Home for the Holidays (Planes, Trains, Automobiles, and Boats)

Altogether too soon December has arrived again, try hard as I might to ignore that fact. In my mind's eye, since I was a child, I see the year as moving from top to bottom. Strange I know, but hey, to each their own. The problem with this is I've always seen December as the bottom of the barrel, the last month to endure before a brand new year with its own shiny promises arrives. Therefore, we enter into the beginning of the end of 2015, and the endless round of political correctness that is known as the Holiday Season.

When I was young, my grandparents would drive up from their home in Florida to spend the week with us. Since my cousin lived with them, she would come too. I remember one Christmas Eve being awakened to the sight of snow falling. Later that night we sat around the silver aluminum Christmas tree, complete with rotating color wheel, and listen to holiday music until the grown-ups were tired and made us children all disappear with vague hints of Santa.

As a teen, Christmas meant my brother and sister returning home with their families. (They're a lot older than I.) My brother bought a plane so they could fly in for the day and leave before dark. Since he was a doctor, time off for the holidays was non-existent. Soon the peace and love and family we had spent weeks basking in became a 4 to 6 hour free-for-all as we attempted presents, food, bridge (our family pastime), and family time.

My own children always spent Christmas Eve with my husband's family and Christmas Day at home. For almost 30 years Christmas dinner has been my contribution and gift of love to family and friends. It's the only time of the year when I spare no detail on the meal and dessert. One year we left right after Christmas to spend the remaining holiday vacation on a cruise. All I will say is: Interesting.

Now I am a grandmother, and home for the holidays has a completely different meaning. Though my baby is still at home/college, my eldest has a step-son and his wife is pregnant with their first. All I want to see now is the smile on my grandson's face as he shares the wonder of Christmas from the heart of a five year old. Time will once more slow down, as we remember those days of our own childhoods and the magical mornings of discovery around the Christmas tree. (No longer silver aluminum thank goodness!)

No matter how our holidays change throughout the years, we must never lose sight of the true magic this month brings: love for one another.

Speaking of the holidays, Christina Hollis has a new release coming this December from the Wild Rose Press: Heart of A Hostage. Check it out:

Mihail strides out of Maia's past to take her hostage. Who will end up in more danger—her, or him?

Princess Maia has it all—including a horrible fiancé chosen for her by the king, and a family bullying her into doing the right thing—but all she wants is her independence. When she falls into the hands of rebel leader, Mihail, she tastes real freedom for the first time. Mihail is a lone wolf, Public Enemy Number One, and heir to a fierce tradition. A dangerous reputation, a castle full of guilty secrets and now rescuing Maia are all woven into his master plan. He can’t lose.
Until his unexpected hostage turns out to be the house guest from hell...

The buy link for the ebook is http://bit.ly/1iNf2Gw, /paperback is http://bit.ly/1HBEbQk 

You can check out Christina on her website at www.christinahollis.com, or on her Blog: http://christinahollis.blogspot.co.uk

I Remember Paris in the Springtime

When I was young, my father worked for United Airlines. He was friends with a man who started a travel agency for those employed in the airline business, taking advantage of the discounts and perks given to those 'in the industry'. It was an amazing opportunity and allowed me, my sister and our parents to travel in the 1970s, a time of relative peace in the world. One of those journeys was to France, in early 1973 (I think. My memory is a little shady these days.)

I need to back up a little here and explain that during World War II, Daddy was in the Army Air Corp, precursor of the Air Force. While I never got the same story twice when I asked what he did during that time, one consistent story was he learned French and spoke it like a native. Why. How. When. Those stories changed, but the bit about French, and being hit in the head with a propeller never wavered.

From the moment we landed at the airport, my father seemed taller, more relaxed than I had seen him previous. He gathered our little tour group together, found all our luggage, and made the connection with the person who would be our guide for the week. But they conversed in English, which I thought strange. We loaded onto our little bus and set off through the crowded streets of Paris toward the road to take us out into the Loire valley.

Even back then, the streets of Paris were crowded. And the cars were small. I sat by the window with my eyes wide with a combination of fright and amazement at the cacophony of little Tonka cars racing though the streets on their way to wherever. In no time at all, there was an incident involving the bus. Our driver's window was open and he and another driver were yelling at each other for all they were worth. Hand gestures, arms waving, full on screaming at each other such as one can see in any large city such as New York, London, or Paris.

Suddenly, my father began laughing, full on tears running down his face, laughing. After a moment, it dawned on the tour guide, as well as the driver, that my dad could understand every word that had transpired. The driver turned the deepest, brightest shade of red I'd ever seen. He abruptly shut his mouth, slid back around in his seat, faced forward and began to drive. I swear on my life, he never said another word in public the entire ten days we were together.

