by admin | Aug 4, 2008 | Books
It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today’s Wild Card author is:
and her book:
B&H Fiction (July 1, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Rebeca Seitz is Founder and President of Glass Road Public Relations. An author for several years, Prints Charming being her first novel. Sister’s Ink was the first book in the SISTERS, INK series of novels. (At the center of the creativity and humor are four unlikely young adult sisters, each separately adopted during early childhood into the loving home of Marilyn and Jack Sinclair.)
Rebeca cut her publicity teeth as the first dedicated publicist for the fiction division of Thomas Nelson Publishers. In 2005, Rebeca resigned from WestBow and opened the doors of GRPR, the only publicity firm of its kind in the country dedicated solely to representing novelists writing from a Christian worldview.
Rebeca makes her home in Kentucky with her husband, Charles, and their son, Anderson.
Visit the author’s website.
Product Details
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: B&H Fiction (July 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805446915
ISBN-13: 978-0805446913
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter One
“I mean it, Harry,” Kendra Sinclair let a bit of her fright and frustration leak into her tone.
Harry’s chuckle mocked. “You know you don’t. Come on, everybody has to eat.”
“Like I said, I’ve already eaten.” And I don’t need this kind of complication right now, even if I want it.
“Dessert, then, Kendra. You don’t want to end the day without dessert, do you?”
Yes, she did. No, she didn’t. Well, yeah, she did. She should. The sigh was out before she could stop it.
“I heard that. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“But—”
“See you soon.”
Kendra slammed the phone down and stared at it, waiting for it to jump up and bite her. It might as well have, for all the craziness it had brought her life in the past two months.
Okay, six months.
But there was that two month lull, so really, four months altogether.
“Imparticular man,” she muttered, pacing away from the phone and back. Her purple toenails gave a nice contrast as her feet sank into plush carpet the color of a pure snow drift. “Kendra Sinclair, you are not a conniving woman. What has gotten into you?”
She plopped down into the overstuffed couch the saleslady had called “polar bear” and pulled Miss Kitty onto her lap. Stroking the cat’s fur, she stared across the room. Tufts of fur fell onto the sofa, blending into the fabric there.
“Where’s Oprah when you need her?”
The cat purred its approval of Kendra’s long fingernails and sank down further into its mistress’s lap.
“Probably on some beach with Stedman, laughing at the rest of us who haven’t gotten it all figured out just yet. Right, Miss Kitty?”
The motoring purr increased in volume and Kendra smiled.
The phone rang and she jerked so hard, Miss Kitty toppled to the floor.
“Oh, sorry!” Kendra tossed the apology to Miss Kitty and jerked up the handset. “Hello?”
“Hey, how’s Stars Hill’s finest lady tonight?” Darin’s smooth voice hummed over the line and Kendra’s heart did a double take, frantically downshifting from the previous call. She straightened on the couch, then felt stupid when she realized he couldn’t possibly see how out of sorts she was through the phone line.
“Oh, I’m good. Good. Yeah, really good. How are you?”
“Wow, that’s three goods in the first five seconds. Something wrong?”
She propped her elbow on the arm of the couch and rested her jaw in her palm. Other women lowered their gazes and offered demure smiles when they were out of control. But Kendra? She stammered and fell all over herself with streams of words. “No, no, nothing’s wrong. Just sitting here talking to Miss Kitty.”
“Lucky cat.”
Kendra chuckled, feeling her heart rate settle back into the normal range even while her skin heated at the sound. “Tell her that. I knocked her off my lap when the phone rang.
“And she hasn’t clawed your eyes out yet?””
“Declawed, remember?.”
“Oh, right. Anyway, I know it’s last minute but I was wondering if you’d had dinner yet.”
“Oh, um, no. Well, yes, but that was a couple of hours ago. I mean, not that I need to eat anymore today. Gotta watch my waistline and all–”
His chuckle stopped her mid-sentence. “I’ll be over there in about fifteen minutes. See you soon.”
She heard the click of the phone and stared at it. Not five minutes ago a different man had said the same words. Her silk caftan swirled as she jumped up and fled to the bedroom, praying the first caller hadn’t been serious and was just leading her on.
Which her heart of hearts knew wouldn’t be out of character for him at all.
by admin | Aug 1, 2008 | Books
It is August FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book’s FIRST chapter!
Today’s feature author is:
and her book:
Romancing Hollywood Nobody
NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning Songbird. Apples of Gold was her first novel for teens
These days, she’s working on Quaker Summer, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she’s downright awful. It’s a good thing he’s such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it’s never dull around there.
