Legend of Christmas Candle

According to legend, throughout medieval Europe, a large candle known as the Christmas candle was burned until the twelfth night in remembrance of the arrival of the Wise Men to Bethlehem. In Victorian times, the candle represented good will and was placed in the window from December 25 to January 6 to welcome any passerby in need of shelter and food.

Many legends and superstitions are associated with candles. Certain cultures believe the burning flame will frighten away evil spirits during the darkest evenings of the year. Norwegians believe that if the Christmas candle burns out on Christmas Eve, bad luck will befall on a family member.

Legends tell us that Christmas candles light the way for the Christ child on Christmas Eve as He wanders from house to house looking for a place to stay. For this reason, no traveler should be turned away on Christmas Eve should he be the Christ child.

The custom of lighting candles on indoor trees was started in Germany to symbolize stars and was a custom that found its way to America. In today’s culture, the lighting of Christmas candles signifies the season of Christmas.

In my house, we light blue candelabras in each window as a symbol of peace and tranquility. When it snows, nothing is more beautiful than serene blue flames reflecting on a blanket of downy white. In the living room, we light fragrant pillar candles to give the house and home a warm ethereal glow.

Where do you light your Christmas candles?

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

www.sharonadonovan.com

sharonad@comcast.net

My radio interview is live!

http://booktourradio.com/185

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MY BOOKS

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE AND IN PRINT

Winter Wonders

ISBN-13: 978-1-936167-66-1

Charade of Hearts
Oliver’s story!
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/charade-of-hearts-p-4346.html

Her Biggest Fan
An edge of your seat chilling suspense
ISBN: 1-60154-813-3

http://www.TheWildRosePress.com/Her-Biggest-Fan-P-4234.HTML

Mask of the Betrayer
Book one in the Mask series
Filled with so many twists, turns and surprises, you’ll be
hooked from the first chapter.
ISBN: 978-1-936167-06-7

http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/sharon_donovan/mask_of_the_betrayer.html

Echo of a Raven

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/echo-of-a-raven/7275809

MERRY CHRISTMAS

SEASONS GREETINGS! Oliver and I, along with our adorable feline family, would like to wish you and yours a Blessed Christmas and Joyous New Year!

The Nine Muses

I've dabbled in the arts, theater, music and song. Now I write. Legends and lore and superstitions are the backbone of who I am. I believe in hopes and dreams and the sweet hereafter. I believe in the sisters of inspiration. I present to you:

The Nine Muses

The muses are a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits; their number set at nine by Classical Times. They embody the arts and inspire the creative process with their graces through remembered and improvised song and stage

Writing

Traditional music

and dance

They were water nymphs associated with the springs of Helicon

Apollo was their leader

Their father Zeus was king of the gods

And

Mnemosyne their mother goddess of memory

The muses are used in modern literature to refer to an inspiration as when one one cites his or her own artistic muse, but they are also implicit in the word amuse or musing

Muse means the one who remembers

They are the daughters of the titan Mnemosyne who is the personification of remembrance

All nine muses have a science or an art to protect

In sculptures and art they are depicted with emblems for recognition

Cleo

The glorious one

Muse of history

Protects the stories of heroes

History: carries a scroll and book



Urania

The celestial one of heavenly beauty

Protects astronomy and soars amidst the moon and stars in the seven heavens.Depicted pointing a staff at a celestial depicted with staff and globe


Calliope

The muse of beautiful speech

Oldest and chief muse

Muse of epic or heroic poetry

Elegies

Epic poetry carries a writing tablet


Melpomene

The chanting one

The tragedies

Depicted wearing a mask


Euterpe

The well pleasing one

Muse of music and lyric poetry

Flute playing

Carries a flute


Erato

The amorous one

Muse of erotic poetry, lyrics or marriage songs

Love poems

The amorous one

Muse of erotic poetry

Depicted with a lyre and a crown of roses


Terpsichore

The one who delights in dance

Muse of coral

Song and Dance

Depicted dancing and carrying a lyre

Thalia

Muse of comedy and pastoral poetry

Protecter of comedies and bucolic poetry

Polyhymnia

Singer of hymns

Muse of sacred songs, oratory, lyric, s singing and rhetoric

Sacred poetry

Depicted with a pensive expression


The muses love to sing and dance and they sing gorgeously

They are superior in musical competitions and anyone who dares and challenge them will always fall short—just as anyone who questions their importance.When they compete against the Siren, the muses always win. A father challenged the muses to compete with his daughters.When the muses won, they changed the daughters into crows to spite the father.

The poet Thamyris bragged about being able to remember all of his work without the help of the muses as poets back then did not write their work down but remembered it by heart. The muses punished him by taking his memory and eyesight.They are often led by the god of music Apollo and entertain at Olympus



Cleo
the proclaimer, muse of history and glorious words.


The goddess Urania, the celestial one of heavenly beauty, muse of astrology.


The noble Calliope, goddess of eloquence and epic poetry.


The Greek goddess Melpomene, songstress of tragedy.


The amorous Erato, musical muse of erotic poetry.


Euterpe, muse of music and lyrical poetry.


Polyhymnia, goddess of reverent hymns, muses over sacred poetry.


Terpsichore,  muse of coral,song and dance.


Thalia, muse of comedy and pastoral poetry.

Wednesday Spotlight with Sharon Donovan

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! The tables are a bit turned today, and Oliver, my sexy cyber butler, will be interviewing yours truly. We are chatting about my newly released thriller from Whimsical Publications, MASK OF THE BETRAYER, book one in the sequel series. So grab a seat and make yourself comfortable. Oliver has plenty of coffee, tea and pastries lined up on the side board in the parlor. And you know the rules, the bar is always open. Belly up and Oliver will be happy to mix your favorite poison.
With the raw beauty of the Red Rock Canyon as the backdrop, Oliver pours a cup of coffee and presents Sharon with a bouquet of yellow roses.

Sharon: Thank you, Oliver. Aren’t they fresh and lovely. However did you know these are my favorite flowers?

Oliver raises an eyebrow and winks. Because you made me rehearse my lines to the point of obsession.

Sharon: Moving right along. Are those blueberry muffins I smell, dearheart?

Oliver: But of course, boss. Coming right up. He struts off, pumping his biceps, muttering something about high maintenance. He returns, pushing a silver caddy, places the succulent muffins bursting with berries on the coffee table. With great theatrics, he lavishly butters one and breaks a piece off, popping it into Sharon’s mouth.

Sharon: Mmm. Delicious. Sharon winks and rolls her eyes. I suppose this is where I faint and clutch my heart and pant, Oh, Oliver. Almost as delicious as you, loveboat!

Oliver smirks and takes a seat on the wing back chair. So about this thriller, Mask of the Betrayer. Is it the one I star in? Where I get to be the romantic hero?

