Watch RWISA Write Blog Tour – Gwen Plano #RWISA #RRBC

August 5, 2017August 3, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 55 Comments

Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on a tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month, and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.

RWISA

Love at First Sight

By Gwendolyn M Plano

“It doesn’t seem real. It just doesn’t seem real.” Mom muttered as she ran her hand over the curves of dad’s headstone. Sighing deeply, she stared blankly into the horizon.

After a few minutes, she turned and faced me. “I tell myself that it must be real.” She seemed to want my approval. “The stone says we were married 70 years. It must have happened; I must have been married. But, but…why can’t I remember?” She searched my face for answers.

Stooped from the burden of years now elusive and sometimes vacant, mom held my arm while she walked to either side of the monument.

“I saw him in a dream. Did I tell you that?”

“No, mom, I don’t think you did.”

“He was young, like when we first met.”

“Really? Could you tell me about how you met?”

“How?” Mom’s eyes darted to and fro as she struggled to answer. Then, as though the curtains lifted, she responded.

“Yes…yes, I can tell you how we met.”

“Let’s sit here, mom.” I led her to a cement bench under a tall oak tree near dad’s grave. “Now tell me how the two of you met.”

Mom took a deep breath and began. “It was during the war. I remember it now. It was 1944. There were posters in our high school which asked us to sign up to work at the Consolidated Aircraft factory in San Diego. They needed help building B-24 bombers. We called the bombers the Liberators. My sister and I and several of our girlfriends decided we wanted to help our country. Most of the boys in our class were enlisting in the army or navy. We wanted to do our part too.”

“Like Rosie the Riveter?”

“Oh, yes! We all wanted to be Rosie. Your grandparents didn’t much like the idea, but they knew the families of the other girls, and since we’d be living together and would watch out for one another, they finally agreed. After all, it was the patriotic thing to do.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of mom being Rosie and asked where she lived.

“We lived with Aunt Lena on India Street in San Diego. She put in bunk beds for us. At night, we’d wash out our clothes and tie the pieces to the bedsprings so that they could dry overnight.”

“When we arrived at Consolidated, they gave each of us a uniform – blue pants and jacket. And, we had classes for a week or two. Most of us were assigned the job of riveting. It’s hard to believe, but there were about 20,000 women working at the factory. The assembly line was a mile long, and believe it or not, we built about nine bombers a day. Isn’t that amazing?”

“That is amazing, mom.” Pride glowed from mom’s face, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of her as well.

“I was assigned to the wings. I hate heights, but I’d climb on top of those wings and pretend I was sitting on the hood of a car. I didn’t get afraid that way. One day, when I was sitting up there, holding a riveting gun, your dad came by.”

“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?” I thought I might be in trouble, but he smiled, so I smiled back.

“It’s Lauretta.”

“Well, Lauretta, you’re doing a great job. If you need anything, let me know. My name’s Jim, and I’m the foreman for this area.”

I put my arm around mom’s shoulder. “My goodness, mom, you were on the wing of a bomber when you met dad?”

“Sounds funny, doesn’t it? But, yes, that’s the first time we talked. I didn’t pay much attention to him, but my sister would whisper to me, “There he is again. I think he likes you. He keeps looking this way.”

Mom lowered her eyes and giggled. “Of course, I didn’t believe her.”

After pausing a bit, she continued. “Your dad started walking home with us in the evening. He lived further up the hill from us, so it wasn’t out of his way. Mind you, I was wearing the company uniform and had my hair in a bandana, so I was hardly a beauty.”

“Anyway, one day he asked if I’d like to come up to his place. And, I was stupid and said okay. That’s when I learned about the facts of life. You know, sex.”

“You didn’t know before then, mom?”

“No, but he taught me that night.” Mom giggled and put her hand on her face. “He wanted to get married right then. But, I told him no, he had to talk to my parents. We needed to do it right. Besides, I hardly knew him. There were a lot of shot-gun marriages those days. We all thought the end of the world was coming, and well, young lovers didn’t hold back.”

“So, you and dad became lovers?”

“You know the answer to that, don’t you? When I didn’t have my cycle, I knew I was pregnant. Your dad was elated and didn’t hesitate to talk to your grandparents. Of course, I was ashamed. But, I want you to understand something. You might have been the reason we married, but you were not the reason we stayed together for 70 years.”

“Did you love him, mom?” The question came out before I could filter it.

“I did, I just didn’t know I did. Your dad would tell anyone who would listen, ‘When I saw Lauretta on the wing of a B-24 bomber, I knew that she was the one for me.’ He’d say it all the time, ‘She’s the one for me!’” Mom giggled as she thought about this story. “Your dad always said it was love at first sight. But it wasn’t that way for me.”

“What do you mean by that, mom?”

“Well, love is a strange word, isn’t it? Your dad seemed to know from the first time he saw me that he wanted to marry me. I didn’t feel that way. I think my focus was romance or dreams. And, your dad wasn’t the wooing type.”

“I believe I fell in love with him after you were born. He thought you were the most beautiful baby in the whole world. In fact, I think he was happiest when he was holding you. He’d sing to you and rock you to sleep every night.”

She dropped her head, and tears rolled down her cheeks. My tears fell as well.

“He was a good man, a faithful man. Did I tell you his promise?”

I shook my head, and said, “no.”

“You know that he grew up hungry, right? During the Dust Bowl, his family barely survived. In fact, two of his sisters died. Well, your dad promised me that his children would never go hungry. He would make sure of it. And, he did. He worked two jobs most of our marriage, and you kids were never hungry.” She paused and looked into my eyes.

“Your dad kept his promises.”

Mom grew silent. Her face turned from animated to expressionless, and I did not know what to think. She whispered something that I had to ask her to repeat. She sighed and looked at me again.

“It just doesn’t seem real.”

Gwen's Parents

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Gwen Plano RWISA Author

Watch RWISA Write Blog Tour – Beem Weeks #RWISA #RRBC

August 4, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 22 Comments

Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on a tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.

RWISA

Wordless

“What’s that word say?”

“That’s an easy one, Daddy. Just sound it out.”