Other Novels by Lisa:
Hollywood Nobody, Finding Hollywood Nobody, Straight Up, Club Sandwich, Songbird, Tiger Lillie, The Church Ladies, Women’s Intuition: A Novel, Songbird, The Living End
Visit her at her website.
Product Details
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 195 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1600062210
ISBN-13: 978-1600062216
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Monday, April 30, 6:00 a.m.
My eyes open. Yes, yes, yes. The greatest man in the entire world
is brewing coffee right here in the TrailMama.
“Dad.”
“Morning, Scotty. The big day.”
“Yep.”
“And this time, you won’t have to drive.”
I throw back the covers on my loft bed and slip down to the dinette of our RV. My dad sleeps on the dinette bed. He’s usually got it turned back into our kitchen table by 5:00 a.m. What can I say? The guy may be just as much in love with cheese as I am, but honestly? Our body clocks are about as different as Liam Neeson and Seth Green.
You know what I mean?
And we have lots of differences.
For one, he’s totally a nonfiction person and I’m fiction all the way. For two, he has no fashion sense whatsoever. And for three, he has way more hope for people at the outset than I do. Man, do I have a lot to learn on that front.
He hands me a mug and I sip the dark liquid. I was roasting coffee beans for a while there, but Dad took the mantle upon himself and he does a better job.
Starbucks Schmarbucks.
He hands me another mug and I head to the back of the TrailMama to wake up Charley. My grandmother looks so sweet in the morning, her frosted, silver-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. You know, she could pass for an aging mermaid. A really short one, true.
I wave the mug as close as I can to her nose without fear of her rearing up, knocking the mug and burning her face. “Charley . . .” I singsong. “Time to get a move on. Time to get back on the road.”
And boy is this a switch!
All I can say is, your life can be going one way for years and years and then, snap-snap-snap-in-a-Z, it looks like it had major plastic surgery.
Only in reverse. Imagine life just getting more and more real. I like it.
Charley opens her eyes. “Hey, baby. You brought me coffee. You get groovier every day.”
She’s a hippie. What can I say?
And she started drinking coffee again when I ran away last fall in Texas. I mean, I didn’t really run away. I went somewhere with a perfectly good reason for not telling anyone, and I was planning to return as soon as my mission was done.
She scootches up to a sitting position, hair still in a cloud, takes the mug and, with that dazzling smile still on her face (think Kate Hudson) sips the coffee. She sighs.
“I know,” I say. “How did we make it so long without him?”
“Now that he’s with us, I don’t know. But somehow we did, didn’t we, baby? It may not have always been graceful and smooth, but we made it together.”
I rub her shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you could say we pretty much did.”
The engine hums its movin’-on song. “Dad’s ready to pull out. Let’s hit it.”
“Scotland, here we come.”
Scotland? Well, sort of.
An hour later
This has been a great school year. In addition to the online courses I’m taking through Indiana University High School, Dad’s been teaching me and man, is he smart. I’m sure most sixteen-(almost seventeen)-year-olds think their fathers are the smartest guys in the world, but in my case it happens to be true.
Okay, even I have to admit he probably won’t win the Nobel Prize for physics or anything, but he’s street smart and there’s no replacing that sort of thing. Big plus: he knows high school math. We’re both living under the radar. And he’s taken our faux last name. Dawn. He’s now Ezra Fitzgerald Dawn. After Ezra Pound, one of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Lost Generation friends.
I’m just lovin’ that.
“Your mom would have loved the name change, Scotty.”
He told me about his life as an FBI agent, some of the cases he worked on, and well, I’d like to tell you he had a life like Sydney Bristow’s in Alias, but he probably spent most of his time on com-puter work and sitting around on his butt waiting for someone to make a move. The FBI, apparently, prefers to trick people more than corner them in showdowns and shootouts. The Robertsman case was his first time undercover in the field and we know how terribly that worked out for him. And me. And Charley. And Babette, my mother.
I pull out my math book and sit in the passenger seat of the TrailMama. “Ready for some ‘rithmetic, Dad?”
“You bet.” He turns to me and smiles. His smile still makes my heart warm up like a griddle ready to make smiley-face pan-cakes. I flip on my book light.
It’s still dark and we’re headed to Asheville, North Carolina for Charley’s latest shoot. A film about Bonnie Prince Charlie called Charlie’s Lament. How ironic is that? The director, Bartholomew (don’t dare call him Bart) Evans, is a real jerk. I’m not going to be hanging around the set much even though Liam Neeson is Lord George Murray, the voice of reason Prince Charlie refused to listen to. But hey, that’s my history lesson. We’re still on math.
