SERIOUSLY? LONG TIME, NO SEE

I was kinda shocked to see I haven't posted in over a year. 

Hiking in NH with a buddy

What's wrong with me? Am I okay? What's taken me so long?

Yes, I'm okay, and I'm just a human. And as far as what's taken me away from blogging?

I have no single answer for that.

I've not marked the moments of my Writing Life more frequently because, well, Life Life was a bit much at times.

To summarize in no particular order since my last post:

WRITING LIFE:

• I moderated two crime and mystery panels at the Newburyport Literary Festival,
• Two short stories were published,
• I have a novel on submissions with my agent,
• I interviewed a famous author for a fundraising event,
• I continue to be on the New England Crime Bake conference committee,
• I enjoyed getting tipsy with my writer peeps at said conference,
• Oh, and moderated a panel at the same,
• I have a major case of agent angst,
• I interviewed a lovely cozy author for her umpteenth book launch,
• I enjoyed participating in various author/book events,
• I've received many wonderful, detailed, heartfelt rejections from very big publishers,
• I contributed to a play about caregivers,
• Oh, and my author Facebook page mysteriously and completely disappeared,
• And I have no idea how or why I pissed off Zuckerberg,

LIFE LIFE:

• My mom passed away,
• My oldest son moved to Brazil,
• Said son married a lovely woman
• I realized learning Portuguese may be in my future,
• Daughter got engaged to a man we adore,
• When middle son says, "You won't have to care for the cat. It belongs to all the roommates," he doesn't mean it,
• I love hiking in VT and NH mountains and the seashores in MA,
• My garage is way, way too full of stuff I can't politely name,
• My husband grew to really love that ornery cat,
• I learned estate battles are ugly and have weirdly unhealthy histories,
• I have incredibly wonderful friends,
• And an amazing husband,
• I am slowly rekindling my socials. 

I may add or delete some posts, but it's just life in all of its glory. 

Overall, I'm good.

And I hope you are, too.

WHEN A LITTLE MEANS A LOT

 

It has been a while since I indulged in some arts and crafts but I finally found a worthy project*. Judging by the signs I've been seeing at recent marches and rallies, I'm not alone. Parents across the country are raiding their kids' construction paper and markers. Crayons too.

And many are putting those Amazon boxes to good use, too.

As a writer, I'm fortunate to have my time be my own, yet I want to make my limited time count. But I'm just one person---a speck in a very large world. In today's cyclone of news, how can I make a difference? How can I make my voice heard?

Is being a drop in the bucket a bad thing?

An Aesop Fable tells of a thirsty crow who dropped pebbles into a bucket to raise the level of the water. The twist here is that this is rooted in fact. Take a look at this video of a crow doing just that.

I get emotional at the marches and rallies I've gone to as each has evidenced an All Hands on Deck urgency. Save Our Medicare signs were carried by folks with gray hair. Ukranian flags were waved by young and old next to the Stars and Stripes. I've seen mothers bring their young children. A baby in a stroller held a sign that read, "Nine Months Old and Already Sick of this Shit." A boy in a Harry Potter scarf declared himself "Part of Dumbledor's Army Against Trump." 

Each person was a drop in the bucket. Each raised the level of awareness and each strengthened a building wall of resistance. The signs spanned a spectrum of issues. USAID. Veterans. Education.

It's a bit ironic that one truth out of all of this is that the man in office is turning into the "Unifier in Chief" as he once declared himself. I doubt he envisioned just how he's bringing people together.

I get emotional at these rallies because there is so much at stake. Hundreds of people attended a town hall for our US representative and hundreds more were turned away as the auditorium had reached capacity and overflowed.

And that's the thing about drops in the bucket. 

*Oh, and it's a writer's thing to know that punctuation matters. It's amazing the meanings a tiny apostrophe can give.

NEWBURYPORT LITERARY FESTIVAL 2025

 

I'm thrilled to be moderating a panel of prolific and distinguished mystery authors. Join me for a lively dishing of insider dirt. Learn about inspiration and process and their favorite ways to kill people and hide a body...all on the page of course!