Levi Bacchus can’t read. 36 years old, and he’d never learned the meaning of a single sentence.

“I just ain’t cut out for this, Jamie Lynn.”

The girl’s countenance dropped in disagreement—just like her mother, that one.

“So, you’re a quitter now?” she bellowed, sounding too much like the woman who’d walked out of their lives two years earlier.

Levi took offense. “Mind your manners, Missy. I ain’t never been called no quitter.”

“Reading is something everybody should be able to do, is all I’m saying.”

“It’s easy for you,” Levi argued. “You’re just a kid, still in school. You have teachers telling you what to do and how to do it. I’m just too old for learning.”

The girl narrowed her gaze, jabbed a finger into the open book. “From the beginning,” she demanded.

His heaving huff meant he’d do it again—if only for her sake.

Words formed in his head before finding place on his tongue. Some came through in broken bits and pieces, while others arrived fully formed and ready for sound.

Jamie’s excitement in the matter is why he kept trying. Well, that and the fact he’d long desired the ability to pick up the morning paper and offer complaint or praise for the direction of the nation. All those people in the break room at the plant held their own opinions on everything from the president to the latest championship season enjoyed by the local high school football team.

“That’s good, Daddy,” Jamie said, patting her father on the arm. “That’s really good. You’ll be reading books before too long.”

A smile worked at the edges of his lips, refusing to go unnoticed.

“I’d like that, Sweet Pea.” That’s all he’d say of the matter. If it came to that, well then, he’d have accomplished something worth appreciating.

Levi harbored bigger notions than merely reading books. When a man can read, he can do or be anything he wants to be. His own father often said a man who can’t read is forever in bondage. How can a man truly be free if he cannot read the document spelling out the very rights bestowed upon him by simple virtue of birth? No sir; being illiterate no longer appealed to him.

Of his immediate family—father, mother, two older brothers—only Levi failed to attend college. Oh, he graduated from high school. Being a star quarterback will afford that sort of luxury. But when those coaches from the universities came calling, low test scores couldn’t open doors that promised more than a life spent in auto factories.

He’d seen a show on TV about a man who’d been sent to prison for five years for armed robbery. While there, this man learned to read, took a course on the law, and became a legal secretary upon his release. Eight years later, he’d earned a law degree and opened his very own practice.

Levi didn’t see himself arguing cases in a court of law—defending criminals most likely to be guilty just didn’t appeal to his sense of right and wrong. What he did see, however, is the need for a good and honest person to run the city he’d forever called home.

“Think I could be mayor?” he asked his daughter.

Jamie Lynn always grinned over such talk. “Everybody has to have a dream, Daddy.”

It’s what she always says.

Everything begins with a dream.

She gets that part of her from her mother.

“Once I can read without stopping to ask questions,” he mused, “maybe I’ll throw my hat into the ring, huh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking questions,” she answered, weaving wisdom between her words.

* * *

She’d been a girl scout, his daughter—daisies and brownies before that. It’s the other girls who bullied her out of the joy that sort of thing once offered. Straight A’s have a way of making others feel inferior, even threatened.

But Jamie Lynn isn’t the type to pine or fret. She chose to tutor—and not just her father, either. Kids come to the house needing to know this and that among mathematics or English or science. Her dream? To be a teacher one day.

And she’ll accomplish that much and more.

Her mother had that very same sense about her as well. She knew what she wanted in life, and cleared the path upon which she traveled.

High school sweethearts they’d been, Jamie Lynn’s mother and father. She’d been the pretty cheerleader, he’d been the All-American boy with a cannon for an arm. She went to college, he didn’t.

But she returned to him, joyfully accepting his proposal for a life together. Her degree carried her back to the high school from which they’d both graduated. This time, rather than student, she became teacher—American History.

Levi went to work building Cadillacs in the local plant. It paid well, offered medical benefits and paid vacation time. Life settled into routines.

Then came their little bundle. This didn’t sit well with the newly-minted history teacher. No sir. It’s as if Levi had intentionally sabotaged his own wife’s career in some fiendish plot to keep her home.

Words of love became “stupid” and “ignorant” and “illiterate ass.” She walked out one evening and never came back to the home they’d built together.

A former student, he’d heard—five years her junior. They’d ran off together, supposedly making a new home somewhere out west.

Levi didn’t challenge it. He received the house and the kid in exchange for his signature on those papers he couldn’t even read.

Jamie Lynn, she’s the light that shined in his darkness, showed him there’s still so much more living to be done. And learning to read, well, that just added to the adventure.

* * *

The night came when he read an entire chapter from one of Jamie Lynn’s old middle school books—straight through, unpunctuated by all those starts and stops and nervous questions. By the end of the month, Levi had managed the entire story—all 207 pages.

“We have to celebrate, Daddy,” she insisted.

It’d been the silly draw of embarrassment that twisted his head left and right, his voice saying, “No need to make a fuss, Sweet Pea.”

But fuss is only the beginning. “Dinner and a movie,” she ordered. “Then we’ll stop off at the mall and pick out a few books that you might like.”

There were stories he recalled from his boyhood; books other kids clutched under their arms and took for granted. Stories that stirred so much excitement in those young lives.

They’d belong to him now.

“You’re finally blooming, Daddy—just like a flower.”

And so was his daughter.

A teacher in the making.

Beem Weeks RWISA Author site

Watch RWISA Write Blog Tour -Laurie Finkelstein #RWISA #RRBC

August 3, 2017August 1, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 27 Comments

Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on a tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.

RWISA

Bulletproof Vest

By Laurie Finkelstein

The bulk, padding, and steel plates weigh me down. The protection of a bulletproof vest is necessary. No matter the weather, I wear the cloak. The weight is a burden, but I trek on because wrapped is the only way to navigate my journey. The jacket protects my heart from being blown to crimson shards of death.

A direct hit is avoided for days and nights, lulling me into calm and complacency. “All will work out fine,” I tell myself. The truth tells a story I want to change. All my will and might does not make an impact to stop the bombardment.

Experience and time separates me from tragedy. At any moment, the bullets strike. Inside or out. My house cannot provide security, nor can a million people surrounding me. With nowhere to hide, I am a target. Shelter and safety are nonexistent.