I finish up the last lesson in geometry . . . finally! Honestly, I still don’t understand it without a mammoth amount of help, but the workbook’s filled and that’s a good thing.
There.
I set down my pen. “Finished!”
Dad gives a nod as he continues to look out the windshield. You might guess, despite the tattoos, piercings, and his gleaming bald head, he’s a very careful driver. And he won’t let me drive like Charley did.
“So . . . driver’s license then, right?”
He’s been holding that over my head so I’d finish the math course.
“You know it. After the film, we’ll request your new birth certificate and go from there.”
“What state are we supposedly from?” The FBI has given us a new identity, official papers and all that.
“Wyoming.”
“Are you kidding me? Wyoming? Why?”
“Think about it, honey. Who’s from Wyoming?”
“Lots of people?”
“Know any of them?”
“Uh. No.”
“See?”
“Okay, Wyoming it is, then.”
“You realize you’ll only have my beat-up old black truck to drive around.” The same truck we’re towing behind the TrailMama.
“I’ll take it.”
So here’s the thing. The rest of the entire world thinks my father was shot in the chest and killed when he was outed by a branch of the mob he was after. This mob was financing James Robertsman’s campaign for governor of Maryland.
The guy’s running for president of the United States now.
I kid you not.
Wish I was kidding.
We thought he was after us for several years because Charley knew too much. But then last fall, we found out the guy chasing me was my father, and Robertsman is most likely cocky enough to think he took care of everything he needed. I say that’s quite all right. Although, I have to admit, the fact that a dirtbag like that guy may end up in the Oval Office sickens me to no end.
Thanks to that guy, we had been running in fear from my own father.
The thing is, I could be really mad about all those wasted years, and a portion of me feels that way. But we’ve been given another chance, and I’ll be darned if I throw away these days being angry. There’s too much to be thankful for.
Don’t get me wrong. I still have my surly days. I don’t want Dad and Charley to think they have it as easy as all that!
Okay, time to blog.
Hollywood Nobody: April 30
Let’s cut to the chase, Nobodies!
Today’s Seth News: It’s official. Seth Haas and Karissa Bonano are officially each other’s exclusive main squeeze. The two were seen coming out of a popular LA tattoo parlor with each other’s names on the inside of their forearms. How cliché. And pass the barf bag.
Today’s Violette Dillinger Report: Violette has broken up with Joe Mason of Sweet Margaret. She wanted you all to know that long-distance romances are hard for any couple, but espe-cially for people as young as she is. “Joe needed to live his life. I’m on the road a lot. It wasn’t fair to either of us.” Sounds like she’s definitely not on the road to Britney. I’m just sayin’.
Today’s Rave: Mandy Moore. The girl can really sing! And her latest album is filled with good songs. The bubble gum days of insipid teen heartbreak are over. She’s finally come into her own. (Wish some others would follow her example, but I won’t hold my breath. And man, are we on the theme of bratty stars today or what? Well, there are just so many of them from which to choose!)
Today’s Rant: Crazy expensive celebrity weddings. What? If they spend more, will they be more likely to stay together? I have no idea. Mariah Carey’s $25,000 dress pales in comparison to Catherine Zeta-Jones’s $100,000 gown. What are those things made of?
Today’s Quote: “Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.” James Dean
by admin | Jul 31, 2008 | Books
It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today’s Wild Card author is:
and her book:
Tyndale House Publishers (March 5, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Megan DiMaria has fond memories of childhood trips to the public library where, amid the mural of Gulliver’s Travels and stacks of books, she began a lifelong love of the written word.
Searching for Spice is her debut novel. It was written as a response to a running joke she had with some girlfriends because despite being happily married, women still want romance in their lives. Her second novel, Out of Her Hands, will release in October 2008.
Megan is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, HIS Writers, and is assistant director of Words for the Journey Rocky Mountain Region. She received her B.A. degree in Communication from SUNY Plattsburgh. Megan has been a radio and television reporter, freelance writer, editor and marketing professional. She volunteers her talents to her church and local non-profit organizations and speaks to writer’s and women’s groups.
Megan and her husband live in suburban Denver near their adult children. They often travel back to their roots in Long Island, NY to visit family and get their fill of delicious Italian food.
Her next novel, Out of Her Hands, goes on sale October 1, 2008.
Visit the author’s website.
Product Details:
List Price: $ 12.99
Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (March 5, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414318871
ISBN-13: 978-1414318875
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter One
Jerry looks at me as if my head has sprouted petunias. “Linda, the half-and-half isn’t cold.”
