​Tell us about yourself:

While working as the CEO of Doodle, the world’s favorite scheduling app, I continue to meet highly interesting people, from productivity sectors as much as while speaking to groups of business people or university students. The Productivity Book is about managing your business and personal time more effectively; here I aim to contribute to everybody’s productivity and time management. 

I also write a blog about these topics called www.michaelbrecht.com - here I write about productivity topics but also about the many events where I speak to either business people, students etc. Thirdly, I run a wine blog for almost 10 years now called www.downunderwines.net where I write about my personal hobby, the great wines, vineyards and winemakers of this world.


What was your first book?

The first book I wrote/organized was a children’s book with short stories about the Australian bush written by young primary school kids in rural Australia.


What is your favorite genre to read? To write?

I read a lot about current topics of digitalization and digital innovation, startups and related productivity topics. In addition, I love reading online and in magazines about wines from around the globe.


Are Happy Endings a must in your stories?

I wrote a productivity book, the happy ending is relying on my readers to make things happen in their own lives.


What is the best thing about being a writer?

It allows you to reflect on the many things that happen in your own life and around you. Writing things down gives me an enormous pleasure to formulate stuff that floats around in my head.


What is the worst thing?

It is not always easy to bring to paper or into a file format, what your experiences have led you to believe in the past. It is hard work.


What do you see the direction of your future writing taking? What can we expect next? Give us a little taste.

In my view, we will see blogging continue to be on the rise: writing about daily happenings, local content and in a very personal style will be the way forward. I thoroughly enjoy reading great blogs for example on my personal hobby wine, some great writers out there spreading news about what’s going on in the world of wine.



Just for fun

Cat or dog person?

Clearly dog, we have a Labradoodle at home.

Favorite food?

Steak frites as the French call it, steak with French fries.

Favorite book?

Tough call: currently Elon Musk – Tesla, SpaceX, and the Quest for a Fantastic Future by Ashlee Vance

Favorite movie?

James Bond - any

Favorite holiday?

On the beach in Australia

Would you rather be the princess or the villain? Why?

always villain, stay down to earth and see the real life

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
I am a serial entrepreneur, have more than twenty years of experience in IT and Digital Media and have held several international leadership positions in Europe and AustralAsia.
 
Since the beginning of 2014 I am CEO of Doodle – the world’s favourite online scheduling tool. Together with my fantastic team we have integrated Doodle into the Digital Portfolio of Tamedia AG, Switzerland’s largest media company. Our focus is to grow the business into a global application while strengthening its product offerings and continuing its successful monetisation. Doodle AG is a highly profitable business with offices in Zurich and Berlin.
 
My experience ranges from founding a start-up to various exits to multi-national corporates and subsequent integration. I enjoy topics of digital transformation and the leadership of highly innovative teams with a particular focus on growing a business internationally.
 
Now that digitalisation is increasingly becoming a topic for all businesses from start-up to large corporate, I have decided to start my own blog. Here you’ll find information on productivity topics, quotes about personal and professional efficiency, my reviews of awesome apps I use myself and I am trying to present a few stories that aren’t meant to be too serious too.
 
In my private life I am married and our home comprises of four children and our dog (an Australian Labradoodle). We are currently living in five different countries and I myself carry a German and an Australian passport. I enjoy sports, in particular football, swimming, tennis and all kinds of outdoor activities and I am passionate about the discovery of great wines.
 
Links:
http://productivity-book.com/   
https://twitter.com/michaelbrecht?lang=de   
http://michaelbrecht.com/
 
Buy links:
https://itunes.apple.com/book/the-productivity-book/id1050616645?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4  
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-productivity-book-michael-brecht/1122830470  
https://store.kobobooks.com/ebook/the-productivity-book   
http://www.amazon.com/Productivity-Book-Professionals-About-Management-ebook/dp/B016UQV92K/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1452530967&sr=8-2&keywords=productivity+book   
 
Book links:
http://www.businesszone.co.uk/decide/productivity/the-four-productivity-hacks-every-entrepreneur-needs#.VnRXHbQzHNM.twitter
http://realbusiness.co.uk/article/32236-seven-time-saving-apps-your-fellow-entrepreneurs-use-to-boost-productivity
https://sliwinski.com/productivity-book/
​

GENRE: Non-fiction/time management
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
Ever wondered what the secret is to productivity? Here’s a hint: there isn’t just one. Introducing the Doodle Productivity Book! Containing in-depth interviews with 30 of the world’s top productivity & time management experts, this book lifts the lid on the industry’s best kept tips and tricks. The result? An engaging and practical guide that will help you find your natural pace, so you can work smarter—not harder.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Excerpt One:
 
Quote Laura Stack:
 
What are some of your favorite productivity tips & apps?        
 
Obviously, I love Doodle! I use it to schedule client conference calls and I talk about it in my presentations! Other apps I like:        
 
TripIt. I use this for plane, hotel, directions and ground transportation. Simply forward your confirmation emails and TripIt automatically populates your digital itineraries. It also means I can access all my details on my phone as I’m walking through the airport.
 
Evernote. Sync content from the cloud to your desktop, laptop, tablet and smartphone. When I see an article I like online, I simply right-click, clip the page, file it in a Notebook and tag it for easy searching. I drag large PDF documents into new Notes to read on upcoming business trips. I use Evernote in conjunction with my Livescribe Smartpen, so my handwritten notes from meetings and conference calls sync through Wi-Fi to my online account. I can listen to recordings right before meetings to refresh my memory.
 
TouchDown. Microsoft Outlook users can sync their data to their phones, which is really handy, except the native apps require them to tap multiple icons to access different modules. Instead, I use the TouchDown ActiveSync Exchange client. This allows me to click ONE icon to access my Email, Calendar, Contacts, Tasks, and Notes, as well as handle Out of Office and Rule settings.
 
Square. My smartphone is a portable credit card processing machine. Using a small scanner that plugs into the earphone jack, I can accept payments for things like book sales and speaking fees. I slide the card through the scanner, enter the dollar amount and ask the buyer to sign with a fingertip. The buyer can enter an email address to receive a receipt.
 

BLURB:
 
Way to Go: Veronica Lane works in the travel industry in her dream job when she experiences a hellish travel day ending in the loss of her job and stranded far from home. To make the situation even worse, she drowns her sorrows in the hotel bar, and wakes the next morning to a big surprise.
 
Gathering up the remains of her dignity along with her travel bags, she returns to her hometown in Peachtree City, Georgia. A community similar to a progressive Mayberry, except with golf cart paths and carts. A lot of them. Her family is kooky. The parents are sexually free and liberal, her brother is a golf cart cop with more good looks and brawn than brains. Her grandparents, one from each side, live in the same retirement community and maintain a constant battle while entertaining the other senior citizens. The Grandmother on her dad's side is stuck in the 1960’s, and the Grandfather on her mother's side served in WWII and thinks that the Japanese are still trying to kill him.
 