We toured wineries, and castles, and Mont St. Michel, which to this day is one of my favorite spots in the world. Every place we stopped my father would give me the tour brochures in Spanish, the language I was learning in school; he in turn would grab one in French while my mother took the English versions. He always told me it would help my comprehension to immerse myself into the language.

After four or five days we returned to Paris. The first days were spent doing the prerequisite French locations, the Eiffel Tower, Montmarte, the Bastille, Versailles, etc. However, the day the ladies of the tour went shopping, I stayed at the hotel with my dad. Once the others were gone, he looked at me with that familiar twinkle in his grey eyes and asked, "You want to go for a walk?"

We were out the door, down the ancient elevator, through the lobby and on our way before I could change my mind. He turned left and took my hand and we ambled down the sidewall to a small tourist shop. He asked for directions while I glanced at post cards, a favorite past time of mine at that age. Once he was sure of the way, we took off again.

I didn't ask where we were going, it was enough to just walk through the city watching the people, trying to read signs, looking at buildings older than anything I'd seen before, except in Israel, which we'd already visited. Before long we turned a corner and the river Seine lay before us. We were right in front of the Louvre. Turning left we headed up river, watching the boats passing by and looking at art strung along the river's sidewalk.

We ended up at Notre Dame. It was amazing, and we took our time wandering around the central nave of the cathedral, looking at the light through the rose stained glass, talking about the hunchback and other parts of French history.

He seemed so at ease, so sure of himself. Confident, eager to see more by exploring on his own through a town where he could move as easily as any American town. He showed me the other side of Paris, the people and their talents, the heart and the history of a place much older than Atlanta. After wandering the river bank around the cathedral, we sat down in a small cafe where he ordered us lunch and two cafe au laites. I felt so grown up and at peace, sitting by the river, watching the people, blending into the heartbeat of the city.

Though it has been 40 or so years since that magical day, I still feel that closeness with the city. My father has been dead since the early 90s, but I had more fun with him that day than I ever had before. It cemented a closeness with him that would last until his death. I still keenly miss the late night conversations we would have when we each returned home from work at midnight. But most of all, the miss the confident, quiet, quirky, musician/actor/engineer who was my father. The man who took a day to show his version of Paris and in doing so, awakened another dreamer's soul.

My heart goes out to the people of both Paris and those other countries who lost people in the senseless attacks of 11-13-15. My the vitality and love of country that carried you through two World Wars remind you that these attacks cannot divide us, they can only unite us in our resolve to crush terrorism, no matter what it calls itself.

My First NaNoWriMo; or (How I Lost Control of My Fictional Characters in Only 11 Days)

This is the first year I have participated in the annual novel writing event, the NaNoWriMo as it is commonly called. The goal of this endeavor is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Hundreds of thousands take part in this lofty assignment, and though I have known about this for several years I have declined to challenge myself. I write slowly, methodically, and the idea of pumping out that large of a story in only 30 days, frankly scared me crap less.

But this year I decided, what the heck, take the plunge, you can do this! First I took the characters from a book I just sold and sketched out where I wanted this book to take place, who the villains were going to be, and roughed out the first three chapters. By Halloween night I was ready.

Sunday morning, November 1st, dawned sad and gloomy just as the weather had been for days. I sat down in my favorite writing space, turned the television to mindless drivel and began clubbing my outline into real words. The first three days were amazing. The words flowed, the outline fleshed out into a story and for those three days I thought, "What was I so afraid of? This is no problem."

Then came day 4, where my progress slowed as I worked to grow the outline into a full length novel. Suddenly I was beset with insecurities. Did I like what I was writing? I wasn't sure. The action began to diverge from the direction I intended when I started this endeavor. Should I continue this vein or wrestle everyone into the niches I wanted them? The feel of my writing became soggy, as if I were forcing myself to run through red Georgia mud on a cold day in winter.

At last I found myself at over 15,000 words. I earned a badge. I was as proud of that day as any time I earned a merit badge as a Girl Scout. That one little circle on my NaNo dashboard re-inspired me. I took to the keyboard with a madness borne of word count. By the end of the first week I was flirting with 20,000 words and I had the beginnings of a real story. Success would be mine.

Entering this second week, I planned out my goals. I was shooting for 25,000, the next goal badge on the NaNo dashboard. I felt like Pavlov's dog motivated by the rise of the line on a graph. Unfortunately, my characters noticed the change in my work ethic and began to make decisions by themselves. Without my permission, the story began to veer from its pre-almost-determined plot line, into a quagmire of new decisions, strange action, and the completed abandonment of the project for an island in the South Pacific. Preferably one with all the amenities of home.

So here I am, at 31,000 words, with a villain who has decided to abscond with the money, two heroes who've decided to hide out until the whole thing blows over, and a hot mess to work them out of, in 20,000 words or less. Maybe I'll let the bad guys leave, maybe I'll make them stuck in Atlanta airport for flight delays (happens all the time in real life). That'll teach them to jump ship in the middle of a story.