I regard him through bleary eyes and swallow a yawn. His silhouette appears soft and gauzy, framed by the daylight pouring through the kitchen window, glowing like a Thomas Kinkade painting. I should have given myself an extra dose of eyedrops when I got up this morning. Ever since my LASIK surgery, I’ve applied a thick, Vaseline-like ointment to my dry eyes at night before dropping into bed. “What?”
He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, the questionable carton of half-and-half in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other. His plaid robe hangs partway open, the belt loosely tied over wrinkled pajamas. A look of perplexity transforms his intelligent features into a caricature of a hapless sad sack. But truly nothing could be further from the truth. My husband is a PhD chemist. So who is this clueless schmo standing before me?
Jerry raises the hand holding the half-and-half. “Warm.”
“Is the refrigerator broken?” I launch from my seat and open the door of our five-year-old GE side-by-side fridge that I just had to have and, by the way, got at a fabulous discount at the scratch-and-dent sale at Sears.
The interior of the appliance is dark, the first clue that something is amiss. And come to think of it, the refrigerator’s typical hum of electrical activity was absent from my morning symphony of appliances that serenades me while the coffee brews and the microwave heats my favorite tall latte mug.
I peer inside. Oh, rats. Condensation coats the exterior of a large jar of dill pickles on the top shelf. I put my hand on a glass casserole dish to confirm my diagnosis. “It’s not working.”
My dear husband is still rooted to the floor. Some people are dependent on that caffeine jolt to get them going in the morning, and he’s their poster boy.
“Pour some half-and-half in your coffee, Jer. It’s probably okay.”
He follows my instructions and takes a seat at the table. “Well, I don’t think I could stomach warm milk with my shredded wheat.”
I open the freezer door and root around until I find the Sara Lee pound cake I was saving for the weekend. This cake would have been so delicious with some fresh strawberries and whipped cream. I console myself with the knowledge that I really don’t need the extra calories; I’m fluffy enough. That’s the loving word the Revere family uses to refer to those dreaded unwanted pounds. As in, “Don’t you love to hug Grandma? She’s so fluffy.”
“This will have to do for breakfast. Can you run down to the basement and get the picnic cooler? Maybe we can salvage some of the frozen meat.”
Jerry takes a deep swig of his legal stimulant and disappears into the basement. While I pour my tea and set the table, I hear him muttering amid the noise of boxes being shifted across the cement floor.
“What’s Dad doing?” Emma stands at the top of the basement stairs, her ear cocked to the sounds coming from below. At fifteen she’s still my little girl on some days, but on others I see the lovely young woman who’s emerging from within.
I fill her in on the morning’s tragedy.
She flips a strand of light brown hair behind her shoulder and saunters to the table. “Whatever.”
Okay, so today I see that snotty teenage brat who’s hijacked my little darling. Obviously she doesn’t feel my pain and is clueless about the cost or inconvenience of a busted refrigerator. Ah, the bliss of youthful ignorance.
Em picks up the knife and slices a piece of cake. “No juice?”
“Help yourself.”
She pushes to her feet, grabs a glass, and opens the freezer to retrieve three measly ice cubes.
Just as Jerry’s emerging from the basement with the dusty cooler, our son, Nick, joins us, wearing a pair of green sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. His eyelids are at half-mast, and he has a bad case of bed head. Emma’s only too happy to give him our news.
I begin to load the picnic cooler with frozen meat and toss the few anorexic ice cubes left in the freezer on top of our chicken breasts, pork tenderloin, ground beef, and frozen vegetables. “Well, this won’t do the trick.” Too bad it’s springtime. Otherwise I could toss my food in the snow.
No one responds to my comment, so I turn to my college-age son. “Nicky, would you please run to the store and get a bag of ice?”
He grimaces, but he’s maturing nicely and agrees to drive the few blocks to the store to run my errand. Emma plops herself down in front of the computer, no doubt relieved for once that she doesn’t have her driver’s license yet.
I paw through our junk drawer in the kitchen for the stack of business cards to find a repairman. Mechanic. Insurance agent. Day spa. Where did that come from? My nerves begin to dance like a cat on hot pavement. I don’t have time for this. “Jer, who should I call?”
My honey squeezes my shoulder. Ah, marital solidarity. He walks toward the desk that sits between the kitchen and family room. “Em, may I use the computer?”
She glares at him but silently gives up her seat. In a moment, Jerry has the telephone number of the Sears repairmen. He passes the scrap of paper to me. “Here ya go.”
Great. So much for marital solidarity.
I dial the number, navigate the menu, and plead my case to the dispatch associate. “Two o’clock? Um, okay. Thanks. Someone will be here to let him in.” I disconnect the call and secure the handset back on the base. “Jer? What’s your schedule today?”
He grunts out a reply with his back toward me while he pours another mug of coffee.