Sharon: No, Oliver. As we’ve discussed several times, that would be Charade of Hearts, coming out in November as part of the Jewel of the Night series. Mask of the Betrayer is book one in the sequel series, my debut thriller about a serial killer.

Oliver: Now my interest is perked. I adore suspense books, and as you know, my real job is a detective.

Sharon: Yes, Oliver. So you tell me daily about your “real job” but let’s stick to Mask of the Betrayer for today, shall we?

Oliver: By all means, Toots.

Sharon: Knock it off, Oliver. Remember, I write your script.

Oliver smiles a beguiling smile. How could I forget when you constantly remind me, boss? Why don’t I hold up a copy of the book and read a blurb and excerpt?

Sharon: That would be great, Oliver. I was beginning to think you forgot your line.

Sharon smiles and quietly sips her hazelnut coffee.

Oliver holds up the book and announces, "And with no further ado, here is a teaser from Mask of the Betrayer"

FROM WHIMSICAL PUBLICATIONS

MASK OF THE BETRAYER

BY SHARON ANN DONOVAN

When the whispers in the night, the whispers of her lover, are the whispers of a killer, will Margot escape before she becomes the next victim?

Deep in the foothills of Red Rock Canyon, a serial killer stalks. He leaves his signature—a skull mask on the corpse. But when the homicide cop realizes the crimes are the reenactment of a case never solved ten years ago--all fingers point to Michael DeVeccio. And when Margot realizes she is married to the killer, her life becomes a living nightmare.


Excerpt:

Michael DeVeccio had it all. A billion dollar construction company that built luxury resorts all over the world, a twenty-four room mansion with servants at his beck and call, the most dazzling club on the Vegas Strip, a fleet of outlandishly expensive sports cars, a private jet—and more money than he could use in ten life times. He had it all with the exception of one thing, a son, an heir to his vast domain. And once he found the perfect woman to produce his heir and propagate the family business, the DeVeccio Empire would rule the universe. He envisioned the ideal woman to produce his heir being flawless in every way. Her inner beauty would shine as bright as her outward appearance, she’d have proper etiquette with impeccable manners, and she’d be cultured in fine arts. His perfect woman would be well educated on current events when hosting extravagant parties and galas for his business associates. She’d be honest and sincere and loyal to him and only him. And she would not be a woman beguiled by his wealth and fortune. Yes, he mused, the time had come to find that woman. And it would happen. He ruled it so.

***

Flaming copper finials bordered the entrance of DeVeccio Plaza, drawing guests in with its regal appeal. Standing tall and mighty in a sky of midnight blue velvet, the flaming torches gleamed like shooting stars with tails. The interior of the grandest resort on the Vegas Strip gave chase to marble staircases with elaborately turned balustrades and high end sculptures behind beveled glass enclosures. Rushing down the corridor after procuring the mural she’d bid on, Margot fought the urge to kick off her high heels and walk barefoot down the plush, red carpeting.

The beckoning wail of sax drifted out of the piano bar, the bluesy sound of jazz bristling beneath her skin. After spending the better part of the afternoon negotiating at an art auction, unwinding over a chilled martini sounded like utter bliss. Seduced by the sound of sax, she sauntered up the three steps leading to the mezzanine and ordered a Pomegranate martini.

“You got it, doll,” the bartender winked.

“Whatever the pretty lady wants is on the house,” the man approaching the bar said in a buttery soft voice. “And give me a bourbon on the rocks, Jazz.”

Margot turned around and came face to face with the billionaire tycoon of DeVeccio Plaza. His shocking blue eyes left her breathless. With his sharply defined features, full sensual lips, and all that black wavy hair, he reminded her of one of the sculptured Greek gods she’d featured last month at her gala.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Michael DeVeccio. Welcome to my palace.”

Every pulse in her body was as charged as an electrical current. Michael DeVeccio, legendary for building luxury resorts in every continent, exuded strength and power from every pore. His world renowned success preceded him. And here he stood in front of her in all his glory, one hundred and eighty pounds of raw, sexual energy. Mesmerized by his hypnotic blue eyes, she met his gaze. “I’m Margot Montgomery. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your resort is everything it’s rumored to be, simply breathtaking.”

“Thank you.” he edged a bit closer. “I’ve always fancied it to be the jewel of the Strip. I didn’t think anything could outshine DeVeccio Plaza. But I was wrong. Nothing could possibly hold a candle to the sparkle in your emerald green eyes.”

Thunderous applause explodes through cyber space.

Sharon: Oliver, isn’t this the part where you beg for my autograph?

Oliver: What’s that? Oof, watch your elbow, boss. No need to poke me in the ribcage. Here’s a pen.

With great ceremony, Sharon plucks up the fountain pen and signs Oliver’s copy. There we go.

Oliver swoons. Thank you, I’ll cherish it forever…that is…until my book comes out, Charade of Hearts where I get to be the main man.

Sharon: Soon, Oliver, in November.

Oliver: So, tell us about Michael DeVeccio, the main character. He’s a trained serial killer and has been getting away with murder for years. How so?

Sharon: Michael is the most complex character I’ve written about to date. I wanted to portray the complexity of the mind in this novel. It can bend. It can break. It can snap. For many years, Michael DeVeccio has been getting away with murder. As with most serial killers, the profile suggests something so traumatic happened in his childhood, the mind dissociates in order to block it out. If you enjoy getting inside the head of characters, you will like Mask of the Betrayer. What could have caused a sweet blue-eyed boy who loved and adored his parents, parents who instilled good moral standards in their son, to grow up to become one of the decade’s most cold-blooded killers?

Oliver: Hmm. Sounds like you did your research, boss. What kind of research did you do?

Sharon: I studied everything I could about sociopaths and psychopaths. What makes them so chilling is that they hide it so well. It’s almost as if they are programmed to say and do what people expect of them, but inside the darkest recesses of their mind, ugly thoughts and schemes lurk.

Oliver: Such as?

Sharon: While they appear to be charming, they are actually hostile and domineering. They see their victims as instruments to be used to reach their own selfish goals. The end will always justify the means. And this is what Michael does. Outwardly, he is devastatingly handsome, charismatic and wins people over in the blink of an eye. But inwardly, he finds their Achilles heel, uses it for his own gain, and then disposes of them with no remorse. Michael is a psychopath and has no emotions. His charm is superficial and he is the master manipulator.

Oliver: What drives him?

Sharon: Absolute power. He has to be the best at everything, and if anyone gets in his way, they will be disposed of. Permanently.

Oliver: You said that he was a normal and healthy child with parents that adored him and gave him a good moral upbringing. What would cause a seemingly normal person to go so wayward?