My heroes however, are quite adamant about hiding out and drinking beer until the whole thing is over. I've yelled, I've pleaded, I've threatened to give them all impotency, but nothing. Damn Irish, always doing whatever takes them to the nearest pub.

As an exercise, I can see the appeal of an event like NaNoWriMo. It builds a community of writers who support each other as we struggle through our daily word counts, and moan through the endless hours where the page is blank and the clock is ticking. That alone is a mighty gift. Writers are by their very natures, introverted. We don't want to talk about what we're working on, as if by the very mention of it will bring on a jinx such as writer's block.

And I will soldier on, obediently updating my word count, chatting with others in my area as they type on with feverish abandon, content in the knowledge that, I have no idea where this novel will end up. But that's okay, because in the end it may build me into a better writer, who plans more before I sit down and let the lunatics out to roam. However, in the meanwhile, if you have any ideas on how to rope in drunk Irishmen, I would be most appreciative.

Autumn Reminiscences

Let's talk about Autumn shall we?

While driving down the expressway leaving for the weekend, my mind wanders as through the window each passing tree reminds me of the season. Leaves, swirling down to gravity's command, wearing the fading glory of their vibrant show. It is that time again. Fall, the season when all things beautiful come to an end in preparation for the depth of winter. My favorite season.

Some people love Spring, the time of awaken and new life; others prefer the hot, sticky steam of a Deep South Summer. Others thrill for the freeze and promise of overlying pure blankets of perfect white brilliance, and the smell of the hearth fire flavoring the painful breath of Winter. While each of the other seasons have their charms and I do enjoy them each in its turn, my heart ever longs for Autumn.

As a child I enjoyed the swish of the fallen leaves as we ran through the neatly raked piles, laughter bubbling up from a wellspring deep inside. The special perfume of Saturday afternoons, a concoction of camp fires, s'mores, popcorn, and crisp cool air sliding across the countryside always brings me back to simpler days: Friday night football games and Saturday night bonfires followed by Sunday afternoon rides leaf peeping from the back of my favorite horse.

I love mornings, when the fog hangs low over the creeks and valleys of the mountains which surround us. The sting of early chill in the air brings a tear to my eyes when walking the horses out for the day. Mid morning the first of the long sleeves are coming off, and by after lunch you can wander in the sunshine in short sleeves; laughing to yourself over the capricious nature of Fall weather.

Autumn also brings the memories of first love. The rush of attraction soon followed by the thrill of those early dates. My first love left in the fall, more than once actually. He was in the Air Force. It seemed we were always saying goodbye. Then came college and the rush of fraternity boys. Homecoming and formals, dances where the music always seemed to fit the mood and alcohol flowed. 

Change happens constantly, but in Fall the changes are spread across the spectrum of God's creatures. Not only are the trees wearing and shedding their brilliance, but the animals are in their element, preparing for the depths of hibernation. Squirrels scurry hither and yon, memory failing them in the endless search for their summer hiding places. The skies are filled with vast formations of birds, seeking the earth's compass to guide them to the safety and warmth of winter homes. By Autumn's end, the forests will be poised with an air of patience; waiting for the earth to tilt again and the lengthening of days.

So as the calendar winds down toward harvest's end and before we bar the doors and windows against the long night of winter, enjoy the fleeing beauty of Fall's glorious daylight. Partake of the fruits of the vines and the bounty of the fields. Autumn's Harvest is here. Enjoy the repast!

It's a beautiful fall day here in Georgia. The sky has that amazing blue that almost hurts your eyes to stare at, and the brisk chill in the air reminds us that fall is winding up in all its amazing colors and smells. 

I have two pieces of news to share: First, Book Two of 'The Guardian Stories' will be released soon on Amazon.com, so be sure to check this space for an exact release date. The Title is "The Price for Redemption" and continues Vivienne's race to defeat her dark enemies.

Second, and I cannot express how excited I am about this, I have signed a contract with The Wild Rose Press, to publish the first of a series set in and around Atlanta, 'The Family Devlyn'. Book One is 'Welcome to the Family'.

Here is a little blurb/teaser for this contemporary tale of family and greed:

Everyone has something about their family that drives them crazy. Some families are neurotic, others are chaotic. Some are so in your business it feels like you still live at home. And others feel like the death of you. In Cassandra Devlyn Ferguson’s case, that death might literally be her own. The Devlyns aren’t your normal all American family. Their company ships freight world-wide. Most of the freight is legitimate but somewhere along the way, as the money spoke louder, the lines between good and bad became blurred, until soon a monster was born, and now the dirty deals are coming back to haunt them. Just one problem – they’re after the one Devlyn who has no idea what people are upset about.