She calls inquiring about a job in the newspaper, a group escort for a small tour company in Atlanta. She is hired immediately and leaves the next day with her first group to Jamaica. First, she meets a handsome pilot with the charter airline they use, and then there is one unusual group participant that doesn’t seem to belong. He leaves the group for periods of time and when things happen, he uses MacGyver like skills to get them out of the situations. She is aggravated and knows something is fishy and the bad thing is, the man is very charismatic and she’s not just a little attracted to him.
 
Upon their return, she finds out that the man is friends with her rather unconventional boss and after a second unusual group excursion to Puerto Rico; she knows for sure that the little tour company in Atlanta is not really what it seems on the outside. When the truth is revealed, she finds herself unintentionally dropped into a new career that she can't exactly add to her resume.
 
Veronica finds herself in uncomfortable and hilarious situations, surrounded by crazy tour participants, family, friends, neighbors, and pets. After a long dry spell, she finds that there is suddenly an overabundance of romance, drama, and intrigue in her life. Her life is now a sometimes very bumpy, yet exciting ride.
 
Way to Roll:
 
Secure your seat belt and get ready for another bumpy ride.

Veronica Lane never considered her life dull as a single woman working in the travel industry as a sales representative—not until one bad day ends in the loss of her dream job, and desperation leads her to Cavalcade Tours. The fun quickly turns into chaos and eyebrow-raising questions. Disaster leads to a shocking revelation leaving Veronica disgruntled and unsure if she has what it takes to begin a whole new career.

Some time away, deep thought, and her own misadventures have her gathering up the remains of her dignity and returning to her job with its interesting group of colorful and charismatic cohorts...with one big change. She’ll no longer just be a tour escort this time. Milton Porter, the owner of Cavalcade Tours, owns another company with secrets.

With her mind made up, new skills, passport in hand, and her bags packed, Veronica is ready to roll out for new destinations. Things get hairy as she tackles the dual roles her new job demands, dodging wild animals, nasty foes, and sometimes even the new men in her life.

Surrounded by kooky tourists, Veronica’s adventures place her in some dramatic and hilarious situations, and each return home to Peachtree City, Georgia has its own drama with her family of oddballs, nutty bunch of friends, and their pets. Her new life is sometimes bumpy and filled with turbulence, but it stays an intriguing and exciting ride.
 
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Excerpt Two from Way to Roll:
 
When Nash came back, he was naked, having shed his own wet clothes, and he was carrying a tray full of food.
 
That made me giggle. I pointed at his man parts. “Ha! A naked waiter. That’s pretty hot. I wanna place my order right now.”
 
He snickered and sat down in the floor next to the tub with the tray and began spooning me soup. That’s when I got a really good look at him in the light. He was almost blue!
 
“Nash?”
 
“Yeah, kitten.”
 
I giggled again. “You look like a Smurf.”
 
He laughed. “So do you. We’re working on that.”
 
He fed me another bite of soup.
 
“You have to take some bites too,” I said touching his cold face.
 
He did and then smiled at me, and we continued to eat until the food was gone. He set the tray aside and then warmed up the water, stepping into the tub behind me and wrapped his arms around me.
 
“We did it, and we’re safe now, right?”
 
“Yes, we did, and we are safe.”
 
Feeling warmer, I was really getting drowsy again, thinking about the way he always seemed to come through and save us, keeping me and others around him safe. The sweet way he took care of me. The thoughts were giving me the warm fuzzies again. I picked up the hand on my stomach and grazed his fingers with my lips. Without thinking, I whispered, “Nash, I really love you.”
 
His body instantly tensed and minutes went by. Then he finally said in a very monotone voice, “Let’s get out of the tub and go to bed.”
 
I became more alert as we dried off, and when we crawled into the bed, he put his arm around me, but that was it. It was only a double bed and the cover was thin making me feel like the gesture had been made more out of necessity than affection. He never said a word, he never touched me further, and I felt the uncomfortable void that had suddenly grown between us like the Grand Canyon. And there was definitely emotional distance involved, he didn’t desire me anymore. When Nash was this close, he was always aroused. Not so tonight. It was what I’d said in the bathtub. I hadn’t really meant to say those words, meaning that I…that I really… I sighed. Fudge. They’d just sort of tumbled out and were hanging there for those awkward moments, and now something had changed in Nash. Guess I knew a sure fire way now how to repel him. Mentally and physically exhausted, I closed my eyes and quickly fell asleep.
 
Nash was up early and had already reported to WIC, and uploaded photos, and a map of the militia location. He had called the lady at the front desk about our wet clothes, and she’d been nice enough to stop by the room and take them for laundering. There wasn’t much we could do about our leather boots and jackets, as they were pretty much ruined. Nash gave the nice lady at the motel a generous tip, and thanked her for all she’d done for us when we left. We headed out, stopped quickly for some food, and moved on toward Crater Lake.
 
Nash had been unusually quiet all morning. He’d been polite, but curt, and avoided eye contact. It had stung the first time I put my arms around him on the bike and he’d gone nearly rigid like he couldn’t bear my touch. I was left with no doubts about how he felt regarding emotional ties, and I really wished that we could just go home now that we’d completed the mission. The rest of this trip was going to be miserably uncomfortable.
 
We caught up with the group at Crater Lake at the end of their hike. They were heading to a natural hot spring to soak, relax, and have some beers before dinner. Nash went with them, and I told Jemah to wake me to help with dinner and then headed to the coach for a nap. A while later, when I woke up and stepped off the coach, I noticed that the motorcycle was gone. Damn, the company I worked for had connections.
 
Nash set up his tent and sleeping bag for me that night, but he never joined me. He was up early, had breakfast with other tour members, and at the next coach stop, he disappeared. Although I wasn’t really surprised, it still hurt that he’d left without saying goodbye again.
 
The next two nights and days passed quickly. It had helped that I was in a mindless fog most of the time. We toured the caves of Lava Beds National Monument, a place where the U.S. Army and the Modoc Indians faced off at Captain Jack’s stronghold, and then Lassen National Park, currently a quiet volcano. The park had enough cracks in the earth and thermal activity to make the average man nervous and excite a volcanologist. Was supposed to be one of the wonders of the world. Made you wonder when it was really going to blow its stack again and hope you didn’t happen to be the dodo standing in the middle of it like we’d been.
 
Regarding blowing stacks… We had one more moment of excitement during the tour, and it came in a surprising form the last morning of the trip. I hadn’t slept much since Nash had left and was up early, had already showered and even helped in the breakfast line. Nash surprised the heck out of me and walked off the coach during breakfast, turning to give me a slight smile. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t already back in Atlanta. TI
 
This camp had a nice shower house, and Jemah donned her vintage swim cap again and headed that way after breakfast with her clothes and big scrub brush in hand while the rest of us finished cleaning up.
 