Sharon: Mind manipulation from a higher force, someone cunning and cold. This would be Michael’s uncle. You see, when Michael was a boy of twelve, his parents were killed and his uncle took him in and raised him as his own son. But his uncle was one of the biggest leaders in organized crime, and was training Michael to take over his billion dollar construction company and all its enterprises. Carlos taught Michael to kill the betrayer, and cover the corpse with a death mask. Michael was so traumatized by this that he dissociated and eventually was programmed to kill.

Oliver: But what is it that he really wants?

Sharon: A son. Michael has it all with the exception of one thing, a son to carry on the DeVeccio Dynasty. And he is on the hunt for the perfect woman to bring his heir into the world. And he finds that woman in Margot Montgomery. She is the perfect woman and for the first time in his life, Michael comes close to love.

Oliver: But what happens:

Sharon: Obviously, you’ll have to read the book, Oliver. But I’ll leave you with this. Margot falls off the pedestal Michael places her on. And when she does, her life becomes a living nightmare. The things that Michael does to her are unspeakable.

Oliver pulls out his book and begins reading.

Sharon: Oliver, how about corking the bottle of chilled champagne for the guests. And while you’re doing that, I’ll tell them about the contest. One of the scenes in Mask of the Betrayer portrays a lavish masquerade party in the grand ballroom of the DeVeccio mansion. It’s a huge ball and everyone is dressed for the nines. But at the stroke of midnight, the power goes out, and a murder takes place.

Thank you all for visiting. Have a glass of champagne and some chocolates. Hope I’ve enticed you to run out and buy Mask of the Betrayer.

ZORRO CONTEST

This contest will run for the entire month of May!

It’s a masquerade ball in the grand ballroom. At the stroke of midnight, all the lights go out during a blackout. Zorro is the belle of the ball, dancing footloose and fancy free with every man at the party. But when the lights go out, one of the masked guests thrusts the Zorro sword straight through her heart.


Contest rules:

Mask of the Betrayer is on sale for the entire month of May at Whimsical Publications. Now is your chance to purchase it at a discount.

BUY LINK:
http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/sharon_donovan/mask_of_the_betrayer.html

Print and Ebook when available

Whimsical Publications, LLC

www.whimsicalpublications.com

Send me an email at
sharonad@comcast.net

Put Zorro Contest in the subject line and answer the following:


QUESTION: Who spotted Valentino stealing the sword from Zorro?

PRIZE: Deluxe Zorro cape and jeweled pin. Good luck and happy reading! Don’t forget to read the excerpt for a sneak preview of the murder during a blackout!

Taken

Do you think it’s easy to spot a sociopath? Despite the man or woman portrayed in the box office thrillers who look as if they’ve just undergone a lobotomy, psychopaths are not for the most part easily spotted. He or she may be a doctor, lawyer, scientist or CEO of a major corporation. They are highly intelligent and charismatic, but have a chronic inability to feel guilt, remorse or anxiety for any of their actions. The end will always justify the means because they are master at the game. Here are a few traits:




 Superficial charm

 Domineering personality

 Expert at spotting a person’s Achilles heel, using it to his or her advantage, then disposing them like bad rubbish

 Great joy in belittling their victims

 Grandiose sense of self

 Feel entitled to certain things as their rights

 Pathological liars

 Lies roll off their tongues in spades

 A deep-seeded rage is at their core

 Friends they make will become victims

 Feign love and joy

 Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remain cold and indifferent at what would upset a normal person

 They are not genuine and neither are their promises

 Unable to empathize with the pain of their victims

 Compulsive need to control and manipulate

 Secretive, trusting no one

 Ultimate goal of enslaving their victims

 May state readily that their goal is to rule the world

 Oblivious to their shallowness



And the whole while, the sociopath will smile, charm you, flatter you and befriend you. But behind the mask, dark evil lurks. They want you for something, and will expertly charm their way into your life. During my psychology classes, the study of the mind fascinated me. It’s a tricky faux. It can bend. It can break. It can snap. In my newly released novel, Mask of the Betrayer, I’ve created the character of Michael DeVeccio to illustrate such a person. Here is a little teaser.



Michael DeVeccio had it all. A billion dollar construction company that built luxury resorts all over the world, a twenty-four room mansion with servants at his beck and call, the most dazzling club on the Vegas Strip, a fleet of outlandishly expensive sports cars, a private jet—and more money than he could use in ten life times. He had it all with the exception of one thing, a son, an heir to his vast domain. And once he found the perfect woman to produce his heir and propagate the family business, the DeVeccio Empire would rule the universe. He envisioned the ideal woman to produce his heir being flawless in every way. Her inner beauty would shine as bright as her outward appearance, she’d have proper etiquette with impeccable manners, and she’d be cultured in fine arts. His perfect woman would be well educated on current events when hosting parties and galas for his business associates. She’d be honest and sincere and loyal to him and only him. And she would not be a woman beguiled by his wealth and fortune. Yes, he mused, taking a final drag of his cigarette. This perfect woman would be angelic and worthy of producing the heir to his kingdom. And the time had come to find that woman. And it would happen. He ruled it so.



Tomorrow’s post will show the excerpt when Michael meets the perfect woman at his Vegas night club. Stay tuned for coming attractions: Beguiled by a sociopath



MASK OF THE BETRAYER

AVAILABLE NOW!

WHIMSICAL PUBLICATIONS

http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/books.html

Tuesday's Child is Full of Grace

With the budding of spring comes the budding of allergy season! And for me, lots of discomfort. I have a ton of symptoms and am pleading for help. Here are my ten worst symptoms:

1. Pounding headache above eyes
2. Throbbing pain on cheekbones
3. Sneezing
4. Coughing and wheezing
5. Watery, itchy red puffy eyes
6. Feeling of listlessness
7. Inability to think or concentrate
8. Allergy drainage
9. Stuffy nose
10. Ringing in ears and downright cranky!

If you have any suggestions, I would be most appreciative. A...chooooo!

Monday's Child is Fair of Face

Words of hope to start out your Monday on a positive note. Plant these seeds in your mind and let them blossom and grow all week.

Ten Seeds of Hope


1. Hope creates the future

2. Hope resides in one’s heart

3. Lose your hope and lose your dreams

4. To lose hope or give up one’s goals because of setbacks of the moment is to diminish one’s future

5. Don’t limit yourself with low expectations Break through all obstacles with the extraordinary gift of hope

6. Face the future without fear

7. For every closed door, there is an open window of opportunity through hope

8. Hold fast to hope and face the future with courage

9. Face the future without doubt or fear

10. If you have no hope, create some

Wednesday Spotlight with Sharon Donovan

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! With spring in the air and Easter in a few short days, Oliver and I are out in the English garden, chatting about my Easter story and the inspiration behind it. In a gorgeous backdrop of the rolling green hills and meadows where wild flowers grow free, Oliver and I are in the rose arbor, clipping and pampering the vintage roses. Among the most fragrant and lovely are the Lasting Love, Ballerina, Sentimental, Falling in Love, Simplicity and the Candy Lane climbing rose.