Discharges are held back while luck and grace harbor me. The slugs will come, however, in a piercing barrage without warning, and will pummel me.

Knocked to the ground, I am immobilized and rendered helpless. My breathing is halted. My movements are stopped, and I understand what assaulted me.

The shockwave subsides, and in small increments, I am able to take in air. Incapacitated, I continue to lie until I am rescued by the rational thinking buried under an avalanche of pain, doubt, and fear. My thoughts check my vitals to make sure I am in the here and now. “Stay in the moment,” I tell myself. “I can manage this. I will persevere.”

“Rise,” I command. The mass of the garb constricts my movement, but I stand, analyze what must be done, and begin to act. The warrior in me comes out. Battles will be fought. My impervious attire gets me through another crisis, and its weight comforts me. Without the guise, I am unable to prevail against the onslaughts, which pop out of the dark corners of another day.

Yes, my vest is cumbersome, but without my swathe I will not withstand the painful projectiles. Clips are filled, ready to punch and knock me down, disabling me should I forget for a moment to cloak myself within my protective armor.

My bullets are not made of lead, surrounded by a dense metal. The projectiles do not come from terrorists intent on decimating me. The ammo does not come from a police state or a dictator’s command. A barrel is not involved.

My bullets are made of depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Composed of irrational thoughts, insipid ideations, and ignorant rationalizations, they are crushing invisible forces. The capacity to shatter my resolve and render me dysfunctional invades me.

My unsociable enemy is treatable, but never disappears. My therapists validate my experiences of being trapped, resentful, guilty, shameful, ill-equipped, grief-stricken, lost, uncertain, and disabled. My growth in therapy helps me accept the challenge with compassion and empathy in my heart.

Throughout my lifetime three stages will haunt me.

Stage one is the onslaught of rounds. The crisis mode. The shock and pain.

Stage two is being slammed down, breath taken away. Sabotaged. Terms and feelings of the emergency are acknowledged.

Stage three is advocacy for myself. Stand. Breathe. Make decisions. Tools in hand to counteract the depression and anxiety and OCD. Utilize appropriate response and care.

Encouraged by others, I enroll in Toastmasters. Time for me to improve my public speaking and thinking on my feet. Professional and compelling ways of expressing my views is a talent I want to possess. Persuasive interactions are in reach. My computer with Google as my guide, I find the Toastmasters website. The rules and guidelines answer many of my questions. Ready to take on the challenge, I enter my credit card information and become a member. A direct thrust knocks me down.

At first, I don’t understand what attacks me. My heartbeat begins speeding up. My gasps for air speed up. My head spins with dizziness. The mighty effects of terror hammer me to the ground. Despair sinks me deeper into the attack.

Stage one. The thought of standing before people enunciating in a clear voice avoiding “ums” and “ahs” strikes with negative force. In a semi-frozen state of fear and regret, I struggle to make sense of my attacker. Groups of Toastmasters are warm, safe environments to learn public speaking and leadership skills. “Warm and safe,” I remind myself. Still my heart beats faster and my breath diminishes by the second. A ghost of recognition appears before me. Panic is familiar.

Stage two. My history tells me to take an extra Klonopin. Scared to death is not an option. Upon reaching my medicine cabinet with weak, wobble-producing legs, I discover my pill case empty. In my next move, I check the bottle. Empty. My heart beats faster and my limbs go numb. Sweat trickles down my forehead. My last attempt before I collapse in a heap of despair, I call my pharmacist. My trembling voice separated from my body explains my attack and lack of pills. “How fast can you fill the prescription?” my quivering voice speaks out. “Is ten minutes okay?” the pharmacy technician asks.

Stage three. My inner voice tells me to be brave. Think of a serene place. My happy place. Take deep soothing breaths. My toolbox is ransacked for more options until I come to grips with the present. The dispensary is too far to hike, so I must drive to pick up my pills. Cranked engine. Foot on pedal. Brake released. My self-talk takes me on a wild ride to the drug store. My trembling legs walk me to the back of the aisles. The friendly face of the tech reassures me. The credit card transaction is signed with a jellylike hand, completing the purchase.

Back in my car, I down the remedy with tepid water from an old bottle sitting in my trash. My panting is steadier, my heart pounding a little less. Within thirty minutes, I am relaxed, able to pursue my day. Ready to reassess my decision to become a Toastmaster. The choice is sound and important.

My bulletproof vest is worn as a badge of honor and survival. Without my garb, I would be a prisoner in my house, hiding in bed. Sick to my stomach. Useless.

The stigma of mental illness must be broken. My vest is worn with pride. I am a survivor. I am the voice of one in every five Americans experiencing the assailant. I am not alone.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Laurie Finkelstein RWISA Auther Page

Watch RWISA Write Blog Tour – Karen Ingalls #RWISA #RRBC

August 2, 2017July 31, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 20 Comments

As most of you know, I am a member of Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on a tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.

RWISA

A FISHY DAY

By Karen Ingalls

It was one of those wonderful August days when the sun was high and warm in the sky. The big cumulus clouds slowly drifted by, creating designs that filled Jim’s imagination, who at nine years could see all kinds of amazing sights. He had been playing with his model airplane in his aunt and uncle’s yard, where he spent the summers on their ranch in San Diego, California. Staying with Uncle Leon and Aunt Helen was always a special time of adventure, fun and farm work.

“Jim, do you want to go to the pasture with me? We’ll check the water trough for the cattle,” Uncle Leon asked, at the same time he took his handkerchief and wiped some perspiration from his tan brow.

“Oh, yes,” Jim responded with great excitement. He ran to the front porch and put his treasured airplane on the table next to where Aunt Helen sat in her rocking chair.

Uncle Leon walked over to the Allis-Chalmers tractor and stretched his long, thin legs up and over onto the metal seat. “All right, Jim, you can come on up now.” Jim awkwardly managed to climb up and grab hold of his uncle’s hand, who swung him onto his lap. With the turn of the key, the tractor began to vibrate and the engine roared. Shifting the gears into forward, Leon yelled, “Here we go!”