We had packed up the coach, and I was sitting at a picnic table talking to a few members of the group when we heard a hair-raising, high-pitched shrieking, followed by a sound like a squealing pig on the move. The door slammed open on the bathhouse, and out blasted a dripping wet and au naturel Jemimah, who was moving like the Roadrunner similar to that day after the bear encounter, scrub brush still in hand. We watched her squeal all the way to the coach and hop all three steps at one time like a mad bullfrog. Right before that door slammed shut, we heard a male scream, and Sully’s face appeared, plastered against the door window, looking freaked out with mouth agape. Suddenly, the door opened and he tumbled out onto the ground with a grunt, and then the door slammed shut again behind him. He just sat there on the ground, dazed and blinking, kind of like he was in shock.
 
After the rest of us had recovered from our own shock at that scene, some of the guys at the picnic table actually formed a plan and donned weapons and gloves to go in the bathhouse like they were expecting to find a killer or rapist like in the slasher flicks. They grabbed a cooking fork, a chopping knife, some big sticks, and a hammer and went to investigate. They came out several minutes later with Jemah’s clothes, howling with laughter. The only thing that they’d found was a tiny little deer mouse with a litter of babies.
 
Later, when we asked Jemah about it, she swore that it had raised up and tried to attack her like a momma bear with cubs. Poor Sully grumbled that his eyes burned and his butt was bruised for the first fifty miles heading back to Frisco. Nash pretty much stayed clear of me during the trip back
​
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Mandy Colton is from Louisville, KY, and lives a very quiet life with her husband and teenage son. She’s a fan of romance, fun adventure stories, and some occasional sci-fi or paranormal thrown in. Veronica Lane and the idea for her adventures came from her own experiences and career working in the travel industry.
 
She claims that working in the travel business could be horribly stressful but was equally laugh-out-loud funny at times. She enjoyed many priceless and comical experiences with groups, friends, and peers. Even her clients shared humorous adventures of their own. Her opinion is that there just are no better stories than those that involve true life.
 
Subscribe for notifications on future new releases! http://www.mandycoltonfiction.com
 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100008867070100
Twitter: https://twitter.com/mandycoltonfic
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/mandycoltonfict/mandy-colton-fiction/

GENRE: Romantic Suspense
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
Josie Shepherd loves running free, with no one and nothing to tie her down—until a new job at a kennel introduces her to both an unexpected friend and a vicious, abused dog named Cain.


When Josie stumbles upon the body of a murdered woman, she runs to Deputy Gordon Wolfe, a disfigured man hiding behind his badge. His shy smile and affection for dogs make her reconsider what she’s running from.

Now she’s on the run from a serial killer and her own heart. But when her friend is abducted and Cain appears to be the murder weapon, Josie’s attempt to save them both lands her in the killer’s lair. Josie’s strength and Cain’s loyalty are tested to the limit as they fight for their lives. Facing a killer is one thing, but facing her love for Gordon is Josie’s greatest challenge.
 
EXCERPTS (Exclusive Excerpt):
 
 
Fletcher stopped and peered down into the growing shadows at the bottom of the ravine. He trotted back and whined, looking to me for guidance. What do you make of that?
 
“What’d you find?” I followed him to the edge and looked over the brink. Something white and out of place in this otherwise unspoiled landscape was lying under a willow. We were far from the main trail, three miles at least, and the only tracks I had seen were those left by deer and elk. Nothing seemed amiss, except a disturbing odor wafting from the ravine.
 
I pulled the leash from my waist and clipped it on Fletcher’s collar. I put my pack down on the trail for safekeeping and stepped over the edge. I went down fast, sliding on my boot heels and leaning back to keep my balance. Loose dirt and rocks showered down ahead of us. It was a steep, short drop. I kept the Border Collie close in hand as we approached the brush patch. Down here, the ripe smell was unmistakable. Death and decay.
 
She was lying on her back with one arm thrown out to the side. Her long red hair was caught in the shrubs. The shredded remains of a T-shirt were all the clothes the dead woman had. Countless wounds covered her arms, torso, and legs. Her skin was torn in dozens of places. Coyotes or other scavengers had found her. A nylon dog collar with a stainless steel, bone-shaped tag was around her neck. The tag was engraved, but from here I couldn’t make it out. I sure as shit wasn’t getting any closer just to read it. Dirt and sand coated her staring eyes. Somehow, that was the worst. The dirt in her open eyes.

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 DJ Davis is a Colorado native and the rugged high country sets the scene for her stories. When she's not writing, she can be found hiking with her dogs, photographing the wildlife, or camping with her husband. A Great Dane runs her life.
 
A portion of each sale of her novel "Courageous Cain" will be donated to Big Bones Canine Rescue in Windsor, Colorado. Help us help big dogs in need.
 



​LINKS:
 
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14255452.D_J_Davis
https://twitter.com/djdavisauthor
http://www.amazon.com/Courageous-Cain-DJ-Davis-ebook/dp/B014BWB27M
http://www.amazon.com/DJ-Davis/e/B014E0OZE8/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1
https://www.facebook.com/djdavisauthor/
BN: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/courageous-cain-dj-davis/1122568586?ean=2940152288209

GENRE: YA Thriller
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 BLURB:
 
These are the facts: My name is Callie Sinclair. I am seventeen years old. I live in San Francisco. I love my boyfriend, Charlie. I work for a secret governmental agency. I am a psychic spy. This romantic, action-packed twist on the classic spy novel is perfect for fans of Ally Carter’s Embassy Row series or for any reader who enjoys cinematic writing and stories of romance and intrigue.
 
At seventeen, Callie is the government’s youngest psychic spy, trained to track dangerous people and weapons in her visions. When another young—and handsome and witty—psychic joins the agency, Callie’s personal and professional lives get messy all at once. If she can’t find a way to change the events she’s seen in her visions, she could lose the people she loves most . . . and her mind. Literally.
 
Richly painted against the backdrop of San Francisco and Berkeley, Lauren Sabel’s enthralling novel captures the thrill of exploring a unique power in a dangerous world.

Q & A with Lauren Sabel

​I love research.  It’s one of my favorite parts of writing.  To research the psychic spy parts of LIES I LIVE BY, I started by digging into one of my favorite topics: the remote viewing program of the US government during the Cold War.  It led me to all sorts of weird places on the web, which is why I’m sure I’m on the CIA watch list at this point. (I’m innocent!)
 
I read and watched a lot of Ingo Swann’s work. Swann invented a great deal of the remote viewing protocol for the Stanford Research Institute. I named my fictional character Indigo Starr in honor of him.
 
 I also read many remote viewing books written by the remote viewers in both the US Army and the SRI, including Tell Me What You See by Major Ed Dames and Joel Harry Newman, and Remote Viewers: The Secret History of America’s Psychic Spies by Jim Schnabel. The research was fascinating! What evolved out of my research was a mostly fictional book about a fictional character, built on a layer of truth.  That’s what’s great about research – once you find out the facts, you can decide which ones to twist to make good fiction, and which ones to keep to make the story feel grounded and believable.
 