“What?”
He turns and takes a careful sip of the hot liquid. “Sorry. Faculty meeting. No can do.”
Anxiety builds in my chest. Swell. As usual, I’m the one who has to make the appointment and alter my schedule to accommodate this fiasco.
I’m loading the breakfast plates into the dishwasher when Nick walks in bearing a twenty-pound bag of ice. He opens the back door, then drops the bag onto the brick patio.
“Nick?”
He retrieves the bag of crushed ice and beams his killer grin—the one that made my sensibilities melt nearly twenty-six years ago when his father favored me with the same endearing smile at a gas station off the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
I have to confess it’s as though Jer saw my heart soar toward the heavens in that moment and caught it in his hand. And that’s where it’s been ever since. I had run out of gas, and he was fueling his 1973 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. Both Jerry and his cute little red car were about the best thing I’d seen in forever. He offered to drive me and my gallon of gasoline to my stranded car, and the rest of the story, as they say, is history.
The grandfather clock chimes from the living room, reminding me that I’m behind schedule. Being late for work at Dream Photography is a major transgression. My stomach knots to think that not only will I be late, but I’ll have to leave early too. A hive of angry bees bounces off the inside of my skull, clamoring to escape, and a deep sigh drains from the bottom of my lungs.
“Mom?” Nick lays his hand on my shoulder. He is so like his father, bless him. “Chill. It’s only a refrigerator.”
He makes me smile in spite of my poor attitude. “I know. It’s just that I’ll have to leave work early, and—”
“What time is the repairman coming?”
Praise God—we must have done something right to deserve this child. “Two o’clock. Will you be home from school?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. I need to buy a book for my history class.”
Are you kidding me? My hands ball and land on my hips. “Can’t you buy the book another day?”
“I really need to get going on my term paper. It’s due in three weeks.”
My anxiety level rises again. “Won’t the bookstore be open tomorrow?”
Nick rolls his eyes. “I won’t have time to stand in that line at the bookstore tomorrow.” He pours the ice cubes onto the meat, ending our discussion.
I toss the lid on the cooler and scurry upstairs to get ready for work. So what’s our new family slogan? Every man for himself?
***
I walk into the organized chaos that is Dream Photography—one of the best-known portrait studios in metro Denver. The ringing telephone provides nerve-jarring background noise for the pandemonium playing itself out.
A well-groomed toddler makes serious work of tossing neatly arranged brochures onto the floor, while his mother wipes baby spit from her infant daughter’s dress. Another client is tapping her foot and checking her wristwatch. Add to that the family being escorted to the lobby to schedule their image presentation—aka sales session—by none other than Luke Vidal, my surly boss.
My tardiness is noted by Luke with a raised eyebrow and a brief tic of his head, one that goes unnoticed by our clients but hits pay dirt in my always-too-willing-to-accept-guilt gut. “Linda, can you schedule an image presentation for the Murrays?”
Sure, Luke would have to enlist me to wait on clients before I get the chance to clock in and get my bearings. That must be my punishment for coming in late. I hurry behind the reception desk and smile at the Murray clan—the ones who think Luke is the greatest thing since the invention of the daguerreotype.
Luke pumps the outstretched hand of Andy Murray. “The shoot went well. I think you’ll love the images.” He gives a peppermint-sweet grin to the rest of the family and struts from the beautifully appointed lobby of his home away from home.
I take care of business and trot to the break room to clock in and catch my breath.
My coworker Traci looks up from a pile of five by sevens. “Hey, girl. Where have you been?”
“Don’t ask.”
She puts down a print of a gorgeous bride and waits for the information she knows I’ll spill. I unburden my tale of woe, and she nods and gives me the expected platitudes.
She smiles her Pepsodent grin and pats me on the back. “Isn’t life grand?”
I really love Traci, but sometimes she can lay it on too thick. She passes me the day’s schedule, then exits the room.
I glance at the list of appointments. Rats. I better get moving. The bees have begun to swarm in my brain again.
After grabbing the necessary client files and slipping into a salesroom, I power up my Mac and access the network. Within moments I’ve loaded my client’s images and have chosen an appropriately sentimental song to accompany the slide show. I turn on the projector and dim the lights. Clients go gaga over our well-designed salesrooms—I mean, image presentation rooms. They look more like an elegant home theater than a place of business.
I race back to the lobby, discover that my 9:30 sale has arrived, and paste a smile on my face. “Heidi, Ken, it’s good to see you again. If you don’t remember, my name’s Linda.”
They greet me, and I escort them to the salesroom, chatting them up to break the ice.