The Newburyport Literary Festival is celebrating its 20th anniversary with three days filled with established and emerging authors. Specific sessions, venues and times can be found on their website.

DATE: APRIL 25-27, 2025

PLACE: NEWBURYPORT, MASSACHUSETTS 

WEBSITE: Newburyport Literary Festival

Making a Mystery With a Little Help From My Friends

Author events can take a lot of shapes. They can be a solo presentation or talk, a one-on-one interview, or a panel discussion on any number of topics. One of my favorites is Mystery Making put on by the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime.

The Mystery Making events I participate in are panels comprised of authors who write different genres of crime fiction. When the audience arrives, we ask them to give us character names, motives, weapons, settings, and occupations. From their ideas, the authors then create a new story on the fly. Think of it as jazz improv for the literary set.

It's fun for the audience to see where their ideas take us and it's fun for the authors to riff with our friends.

At a recent event in Manchester Vermont, we received the following ideas:

Settings: Vermont, dairy farm, Dunkin Donuts

Names: Mammie, Matilda, Anna Belle, Ronald, Llewan, Dr. Horatio Cornbliss

Weapons: dictionary, rake, snake venom, plunger

Motive: Cold coffee

Occupation: Poet, dog walker, farmer

We brainstormed, laughed, and decided what occupations folks had and who killed who and why. Then we put our prompt into Co-Pilot, an AI tool. Our story was a bit different. The biggest difference? We did not see that particular use of the plunger!

Here's the prompt we created:

Compose a log line and a short murder mystery story involving the following: 1) Characters: Anna Belle - a poet; Llewan - a Dunkin Donuts manager who makes weak coffee; Matilda the dog walker; Dr. Horatio Cornbliss who owns a pet Chihuahua; married couple Mammie (a volunteer and amateur sleuth) & Ronald (a professional farmer) who are joint owners of a dairy farm 2) Murder Weapon: can be either a dictionary, plunger, snake venom or rake 3) Setting: a Vermont dairy farm near a Dunkin Donuts 4) Motive: cold coffee. Include a one-sentence log line. Include a red herring in the story.

Sent by Copilot:

And here is what we received:

Log Line

When a Dunkin Donuts manager is found dead on a Vermont dairy farm, a volunteer sleuth and her farmer husband must unravel a web of deceit, where the motive is as simple as a cup of cold coffee.

Story

On a crisp autumn morning in Vermont, the tranquility of Mammie and Ronald’s dairy farm was shattered by a chilling discovery. Llewan, the Dunkin Donuts manager known for his notoriously weak coffee, lay lifeless near the barn, a dictionary clutched in his hand. The cause of death? Snake venom.

Mammie, an avid volunteer and amateur sleuth, couldn’t resist the call of a mystery. With Ronald by her side, she began to piece together the events leading to Llewan’s demise. The farm, conveniently located near the Dunkin Donuts, had seen a steady stream of visitors, including Anna Belle, a local poet who often complained about the coffee, and Matilda, the dog walker who had a peculiar habit of carrying a plunger.

Dr. Horatio Cornbliss, the eccentric veterinarian with a pet Chihuahua, was also a frequent visitor. His expertise with animals made him a prime suspect, especially since snake venom was involved. However, his alibi was solid—he had been at a veterinary conference the night of the murder.

As Mammie delved deeper, she discovered that Anna Belle had a motive. Her poetry readings at Dunkin Donuts had been ruined by Llewan’s weak coffee, driving away her audience. But Anna Belle had an airtight alibi; she was performing at a local library at the time of the murder.

The red herring came in the form of Matilda, the dog walker. Her odd behavior and the plunger she always carried made her seem suspicious. However, it turned out she used the plunger to retrieve tennis balls from the lake for the dogs she walked.

The breakthrough came when Mammie found a hidden stash of snake venom in the barn. It led her to Ronald, who had been secretly experimenting with natural pest control methods. Ronald confessed that he had accidentally spilled the venom on the dictionary Llewan had been reading, not realizing the deadly consequences.

In the end, it was a tragic accident, but the motive behind the investigation remained clear: a simple cup of cold coffee had set off a chain of events that led to an unexpected and fatal conclusion.