 I also researched topics as wildly varying as the Hoover Tower, astral projecting, salt flats, nuclear waste leaks, and the Sudanese flag.  It is amazing to me that every time I did more research, my book expanded – even if I didn’t use that specific research in the manuscript. Every idea we take in leads to more ideas, when given the chance to daydream.
 
And I do lots of that.

Excerpt One:
 
These are the basic facts about me:
 
I am 17.
 
I live in San Francisco.
 
I work for a secret governmental agency.
 
I spend many hours a day out of my mind.
 
I am a psychic spy.


AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 Lauren Sabel lives in the quirky dark spaces of her mind, and she tries to shed light on these spaces in her books. After publishing VIVIAN DIVINE IS DEAD in Summer 2014 with Katherine Tegen Books, an imprint of Harper Collins, she confronted her lifelong fear of being psychic by writing LIES I LIVE BY (pub May 2016). Since in this YA thriller, teenage psychic spy Callie Sinclair works undercover for the government, forced to hide her real identity from everyone she loves, Lauren is now certain she’s on the CIA watch list.
 
Social Networks:
 
Website: www.laurensabel.com AND http://liesiliveby.com/
Blog: http://laurensabel.tumblr.com
Twitter: laurensabel
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/author.laurensabel/?ref=hl AND https://www.facebook.com/LIES-I-LIVE-BY-1060641787289541/?skip_nax_wizard=true
Instagram: laurensabel  AND liesiliveby
 
Book Purchase Links:
 
LIES I LIVE BY:
 
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0062231987/ref=cm_sw_su_dp
 
Nook: http://bit.ly/liesiliveby
 
http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780062231987
 
VIVIAN DIVINE IS DEAD:
 
 http://www.amazon.com/Vivian-Divine-Dead-Lauren-Sabel/dp/0062231952
 
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/vivian-divine-is-dead-lauren-sabel/1117005007
 

GENRE: Historical Romance (Victorian)
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
The sweetest treat is a kiss…
 
Greggory Redcake's plate is full. Widowed young and left with two small children, the manager of the Kensington location of the illustrious tea shop is besieged on all sides between the bakery and family matters. If only his remarkably efficient shop assistant, Betsy Popham, could manage his home life, too! But Greggory can't linger on thoughts of Betsy's fetching smile when a dead body is discovered in the bakery…
 
Betsy has no time for romance, not even with the delectable Mr. Redcake, whose kisses are all too unforgettable. Haunted by a specter from her family's past, Betsy is terrified that the man blackmailing her has turned to deadly violence. Yet the only way to save her position--and possibly her life--is to accept Greggory's help as their delicious attraction sweetens into the tantalizing promise of true love…
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
EXCERPTS (Exclusive Excerpt):
 
 Greggory Redcake stared through the small window behind his desk into the alley at the rear of Redcake’s. At this time of day, not much transpired at the loading dock. All the deliveries had gone out and a peaceful lull existed before an early afternoon rush to deliver items to private homes for teas and evening entertainments. The residents of the surrounding exclusive neighborhoods had taken to his Redcake’s branch quite enthusiastically.
 
He’d never have thought, when his Uncle Bartley moved his family to London to open the first Redcake’s Tea Shop and Emporium, that he’d someday be in London himself, owning the second Redcake’s. But Uncle Bartley had spent time in London opening this location, then had given it to him as a wedding present.
 
Now, less than two years later, he had no wife, but the wedding present consumed most of his time. What he really needed was a kind, efficient lady like Betsy Popham to manage his personal life as well. She had such a way about her with the staff. He’d noticed she turned tongue-tied around customers sometimes, as if she didn’t quite know how to act around their wealthy clientele. With the workers she did a corking job and was universally well-liked.
 
A knock at his door had him standing up from the wide window ledge. He straightened his back and buttoned his coat as he went to open the door.
 
“Mr. Redcake?” said Betsy, stepping into the room before he could respond. Her bosom brushed his arm as she went by.
 
He wondered if she realized how often she did that. This question sent his thoughts tumbling toward the realization that Miss Popham had a larger bosom than most ladies, which led him to think about the rest of her: short of stature, round, and with the most perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Her glowing skin showed that her full curves were Nature’s gift and not the result of eating too many petits fours. Greggory knew the only way to know how a woman would age was to take a look at a girl’s mother. He had no idea what Mrs. Popham looked like, but he’d bet the full curves would remain and not tend to fat later in life, as many girls did as they aged and had babies.

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
 
Heather Hiestand was born in Illinois, but her family migrated west before she started school. Since then she has claimed Washington State as home, except for a few years in California. She wrote her first story at age seven and went on to major in creative writing at the University of Washington. Her first published fiction was a mystery short story, but since then it has been all about the many flavors of romance. Heather’s first published romance short story was set in the Victorian period, and she continues to return, fascinated by the rapid changes of the nineteenth century. The author of many novels, novellas, and short stories, she has achieved best-seller status at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. With her husband and son, she makes her home in a small town and supposedly works out of her tiny office, though she mostly writes in her easy chair in the living room.
 
For more information, visit Heather’s website at www.heatherhiestand.com. Heather loves to hear from readers! Her email is heather@heatherhiestand.com.
 
Social media:
 
Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/pages/Heather-HiestandAnh-Leod/24271017921?ref=br_tf
 
Twitter http://twitter.com/heatherhiestand
 
Pinterest:  http://www.pinterest.com/heatherhiestand/
 
Buy Links:
BN
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/trifling-favors-heather-hiestand/1122187187?ean=9781616507961
 
 
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Trifling-Favors-Redcakes-Book-7-ebook/dp/B0104FZETC/
​

GENRE: Supernatural Thriller
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
The heist is cursed from the start. Doug Mulcahy and his gang hijack a mining plane and a fortune in black opals - gemstones with a rep for being unlucky. Following a brutal shootout on a remote airfield, the hijackers flee in the crippled plane only to crash-land soon after. Shaken and battered, they stagger through the outback until they stumble upon a strange little house and an ethereal woman. Taking the woman hostage, the thieves wait for her husband to return with his truck. But it all goes to hell when a rogue gang member forces himself onto the woman. The house is drenched with blood, the husband returns, and the men realise nothing in this place is as it seems. And the horrors are only just beginning...
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
​
 
Excerpt One:
 
Doug Mulcahy always wanted another smoke before he’d finished the last one, more to feel a cigarette between his lips than nicotine in his lungs. An oral fixation, his ex-wife used to call it, usually earning herself a smack. The only oral fixation he ever admitted to suffering was how to shut her smart mouth.
 
Gripping the wheel with both hands, searching for the turn, he saw a black snake standing on its tail in the distance down the road, swaying like a charmer’s trick in the midday rising heat.
 
Getting closer, the snake became a pair of black, stretch denim jeans, long blonde hair, a backpack – and the potential for female company. But then sharper focus revealed scrawny shoulders wider than the hips, a lack of arse and an unfeminine stride.
 