The pasture was a favorite place for Jim with its rolling hills, oak trees, and green grass. It was always a peaceful place where a boy could run until he was out of breath, and then fall onto the grass and let the wind gently blow over his panting body. Many were the times that Jim would spend his days, just climbing in the oak trees pretending he was hiding from some enemy, or shooting squirrels with his imaginary rifle.

He and his uncle drove through the pasture until they came to a large trough sitting by a water pump on the top of a knoll. The cattle were grazing some distance away, but their occasional moos could be heard.

Uncle Leon helped Jim off the tractor and then sauntered up to the trough. “Not much water left so we best get this filled up.”

Jim was leaning over the trough where the top of it just reached his chest. “What can I do? I want to help.”

“Well, now, how about you pump the water in once I get it primed,” replied Uncle Leon with his usual smiling face. He was happy that Jim wanted to help, but he also knew that pumping water would be a big job for such a young lad. Once he had the water flowing with each downward motion of the pump handle, he instructed, “Okay, young feller, it is your turn now.”

Jim eagerly grabbed the handle and standing on his tiptoes, pushed it down, smiling happily when the water gushed into the trough. He repeated the pumping for as long as he could, but all too quickly his arms and shoulders began to ache. Jim did not want to admit that he was getting tired, but his uncle knew and said, “How about if I do it for a while?”

Once the water neared the top, Jim leaned over cupping some water into his hands. “This is the best tasting water I’ve ever had,” Jim thought to himself. He slurped several handfuls into his dry mouth.

Looking over at his nephew, Leon asked with a twinkle in his eye, “Did you see that fish drop into the water from this here pump?”

“What fish?”

“Why, that fish that came right out of the pump into the trough. I thought sure you would have seen him while you were drinking the water.”

“No, sir. I didn’t see any fish.” Jim wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve and earnestly looked in the water.

“Well, he must still be in there.” Uncle Leon leaned over the trough looking for the mysterious fish. “Now isn’t that something. I can’t see him anywhere.” He peeked a look at his nephew, who now had eyes as big as saucers. “I wonder if you accidentally swallowed that poor little fish while you were drinking all that water.”

Jim stepped back from the trough and began to rub his stomach. “I don’t think so, sir.” The minutes passed and Uncle Leon continued to wonder out loud what happened to the fish. Jim began to imagine that the fish was swimming in his stomach. “I don’t feel so good,” Jim said as he stretched down on the cool grass.

Seeing that his nephew was fearful and feeling sick, Uncle Leon laid down next to him and pointed up towards the clouds. “Jim, look at that cloud up there. See the little one next to the big puffy cloud?”

He waited until Jim nodded his head and said, “I think so.”

“It kind of looks like a fish, doesn’t it? I wonder if that is the fish that was in the trough.”

Jim looked at his uncle, then up at the clouds, and then back at his uncle who was smiling from ear to ear. Uncle Leon laughed and began to tickle Jim’s stomach. “Or, is that fish still here? Where is that fish?”

Jim laughed and joked right back while he patted his uncle’s stomach. “No, I think that fish is right here!”

Soon they both stopped laughing and just looked at one another. “I hope I don’t tease you too much,” Uncle Leon said.

“Oh no, Sir.” Jim looked at his uncle and went on to say, “I like to tease my younger brothers. Mother is always telling me not to do it too much. She doesn’t want them to cry.”

“Well, I would never want to make you cry.” Uncle Leon put his big hand on Jim’s head. “Do you know why?” Jim slowly shook his head back and forth not wanting his uncle to remove his hand. “I love you too much to ever make you cry for any reason.”

With tears in his eyes, Jim whispered, “I love you, too.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sun, the warm breeze, and just being next to one another in the grass, watching the clouds drift by. It was a special day that Jim always remembered with a smile.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA“ WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Karen Ingalls RWISA Author Page

Watch RWISA Write Blog Tour – Yvette Colleiro #RWISA #RRBC

August 1, 2017July 31, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 40 Comments

RWISA

Words

By Yvette M Calleiro

The written word and I

Are cherished friends,

Embracing each other’s thoughts and emotions

Like kindred spirits,

Dancing on clouds.

Bosom buddies who gossip and giggle

And gasp at all the same moments.

She and I are equals,

More than that, really.

We are two parts of a whole,

Complementing and complimenting the other,

Perfect beings.

The spoken word and I

Skirt around each other’s social circles.

We stumble around awkward pauses,

Unable to pull the perfect word or phrase

From our filing cabinet of knowledge.

Ease and grace flee without a moment’s notice.

She is more skilled than I.

She whispers her intricately woven ideas into my mind,

But her delicate strength is no match for

The hills of anxiety and the mountains of insecurity

That obstruct her path to freedom.

Before her words can reach my tongue,

They unravel into shreds of confusion,

Left unspoken.

If only the written word and the spoken word

Could meet…

They would live in perfect harmony.

But alas…

It is not meant to be,

Neither willing to leave her domain,

Each content to dance alone,

And I…

I am stuck in the middle,

Pulled in both directions,

Reveling in the comfort of the written word,

Needing the spoken word to survive.

But still I dream

Of the day when my words will intermingle

And a new love affair can be born.

Yvette Calleiro RWISA Author Page

The Neon Houses Blog Tour with Linda Mims #RRBC

February 24, 2017February 23, 2017 ~ John W. Howell ~ 56 Comments

Linda Mims

I want to Welcome Linda Mims to Fiction Favorites. She has just released her book The Neon Houses, and she is on tour with 4Wills Publishing. I am pleased she chose to stop by today.

Thanks, John.

What Will Writing be Like in 2065

My good friend, also named Linda, doesn’t own a Kindle and her iPad doesn’t hold any novels. Reason being, Linda is a former librarian, and her love for books runs deep. When asked how she thinks writers will communicate with readers in the future, she just shakes her head. Recently retired from more than 30 years spent in the preservation of books and their care, she loves nothing better than to crack open a real book and inhale the fragrance of a freshly published novel—preferably in hardback. Writing in the future is going to remain the same, as far as she’s concerned.