Sharon: Aren’t they gorgeous, Oliver? The best part of spring is getting the garden ready with all the striking blossoms and blooms. What’s your favorite?

Oliver: Ah, like women, each rosebud is beautiful and unique. And I think a rose was invented for each woman to make her feel special. So choosing one would be impossible. Casting Sharon a wicked wink, he pumps his biceps, leans over and plucks a handful of weeds from the Lasting Love rose. Cutting a few from each vine at just the right angle, he arranges them in a vase and sets them on the umbrella table. So why did you choose the Lasting Love rose as your flower of choice in your Easter story?

Sharon: (adjusts her sun hat and picks up her sprinkling can) It was a difficult choice. I wanted to pack so much in a short inspirational story for the Easter theme call out from The Wild Rose Press. Easter is about rebirth and resurrection, love and betrayal, but mostly, it’s a dawning of a new day. And in order to do this, we sometimes have to do something virtually impossible. Forgive those who have let us down or betrayed us.

Oliver, intrigued, shakes cedar chips around the rose bushes. So what did you do?

Sharon: The first thing I did was figure out a storyline with all the above. Choosing the rural mountains of Vermont as the setting, the character of Abbey Jordan came to life in my head. Unable to have children, she poured her maternal nurturing into her greenhouse of roses. She loved them and thought of them as her babies. But when her assistant quit on her a few days before Easter, leaving her in the wings on the busiest season of the year, she placed the dilemma in God’s hands.

And ironically, a little girl rode right into her life, literally, on her bike, asking for a job. The young girl has her sights set on becoming a prima ballerina, and her father, Brady Jones, a man whose wife up and left them to pursue her own career, could no longer afford her dancing lessons after he lost his job. And by a twist of “Faith”, he just so happened to be a prize-winning rose grower. So the scene for romance was set...and Lasting Love bloomed in my head.

Oliver: Ah, yes. But you romance writers have to throw in a wrench to keep the couple from getting together. What’s the glitch?

Sharon: arches an eyebrow. Sprinkling water on the Ballerina, Candy Land, Falling in Love and Lasting Love roses, she smiles. I chose each of these for a specific reason in my plot. The young girl, Kayla, desperately wants to win back her mother’s love. Her mother abandoned her at birth to pursue a career as a prima ballerina. In Kayla’s young mind, if she stepped into her mother’s footsteps, she’d win her love. So in my story, I had Brady grow the Ballerina rose, especially for his daughter.

The Falling in Love rose was one of Abbey’s best seller’s around spring and prom time. I threw in the Candy Land rose, a pretty pink flowers with ivory stripes and an apple scent, as the flower Abbey and Kayla bond over while arranging. And the Lasting Love rose, the focus of my story, is a hybrid rose that is easy to grow and hard to kill. Not only that, but it is an unusual, shimmering jewel-toned rose with a powerful scent reminiscent of the vintage rose. The color is a dark red with green glossy foliage. It’s classy and timeless appeal seemed perfect for the only rose

to resurrect from the ashes after the nursery is burned to the ground the night before Easter.

Oliver sniffs. A fire destroys the beautiful rose greenhouse?


Sharon: Yes, and as it turns out, Brady is responsible for starting the fire. So the entire story is about testing boundaries. Life is all about choices and one mistake can blossom into a lifetime of sorrow. Abbey simply doesn’t have it in her heart to forgive Brady for destroying her dream. But through a miracle, she is shown a message that will change the course of her life. I totally enjoyed writing this short and sweet and heart-breaking story. I put a part of myself in the book. As you know, I’ve been a type 1 diabetic since the age of six. Doctors strongly advised me not to have children, something I wanted more than life itself. So like Abbey, I threw my maternal instincts into other projects that became my babies. Roses, art, cooking and writing, to name a few.

Oliver: Picks up his copy of Lasting Love. May I have your autograph, please, boss? After hearing all about it, I simply must read it. Now let’s sit down and have some tea and fresh fruit while we read a blurb and excerpt:

When Vermont florist Abbey Jordan’s nursery manager quits a few days before Easter, she is left up the proverbial creek without a paddle. But when she places it in God’s hands, she finds lasting love in a garden of roses.

Brady Jones has a daughter to raise, is out of work, and knows more about cultivating roses than anyone in rural Vermont. And when Abbey hires him as the horticultural manager of her floral shop, it seems like the answer to her prayers. But just on the brink of a budding romance, a fire destroys the nursery and buries all hope of love.

An amicable silence hovered between Abbey and Brady as they walked toward the restaurant hand in hand. They knew they’d just crossed a major milestone. The quiet was broken by Abbey’s cell phone. Annoyed at the interruption, she sighed and answered. It was one of her employees. “Come quick, Abbey. It’s the nursery. There’s a fire. It’s spreading like wildfire. Things look bad. Get here soon.”

****

When Abbey and Brady reached the nursery, it was a burning inferno. The glass walls had collapsed and it was going up in a snarling hiss of smoke and flames. Firefighters struggled to get the blaze under control. Police and paramedics had arrived and EyeWitness News was on the scene, snapping photos.

“Oh my!” Abbey was out of the car the minute it came to a screeching halt. Her face was as ashen as the thick clouds of smoke billowing up into the night sky. Tripping over the gravel and cinders as she rushed toward the fire chief, she screamed. “What happened? I’m Abigail Jordan and I own this nursery. What happened? When I left, everything was fine. Please tell me nobody was in there!”

“No one was in there,” the fire chief placed a hand on her shoulder. “Things could be a lot worse. Dead plants can be replaced. People can’t.”

Riveted with shock as reality filtered through her, Abbey screamed, “My roses! All my precious roses. All those hanging baskets of lavender. My exotic orchids and Easter lilies. Gone, all gone!”

“It’s all right,” Brady folded her into his arms. Shh.”

“What started it?” Abbey stared at the fire chief. “How did it start?”

“It’s being investigated. At this time, the cause is unknown. Could be a gas leak. A neighbor reported hearing an explosion, and in a few minutes, your greenhouse went up like a house of cards.”

In less than an hour, the fire was under control, but all that remained of Abbey’s nursery was a bed of ash. The floral boutique across the covered bridge was unharmed but the rest of the damage caused by the fire was insurmountable.

“Do you have any idea how long it took me to choose and cultivate each of my prize roses?” Abbey finally let the tears roll. Leaning on Brady, she sobbed in between hysterics. “My Lasting Love rose, demolished. And to think I’ll never smell the spicy aroma of my Sentimental rose again. And at prom time, I never had enough of the Falling in Love rose.They all wanted a corsage made of the pink roses,timeless and romantic. And not to forget the Arctic Flame rose, popular for keeping the romance alive. All my hard work, up in smoke.”