The snake stuck out a thumb.
 
“Good fucking luck,” growled the man seated beside Doug.
 
The truck didn’t slow. In the rear-view Doug saw the hitchhiker hawk and spit in their direction, never breaking stride.
 
Enjoy the walk, smartarse.
 
A sign ahead showed their destination writ large in faded letters: Mirribindi Aerodrome. As Doug slowed for the turn, an oncoming white Ford Falcon hurtled past back toward town. Sporting an ostentatious bullbar and radio antennas like fishing poles, it was the kind of vehicle endemic in country areas, favoured by the landed gentry. Its tyres kicked up a stone which cracked hard against Doug’s windscreen.
 
Doug thought he disguised his reaction, but his passenger chuckled.
 
Prick.
 
Both knew he’d never enjoyed the loud, sudden bangs that punctuated their line of work.

MEET T J PARK

Tell us about yourself:
I’m an Australian screenwriter and first time novelist. I drink too much, exercise too little and I’m pleased with that balance. I grew up in a small Queensland town very close to the small town that Dr George Miller grew up. The isolation, brutality, enthusiastic gun and car culture inspired MAD MAX in Young George – it invoked a horror crime novel out of me. I like travelling in comfort – hitchhiked a lot in my 20s and slept on dirt, sand, concrete and cow shit – those days are happily over unless I end up homeless and mad which is likely.  

What was your first book?
 
UNBIDDEN is my first book. The fine people at Harper Collins have broken it up into five installments with the combined edition coming out in April. I’m proud to have a similar release strategy to H.G Wells and other weird fiction authors of the 19th century who had their work serialized. I hope to write more books as long as it doesn’t impinge on my loafing.
 
Describe your first break.

My first break was as a screenwriter. I was always told that movies were hard to break into and television was easier. Not the case in my experience. I’m happy to have made inroads into film and now a small foray into fiction because television in Australia is unwatchable. I dodged a fate worse than death. I always wanted to try and write books to see if I could at least finish one – and then maybe even write a readable one. I never expected I would attempt it before I was 60 years-old but here I am. There’s ageism in screenwriting like anywhere else. Writing novels was and still is my retirement plan. After a lifetime of screenwriting it’ll be strange and jarring not to have to deal with cowards, clowns and idiots. I’m looking forward to my screenwriting pariah status – bring it on!
 
What is your favorite genre to read? To write?
 
I’ve always devoured crime novels. The more hardboiled and hateful the better. But a mission I do have in the very few years we possess eyeballs is to read as many of the classic novels as I can. Apart from boasting about it and feeling superior I want to see what makes them classic novels and steal anything I can that’s in the public domain – that’s only half a joke. My favorite genre to write for is horror and sci-fi but I adore thrillers, crime and mystery. Everything I touch has the same grim and oppressive tone which is why I’m such good company.

Are Happy Endings are must in your stories?

The only must is the right ending. The one that feels honest or has some impact. The right ending can haunt a reader and that’s what I’m in it for. It’s an appeal of the novel – the truthful, uncompromised ending. Writing for cinema is a different ballgame. A lot of money is being risked and producers are a careful lot. It’s going to be a happy ending substantially more often than not because they think/hope they’ll make more money that way.
 
What makes a protagonist interesting?

I think it helps having a protagonist that pisses you off sometimes. Someone who frustrates you. The reader wants and yearns them to do something, say something, act, make the right decision and they don’t – not straight up anyway. I’m happy watching 2D characters in movies because some movies are meant to be dumb or well rounded characters are not called for – James Bond is a womanizing sociopath in every movie and we love that guy! But I do like to see something more interesting and complicated in fiction.  Grey area is also vital – a bit of shade and light – just like real people if we’re being honest about each other and who we are. We’re complicated and inconsistent and we struggle to be better people – I want to see this dose of reality within the pure bunkum of a genre plot.
 
What is the best thing about being a writer?

As a horror and crime writer you spend your days harming people, destroying their minds and bodies, throwing every awful thing at them you can think of but no-one really gets hurt – unlike the real world which really has it in for us. People talk about environmental footprints but there are other kinds of footprints – did you do evil, did you cause harm in the woefully short time you were here? I may write about terrible things but they’re just words on paper – writers don’t pollute waterways, inject perfume into bunny rabbit’s eyeballs or firebomb small Middle Eastern villages – we don’t do much harm at all, unless they wrote Mein Kampf.
 
What is the worst thing?


That it’s not a demonstrative talent .You can’t take your Mac to a party and impress a girl the way a muso can – well, you can but you’ll look like a jerk. The other downside is you’ll never get to all the stories you want to write. Even if they come at a sluggish rate of two ideas a year you’ll probably never turn all of them into books or scripts. Many are going to stay little movies in the home cinema of your head. Maybe that’s not so bad.
 
Pantser or plotter?
 
Bit of both. Was more of a plotter when I first started out but these days I don’t often have the luxury of putting together detailed outlines – particularly for the screenwriting side of things. But no matter what there’s always some kind of outline even if its only ten generously spaced pages. That takes care of the spine of it at least. The more writing I do the more confident I am of forming the connective tissue of each vertebra that makes up the spine. And sometimes you throw away large swathes of the spine completely and improvise which is scary but thrilling also and great breakthroughs can come out of tossing away the roadmap and pressing ahead. Or you can hit a wall and hate yourself. Most of the time completing any kind of creative work is a combination of good planning and the courage to go off-road, choose a direction and follow it doggedly – you’ll either arrive at a verdant oasis or a stinking node of despair. 
 
What do you see the direction of your future writing taking? What can we expect next? Give us a little taste.


Well, I’m never going to write Australian literary fiction unless I really want to be cruel to readers as well as myself. What years I have left are going to be wasted happily on genre fiction. I’m a lifer. All genres are fair game – horror, sci-fi, thrillers, crime. I have a hope of writing a decent mystery movie which are few and far between in Australia. I had an epiphany twenty years ago to write what I would read. I know whatever direction my work takes it will at least have the very sincere ambition of trying to entertain whoever I’m lucky enough to pick up my book and read.
 
Just for fun

Cat or dog person?
 
Dogs. Cats don’t have much meat on them. See now that’s a horror writer kind of joke and if you don’t like that kind of black humour maybe you shouldn’t be reading my book. Don’t say I didn’t warn you now…

Favorite food?


I’m low brow in everything but my taste in women. Give me burgers and slow-cooked comfort food over anything infinitesimal and overpriced tweezered onto a plate. I like cooks, not chefs.
 
Favorite book?


Great Expectations. Rip it off all the time. Mrs Havisham is a fine maniac and who’s got a cooler name than Magwitch? Then there’s Magwitch’s Australian connection.  Sorry, Charlie D - we’re claiming Magwitch as an Aussie!

Favorite movie?


The Thing. The John Carpenter remake. You don’t see many boy’s own adventures anymore. I miss them. Love the beards in this movie – they continue to inspire my own.