As an indie author who, to date, hasn’t tried vanity publishing or the Amazon interpretation of a physical book, I have a different view of what writing will be like in the future. My friend Linda may or may not read my ebooks when they’re published (she probably will), but I fear that if she doesn’t get onboard the ebook train, she will be missing out on some awesome future writers.

Today’s young writers are using both traditional publishing and self-publishing, and their work is rife with intellect, deep meaning, and skilled storytelling. They are poised to become the recorders of our lives, our chroniclers—the writers of the future. All indie writers are surging and telling their stories. They’ve seen what traditional publishers are touting as best sellers and decided they can do as well and, in some cases, better.

What do I imagine future writing will be like in 50 years? In my book, The Neon Houses I describe a scene where over half the population of the town, Gang Territory can’t read. The percent of writers in 50 years may not be any better than the percent of readers. It will be different! Virtual book sales will grow as will the methods of viewing them. Right now we have Kindle, Nook and iPad devices, but over the next few decades, other apparatus will crop up because there can never be enough great ideas and App designers will invent ways to enhance the reading experience with moving pictures, animated sounds, and a hyped version of reader immersion.

My guess, based solely on supposition and conjecture, is that the FCC will attempt to bring the world-wide web under the umbrella of regulated services. Users will have tired of hackers, identity thieves, predators, and foreign terrorists strong-arming the air-waves. A segment of people, who want to tame their own frontier, will run an internet outside government control, but without a lot of money for refinement and regular upgrading. They will be the crusaders and defenders of writing and free speech in 2065.

Writing of the future will resort back to the written (pen and paper) version of what it was in the mid 20th Century for many people. Communication between and amongst people will have returned, and technology and social media will take a backseat to social interaction where people actually meet and talk face to face.

However, the same fifty years could see Ebonics having taken control of language and communication in our inner cities. Facebook and 140 character Twitter lingo may have encouraged a form of modernist communication that will be spoken and written by only the technologically limited and the poorly educated.

Future writers of this ilk will have stories to tell, but they will have no idea how to research them, sans the internet and sans Google. Over the years the internet will have eradicated the need for encyclopedias, dictionaries, and thesauri and left writers with no idea how to research information on their own.

Most public schools will have ruled out reading the classics and, sorry E. D. Hirsch, Jr., “Cultural Literacy” will be an obsolete idea, meaningful only to the very wealthy. Consequently writing in the future by inner-city school children will be random, infrequent, or nonexistent.

Fifty years from now, illiterate citizens will head to city parks on heralded “reading nights” to hear the classics read by those who remember how to read and to whom the skill was passed.

***
Author Bio:

Linda Mims started creating tales in her head as a child. At age 12, she knew she was onto something when she sold a story to her grandmother for a quarter, but it was her dad’s more practical advice, to get a good education and find a real job, that she followed.
After retiring from her “real job” as an educator, Linda began her writing career as an indie author. The tale of The Neon Houses was born out of a careless comment that people had lost interest in reading. The joke was that decades from now we’d need to hold reading nights in neighborhood parks for citizens who wouldn’t be able to read.
Linda rolled that idea around in her head until it turned into a whole society of have-nots. Once the idea got rolling, she worked nonstop until she’d finished the first draft. Writing is now her real job!
Linda Mims resides in a small suburban town 30 miles outside of Chicago, IL where she likes to cook, garden, and blog, sometimes simultaneously. She is married to her long-time love, has two grown daughters and one bossy, bichon-pom, Alexis.
Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/boom_lyn
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLindaMimsmbria
Website – https://lindamims.com/blog/

The Neon Houses

***
THE NEON HOUSES

Dr. Noel Kennedy hears screams inside her head, but the screams aren’t hers. While preparing for her annual end-of-summer barbecue, Noel hears her young friend—twenty-year-old Zarah Fisher—screaming for her life. However, Zarah is miles away!
Noel knows the exact moment Zarah takes her last breath because Noel has a secret! It’s a secret that not even her husband Richard knows.
As the Deputy Chief of Schools of Gang Territory, Noel has perfected her life. She is a solid, middle-class citizen from New Chicago, Incorporated. New Chicago and Gang Territory have become vastly different societies since the early Urban Wars. Now, the year 2087 finds New Chicago’s military-trained police determined to enforce laws that keep “gang people” out.
Harlem Pierce, a New Chicago police detective, has been warned to stay away from this case and he urges Noel to let it go. But a new killing involves Noel’s younger cousin and her boyfriend and links Noel to it in a startling way.
Who can Noel draw on? Must she turn to Warren Simpson—the menacing, treacherous boss of Gang Territory? Or … could he be the killer?

“The tour sponsored by 4WillsPublishing.wordpress.com.”

The Lost Bow Blog Tour with P.H.Solomon #RRBC

August 19, 2016August 19, 2016 ~ John W. Howell ~ 42 Comments

I am pleased to have P.H. Solomon author of The Bow of Destiny visit Fiction Favorites as part of his “The Lost Bow” blog tour by 4WillsPublishing

Haunted by his past. Hunted in the present. Uncertain what is real.

Athson has seen things that aren’t there and suffered fits since being tragically orphaned as a child at the hands of trolls and Corgren the wizard. When a strange will mentioning a mysterious bow comes into his possession, he’s not sure it’s real. But the trolls that soon pursue him are all too real and dangerous. And what’s worse, these raiders serve Corgren and his master, the hidden dragon, Magdronu, who are responsible for the destruction of his childhood home. Athson is drawn into a quest for the concealed Bow of Hart by the mystic Withling, Hastra, but Athson isn’t always sure what’s real and who his enemies are. With Corgren and Magdronu involved, Athson must face not only frequent danger but his grasp on reality and the reasons behind his tragic past.

The Bow of Destiny is, at its heart, an adventure quest to find a special bow. Where is it? Who has it? Why is truly special? Is the main character meant to possess it and, if so, to what end?

Few people know anything certain about the bow. The Lost Bow Tour leads you on the path to begin finding out all the secrets that lie in The Bow of Destiny. The world of Denaria is open to everyone to begin discovering answers to the questions and enjoy the adventure of this fantasy quest.

Wow, you almost got lost in that river! Good thing you brought those floaties – I think they helped. You almost took a Missoua Boat Ride!