BOOKWORM CAFE!

What could be better in life than curling up with a good book on a cold winter morning with home-baked muffins and coffee on hand? How about adding chowder, conversation, and supporting local readers and writers?

If you answered yes, then I have an event for you. The Bookworm Cafe has been a staple in our community to bring together authors and readers in a relaxed atmosphere. Authors talk about our craft to give readers a behind-the-scenes look at the writing and publishing process. I'll be giving a talk at 11:00 and sharing tips on how to get that story idea out of your head and different writer groups that can help.

There will be a little something for children, fiction and non-fiction lovers, and folks curious about memoirs!

When: Saturday, February 4, 2023

Time: 9:00 am to 2:00 pm (my talk is at 11:00)

Where: First Congregational Church, 175 Main Street, Rowley, MA

THE MOST NERVOUS SPOUSES OF ALL

My crime-writing friends often joke about their search histories being stuff of NSA nightmares or of the sidelong glances received when overheard in public sussing out gory scene details.

Then, there are the nervous smiles from our spouses.

One friend couldn't decide on which poison to use to kill a pesky antagonist. Arsenic? Too common. Cyanide? Too traceable and the bitter taste a dead giveaway that could stop a victim from drinking a lethal dose. After sounding ideas off her husband, she gave him an iced lemonade made without any sugar to see how much he would drink before stopping.

He took a sip, put down the glass, and asked, "We're happy in our marriage, right?"

Long live the long-suffering spouse of a writer.

I thought my husband and I were beyond such misunderstandings or fear. After a year of 24/7/365 togetherness, all fears and worries should have been dispelled, or at least thoroughly aired out.

A Zoom writers' group proved me wrong.

We start each session with a prompt and write for five minutes. I've posted a few of the responses in this blog and it's always fun to see the different ways we continue from a single beginning. This time, the prompt read:

The last few nights she had a recurring dream about ...

I continued with:

"...killing him.

The delicious thought wrapped her in layers of warmth. No more leg twitches. No more snorts and grunts. No more stale flatulence.

She'd be free.

The wave of happiness receded with wakefulness. "Damn it," she said as she pulled on her robe.

Night after night. Happy. Wake. Happy. Wake.

She couldn't take anymore.

Then the dreams invaded her days. She couldn't stop the thoughts. Her only respite came in planning actions. Gun? Too messy. Poison? Where to buy? Accident? How? When? Where?

The thoughts wrapped her in happiness.

Then...he didn't wake up. She nudged him. 

She took the pillow from his head. 

Nothing.

"No! No! No! It can't be!"

She woke to a snort.

He rolled over. "Morning," he said.

"Morning, Love. Coffee?"

We read our responses aloud to one another, laughed at our follies, and continued on with our session. Afterward, my husband appeared at my office door. He gave me a nervous smile. "That's not the first time you killed a husband in your writing."

I scoffed. "I haven't! That was the first."

He then listed other times my characters' husbands or significant others met untimely ends. His memory stretched back into years.  

"We're happy in our marriage, right?" 

Sisters in Crime New England at the Newburyport Literary Festival!

Make a Mystery with Sisters in Crime New England Authors

 

​Join Sisters in Crime New England authors Richard Cass, Lorraine Sharma Nelson, Gerald Elias, and Connie Johnson Hambley as they build a story with YOUR clues while pulling back the curtain on the writing process! You’ll provide names, setting, motives, weapon and more. From each suggestion, the authors will talk about what goes in to each decision and how one small detail can alter an entire story. Join us for this interactive and fast-paced improv with authors and enjoy the fun as they create a brand new murder mystery on the spot!

Go to: https://newburyportliteraryfestival.org/ to learn more about registration for this FREE event.

 

 

Launched! THE SOUL CHANGER'S CONFESSION Short Story

My short story, The Soul Changer's Confession, is included in a wonderful anthology published in Running Wild Anthology of Stories, Volume 4 Book 1 by Running Wild Press.

This collection is built on inclusion of diverse voices but does so organically and with ease. Culled from submissions from around the world, authors from Kuwait, Ireland, France, Saudi Arabia, and more offer slices of perspective and life in delicious bites. A joyful and provocative mix of genres and styles made this anthology one of my favorites.