Cassie Ferguson’s been kidnapped, and her husband and brother intend to move heaven and earth to get her back, preferably before she discovers what her father’s job really is. When working with the FBI and the Atlanta Police don’t bring satisfaction, Kevin Devlyn calls in his long-time friend, and Cassie’s husband, Irishman and former Black Ops specialist Sean Ferguson and asks him to return to Atlanta, conduct his own investigation and find Cassie before any harm befalls her. It sounds great in theory; too bad all the men involved, other than Sean and Kevin, loathe the very mention of each other.

I'm so excited to be working with The Wild Rose Press! I will have more updates soon!

The New South

I was born in Pennsylvania in the early 60s. My siblings were all born in West Virginia and my father from New Jersey.

My Mamma was born in Alabama.

I state this to say, I've spent more than two-third's of my life in the South. First Florida and then Georgia; two states with very different atmospheres. Most of my family at that time lived in the South. We ate what my very Southern mother cooked, which was an interesting combination of both regions. I was never forced to eat turnip greens, or any other green, or even grits. I like oatmeal.

In school, and from grandparents, we learned about 'the war of Northern Aggression' or, if you will, 'the war of Southern Defiance'. I soon learned the point of view was important. Either you where with the South, or against them. There was no neutral ground; a point which I never understood. In a war where affiliation split and lost an entire generation, it truly was 'Us against Them',

I heard stories from my material grandmother about her grandmother, a small girl who took the livestock into the woods by the river in Alabama where they are from; their home place. Home Place is important in the South. It describes not only where but how they were raised. Down to the street it made a distinction.

That brought me to mind of the neighborhood in Pennsylvania where we lived when I was born. A Polish neighborhood. And when we lived in Florida, in a Jewish neighborhood. Or the Italian section of New York. The Irish when they moved into the tenements of New York and the fighting which occurred in those events.

Yes, there are Black neighborhoods and White neighborhoods in Atlanta, where I have lived long enough to remember the 'Blacks Only' signs in the department stores, and the separation that we are always accused of by those who lived anywhere but here. I was in elementary school when the government built a housing project down the street from our school and the dynamics of the county began to change.

But I also know the tremendous strides that have been made here and in other places around the South. Place like Charleston, which handled their tragedy with grace and decorum. Please let their example be held up as a picture of what can happen when everyone works together. And let the media find some new target for their 15 minutes of fame.

There will always be Korean neighborhoods and Mexican neighborhoods, just as there has been since the Hebrews settled in Egypt (in their own neighborhood). When we move, especially from one land to another, the comfort of hearing one's own language and customs helps ease the pain of leaving an entire life behind to start a new one. Neighborhood merge closest to cities where people mesh through work and common life experience. True diversity is achieved only through a lot of work by all peoples, regardless of skin tone.

So as you settle down in your Indian neighborhood or Cambodian neighborhood, remember when we point a finger at someone else, there are three which point backwards toward ourselves. Instead of pointing fingers, why don't you take a look around and see what needs to fixed in your own sphere of influence? True charity and mission work begins in our backyard.

The Independence Day holiday is closing in fast, and I should have some news on Book Two of the Guardian Saga. The title is "The Price for Redemption." That's all today, from my middle class, mixed ethnicity neighborhood where no one flies the Rebel Battle Flag, or any other offensive flag regardless of the season. (Although some of the Halloween decorations make me question their sanity!)

When to Cut and When to Recast

I have a bit of a conundrum and so I am writing about it, which is what I do when my thoughts begin circling the same drain for too long.

When I submitted my latest book, it was with the full knowledge I had written a scene and side story that impacted the main character in quite negative ways. It was a gamble and unfortunately it didn't pay off. Now I must rework the story to change a major arc and no matter what I do, nothing is as powerful as that original line.

But in watching the major meltdown Game of Thrones readers and watchers are going through right now with the Sansa Stark story changes, I see the side of the reader for the first time.

We set expectations with our characters, and people begin to identify with them, so they acquire a life of their own, outside of our pages. But what about stories where none of the characters are relatable? Can we write our own characters into corners that are too extreme to be endearing?

Of course we can, and that was the problem with this story. So now I am grasping (and gasping) to recast the main character's reason for existing and falling far short of where I want to be. I've finally decided to meet the challenge and that instead of one major point causing her identity crisis, there will be several, each building upon the other until finally she reaches the person she needs to be.

As you might surmise, this is still an idea in progress. While I see the end point, the journey is still muddy. But that's what writing is about, at least to me. Chipping away at the marble until I find the beauty inside; a story lives and breathes depending upon which pieces you take away. Take the wrong path and everything is tainted.

This is the sixth story I've written and the first where I've been told, I love it but... . To say it took me for a loop would be an understatement. But now I feel ready to accept the challenge. I know where I want to be, now I have to find the path.

And the road goes on.