[https://youtu.be/t-KEnU9TBmQ]

Glad you made it though – I really don’t know where that river goes. Oh yes, here’s a towel, stay down, though, you never know if there’s still a troll shooting arrows this way.

I’ll let you grab a breath for a few minutes after all that and share some different details about The Bow of Destiny. First, here’s a recent review that I liked from a reader who posted on Amazon:

Destiny can be… inconvenient, but is always unavoidable.

Without any spoilers, I can only say that the author was wise in his choices. The characters are multi-dimensional, yet true to the tone of the epic fantasy in progress. You will find yourself spending far too much time reading this one, and neglecting other things. But in the end, you’ll have had a ride in a world of magic, and more. The journey to…. but that’s a spoiler, so all I’ll say is that one can almost see the trail, and fear the Trolls.

That’s quite nice and one of the best-written reviews I’ve had. Next, here’s the trailer for The Bow of Destiny:

Here are more nice words for The Bow of Destiny which I received in email from a reader:

“I thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the opportunity to step into the magical and special world that you have created. It is a solid and well-crafted work that you should be so thrilled with.”

Now to some internet radio interviews I’ve had over the last year:

Beyond the Cover on Rave Waves

The Magic Happens

Speculative Fiction Cantina

Also here are a few recent blog appearances:

The Thursday Interview

Bookwraiths: Tuesday Teaser

And one of my favorites on C. S. Boyack’s Lisa Burton Radio (which is actually a great blog series).

And now a few last reviews:

“I’ve been waiting for this since reading the prequels, and it was well worth the wait.

The author kept enough of the story a mystery until the right time while maintaining an engrossing story full of description and heartfelt love and angst. One of the highlights for me was the way the story started off with Athson having some difficulty before gradually moving away from some of the elements. I would say more, but I don’t want to spoil it. Sorry.

The characters were well written and engaging to the point I felt for Athson and wanted him to tell off Hastra through most of the book. Lol. Even Athson’s growing relationship with Limbreth felt right and was a pleasant change from the usual “fall in love at first sight” that’s common in fantasy. Out of all of the characters, Corgren remains one of my favorites, but he was bumped down to second place by the giant Ralda. Ralda’s complexity added an element that was briefly touched on in a couple of scenes, and I’m curious to see if his character branches off in his own book or series.

Overall, this has become one of my favorite fantasy books, and I’m looking forward to the rest of the series.” CP on Amazon

“This is P. H. Solomon’s first book in the Bow of Hart Saga and in a word I found it incredible! The story is so rich with different elements that I found myself totally engrossed from the very beginning.

The opening perspective was very interesting and unexpected. I would say more, but I hate it when people give away too much of the plot in a review.

The action sequences were gripping and written in such a way as to make you feel like you are there with the main character at each twist and turn of the story.

I loved the maps of the lands, the different dialects, and races in the story, the use of magic in that it wasn’t overused but rather a wonderful seasoning to the story.

It is easy to see the time and attention to detail the author has put into this book. Give this story a try; you will not be disappointed!” Jerry Connell on Amazon

“The writing style is great, really enjoyed reading this book. Couldn’t put it down. OK…so book 2?” Malikai on Amazon

That’s all for today, get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow. You might wear something comfortable for climbing tomorrow for our last little adventure. And, uh, make sure you’ve signed the old will and remember you’re on your own here…

Book 1 of The Bow of Hart Saga: The Bow of Destiny can be found at these online retailers: Barnes & Noble, Kobo, iBooks, Amazon – Kindle & Smashwords. See the book trailer.

About the Author

PH SOLOMON

P. H. Solomon lives in the greater Birmingham, AL area where he strongly dislikes yard work and sanding the deck rail. However, he performs these duties to maintain a nice home for his loved ones as well as the family’s German Shepherds. In his spare time, P. H. rides herd as a Computer Whisperer on large computers called servers (harmonica not required). Additionally, he enjoys reading, running, most sports and fantasy football. Having a degree in Anthropology, he also has a wide array of more “serious” interests in addition to working regularly to hone his writing. The Bow of Destiny is his first novel-length title with more soon to come.

Contact

Wattpad | Amazon Author | Email

Sign-up to receive my free ebooks today.

PH Solomon books

“The tour sponsored by 4WillsPublishing.wordpress.com.”

Rave Reviews Book Club Book & Blog Party #RRBC

August 16, 2016August 16, 2016 ~ John W. Howell ~ 152 Comments

Block Party

Welcome to my post which is coming to you from Post Aransas Texas and is only one of the 65+ posts on this year’s Rave Reviews Book Club Book & Blog Party. You can go here to see the complete lineup.

Today if you will leave a comment on this post you will be eligible to win:

A Ten Dollar Gift Card from Amazon

There will be one gift card given away, but you need to comment to be entered in the drawing. The winner will be announced tomorrow.

I would like to give you a little information about my Books.

The first book in the John J. Cannon Trilogy is My GRL

My GRL

Blurb: John J. Cannon successful San Francisco lawyer takes a leave of absence from the firm and buys a boat he names My GRL. He is unaware that his newly purchased boat had already been targeted by a terrorist group. John’s first inkling of a problem is when he wakes up in the hospital where he learns he was found unconscious next to the dead body of the attractive young woman who sold him the boat in the first place. John now stands between the terrorists and the success of their mission.

Amazon Link.

The Second book is titled His Revenge

His Revenge front final

Blurb: America loves John Cannon, its newest hero, and the President wants to present him with the highest civilian medal for bravery for saving the Annapolis midshipman from a terrorist plot to destroy them. While in Washington for the award ceremony, John unwillingly becomes an accomplice in another plan by the same group to attack the credibility of the US President and the stability of the worldwide oil market. There is no way out as John either becomes a traitor to America or causes thousands of innocent people to die if he refuses.

Amazon Link

Coming in September is the third book in the Trilogy, Our Justice

Our Justice

Blurb: The terrorist leader and financier Matt Jacobs has figured out a plan to eliminate the President. He is relying on John Cannon’s stature as a hero to help him carry it off. John finds himself walking the fine line of pretending to help Matt while trying to figure out a countermeasure to the plan. The third book in the John J. Cannon Trilogy brings together two strong wills for a showdown. The question to be answered is who will feel the satisfaction that the achievement of justice delivers? John, Matt or neither.