“Ms. Jordan,” the fire chief interrupted. “We know the cause of the fire. It was caused by a recently installed heating table. Some of the cable wiring possibly touched each other due to improper installation.”

Abbey shoved Brady away and stared at him, her eyes glinting with anger. “It was you. You said you knew how to install the heating table and I listened to you. You ruined my dream. Get away from me.”

“Abbey,” he tried to reach her. “There’s gotta be some mistake. Let me—”

“There was a mistake all right,” Abbey hissed.“Hiring you and trusting you with my roses. Get out of here and never come back. I never want to see you again.”

****

On Easter morning, Abbey pulled up to her floral shop, her heart heavy with grief. Feeling as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, she crossed the bridge to where her garden nursery had been. Even before she got there, the thick scent of smoke lingered, a pungent reminder of what had happened the night before. She wanted the world to stop spinning. How could Brady have been so careless? How could she have been stupid enough to trust him? Somewhere deep in her subconscious, she knew she should have had an electrician install the heating table. So why hadn’t she listened? Because she’d been attracted to him and had been well on her way to falling in love with him. She recalled how infatuated she’d been only yesterday when she watched him touch the roses with such tenderness. And the kiss they’d shared last night. Tears spilled down her face at the memory.

She kicked her foot in the rubble and screamed at the top of her lungs. Sobs ripped through her until she couldn’t breathe. On Easter morning of all mornings, a time of rebirth and resurrection. Hurling herself on the bed of ashes where her nursery had been, she kicked and screamed, not caring if the world came crashing down on top of her.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she looked up and gasped.

An old man with flowing white hair stood over her, his gnarled body stiff and bent. He poked at her with his walking stick. “Get up, girlie,” he commanded. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Who are you?” Abbey stood up and backed away. Other than the birds, there was no one around. She reached for her cell phone, only to remember it was in her purse in the car. Her heart pounded with adrenaline. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

Abbey started across the bridge. She wanted to get far away from this nut. Who was he?

“Stop.”

His words had a jarring effect. She turned around to see him rooting through the rubble with his cane. What was he doing, digging around in her dirt? Was he looking for money? Food? Was he homeless?

He looked at her without expression. “I’ve come to give you words of wisdom. When you find love, hold on tight. Then find it in your heart to forgive. It’s all about forgiveness.”

Curious, Abbey joined him. The sun was peeking through the mountaintops and a shimmer of red caught her eye where the old man was probing with his cane. She got on her hands and knees and joined him, shoving the dirt and cinders aside with reverent fingers. There it was, the satiny red petals of a Lasting Love rose, buried beneath the rubble.

Tears of joy trickled down her face. Preserved beneath the ash and cinders was her favorite flower in the whole world, her Lasting Love rose. She kept digging, deeper and deeper, and before long, the entire bush and its brilliant red blossoms had resurrected. Not caring if the thorns cut her, she clutched the plant to her heart. Then she turned around to thank the old man, but he was gone. An icy chill went through Abbey as reality struck. A gaggle of bluebirds gathered on the railing, chirping sweetly to the sound of nature. Abbey looked up at the sky and… .

Lasting Love

An Easter story of love and forgiveness

Sharon Donovan

Available

White Rose Publishing

Buy here:

http://whiterosepublishing.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=162&products

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith


http://www.sharonadonovan.com/

see the book trailer

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vG1q0VWfD60



Sharon Donovan lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her family. Prior to the loss of her vision, she was a legal secretary for the Court of Common Pleas where she prepared cases for judges in Domestic Relations. Painting was her passion. When she could no longer paint, she began attending creative writing classes and memoir workshops. After a long and winding road, a new dream rose. Today, instead of painting her pictures on canvas, Sharon paints her pictures with words.

Sharon writes stories of inspiration and suspense. She has certificates in business and medical transcription. She is a published author with The Wild Rose Press, White Rose Publishing, Whimsical Publications and Chicken Soup for the Soul. Echo of a Raven is a CTRR recipient, and The Claddagh Ring is a CAPA nominee. To read excerpts and reviews of Sharon’s books and to sign up for her newsletter, visit her website:

http://www.sharonadonovan.com/

CONTEST: PLEASE ANSWER THE FOLLOWING AS A COMMENT FOR A CHANCE TO WIN A PDF OF LASTING LOVE
WHO IS THE OLD MAN?

Wednesday Spotlight with Sharon Donovan

THE CLADDAGH RING
CAPA NOMINEE

A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to visit Ireland, the home of my ancestry. The Emerald Isle is truly an enchanted land, full of legend and lore. Whimsical castles loom high above heathery mountains and rocky headlands, giving way to rolling green hills and miles of coppery beaches. And with the sheep grazing high on misty hillsides, it’s like stepping back in time to another era when life was much simpler.

A lot of writers come from Ireland, including James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wild. With its green hills and rugged landscape, major movies have been filled on the island. The Irish take great pride in pointing out the farmhouse on the Dingle Peninsula where Ryan’s Daughter was filmed. Inch Strand Beach, shaped like a sandy half moon, is one of the most remote parts of Ireland. But the best part of the trip was learning the legend of The Claddagh Ring, which has a rich history dating back three hundred years.

According to legend, the first Claddagh Ring originated in a small fishing port off the coast of Galway. Truly a land of legend and lore, the Irish are known to spin a wee bit of the blarney from time to time. Some say the ring was blessed by St. Patrick himself. Others believe the ring was dropped into the lap of a woman by an eagle. And others say the original Claddagh was brought to Galway by a man who was captured by the Algerians and sold to a Moorish goldsmith. But whatever the case, the legend of the Claddagh has lived for the past several centuries. And in today’s material world where love and marriage are taken far too lightly, the legend strengthens relationships. The wearer of the Claddagh is said to be blessed with love, friendship and loyalty forevermore.

But in order for the Claddagh to cast its mystical spell, the Claddagh must be worn a certain way. The design consists of two hands holding a heart with a crown on top of the heart. The hands represent friendship, the heart is for love, and the crown is for loyalty. If the ring is worn on the right hand with the heart facing outward, the wearer is looking for love. If worn on the left hand with the heart facing outward, the wearer has found love. But when worn on the left hand with the heart facing inward, the wearer has found its soulmate for life and will be forever blessed.