Favorite holiday?
 
Halloween of course but all of them provide an excuse to drink – Christmas and Mother’s Day the most infamously drunken of them.
 
Would you rather be the princess or the villain? Why?

Princess. You’re rich and idle – sounds like a happy life. The life of a villain seems stressful to me. They don’t often seem to luxuriate in their evil and just enjoy life. Looks like work, work, work and then you get hacked to death to provide a happy ending for rich people.   

Who has more fun, orcs or hobbits?


I initially said Orcs but if we’re talking about Lord of the Rings – the movie version at least – then I think Hobbits have more fun. Look at their larders! There’s a bit too much unsanitary bodypiercing going on with Orcs and not once have I seen a lady orc – or maybe I have…  Hmmm… 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
The book is $0.99.
 
TJ Park is an Australian novelist and screenwriter. He was raised on a steady diet of Stephen King novels, British science-fiction television, and the cinema of John Carpenter and Sergio Leone. Not much else is known about him. That's just the way he likes it.
 
http://www.harpercollins.com/9781460706305/mortal-thoughts-unbidden-part-one
 
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mortal-thoughts-t-j-park/1123045407
 
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B018PXCCJU/
​

​
Tell us about yourself: At thirty-three (33) I’m a very-long-in-the-tooth wild animal in the last throes of death. I have two children and a woman I devote myself to, when I’m not writing or (maybe more honestly) thinking about writing. Follow me @MothAnkles or mothankles at gmail

What was your first book? In Defense of the Moth or A Meaningless Dance in Blinding Heat and Light. It is the story of Johnny Gomez, a modern, disillusioned man who feels guilt for desiring not to abide by societal standards, but instead for self-destructive behavior. Also, a concept that I’ve been chewing on for a while that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about is privilege, what that looks like for a guy like Johnny Gomez, and how the idea of privilege gives him the opportunity to subvert the norms of society to justify a more creative way of life.
Ultimately, the book employs allegory and is a Platonic apology (apologia) for alcoholism and acute insanity and is written with the clever rebel in mind. Also for people like Johnny Manziel and Shia Labeouf

Describe your first break. I don’t know that I’ve had a first break. I was published five times in 2015 in MFA literary journals in varying degrees of repute and had a short story published in a neat anthology, which I think helped to both expand and collapse my writing. I suppose now that I think of it, maybe it would be nice if I can look back one day and see this book as my first break.

What is your favorite genre to read? To write? My favorite genre to read is probably absurd/fabulism and probably magical realism because I like the blend between the experimental and literary. I like to write a mixture of fabulism and literary as well.


Are Happy Endings a must in your stories? No. I don’t like absolutes. The only thing in my mind that is a must with my writing is that I give my best effort and do everything I can to put forth my best efforts.


What makes a protagonist interesting? Personally, I think it’s a strongly supported, unique belief system and worldview— weltanschauung, if you will—and that is generally shown through the innermost thoughts, dialogue and ultimately actions of the character.


What is the best thing about being a writer? It’s the same quality that makes it the best thing about being a runner or a mathematician; when you get to a certain point you don’t consider it torture, but a fun way to explore yourself and the world around you. Unfortunately those moments are few and far between.


What is the worst thing? Generally? The daily, sometimes hourly, confrontation of my own fear and disabilities is probably the worst thing. Specifically?  Being haunted with the passionate urge to quit your job and write, to hell with material wants and needs, or else a sacrifice of this desire is to waste my life. I came very close to applying to low-res MFA programs the past month.


Pantser or plotter? I am generally a plotter insomuch as I’ll plant plot points like guide posts at intervals, but in between those I’m a pantser.

What do you see the direction of your future writing taking? What can we expect next? Give us a little taste. I’m glad you asked! I am finishing the first draft of a collection of short stories. The short story collection is interesting (to me) in that I’m writing in an experimental style; a single narrative which is composed of my short stories which are interconnected by the segues of the (unnamed) narrator. This collection ranges from urban realism to fabulism and is told through the prism of the aforementioned unnamed narrator. The thematic glue for the collection is this narrator who toes the line between haught (or at least a well constructed ego) and a deeply-flawed, human vulnerability familiar and worthy of our sympathy.
 
A few of the stories that have been published that are included in this collection:
 
* La Tortuga, (Limestone, University of Kentucky MFA journal)
* He, Who Controls the Spices (Euphemism, Illinois State University graduate journal)
* I Blame Lolita (Moth magazine, Ireland's premiere literary review)
* Letter to the Jew's Mom (The Vehicle, Eastern Illinois University online journal)


Just for fun

Cat or dog person? Cat; I have a cat! The relationship between writers and cats is well documented, after all, right? (Hemingway, Sartre, Stephen King, Bukowski, etc.)

Favorite food? I’m a snob about one thing in my life. I went to school in Austin and so it was during the formative years of my twenties that I lived in the Hill Country of Central Texas. This, of course, is the home of barbeque and the Mecca. So, (real) BBQ! I’ve been to Memphis many times and while their barbeque is good and Carolina-style barbeque is good, it’s not the same.

Favorite book? My favorite book I’ve ever read is Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, though Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky has been the most influential.

Favorite movie? City of God, Jesus Christ Superstar and A Clockwork Orange are tied for my favorite movie. Honorable mention: Ratatouille.

Favorite holiday? Thanksgiving; I’m a man of excess and I was born on the day, back in the 80’s.

Would you rather be the princess or the villain? Why? Princess, because her acceleration is MUCH better and her handling is better and easier to use fast in Mario Kart compared to Wario or Bowser.

Who has more fun, orcs or hobbits? Hobbits seem like they have more fun, they seem more whimsical and fun-loving and drunk. Maybe I’m not giving Orcs enough credit, though.

GENRE: Literary Fiction
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
The Moon...

It is said the moon’s spell can move us and nobody understands her pull like Johnny Gomez.

Johnny, a devil-may-care and fatalistic salesman, remains tethered to his privileged life by a love for his children, his career and the moon—and not necessarily in that order. In fact, it’s Johnny’s lifelong passion for the moon, through both obsessive, independent study and a communal involvement in an astronomy society, that serves as the only outward distraction as a life of standard struggles waxes into a burgeoning crisis.

Until one night Johnny finds that the moon—his preferred method of self-medication-- no longer exists...but for him only and not anyone else.

Or so it seems, leaving Johnny’s continued marriage with reality to hinge on his rediscovery of the moon!

If you like allegories and/or philosophical apologies for acute insanity, grab “In Defense of the Moth or A Meaningless Dance in the Blinding Heat and Light” and join the eclipse.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt One:
 
“I had earnestly believed—perhaps I had to believe it—that I could find my way to the office for the big meeting but instead found myself on a balcony with a spackle of vomit on my snakeskin boots. I glanced once more at the dancing moths.
 