The Soul Changer's Confession is a bit out of the norm for me. Swapping souls among the living to create eternal soul mates sounds wonderful, but havoc erupts at a nursing home when the soul changer sees too much. Yes, I put a smidgen of crime in there too!

The Amazon listing describes Book 1 as, "[a] cornucopia of stories that span genres and styles. Our editor spanned the globe to find every style and type of story to keep you engaged and make sure that we never, ever fit neatly in a box." Available in Kindle and paperback, this book is perfectly calibrated to our times and for summer beach reading. 

Running Wild Press is woman owned and lead. They describe themselves like this: "We’re a tameless mix of creatives who find each other through books, workshops, conferences, blogs, and word of mouth. We share a love of reading and a flair for the unusual."

As an added bonus, the editors found so many great writers from around the world, they decided to create TWO anthologies. Running Wild Anthology of Stories Book 2 continues the exploration and fun. Enjoy both! 

The Writer's Community - Video Interview

Writers are always wondering how to reach readers. Take a look at this brief interview to learn how writing and author organizations can help you connect with readers, too!

Writing Prompt

One prompt. Four authors. We all gelled around one word. Venice. And on the wings of one word, four worlds took flight in the five minutes we gave ourselves to create. 

+++++++++++++++++

From Maggie:

[Winner of the Mom's Choice Award of Excellence for her children's book.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

... a fish jumped right out of the water!

"I haven't seen fish in the canals for over 30 years," Victor said to his grandson.

The fish smiled, dove back in, swam in a circle just below the surface and then said, "Every dark cloud brings a spring rain of freshness."

And then he was gone.

"What does that mean," asked the child through his mask?

The grandfather led the child to a nearby bench and pulled him in close.

"The fish is telling us to always look for the silver lining...even in the darkest of times."

+++++++++++++++++++++

From Cyd:

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

I smelled incense. So late in the evening the streets were quiet enough for me to enjoy the canal, watching flecks of lights dancing on the ripples and hear a gentle lap, lap lap splash the stone wall.

I followed the aroma around a corner and came upon a queue of people filing out of a doorway and following a man who carried high an antique lantern. I intended to drop back, wondering about the purpose of the procession when from the doorway I hear a man speak to me in Italian, "After you, I apologize," gesturing for me to follow the line ahead of him.

For some reason, I did.

+++++++++++++++

From Donna:

[First Place winner for the Indie Book Awards 2020, Best Children’s Picture Book, illustrated, for children 6 and up.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

... I suddenly realized I was lost—hopelessly lost. 

How many bridges had I crossed, two, three, four? I tried not to panic, I picked up my cell phone to hit the tour director’s number. Dead, no service. I checked my watch, what time was it? We were all supposed to meet at St. Mark’s Cathedral at noon for a tour. I watched groups of tourist’s pass me by, laughing and calling out to each other. 

I felt trapped like a mouse in a maze.Then I spotted a pigeon flying over my head. I followed his direction, but I couldn’t keep up. I had hoped he would lead me to the famous St. Mark’s Square... And then I saw more pigeons coming in waves...

+++++++++++++++

From Connie:

[Two time winner of EQUUS Film Festival Best English Fiction.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

I turned the corner toward the canal. the streets were empty. Buildings sighed their loneliness. the virus had taken the people from its streets, but not Venice's soul.

I felt heavy. My feet did not to touch the ground, but hovered somewhere above the cobbled street.

A gondolier floated by, pushing on his long pole, his face in a mask of sadness.Behind him, a dolphin arced from the water.

In death and illness, a healing had begun.

"You're here," said the dolphin.

"I'm everywhere now," I replied.

"Was it hard?" The soft grey eyes implored me into its truth.

Time had changed. I had changed. I had died and now was here, in this beautiful and timeless city, wondering at its healing energy.

"No. It was not hard. I lived. I died from the virus, but it somehow healed me."

The dolphin turned. Others waited. "It healed us as well."