Being Irish and awed by the legend, I was inspired to write The Claddagh Ring. And while touring the Atlantic Breakers and the Cliffs of Moher, part of my book takes place in County Clare. The Breakers pound the west coast of the county, sculpting the grey limestone into a myriad of shapes, the most notorious, the Cliffs of Moher. A rich plethora of birdlife as puffins and shags crest on the cliffs, adding to the savage grandeur. Beneath the rocks, the waves have spread a thin dusting of golden sand, said to be sprinkled by angel wings. Standing on these cliffs with the wind on my back and the sun on my face, I was inspired to write The Claddagh Ring. Here is a blurb and excerpt:

“To live in the hearts we leave behind is to never die.” Thomas Campbell

Struggling with her faith after her mother’s death, Meghan O’Malley finds comfort in wearing her Claddagh Ring, said to be blessed by St. Patrick. And when Meghan meets Rork, she finds love, loyalty and friendship. But before everything comes full circle, Meghan must face the biggest challenge of her life.

Rork McGuire is ruggedly handsome, sings Celtic music straight from his soul—and
has a deep secret. When he sees Meghan O’Malley tending bar at her club, he falls hopelessly in love with her and wants to give her his heart. Will the secret he harbors pull them together—or break them apart?

Excerpt
As Meghan mixed drinks from behind the bar of The Wild Irish Rose, the fiddle and
violin captured the true essence of Ireland. The tantalizing aroma of Irish stew,
corn beef and cabbage and soda bread wafted through the room.
Suddenly, all activity came to a halt as the eerie wail of bagpipes keened through
the bar. The lead singer took center stage with his rendition of Danny Boy, the haunting
lyrics crawling into Meghan’s skin. Mesmerized by his hypnotic blue eyes, she stopped
what she was doing and met his penetrating gaze. With the exception of her mother,
she’d never heard anyone pluck the strings of the harp with such finesse. The Claddagh
Ring on her right hand felt hot, the heart pressing into her skin. By the time the
song ended, Meghan’s green eyes were misty with tears.

“Well now, darlin’,” he touched her cheek. “If I knew Danny Boy would make you cry,
I’d a sung When Irish Eyes are Smiling.”

Meghan Shannon O’Malley lost herself in pools of midnight blue.

“I’m Rork,” the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He took her right hand
and kissed the heart on her ring. “Single and looking, are ya?”

“Huh?”

“The Claddagh Ring, darlin’,” he kissed it again. “On your right hand with the heart
facing outward, means you’re single and looking for romance.”

“Ah…I have no idea what you’re talking about; it’s just a ring, a gift from my mother.”

“Ah, come on now, darlin’ girl,” he got a little closer, staring into her eyes. “Ya
can’t fool an Irishman. My mother bought one for each of my sisters. I’ll have ya
know they’re all married.”

Meghan felt lightheaded. “My mother gave me this ring the night before she died. It’s a family heirloom, said to be blessed by St. Patrick himself. Mama promised me by wearing the Claddagh, everything in my life would come full circle. So before you go thinking I’m wearing it to find a husband, think again.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” his blue eyes seared into hers like lasers. “What do ya say, Meghan, darlin’ girl of my heart.”

The Claddagh Ring Available Now!
www.whiterosepublishing.com
To see the book trailer, visit my website:
www.sharonadonovan.com

Sharon Donovan
Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith
sharonad@comcast.net

Valentine Traditions and Legends

So, it looks like we have six more weeks of winter, but that makes us six months closer to spring! And with Valentine’s Day just around the corner, here are a few legends associated with the feast day.

ST. VALENTINE OF ROME i
According to legend, Valentine was a priest in Rome that lived during the reign of Emperor Claudius II. Under his regime, Claudius is said to have engaged Rome in several bloody battles, constantly recruiting soldiers to strengthen his army. Men with families were not keen to leave family attachments. So to sever family ties, Claudius cancelled all marriages and engagements in Rome. Valentine, a true romantic at heart, arranged secret marriages. When Claudius discovered Valentine’s defiance, he was executed on February 14 about 270 ad. By middle ages, Valentine became recognized as the patron saint of love.

ST. VALENTINE OF ROME II
Another legend suggests that Valentine was a Christian priest who was very popular with children. During his life, Roman regime was not in favor of Christianity and Christians were persecuted for their beliefs. In spite of this law, Valentine refused to worship false gods and continued to practice his faith. This enraged Claudius II and he put Valentine in prison. During his imprisonment, children visited Valentine, tossing letters and flowers between his cell bars. Valentine is said to have written back, signing his letters, “From your Valentine.” When he was beheaded for his Christian beliefs, the exchange of letters and flowers continued in his name.

BIRDS MATING TIME
During the middle Ages, people of England and France held a popular belief that birds began looking for a mate on February 14th. The romantic notion bloomed and the day was soon celebrated between lovers with the exchange of spring flowers, candy and small gifts.

However you celebrate Valentine’s Day, wishing you a happy day!

Looking for a sweet book to read?

If you like a sweet inspirational with a touch of paranormal, Touched by an Angel might be what you’re looking for. And with Valentine’s Day, it’s a definite Cupid read! It received 5 Cups from CTR, 5 Books from LASR, a You Need to Read rating from YGR and is a highly recommended read from the reviewers of Manic Readers. Touched by an Angel was a nominee for book of the week at LASR. It can be purchased at White Rose Publishing:
www.whiterosepublishing.com

Blurb
On the eve of his wife’s death anniversary, Charles is as restless as the coming storm. Surrounded by the stillness of the Mojave Desert, he contemplates suicide. But just as he is about to jump, he hears the sweet voice of his wife, telling him it’s not his time. But when Charles meets Emma, whose resemblance to his wife is hauntingly striking, he is drawn to her. And when they discover their spouses have died on the same day and are buried side by side in the same cemetery, a spiritual bonding occurs that neither can deny. Is this fate—or is Cupid shooting arrows from the sweet hereafter?

Excerpt

As the sun set over the Mojave Desert, the Sierra Nevada Mountains were roughly defined against a dramatic sky of crimson and lavender blue. The warm breeze undulated through the ponderosa pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the Indians buried thousands of feet below in the windblown sands. A vulture hovered high above the foothills, an eerie screech foreboding as it circled the canyon.

Easing his midnight blue SUV around the horseshoe bend in the sloping ridge, Charles thought about his wife. Jill had died two years ago of cancer and the following day was the anniversary of her death. Frustrated, his eyes filled with tears. His vision blurred and he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was angry at the whole world and at God.

His heart was breaking. What kind of a God would take away the love of his life, his reason for
living? How was he supposed to go on living when the best part of him was gone? More tears spilled down his cheeks. He wanted Jill back. He needed her and wanted her with him, where she belonged. He envisioned her out in her rose garden, clipping and pruning them to sheer perfection. How she’d loved the yellow rose, and as much as he used to love them, he didn’t any more. Baskets and baskets of yellow roses had been crammed into the funeral home, permeating the air with the funereal smell of death.