Must be nice, I thought. I threw my bag over my shoulder and I jumped the railing, landing with a splash of my own puke, and left without saying goodbye.”
 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Johnny Newport (The Moth) is carrying the consciousness of the oft-failed man native to 2016. Strictly from a visual standpoint he looks like he may be kept in a nice package, but this is not so. Johnny Newport has two feet on the warpath and probably smells like last night’s street tacos.
 
Johnny knows that his devil-may-care attitude is unfair—to himself and to others—but this is precisely the origin for the voice of an unbridled generation of privilege; the 21st-century-livers that intimately know they have squandered (squandered what? How can we say definitively and with any assurance despite knowing that a squandering has, indeed, befallen?), and will continue to do so, happily.
 
Otherwise about me, I studied at the University of Texas at Austin, have spent the last two years in The Writer's Path program at SMU (Southern Methodist University, Dallas) and have applied to a handful of low-res MFA programs for fall of '16.
 
Short story publications in 2015 were:

 
* Mr. Franklin’s Heartbreaking Sympathy (The Speculative Book, anthology)

* La Tortuga, (Limestone, University of Kentucky MFA journal)

* He, Who Controls the Spices (Euphemism, Illinois State University graduate journal)

* I Blame Lolita (Moth magazine, Ireland's premiere literary review)
* Letter to the Jew's Mom (The Vehicle, Eastern Illinois University online journal)
 
LINKS:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14879430.Johnny_Newport
https://twitter.com/mothankles
http://www.johnnynewport.com/
http://www.amazon.com/Defense-Meaningless-Dance-Blinding-Light-ebook/dp/B01B1XN6MS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1454352251&sr=8-1&keywords=in+defense+of+the+moth

​GENRE: Amish/Inspirational Romance
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
Energetic widow Mattie Bender Schwartz is working day and night to get Promise Lodge going. She’s also hoping the change will help her son Noah’s heart to heal after his broken engagement. But his former fiancée, Deborah, is looking for a fresh start too. Filled with regret, and cast out by her dat for a reason she can’t yet reveal, Deborah can only pray Noah will forgive her foolishness.

Deborah is the last person Noah expected to show up at Promise Lodge. But with her cruel words still ringing in his head, he’s reluctant to accept her apology—even if the Old Order ways demand he try. If only he could obey Christ’s most important commandment: love one another. But one thing is certain—his mother and aunts, and their beloved Preacher Amos, will do their best to help him get there.

​EXCERPTS (Exclusive Excerpt):
 
Ahead, Deborah saw a tall, timbered lodge building with a wide porch and a grassy yard surrounding it. Several cabins nestled in the shade of ancient trees behind the lodge. In a fenced pasture beside an old red barn, black and white dairy cows grazed and goats munched on weeds as they watched Deborah. Off to her right, about an acre away, the surface of a lake shimmered in the sunlight.
 
To her left, a large garden plot had been tilled and hoed. Leaf lettuce, peas, and other early vegetables grew in neat, straight rows, their leaves shining a vibrant green against the dark soil. Beyond this planted plot, another garden was being plowed. When a Belgian came around from behind the fragrant honeysuckle hedge, following the contour of previous rows, Deborah’s heart stopped.
 
Noah was driving. She would know his lean silhouette and the dark, wavy hair fluttering beneath his straw hat anywhere, for she’d memorized his handsome features all through school and during their year-long engagement. This was the man she’d planned to spend her life and raise her children with—and when he fixed his eyes on her, even from a distance, Deborah stopped breathing. He gazed long and hard, his expression indiscernible as the horse plodded along and the plow blades churned up the black soil.
 
Deborah dropped her suitcase and ran toward him, clapping a hand over her kapp so it wouldn’t fly off. Such hope—such joy!—danced in her heart. Surely he would feel compelled to give her another chance. She had to find a way to make amends. “Noah!” she called out. “Noah, it’s so gut to see you!”
 
As he halted the horse and stepped down from the plow, Deborah stopped at the edge of the plot to catch her breath. Noah took his time, stepping carefully over the uneven, furrowed earth. His green shirt clung to his damp chest and his old Tri-blend pants flapped in the breeze as he walked. He’d lost some weight--
 
But I can fix that! Maybe he’s missed me as much as I’ve longed for him! Deborah thought as Noah crossed the last several feet between them. He mopped his face with a bandanna and then stuffed it back into his pocket.
 
“Deborah.”
 
She savored the sound of Noah’s voice, the way he made her name sound so much sweeter than anyone else could, even if a wary silence stretched between them. When Deborah realized he wasn’t going to say anything else, she offered him the cookie tin. “I—I brought you some of those brownies you always liked,” she said with her best smile. “The kind with the peppermint patties in them.”
 
Noah took the tin but he didn’t open it. Sweat was dribbling from beneath his straw hat down his cheeks, but she didn’t dare wipe it off the way she used to.
 
“Why’d you come here?” he asked. “It’s a long trip from Coldstream.”
 
Deborah winced. He was asking the questions she didn’t want to answer—but she might as well state her case. “I made a big mistake, breaking off our engagement, Noah,” she murmured, holding his intense brown-eyed gaze. “I’m hoping we can—hoping you’ll give me the chance to make up for my impulsive decision. I’m sorry for those things I said. Can you forgive me? Please?”
 
His eyes widened. When someone asked for forgiveness, the Old Order ways demanded an answer, or at least an effort toward reconciliation. “I’ll have to think about it,” he replied tersely. “Why would I want to court you again, after you shot me down like a tin can off a fence?”
 

​AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Many moons ago—like, in 1983 while she was still a school librarian—Charlotte Hubbard sold her first story to True Story. This launched her into writing around seventy of those “true confessions” stories over the years, and she’s been a slave to her overactive imagination ever since. Over the course of her writing career, she has sold nearly 50 books—most recently, Amish romance series she’s written as Charlotte Hubbard or Naomi King.
Charlotte lived in Missouri for most of her life, so her Amish stories are set in imaginary Missouri towns. These days she lives in St. Paul, MN with her husband of 40 years and their Border collie, Ramona.
 
BUY LINKS
Promise Lodge, Book 1
Zebra (February 26, 2016)
ISBN-13: 9781420139419 •• ISBN-10: 142013941X
 
Click on these links to buy this book now!
 
Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ISBN=142013941X/
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 Ebook:
 
Kindle  http://www.amazon.com/Promise-Lodge-Charlotte-Hubbard-ebook/dp/B00Y6RB2PA/
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Kensington  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/32119
Kobo
https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/promise-lodge
WEBSITE   www.CharlotteHubbard.com
 
Facebook    www.Facebook.com/Charlotte.Hubbard1
 

Crushed
by Deborah Coonts
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
GENRE: Contemporary  Romance
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
In Napa Valley, he who has the best grapes wins. And in the pursuit of perfection, dreams and hearts can be crushed.