#RRBC Spotlight Author Micki Peluso

July 12, 2016July 8, 2016 ~ John W. Howell ~ 72 Comments

I am pleased to welcome Micki Peluso to Fiction Favorites. Micki has received Rave Reviews Book Club’s Spotlight Author honor and will be on tour this week .

Spotlight Author

The Rewards of Writing . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang

While writing this book was something I had sworn to do as a deathbed promise to the one I lost, it was both blessing and bane. There were times when I laughed and times when I cried—just like my readers. Many supernatural events happened as I finished the book, just as they did throughout parts of the story. A whippoorwill, not indigenous to where I live now, sat in the bushes near my deck and sang his sad three syllable song as I wrote the hardest part of the book. Upon typing ‘The End,’ the elusive bird disappeared only to return in pure sight the day I had my first book signing. The whippoorwill sat upon the top of the small flagpole in front of my house and looked at me. The bird allowed me to get within six inches in front of it and we just stared at each other. As I reached out to touch it, off it flew, never to be seen again.

Parts of this true story seemed written by someone other than me. How could I have remembered dialogue from several decades ago? Yet I sensed it was accurate. While I was happy and relieved to finally complete it, that was also painful. I’d brought my daughter back while writing of her funny, wonderful life and in ending the book, I lost her; yet again.

Now that I am marketing the book, I’ve been blessed with remarkable happenings. I knew the book would both entertain and move many people, but I had no idea to what extent. I have been pleased and amazed by the amount of letters, e-mails, and phone calls I get from readers. This book has been able to ease some of their own pain, promise them hope, and comfort them in their trials. I never saw that coming and it continues to astound and humble me.

Young boys, aged fifteen and up, to older men at eighty-two are reading the book and finding something in it for them. I had imagined my audience would be strictly women with children, but that has not been the case. Teachers and librarians from her High School write me with their own remembrances of her, as well as her classmates and friends. Many, after reading the book go to her gravesite and leave flowers. Some of them e-mail me with stories and experiences with Noelle that I never knew, and for that I am grateful. Again, I am overcome by these things. Some, having known her long ago, are torn between wanting to read the book and afraid to trust their emotions.

What was started as a promise has become a fulfillment far beyond my wildest expectations. I could ask nothing greater than to have this book make a difference in the lives of those who read it. Knowing that some who read this book may become more aware of the dangers of drinking and driving, and more importantly, realize that life is made up of choices—choices which dictate life and death—inspires me to want to write more books. Having teenagers read the book is another blessing, as they realize that teenagers from 1959 to the present are basically the same. I pray that they will, with help from this book, stop and take responsibility for the both their safety and the lives of others. Will I ever attain closure? Probably not, but then do I really want it? As proud and humbled as I am from the reaction to . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang, I believe that somewhere in another realm, Noelle is smiling.

Whippoorwill

The elusive whippoorwill swoops down the mountains. Through night into dawn its song mourns summer’s loss–as I cry mine.

AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, a 300 page memoir, opens with eloping teenagers, Micki and Butch, in a bizarre double wedding ceremony with Micki’s mother. The couple share comical escapades, spanning decades. A terrible accident occurs in a placid valley nestled in the Susquehanna Mountains. Micki narrates happier days while confronting an uncertain future. One of her six children is fighting for life in the hospital. The family embarks upon its unbearable journey to the other side of sorrow …

Bio

Micki Peluso began writing after a personal tragedy, which lead to publication in Victimology: An International Magazine and a 25 year career in Journalism. She’s been staff writer for one major newspaper and freelanced for two more. Twelve of her award-winning short fiction and slice of life stories are published in anthologies, magazines and e-zines. Her debut book was published in 2012; a funny family memoir of love, loss and survival, called, . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG which won the Nesta CBC Silver Award for writing that builds character. She is presently working on a collection of short fiction, slice of life stories and essays, in a book called, DON’T PLUCK THE DUCK. Her debut children’s book, ‘The Cat Who Wanted a Dog’ will be released in June, 2016.

To learn more about Micki Peluso, or to purchase her book, …AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG,

please visit:

Twitter: @mickipeluso

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AndTheWhippoorwillSang

Website: http://www.mallie1025.blogspot.com/

Email: mallie1025@aol.com

The Fantasy Freebooting Tour with Jan Hawke #RRBC

June 30, 2016June 26, 2016 ~ John W. Howell ~ 61 Comments

Please join me in welcoming Jan Hawke to Fiction Favorites. She is on a 4Wills Publishing Tour and I’m so happy she decided to make my place one of her stops.

Fan fiction as backstory

Because we weren’t allowed to play even minor characters from the original books (and films) we were given a pretty free rein with creating our own ‘original’ characters. Who you chose, and where and how you decided to play them was up to you. Some people only wanted to play in classic canon style threads and so their hobbits, elves or dwarves etc, tended to retain the original profiling as written by Tolkien – salt of the earth hobbit types like Sam Gamgee, or enigmatic, serious Rangers like Aragorn. You knew where you were with that kind of character.

For a Bard like Jano, you were of course expected to sing and tell stories, and so that was an opportunity for you to build up your own backstory as well. When I was playing to strict canon rules, I had the chance to wow people with my versions of the older tales from the legendarium, and for that I could, of course, name drop like crazy. It was in fan-fiction that you could really start to cut loose however.

Before I began to get into roleplay, my first piece of fan-fiction wove baby Janowyn firmly into Minas Tirith, right after the Battle of the Pellennor Fields. I had her mother give birth in the Houses of Healing after being saved by a cavalryman of Rohan as she lay injured in the ruins of a tower destroyed by a Ringwraith (this really ‘happened’ in the Return of the King, so I simply had Jano’s mum standing on the roof terrace of the tower when it fell). This man, who became Jano’s stepfather, was also harmed during the battle (being me, I gave him PTSD rather than a flesh wound!) and so he was also with the Healers, acting as a messenger for the Lady Eowyn… And because it wasn’t part of a game thread, I could put in as much canon character interaction as I wanted.