One Page Horror: When the Earth Swallows the Good

A recent writers' gathering asked us to create a one page horror story. Horror means different things to different people. Ghouls and ghosts? Paranormal activity? Aliens? Sure, why not! For me, true horror was something completely different. Read on. -cjh

=============

When the Earth Swallows the Good

by Connie Johnson Hambley

She gripped the hand of her five-year-old, hugged her swaddled baby to her chest, and hoped she didn’t drop her pack as the crowd shoved her forward.

“Mom! Are we there yet?”

“Almost, Sweet Cheeks. Almost.”

She saw her daughter’s lower lip quiver, trying to be brave. “You said that already.”

“I know, Honey, I know. Just a little bit more.”

They weren’t going back. Ever. There was nothing to go back to. The earth had swallowed the good and spit out the bad. The bad pushed them forward more than the teeming bodies.

“I’m tired.”

“Me too, but you’re being such a good girl helping mommy carry your bear and your pack!” She gave a silent prayer of thanks her voice was strong even as she wasn’t. She carried their food, blankets, water. All the heavy things needed for life. Her daughter carried her bear and all the light things needed for life.

The crowd surged. A mother called for her child.

She could see over their heads. The checkpoint, a line of shining wire separating them from an expanse of green that held promises for no one but hope for all, was only a little more. Just a little more. Families hugged each other and wept on the other side. Families clung to each other and wept on this side.

“Present papers! No exceptions!”

She raced through her mental checklist of their frantic packing this morning. It was dark, the bad was closer than before, people panicked and grabbed what they could. They left what they could.

Another wave of bodies almost trampled them, wrenching them apart. She rooted her feet to the ground and plunged her arm down. Searching.

Tiny fingers gripped her hand. The cold panic receded even as she saw the black uniforms and the huge rifles of the guards loom closer. White buses, belching black exhaust, idled on this side, waited for their cargo with open maws. The wind carried the stench of diesel and the cries of the passengers to her.

Photo credit: Gabriela Soto

The drama unfolded again and again. Separation. She was lucky. They were going to be lucky. Everything was in order. She had checked and rechecked. They were going to be fine.

At last. “Papers?”

She reached into her pack, surprised to find one long yellow document. Her picture. Her baby’s certificate.

“Papers?” This time, to her daughter.

She watched the lower lip quiver. “Mommy. I lost my pack.”

A Decent Proposal and a New England Road Trip

If you know me a little bit, you know that I'm president of the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime. You also know that my stomping grounds encompasses six beautiful states, and a little bit of New York, too.

One mission I gave myself this year is to meet as many members as I could in their native habitat. I wanted to see the countryside they call home and meet their extended writer tribe. 

When a Vermont member said, "C'mon up!," it struck a happy note. We decided on a local brewery in what I thought was in a forgotten corner of the state. But it's summer road tripping time, and surprising discoveries are what it's all about. Right?

The Harpoon Brewery in Windsor, Vermont is a hangout haven. Outside, lush plantings surround badminton and volley ball nets. A lawn filled with corn hole platforms and bean bags encourage plenty of friendly competition. Picnic tables and Adirondack chairs wait under shady trees for families and friends to sit and relax a spell. Live music adds to the laid back vibe. 

Once inside, you're greeted with a wall of beer proving this place is far from a forgotten cubby hole.

Our group was six writers strong and pulled from northern Vermont, New Hampshire and even a Canadian ex-pat. Our host traveled twenty minutes. Another traveled more than ninety. Over shandies, stouts, and IPAs, our conversation touched on all aspects of our writing life. 

And the lobster in hand cuffs? For folks in-the-know, the mascot of New England Crime Bake (a mystery and crime writers' conference for those of you out-of-the-know) is a recognizable friend. The day's host, Genie Parrish -- a member of Sisters in Crime New England and a past attendee of Crime Bake -- won a book basket raffle with a tiny version of our mascot duly perched on top. Genie helped set the tone by bringing it along, and it quickly became the star of the day. Our conversations continued and we became aware of another ripple of excitement.

The excitement wasn't about our mascot. At the next table, a young man in a blue-striped shirt got down on one knee in front of a very surprised young woman. He said something. She dabbed her eyes. He slipped a ring on her finger. She dabbed her eyes some more. Our road-tripping destination was their proposal location. The daughter of our host paid their tab as a gesture of love and support. 