The freshly baked cookies placed on the coffee table make my mouth water and hopefully put our well-heeled clients in the mood to take an emotional journey while gazing at the incredible images produced in our high-end studio.
“Can I get anyone a bottle of water before we begin?”
“Yes, I would love some water.” Heidi claims a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She looks toward her husband, who is inspecting the frame on one of the portraits that adorn the walls. “Ken?”
“Oh yes. Please.”
I excuse myself and go to the fridge to get some of our private-label water bottles. From the first moment our customers call to schedule their appointment and until they have their portraits delivered, they’re treated like royalty. Fortunately, most of them deserve such treatment.
Heidi and Ken are clients from way back. They’ve been through everything with us, from the old days of film to the current high-tech, all-digital studio we’ve evolved into.
When I return, I distribute the water and start the viewing program. The swell of sentimental music explodes from the speakers in the ceiling, and images of two adorable little girls move across the big screen. They sit in a wicker swing under a towering oak tree in a field of tall, natural grasses. The lighting illuminates the canopy of green branches above them, while they are perfectly shaded from the bright morning sun. The girls are wearing off-white linen dresses and holding lovely vintage rag dolls. The camera changes perspective, and the girls are in the foreground, framed by the leaves from the branch of a nearby tree. In the next scene they’re sitting at a small, white bistro table enjoying a tea party with a rose-patterned porcelain tea set and a teddy bear for a guest.
The music plays on as the girls pose by an antique baby carriage. They both gaze off into the distance, their expressions a paragon of youthful innocence.
I’m so sick of these types of saccharine images, I could puke. But day after day, they provide the all-natural, nitrate-free bacon I bring home to my family.
Heidi sniffs and reaches for the box of tissues that sits on the table. The last image fades from the screen, and the music stops. Heidi grasps for her husband’s hand. He nods and smiles.
I hand a price list to Ken, and we get down to business.
Heidi appears to suffer heart-wrenching torment as we narrow the number of images down from thirty-nine to fifteen. You’d think I’m dishonoring her cute little daughters by deleting some, but unless you’ve got a huge bank account, you can’t buy them all.
She clutches a hand to her heart, and her husband says, “I love that expression on Olyvia’s face.”
I slip into sales mode. “That image is gorgeous, but look at the subjects. Your girls are beautiful.”
They smile in agreement. We continue to weed through the images to find their favorites. I’m getting dizzy from comparing similar poses and going back and forth while Heidi hems and haws about the merits of each picture.
“Ah, can you pull up number twenty-two?”
I maneuver the program to display an image of the girls sitting at the bistro table.
“And can you compare it to number twenty-four?”
Could this woman say please just once? Would it kill her to treat me with a modicum of respect?
She turns to her husband. “What do you think?”
Poor Ken looks as though he’s pulling himself out of a stupor to respond. “Uh, I don’t like the way Trynity’s hand is curled on the table.”
Heidi stands and moves closer to the screen. “Really? I think that’s cute.”
He sighs. “Okay, keep that one.”
“But Olyvia isn’t looking in the right direction.”
“Heidi, sit down so I can see the screen.”
She flashes him a look that could take the merry out of Christmas. Uh-oh. This isn’t good.
I clear my throat and try to maneuver the sale in the right direction. “What if we take Olyvia’s head from image twenty-five and put it on this image?”
They both study the pictures that I put side by side on the screen.
“And, Ken, didn’t you say you love that expression on Olyvia’s face?”
He jerks in my direction, and I don’t know if he’s pleased that I’m asking for his input or annoyed. “What will this cost?”
Oh, so that’s the way we’re going to be, huh, Ken? “Well, there will be an extra art fee to swap out that head, but if you both love the images and you’re purchasing a wall portrait, it’s well worth the charge.”
“How much?” Ken insists.
Heidi shifts in her seat. “Oh, it will be perfect. We could hang it in the dining room across from the china cabinet.”
That Heidi, she’s my kind of gal. Press on, full steam ahead.
“How much will it cost?”
I wave my hand to minimize the bombshell. “Oh, only about fifty dollars.”
If the room were brighter, I’m sure I’d see steam floating from his ears. “Can you show us what that would look like?”
I don’t know why he’s giving me a hard time. He’s bought images with head swaps from us before. “Sure, this is down and dirty, but it will give you an idea.” My artistry is crude at best, but I do a quick swap. “Of course our imaging artists will make it look 100 percent natural. No one will know this isn’t the original image.”
Ken leans back in his chair, a movement I take for acceptance.
I go in for the close. “Now what size portrait were you thinking of?”
Heidi clasps her hands. “Maybe a sixteen by twenty.”
“Okay. What size is the wall it’s going on?”
