken bones, there might be a more severe internal injury.” She removed the sticky brown moss she used to draw the bad humors from wounds and inspected the neat row of stitching underneath. Careful not to separate the newly healing wound, Amye pressed two fingers to the surrounding skin. It was cool to the touch, not hot as it had been when she had first stitched it closed. “‘Tis healing nicely. I think we might do without the poultice now.” She covered the wound with a clean cloth and rewound the binding around his chest.

“Are you hungry?” She helped him lie back, and he let out a deep breath once he rested on the bed. “I shall send for some gruel. I think you could stomach that now.”

“My lady, might I meet your lord to thank him for saving my life?”

“Master de la Vierre, there is no lord at Edensmouth. My husband died in Outremer, eight years ago.”

I finally get to harvest the fruits of my labors. Widow's Peak is now available at Amazon.com, Barnesand noble.com, and thewildrosepress.com.

Stop by my website at www.hannarhys.com and sign up for my quarterly newsletter for a chance to win a free copy of Widow’s Peak as well as a chance to win one of two beautiful art pieces in my Super Contest.

Hanna Rhys Barnes is one of those people with an evenly balanced right and left brain. She has a BA in English, but recently finished her final year as a high school math teacher. She loves to cook and was a pastry chef in a former life.

A member of RWA’s national organization and of several local chapters, she currently lives and works in Portland, OR, but occasionally visits her retirement ranchette outside of Kingman, AZ

Hanna’s Debut Novel, Widow’s Peak, is currently available from The Wild Rose Press. She is currently working on Book 2 in the series, Kissed By A Rose.