I, being the ever-nosy author, wanted to hear their story.

Chris and Emily met online over five years ago. He wanted to meet in person. She said no. He said let's go for a walk. She said she wasn't ready for anything more. He said we can just be each other's friend. They've been inseparable ever since and were already planning to buy a house together, but Chris decided a rock on his sweetie's finger would make a house an even better home. 

So, the Crime Bake mascot added a bit more lore to its legend, and this writer got a road tripping story I won't soon to forget.

BOOK LAUNCH: TAKEN TO DIE by Ann Simas

I’m so glad to have Ann Simas join me again on my blog! Ann is an accomplished and prolific author who knows how to spin a tale of out-of-this-world romance and intrigue. Read on!

The Grace Gabbiano Mysteries: How They Began and Where They Are Now

I was taking a Forensics class at the local community college a few years back when the idea for the Grace Gabbiano Mysteries hit me. The class was being taught by the director of the Oregon State Patrol Forensics Laboratory, located in nearby Springfield. I subsequently took a Criminal Investigation class, taught over the 12-week course by different law enforcement officials, one of whom was a former detective with the Lane County Sheriff’s Office, and (at that time) the police chief of Coburg Police Department.

Both Lt. Mike Hurley and Chief Denny Ross were kind enough to let me pick their brains outside of class. These two intelligent men had spent their lives in law enforcement and had a wealth of information to share with me. As it turned out, how I was going to create the series turned out differently than I had originally planned, but I retained part of the original premise and it crops up periodically in the series.

The Grace Books, as I call them, feature Sgt. Grace Gabbiano, Police Chief Aidan Cruz, Grace’s entire Italian family, and a full contingent of CPD staff, officers, and reservists. Other characters make appearances throughout the books, but each story also has a new “cast,” so to speak. In Dressed to Die, Grace is faced with two murders, both men who are dressed in formal evening wear, wigs, and high-heeled sandals. Not your conventional deaths. In Sliced to Die, Chief Cruz signs Grace up to go undercover as a prostitute to help track down a serial kidney thief. Buried to Die introduces the reader to the body farm located in the middle of a large hazelnut orchard in Coburg. Grace discovers more than research is going on there when her former teacher turns up amid the corpses being studied. In Quilted to Die, the first body found is rolled up in the fund-raising quilt at the annual quilt show (which actually does occur in Coburg). In that book, I introduced the crop circles.

That takes me to Taken to Die, a July 31 release. I’m an avid stargazer and I’ve seen things in the night skies that are inexplicable. I watch Ancient Aliens and numerous other programs about UFOs and alien sightings. I’ve read The Day After Roswell and watched the Project Blue Book series. I’m not sure why I put those crop circles in Quilted to Die, but I knew I’d have fun with them in Taken. And, boy, did I!

I love research, and there is no shortage of information to be had about UFOs, crop circles, alien abductions, animal mutilations, Areas 51 and 52…I could go on. Typically, with the Internet, I research as I go and I never use anything that can’t be verified from at least three different sources. However, this time I reversed order and read Roswell first. I was constantly astounded by the facts presented by Major Phillip Corso, who was actually involved in the 1947 incident and the subsequent events connected to it.

When I contacted MUFON (Mutual UFO Network), I was told that some of what Corso wrote has been challenged. Regardless, I’m keeping an open mind. Our government is known to have withheld information on UFOs, as is the military. Only recently have armed forces’ pilots, commercial pilots, astronauts, and law enforcement officers been vocal about what they’ve witnessed from a vantage point most of us will never have. In essence, since they’ve spoken up, many with actual video footage, it’s forced the government and the military to be more open about what’s going on, not only in space, but on (and around) Earth.

I know there are people who pooh-pooh the idea of UFOs and aliens, and that’s fine, but for me, they exist. I’ve included some of the unusual things I’ve seen in the night skies in Taken. I knew when I wrote the last word in the book that the story couldn’t end there. I grew up in Colorado at a time when animal mutilations were rampant. Neither those nor the crop circles have ever been resolved, and I maybe they never will be. But there’s more to Taken to Die than crop circles and mutilations, and since I’m not giving any spoilers, you’ll have to read it to find out more.