She was so pretty. Her serene green eyes were the color of the sea. He pictured her digging her hands in the rich fertile soil, looking so peaceful and content. Bathed in sunlight, she had the face of an angel. She had a mega-watt smile that totally beguiled him. No matter how hot or humid it was, she always looked fresh and lovely. She had a habit of toying with a strand of her long blonde hair, twirling it between her fingers until it waved. Under the amber glow of the hot desert sun, it flickered like wildfire. Lord, he missed that woman.

As Charles drove deeper into the foothills, the terrain became noticeably rougher, more uncultivated. The air hummed with just a hint of danger. The pioneer spirit of the Wild West was still palpable as burros and wild horses galloped amidst the sloping landscape. How he missed those long afternoon drives through the wilderness with Jill, imagining what life must have been like in the days of the Wild, Wild West.

More memories of Jill flashed through his mind, filling him with a deep sense of foreboding sadness. Tears streamed down his cheeks. The desolate road weaving in and out of the canyon was flanked with sagebrush and tumbleweed, and deep in the underbrush, mountain lions and bobcats roamed free. A coyote yipped in the distance, its howling wail slicing through the thick humid air.

As the sun disappeared behind the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the sky blended into a menagerie of pale peach, rich magenta, and deep indigo. Charles thought of all the sunsets he’d seen with Jill. All those good times, better times. She should be here to watch the sunset with him. Why wasn’t she? Why did she have to die? He felt so betrayed. Life wasn’t fair.

White hot fury bubbled up inside him until it erupted like a quaking volcano. Pulling off to the
side of the road, he hopped out of his vehicle. He stared up at the heavens and shook his fist at God. He wanted answers. He needed answers. Angry and frustrated, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Why did you take my Jill from me?” his voice echoed across the canyon. “How could you take the love of my life away? How could you? How could a loving God do something so cruel? I love her! I want her here with me! I want her back!”

The air carried with it the scent of a coming storm. Thunder exploded in the distance.
A desert storm was closing in on the Mojave. The wind rippled through the surrounding Joshua trees. The mournful cry of a desert thrasher sliced through the night. Charles was as restless as the approaching storm. He looked down. The hillside gave way to steep ravines, tumbling down over rugged cliffs to the valley below. The only thing separating him from a drop of several thousand feet was a mound of crumbled rock. He took a step closer. Just as he was about to jump, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. He thought he saw Jill. Pellets of hard rain pounded on his back, soaking him to the bone. He blinked several times, but whatever he’d seen was gone. Thunder exploded in the sky, the sound ricocheting through the heavens. Over the rumbling, he heard Jill’s sweet melodic voice. “No, Charles. Don’t jump. It’s not your time.”

Touched by an Angel
Available
www.whiterosepublishing.com

Sharon Donovan
Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith
www.sharonadonovan.com

Lasting Love
www.whiterosepublishing.com

The Claddagh Ring
2009 CAPA nominee
www.whiterosepublishing.com


To sign up for Sharon’s newsletter and to read excerpts, reviews and release dates, visit her website
www.sharonadonovan.com

Her blog:
http://sharondonovan.blogspot.com

email:
sharonad@comcast.net

On Angels Wings

Nearly three weeks ago, I nearly lost my mother. Her health has been failing for the past few years, and every day seems to present a new challenge. About a year ago, she asked me who she was. A pang so sharp pierced my heart. I got her some orange juice and a cookie and sat with her, and a few minutes later, she was fine. I thought it a combination of too many prescription pills, her age and several other conditions I’d studied when training for my certificate in medical transcription. Some things are just too painful to recognize and our subconscious refuses to let them in.

But what I witnessed a few weeks ago will stay with me for a long, long time. She was sitting on the sofa, taking off her socks and shoes, her words muffled and slightly slurred. The obvious thing that flashed through my mind was that she was having a stroke. I asked her if she knew who she was and she did. But the more I quizzed her, the more agitated she became, and before long, she began to tremble. I held her left hand and it was so limp it brought tears to my eyes. Then she got a death grip on me and squeezed it for all she was worth. Then it went completely limp and she began to convulse. It had to be the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced.

We called the paramedics and there initial reaction was that she was having a stroke. Then her head rolled to the back of the sofa and she slipped into a state of unconsciousness. Feeling helpless and completely vulnerable, all I could do was pray. And in the many crisis in my life, I have always turned to the angels. I feel their presence and believe they hear our prayers and take them to God on their gossamer wings.

My mom was in a coma in intensive care for twelve hours. When she came to, her family was all around her. She recognized us and although confused to her whereabouts, seemed to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. Her neurologist told us her cat scan ruled out a stroke. His diagnosis was epilepsy. My mom had an epileptic seizure once close to fifty years ago. Ten years ago, her doctor took her off her anti-seizure medication. This bothered me, but I placed it in God’s hands. I always feared she might have another seizure and she did. Now she is on a less invasive type of medication to prevent seizures, but Mom is not happy about taking more pills.

Due to some balance issues and walking difficulties, her neurologist strongly suggested putting Mom in a nursing home for a few weeks for rehabilitation where they could address her needs. This was very hard and for those of you who have been there, visiting a loved one in a nursing home is a guilt trip. They don’t want to be there any more than we want them there. So once more, I called on my angels to carry my burden to God’s ears.

Yesterday, my mother came home. She will have a home nurse and a rehab counselor until she is stronger. She seems so fragile and reminds me of the fragility of life. Count your blessings and make every day count. Life truly does come full circle when our parents become our children, our responsibility.

Sharon Donovan
Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith
www.sharonadonovan.com
sharonad@comcast.net

Coffee Rightss Hostess

Looking for a little promo over at Coffee Time Romance & More? Why not join me at Coffee Rights for the remainder of January. I am the hostess for the series and the series is suspense.

I’ve posted the background to the story along with the opening paragraph. Now here’s the fun part. You get to add the next paragraph and so on until the story is complete. And the best paragraph wins a prize. Here are the details:

January Coffee Rights
Hostess: Sharon Donovan
Theme: Romantic Suspense
Characters:
Hero: Reilly Stone
Heroine: Candace Valentine
Villain Andrew Peacock
Prize: Moonlight Path gift bag from Bath&Body

Title: Murder at midnight on a Moonlit Path
Background

The whispers in his head grew louder and louder. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. His heart pounding, Andrew Peacock bolted upright in bed. A brisk breeze swooshed through the Joshua trees, stirring the scent of roses with rain. A hunter’s moon hung low in the dark desert sky. In the distance, a coyote howled, its keening echoing through the canyon. The smell of the dank earth took him back to the night of his first kill. And the scent of roses reminded him of her. She was the love of his life, the prettiest thing the sorry town of Progress had ever seen. And she’d done him wrong. He walked to the window and gazed into the thicket, knowing precisely where he’d buried his slut of an ex-wife. Next week marked the anniversary of her death. And to keep the thrill of the kill alive, he’d reenact the crime. He’d hunt down her likeness, a flawless beauty with black hair and midnight blue eyes. And after taking a stroll down the moonlit path, he’d kill her. Then he’d bury the corpse in the woods and place a white rose on the grave. And he couldn’t wait.