She looks confused, as if I’m speaking in Mandarin.
I stand and pick up a twenty-by-twenty-four-inch frame that holds a white piece of foam core. “Let’s look at this size, and tell me what you think.” I step into the middle of the room and center the image on the blank canvas.
They respond with the usual sigh of desire.
“You may even want to see the next size up.” No sense in not trying.
“Okay, let’s see . . .”
Cha-ching. Looks like I’m well on my way to exceeding my weekly goal. By the time they’re ready to leave, I can tell Heidi wants nothing more than to go home and hug her little darlings. For the amount of money I collected from their mom and dad, I want to hug the girls too.
If only the rest of my day goes as well. After the refrigerator crisis, I could use a break.
by admin | Jul 30, 2008 | Books
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
(WaterBrook Press – June 17, 2008)
by
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Donita K. Paul retired early from teaching school, but soon got bored! The result: a determination to start a new career. Now she is an award-winning novelist writing Christian Romance and Fantasy. She says, “I feel blessed to be doing what I like best.”
She mentors all ages, teaching teenagers and weekly adult writing workshops.
“God must have imprinted ‘teacher’ on me clear down to the bone. I taught in public school, then home schooled my children, and worked in private schools. Now my writing week isn’t very productive unless I include some time with kids.”
Her two grown children make her proud, and her two grandsons make her laugh.
Donita is an award-winning author of the Dragon Keeper Chronicle series including DragonFire and DragonKnight.
When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The fantastic land of Amara is recovering from years of war inflicted on its citizens by outside forces–as well as from the spiritual apathy corroding the Amarans’ hearts. With Kale and her father serving as dragon keepers for Paladin, the dragon populace has exploded. It’s a peaceful, exciting time of rebuilding. And yet, an insidious, unseen evil lurks just beneath the surface of the idyllic countryside.
Truth has never been more important, nor so difficult to discern.
As Kale and her father are busy hatching, bonding, and releasing the younger generation of dragons as helpers throughout the kingdom, the light wizard has little time to develop her skills. Her husband, Sir Bardon–despite physical limitations resulting from his bout with the stakes disease–has become a leader, serving on the governing board under Paladin. When Kale and Bardon set aside their daily responsibilities to join meech dragons Regidor and Gilda on a quest to find a hidden meech colony, they encounter sinister forces. Their world is under attack by a secret enemy… can they overcome the ominous peril they can’t even see?
Prepare to experience breathtaking adventure and mind-blowing fantasy as never before in this dazzling, beautifully-crafted conclusion to Donita K. Paul’s popular DragonKeeper Chronicles fantasy series.
If you would like to read the first chapter of DragonLight, go HERE
“DragonLight is a delight, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from the marvelous Donita K. Paul. I heartily recommend her books to all ages who love inspirational fantasy and wonderful creatures. Ms Paul not only supplies imagination and talent, she provides heart and soul. Another winner!”
~KATHRYN MACKEL, author of Boost
“Donita K. Paul is amazing! DragonLight has the allegorical depth to satisfy the most discerning adult seeking spiritual depth, yet it is fun enough to fascinate a child. This book will enthrall, uplift, and if allowed, change lives–as we are gently drawn to realize that each of us is flawed and must have patience with other flawed believers.”
~HANNAH ALEXANDER, author of Double Blind
MY REVIEW:
DragonLight is the first book I have read by Donita K. Paul. I actually put off reading it because I expected it to be more of a children’s book but once I started reading, I couldn’t put it down. Yes, it would appeal to older children but there is enough action and depth to hold an adult’s interest. After reading it, I can’t imagine how I have missed her books before now.
DragonLight is a charming fantasy that pulls the reader into its world. One can almost believe in a world inhabited with wonderfully diverse races, wizards, dragons, and other creatures. The interaction between characters is stellar. The riveting quest is filled with danger, humor, compassion, heroic courage, and enough plot twists to keep the reader engaged. As the cover states, DragonLight is “A Fantastic Journey of Discovery For All Ages”!
by admin | Jul 28, 2008 | Books
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
(Barbour Publishing, Inc – August 1, 2008)
by
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
M. L. (MARYLU) TYNDALL grew up on the beaches of South Florida loving the sea and the warm tropics. But despite the beauty around her, she always felt an ache in her soul–a longing for something more.
After college, she married and moved to California where she had two children and settled into a job at a local computer company. Although she had done everything the world expected, she was still miserable. She hated her job and her marriage was falling apart.
Still searching for purpose, adventure and true love, she spent her late twenties and early thirties doing all the things the world told her would make her happy, and after years, her children suffered, her second marriage suffered, and she was still miserable.