What do I learn when dig into all this research I love to do? Two things: (1) You’re never too old to learn and (2) you never know what you’re going to learn that’s going to amaze the heck out of you!

Here’s a short blurb:

Mysterious crop circles, unexplained bright lights in the sky, UFOs, animal mutilations—what in the galaxy is going on in Coburg? Grace Gabbiano is determined to find out. Is it an alien invasion, or something more sinister and closer to home?

US       https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TWB8KNX/

UK      https://amzn.to/2Y9YyB6

CA      https://amzn.to/30vxaeo

AU      https://amzn.to/2JBDPy0

Available worldwide on Amazon

Free read on Kindle Unlimited

  

Ann Simas Bio

Ann Simas lives in Eugene, Oregon, but she is a Colorado girl at heart, having grown up in the Rocky Mountains. An avid word-lover since childhood, she penned her first fiction “book” in high school. The author of 27 novels, one novella, and seven short stories, she particularly likes to write a mix of mystery/thriller/suspense, with a love story and paranormal or supernatural elements.

In addition to being a three-time Romance Writers of Amer­ica Golden Heart Finalist, Ann is also an award-winning watercolorist and budding photographer who enjoys needlework and gardening in her spare time. She is her family’s “genealogist” and has been blessed with the opportunity to conduct first-hand research in Italy for both her writing and her family tree. The genealogy research from century’s-old documents, written in Italian, has been a supreme but gratifying and exciting challenge for her.

Books by Ann Simas

Afterstories

Chloe’s Spirit^H

Chloe’s Spirit Afterstories

First Star^H

First Star Afterstories

Stand-Alones

Blessed Are the Eagles^H

Loose Ends

Heaven Sent

Black Moon Rising

Here and Gone

Grace Gabbiano Mysteries

Dressed to Die

Sliced to Die

Buried to Die

Quilted to Die

Taken to Die

Praying to Die (coming July 2020)

Andi Comstock Supernatural Mysteries

Holy Smoke

Penitence

Angel Babies

Hellfire

The Wrong Wicca (coming Fall 2020)

Christmas Valley Romances

Santa’s Helper

Candy Cane Lane

Let It Snow

Fruitycakes

Sleigh Bride

Angels on the Rooftop

Deck the Gnomes

Back-Door Santa

Jingle Bell Clock (coming November 2019)

Reindeer Blitz (coming November 2019)

Short Story Collection

All’s Well

RWA Golden Heart Finalists

Contact Info for Ann Simas: Writing books people love to read. Learn more!

https://annsimas.com

Facebook: Ann Simas, Author

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/ann-simas

email: ann@annsimas.com

================

Do you have a new book coming out? Contact me via the form on my website (www.conniejohnsonhambley.com) to be featured on this blog!

From Two to Five Stars

Getting a less than stellar rating on a book is not an author's favorite thing. Neither a book nor an author can be all things to all people. If a rating is accompanied by a well-written and insightful review, we can learn from it and move on. If that "meh" feedback is on the first book of a series, chances are pretty good that the rating giver won't move on to the rest of the series.

Well, live and learn.

The Charity has received its share of five star reviews, so when a two star rating on Goodreads popped up without a corresponding review, I chalked it up to experience and didn't dwell on it. That is, I didn't give it much thought until after I compared books with the rating giver. I determined that my book wasn't her thing, and moved on.  

That was three years ago. Last month, the second book in the series, The Troubles, received a four star rating from that same person! 

And last week, the final book in the series, The Wake, received a five star rating from you-know-who.

So, thank you, Goodreads Reviewer, whoever you are. If you read this, I would love to hear why you came back to the series and why it grew on you! But you could be the shy type and don't want to talk too much. No worries. I understand.

Overall, I just want to thank you for clicking that little star button and giving me the feedback you did. So many readers don't bother to do even that!

So, if you're one of those readers who don't rate or review books, please know that authors really appreciate them.

It's summer reading time. Make an author happy with a little click! Thank you!