Candace Valentine stood before her mirror, combing her long black hair before turning in for the night. With the hunter’s moon spilling in through her open window, her blue eyes sparkled. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled. She had the oddest feeling she was being watched. She dashed to the window to close it, her gaze searching the woods. And when her phone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She snatched it up on the first ring.
“What lovely hair you have,” a voice whispered. “I just love watching you brush it in the moonlight. And what pretty blue eyes you have, the way they shimmer is so inviting.”

Deputy Sheriff Reilly Stone studied her, his green eyes searching. Raking his hand through his shaggy brown hair, his jaw clenched, he arched an eyebrow. “How long have you lived in Progress, Ms. Valentine?”
“All my life,” she said, her lip quivering.
He crossed his burly arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed. “So unless you’ve been living in a cave, surely you’re aware of all these women disappearing, vanishing into thin air.” He took a step closer. “And yet you stand in front of an open window, brushing your hair in the moonlight?”
She blinked back the tears. “I…I never worried about open windows before. I brush my hair every night before turning in. Those women who were reported missing were never found, no bodies to prove a serial killer stalks the woods. It’s probably just a coincidence, a…”
“Wise up,” he stormed toward the front door, his booted feet clomping. He glanced over his shoulder. “Every single woman reported missing had long black hair and blue eyes, like you. Bolt your door and keep the windows locked. Or you might just be the next victim.”

Won’t you join me?

http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/board/forumdisplay.php?f=255

Wednesday Spotlight

Hello Friends and Fellow Bloggers!
Wondering where my Wednesday spotlight guest is today? LOL I'm it! I have my very first booksigning tonight at Magoos Bistro in the North Hills of Pittsburgh, PA. And to make it a memorable occasion, I'm getting my hair and makeup and nails done! Wish me luck. Join me next week--August 19th--when my featured guests will be Karenne and the crew from Coffee Time Romance & More! I promise you it will be a scream. And Oliver my cabana boy has his dancing shoes on. See you then!

Sharon

In God We Trust

IN GOD WE TRUST

Into this world He sent His only son to make this world a better place
Noble kings rejoiced on whom His favor rests

Glory to God in the highest and peace to His people on earth
Our creator God, our returning king
Devoted teacher, hallowed be His name

Who is our Savior?
Emanuel is His name, not a president or a dictator

Truly He taught us to love one another. His law is love to redeem the world
Rejoice rejoice
Under battle we are at war
Sing His praises in the fields
The Savior will reign and save the world

Can you put a price tag on your writing?

I don’t usually get on my soap box—but I cannot hold my tongue. Or in this case, cannot keep my fingers from skating across the keyboard. I am going to address one of my pet peeves--those who do not appreciate the gift of writing. I have three short stories published by The Wild Rose Press which is now White Rose Publishing. After taking countless classes in creative writing, both at local colleges and online, attending workshops and conferences and putting in far longer than the average eight hour day, I fancied myself the next Nora Roberts. I sent out query letters and partial manuscripts to literary agents all over the state of New York, certain they’d be ringing my phone off the hook. No such luck. Those phone calls never came, but one rejection letter after the next filled my mailbox to the hilt. Devastated, my heart wept. Totally disillusioned, I was ready to throw my dream of writing out the window. But then I wised up and realized the only way to get what I wanted was to fight for it with all I was made of. And that’s when things changed.

When I want something, I develop a competitive edge. And perhaps that’s what it took to push me so hard. After pulling my head out of the clouds, I developed a stiff upper lip and some mighty tough skin. And you know what they say…when the going gets tough…the tough get going. So I buckled down and enrolled in as many writing classes as I could find, polishing my manuscript to the best of my ability. And after getting feedback on it from my critique group, I felt ready to pitch it to a New York agent at a writers conference.

Nervous but confident, I presented my ten minute pitch, feeling certain I’d be asked to submit the entire manuscript. Once more, my dreams were shattered. The agent handed me back my business card…and I sure didn’t need him to show me the door.

Feeling sorry for myself, I was once again thinking perhaps writing just wasn’t meant to be. But then someone sat beside me at Starbucks while I was drinking a cup of coffee. I was so upset I wound up pouring my heart out to this woman who I had never met before. She handed me her business card and told me to submit my manuscript to The Wild Rose Press. That woman was Liana Laverentz. And that’s how I got my foot in the door with The Wild Rose Press. Through God’s intercession, when one door closed…another door opened.

The editors are wonderful to work with and the authors are willing to go the extra mile to lend a helping hand. Lori Graham is my editor and the feedback she gives me makes my writing shine. And when I got my first contract one year ago, it was like hitting the lottery for a million bucks. It had nothing to do with money. It was the feeling of accomplishment after striving for it for so long. No one understands a writer like another writer. There is no comparison to those words, “I’d like to offer you a contract.”

So you might be asking yourself where this is going. After my first contract, Lori offered me two more contracts shortly thereafter. Nicola designed my beautiful book covers and Rae Monet designed a killer website for me. I have had three releases this year along with a free read, all in the White Rose line. And my heart swelled with pride. So when someone made the derogatory comment, “I’m sorry you didn’t get a good price for your books,” my heart dropped.

Certainly we don’t get the money the big publishing houses pay, but what we do get is a whole lot more. We have editors who give us the chance to resubmit our work by giving very beneficial feedback, a caring staff, some of the best artists and awesome authors. And we all connect to support, promote, and be there for one another through thick and thin. The bigger publishing houses more than likely wouldn’t have such a rapport. I am proud to be a member of the garden and very proud to write for White Rose Publishing.

writing is a gift, a God-given talent meant to be shared. And I’m proud of my talent and hope to leave my footprint on the world when I’m gone. The emotional rewards far outweigh the monetary. And I know I speak for all writers. Writing is in my blood. If I didn’t get paid a penny, I’d still write in my journal or my blog. I write for emotional healing and to help make this world a better place.

As you know, before the loss of my vision, my passion was painting. Blending colors into a rich palette of crimson, peach and indigo into a desert sunset filled me with peace and tranquility. When I lost my sight, I was devastated for the obvious reasons, but mostly, because I could no longer paint. But after a long and winding road, a new dream resurrected when I discovered I could paint just as vividly with words. I never want to forget the simple beauty of a rose or the exotic beauty of a wildflower. And describing what I used to see and paint in such vivid detail is my way of remembering. Can you put a price tag on that?