Some of my writing for Jano was not so ardently plagiarised however. I killed Jano’s natural father off just before she was born, but I still wanted to let him have some part in Jano’s history, so I wrote this short piece for her to roleplay at a tavern. The canon bending was very minimal, because I made her father a cousin of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth (who’s barely mentioned in passing in the books), but when they were young boys on a sailing trip. The following was therefore never written by Professor Tolkien…

The Sea Horse

On this day, Erlrohil and Imrahil decided to go sailing in their glider, the Princess, taking care not go too far out to sea as the currents there could be treacherous. At first all was well and the wind took them scudding across the waves faster than a gull can fly. They did not intend to stray too far from the shoreline, but after they had been out for an hour, what seemed to be a light mist surrounded them. For a while they could still see the shore and all they had to do was hold the course they were taking. So, when the mist got thicker and the beach gradually disappeared, they held their tiller steady, still unafraid until suddenly they were aware that their craft was travelling much faster.

Try as they might they could not turn the little boat to the starboard to hug the coast. The current held them for several minutes longer, but then, as suddenly as it had begun, it released them into clear sunshine once more and their small vessel slowed. Looking around them, the lads saw to their relief that they were in a beautiful sheltered bay they had never seen before. Realising they had come much further than they had intended, they decided they would head in towards the shore and then follow the coastline back to their summer home.

As they turned toward the shoreline they saw some horkas leaping in and out of the water not far from their boat. They smiled at each other as these small blue-grey dolphins were thought to be lucky creatures. The wind was getting strong again, and, as they did not want to be blown back into the current they decided to take the sail down. Regrettably Erlrohil, who had not often seen horkas, and could not resist looking at their agile jumps, did not concentrate enough on the task in hand. A strong gust suddenly snatched the sail and boom, which Imrahil was trying to tie down, and swung it sharply in Erlrohil’s direction. He had turned away again and did not realise his peril, despite Imrahil’s loud cry of dismay, as the boom hit him squarely in the shoulder and sent him flying through the air and into deep water.

He fell with a great shout and splash. There was a strong undertow and he was dragged irresistibly underwater back out towards the main current. Had the blow been to his head there is little doubt that he would have drowned. As it was, he was fighting for air as he finally surfaced almost back where they had arrived, far from the Princess and still being pulled away out to sea. Erlrohil was a good swimmer and struck out for the little boat, but his shoulder ached horribly and the current was far too strong for him.

He could see but not hear Imrahil, yelling at him, ashen-faced, and desperately trying to reset the sail to follow him. Seawater was filling his nose and mouth and he was pulled under once more. He could hear a hollow clanging sound and felt something swim between his legs. Instinctively he tried to grasp hold of the object, which he suddenly realised was a horka’s head and beak. The creature, supple and smooth as leather to the touch, seemed to understand his distress, and positioning itself beside him, nudged him none too gently until he took hold of its high dorsal fin. The animal immediately surged off in the direction of the Princess, Erlrohil clinging frantically to the rigid fin. It took him a while to realise how powerful the fish was. It almost felt like he was riding a horse as the horka flexed itself in an up and down rhythm through the waves, and he gradually realised the creature had actually pulled him out of the current and was taking him back towards the Princess.

As the little dolphin, barely as long as Erlrohil was tall, neared the small boat it began to slow. Imrahil, seeing what had happened, had stopped struggling with the sail and was reaching out toward him. The horka’s beaky mouth was almost touching the hull of the Princess as Imrahil, leaning over, grasped Erlrohil’s lower arm with both hands. Erlrohil almost reluctantly let go of the slick, warm fin and clasped one of Imrahil’s arms firmly as the little creature rose beneath him, boosting him out of the water.

“He’s smart!” Erlrohil shouted, teeth chattering, as Imrahil hauled him into the boat.

“Just as well he is!” Imrahil yelled angrily back at him. “Why didn’t you watch what you were doing!” then he clutched Erlrohil to him fiercely and burst into tears. “I thought you would drown,” he sobbed.

They were both crying with relief now. The horka was chittering at them, head bobbing a few yards away from the prow now, it’s long beaky mouth almost smiling at them. They both turned and watched laughing, as the horka made one huge leap into the air, twisting away from them as it hit the water and swam furiously back to its family, who were still playing their leaping games off in the distance.

“That fish just saved your life!” Imrahil’s voice was filled with wonder.

“It let me ride on its back!” Erlrohil spluttered, shivering violently. “It’s not a fish! It’s a sea horse!”

In A Freebooter’s Fantasy Almanac, because I couldn’t use any canon names at all, I changed Erlrohil’s name to Ruari, and Imrahil’s to Ærdhen. These are two of the main characters from my new (and wholly original) fantasy series, still being written, The Tomes of the Havenlands.

Bio

Siân Glírdan is the fusion persona of the elven roleplay character, Janowyn (Jano), High Bard of the River Kingdom and her ‘real world’ creator, author, Jan Hawke. Glírdan is the elven word for ‘songsmith’, and Siân is a Welsh variant of Jan (in case you were wondering!).
When it became obvious to Jan that Jano had a far better handle than she could ever have on writing in the fantasy genres, Siân was born, fully formed and raring to go. A Freebooter’s Fantasy Almanac, which is basically the manual on how Jano was brought into being and developed, is Siân and Jano’s first official collaboration. They’re currently working hard on an epic future fantasy series, Tomes of the Havenlands, loosely based on the ancient Celtic world. The first volume should reach the shelves at the end of 2016.

A Freebooter’s Fantasy Almanac back blurb

This is poetry, wrapped in fantasy, within a memoir… Or, to put it another way, it’s a true tale that might well apply to many fantasy fans and gamers who can’t be bothered with keeping their realities separated from their more lurid imaginings.
In my case, this is a sort of ‘real’ cyberspace profiling, during a phase of my life when roleplay truly did need to be therapy, because what was happening around me for real was not what I wanted to participate in. So, buckle up your swash and prepare to witness a titanic battle played out on the field of sanity – where what happens in your head is the only truth that matters.

Book links