One day, she picked up her old Bible, dusted it off, and began to read. Somewhere in the middle, God opened her hardened heart to see that He was real, that He still loved her, and that He had a purpose for her life, if she’d only give her heart to Him completely.
Her current releases in the Legacy of The Kings Pirates series include:The Restitution, The Reliance, and The Redemption
ABOUT THE BOOK:
When Mademoiselle Dominique Dawson sets foot on the soil of her beloved homeland, England, she feels neither the happiness nor the excitement she expected upon her return to the place of her birth. Alone for the first time in her life, without family, without friends, without protection, she now faces a far more frightening prospect, for she has come to the country she loves as an enemy-a spy for Napoleon.
Forced to betray England or never see her only brother alive again, Dominique has accepted a position as governess to the son of Admiral Chase Randal, a harsh man, still bitter over the loss of his wife. Will Dominique find the strength she needs through God to follow through with the plan to rescue her brother? Will Chase find comfort for his bitter heart in God’s arms and be able to love again?
And what new deceptions will they both find in France when they arrive to carry out their plan?
If you would like to read an excerpt of The Falcon And The Sparrow, go HERE
by admin | Jul 23, 2008 | Books
This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
(WaterBrook Press – July 15, 2008)
by
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Patricia Hickman is an award-winning author of fiction and non-fiction, whose work has been praised by critics and readers alike.
Patricia Hickman began writing many years ago after an invitation to join a writer’s critique group. It was headed up by best-selling author Dr. Gilbert Morris, a pioneer in Christian fiction who has written many best selling titles. The group eventually came to be called the “Nubbing Chits”. All four members of the original “Chits” have gone on to become award-winning and best selling novelists (good fruit, Gil!).
Patty signed her first multi-book contract with Bethany House Publishers. After she wrote several novels “for the market”, she assessed her writer’s life and decided she would follow the leanings of her heart. She says, “It had to be God leading me into the next work which wound up being my first break-out book, Katrina’s Wings. I had never read a southern mainstream novel, yet I knew that one lived in my head, begging to be brought out and developed.” She wanted to create deeper stories that broke away from convention and formula. From her own journey in life, she created a world based upon her hometown in the 70’s, including Earthly Vows and Whisper Town from the Millwood Hollow Series.
Patty and her husband, Randy, have planted two churches in North Carolina. Her husband pastors Family Christian Center, located in Huntersville. The Hickmans have three children, two on earth and one in heaven. Their daughter, Jessi, was involved in a fatal automobile accident in 2001. Through her writing and speaking, Patty seeks to offer help, hope and encouragement to those who walk the daily road of loss and grief.
ABOUT THE BOOK:
In this story of sisterhood and unexpected paths, Gaylen Syler-Boatwright flees her unraveling marriage to take refuge in a mountain cottage owned by her deceased aunt. Burdened with looking after her adult sister, Delia, she is shocked to find a trail of family secrets hidden within her aunt’s odd collection of framed, painted dresses. With Delia, who attracts trouble as a daily occupation, Gaylen embarks on a road trip that throws the unlikely pair together on a journey to painful understanding and delightful revelations.
Steeped in Hickman’s trademark humor, her spare writing voice, and the bittersweet pathos of the South, Painted Dresses powerfully captures a woman’s desperate longing to uncover a hidden, broken life and discover the liberty of living authentically, even when the things exposed are shrouded in shame.
If you would like to read the first chapter, go HERE
MY REVIEW:
Painted Dresses is one of those books that produces mixed feelings. For the most part I enjoyed the southern ambiance and humor that permeated the story. As a lifelong southerner, I guess I could relate. The sense of family love and loyalty was strong. I did have trouble understanding Gaylen’s determination to protect Delia from the results of her own actions at any cost. It seemed to me that it was time for her family to force Delia to grow up by no longer enabling her. As the story progressed, I was able to gain some comprehension of the hidden trauma that controlled their interaction with others.
To me, Painted Dresses illustrates the damage done when well-meaning parents try to protect their children by hiding the truth. As other reviewers have mentioned, it is not always an easy read. The reader will probably not quickly or easily relate to the characters who are obviously warped by their past. I do believe that Painted Dresses does have a message of redemption as the secrets are slowly revealed and Gaylen begins to come to terms with her demons.
Rebeca Seitz is Founder and President of Glass Road Public Relations. An author for several years, Prints Charming being her first novel. Sister’s Ink was the first book in the SISTERS, INK series of novels. (At the center of the creativity and humor are four unlikely young adult sisters, each separately adopted during early childhood into the loving home of Marilyn and Jack Sinclair.)
Chapter One