A Colorful Way to do Writing Prompts

Some writing prompts are more fun than others.

Cyd's recent trip to a museum gift shop turned up this amazing find of Paint Chip Poetry. You know those crazy names of colors found on your hardware store paint chip strips? Well, somebody who had a bit too much time on their hands decided to cut the strips into single color swatches and arrange them into poems. 

The kits comes with hundreds of color chips and a deck of random titles for poems.  It also comes with very clear instructions of picking chips and a title and arranging them into original works of word art. Of course, we quickly ignored the instructions and came up with our own way of creating a fun writing prompt.

What we did was place the chip cards face down and take twelve of them. Then we chose one title card that we all had to write from as a prompt. We gave ourselves ten minutes to use as many chip colors as we could in our flash fiction pieces and received an extra pat on the back if we could all twelve.

So, here we go! I've underlined the color chip names and title prompt.

Maggie:
(Kudos to Maggie for trying her hand at writing a Deka - a ten syllable poem with the first stanza of two syllables, the next with three and the final stanza with five syllables.)

Deka:

New Leaf

Green as Spring

Next comes summer fun

Far, far away

Mist swirled in the shadows.  The damp floor board of the dingy creeped against the weight of the three bodies and rolling waves.  If they survived, life would be a blank canvas.  Starting afresh as the new leaf of Spring's first bud.

Bria, head in hands on the boats gunnel, peered into the graphite sea.  She glanced a Jack.  A feeling of love washed over her like a whale song - bonding, loving and understood only by them.  Bundled in his arms lay Cheesepuff, their 3 month old son.  No proper name yet.  They had decided to wait on a name until they reached the bone colored shore their dreams had been filled with since long ago and far, far away. 

============

Donna (with an extra pat on the back for using all twelve!):

Far far away, a blackhole looms beneath the sea, the color of obsidian. Fish the color of quick silver dart over the darkness as if it were no more than a puddle. Above the sea the sky glows like the faded denim of a favorite pair of blue jeans! 

In the distance glaciers rise and fall melting into Spring. The purple mountain majesties sing their hallelujahs like a choir in St. John’s Cathedral!

Further inland the open meadows march and grasses wave as the inch worm wakes up and crawls to his breakfast of crunchy leaves scattered about the garden nursery floor. There he will meet the apple of his eye, a tasty dish of the first sprigs of green, the beginning shoots of red gladiolas, green hosta la vistas, and blue hydrangea. 

=============

Cyd:

Far, Far Away
Feroz was careful to stay upwind and silent.

Usually he stayed far, far away from the herd. He’d already suffered from the wrath of Palomar, still bore a few scars. None worse than the scars in his gut from two years spent seething.

Standing in the oaks on the rise above the corral, he used the dappled sunlight to keep hidden while he watched Palomar's offspring. The light would soon drop into a sunset and this was his last chance step closer. The seedlings were young and supple and only made a whisper when he brushed by them.

Although he drew near to the filly—they called her Koko--now was not the time to fight. Feroz didn’t fear Palomar. The colt feared little, not coyotes, black widow spiders, lightening, bear caves.

He feared only one thing: losing the fight for revenge. Feroz would be patient and wise before the time to be brave.

Stealing Koko would be the best revenge, and he would seek it or die.

=========

Connie (with an extra pat on the back for using all twelve!):

It was before the Harvest that the Monsoons hit. The Great Plains--that once stretched out far, far away and as far as the eye could see--were nothing but Mud. Gone were the Key Lime green fields that spring each spring like a Fountain of Youth.

I yearned for the cloistered days of my childhood. I pined for the simplicity of the joy found in hugging my Black Cat or bobbing my Rubber Ducky in the pool during my sister's religious Lap Swims in the community pool. I didn't know where to start to fix the devastation. I was shattered.

The rains did more than wash away the red clay that always reminded me of my grandmother's Antique Rose coverlet. I want to go back to those days.

But the past was closer to me than I knew. The rains had flooded critters from their homes. Rats and Rattlesnakes slithered and scurried.

My ankle burned. A bite. Two small holes.

Faces of ancestors danced around me. I thought I was home. I was wrong.

I was going home.

Forget Me Not.