Sophia Stone is a widow on the brink of an empty nest, stuck in an unsatisfying job managing the vineyard for a mediocre Napa vintner. Faced with an uncertain future she wonders how do you choose between making a living and making a life? Between protecting your heart and sharing it? Five years ago, after her husband was killed in an accident, Sophia put her heart and dreams on ice to care for those around her. Now her home, her dreams, and her family’s legacy grapes are threatened by the greed of the new money moving into the Valley. Sophia has a choice—give up and let them take what is hers, or risk everything fighting a battle everyone says she can’t win.

Nico Treviani has one goal in life: make brilliant wine. A woman would be an unwanted distraction. So, while recognized as one of Napa’s premier vintners, Nico finds himself alone… until his brother’s death drops not one, but two women into his life—his thirteen-year-old twin nieces. In an instant, Nico gains a family and loses his best friend and partner in the winemaking business. Struggling to care for his nieces, Nico accepts a job as head winemaker for Avery Specter, one of the new-money crowd. And he learns the hard way that new money doesn’t stick to the old rules.

When Sophia Stone gets caught in the middle of Nico’s struggle to remain true to himself or sacrifice his convictions to make stellar wine, both Sophia and Nico are faced with a choice they never imagined. A choice that might extinguish the hope of a future neither expected.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt One:
 
Chapter One
 
Sophia Stone knew life held few absolutes:  good wine is art, good Italian cooking is passion, a good child is a gift, and good news never comes in a certified letter.
 
“You sure this is for me, Tito?” she asked the postman who thrust an envelope toward her.  When she tilted her head she could read the word “Certified,” stamped in red like a guilty verdict across the front.
 
A heavy-set man, Tito had a ready smile and an easy, engaging manner. Each day while delivering mail, he also traversed the valley searching for tidbits of gossip with the zeal of an Army battalion scouring the countryside for insurgents.  St. Helena was a small community where the denizens believed mining each other’s business was an inalienable right granted on the theory that without the titillation everyone would fall over dead from boredom. “Yeah, looks like it’s from Charlie.  Certified, too.”  Tito didn’t have the decency to hide his interest as he mopped his face with a dirty handkerchief then stuffed it back into his rear pocket.  The wiping didn’t help—a sheen of sweat still covered his ruddy cheeks.  August had been hot with no break in sight.
 
Sophia eyed him.  She wouldn’t put it past him to have already steamed open the letter, a thought that made her a bit nauseous.  Why had she thought a small town in Napa Valley would be a good place to hide? 
 
“From Charlie, you say?”  Keeping her hands in her pockets, Sophia tilted her head further and tried to double-check the sender’s address.  Then she looked him in the eye.  “Any idea what it’s about?”
 
Tito looked like a bully when his bluff was called.  He shrugged—an exaggerated movement that seemed like the shifting of a mountain—but a noncommittal answer, leaving Sophia certain whatever was in that letter would be spread around the valley and germinating in imaginations as rapidly as seeds on a spring wind.
 
At an impasse, Sophia and Tito stood there, the letter between them, Sophia delaying the inevitable.  Unfortunately, with a dinner to cook and a cake in the oven, Sophia didn’t have time to see if she could outlast him.  So, with a sour downturn to her mouth and a knot in her stomach, Sophia took the letter.
 
Tito motioned for her to flip the envelope over.  “There on the back, that green card?  You need to sign that.”  Handing her a pen, he waited for her to sign, then tore off the return receipt, pocketing it.
 
Confirming the return address, Sophia gave him a distracted wave as he climbed back into his truck.  “Thanks, Tito.” A perfunctory nicety.
 
“Sure thing, Ms. Stone.”  In a shower of gravel, he gunned the mail truck back through the vineyard down the winding driveway leading to the valley floor.  Sophia glanced up as the trees enveloped him and her normal quiet smothered the sound, wiping away all vestiges of his presence.
 
Except for the letter.
 
From her landlord.
 
At least the return address was his—and Sophia was certain he hadn’t moved from the corner lot at the bottom of her hill.  She could probably throw a bottle and hit his roof, with a little help from the wind
 
Charlie had owned this patch of five acres on the top of Howell Mountain since his parents had died in a small plane heading up from L.A. over thirty years ago.  Sophia had lived here for fifteen of those years and, through feast and famine, the ups and downs of the wine industry, she’d never received a certified letter from Charlie.  In fact, she couldn’t remember having received any letter from Charlie.  Their business dealings were usually hammered out at the kitchen table over a bottle of wine and sealed with a handshake.  Napa Valley was a handshake kind of place.   
 
Sophia reached up and rubbed the worn piece of iron Daniel had nailed to one of the porch supports.  Tocco Ferro.  Her family had been steeped in the ways of the Old Country; her husband had become a believer.  Touch iron to ward off bad luck.   Being a bit too pragmatic, Sophia didn’t necessarily believe, but it couldn’t hurt.  God knew she’d had enough rough patches.  With a finger, she traced the initials the four of them had carved in the porch support.  Time had whittled their number to one … almost. 
 
Tapping the white legal-sized envelope on her open palm, she squinted against the sun as she looked out over her small patch of heaven.  A rolling hillside with a couple of acres under vine, grapes from the Old Country, grafts of her grandfather’s original vines.   A small garden flanked the house.  Her own private retreat sheltered from prying eyes by a ring of trees. 
 
The farmhouse had been billed as a “fixer-upper.”  She and Daniel had packed up the kids, moving up valley from the Bay Area, and spent the next several years making the remnants of a house into a home.  They’d bribed the kids into helping by letting them paint their own rooms.  Dani had picked pink, hot pink.  As if the view from his window wasn’t enough, Trey had chosen wood paneling and a bucolic scene of vineyards on one wall.  When he’d moved away for college, Sophia hadn’t had the heart to change it.  Perhaps she’d harbored the hope that he would come home someday.  He hadn’t.  Now Dani was poised to fly.
 
Soon Sophia would be alone, the house emptied of youthful buoyancy.  The prospect filled her with dread.  Stripped of purpose, she half-feared she would grow brittle like the old vines until the weight of loneliness shattered her into bits and pieces of who she used to be.  When Daniel had been killed, she’d had the kids.  Now the false friend of sadness stayed ever near, her house echoing with memories.  But memories didn’t make a life any more than the past made a future.  However, the past was her tether.  Without it, Sophia felt she would float away like a balloon loosed to the sky, growing ever smaller until vanishing from sight. 
 
While the house cradled her past, the rows of vines just reaching their peak marching down the hill across her two acres held her dreams.  Her grapes, started from grafts from her grandfather’s stock back in Italy, each juice-filled orb bursting with hope, with promise.  Her life’s work hanging on the verge of a promise.
 
Through the screen door, the aroma of a cake on the verge of disaster wafted into Sophia’s consciousness, and she turned and bolted for the kitchen, the screen clattering shut behind her.  With a dishrag to protect her hand, she opened the oven.  The smell of chocolate carried on billows of steam engulfed her.  She waved it away, squinting through the heat.  She deposited the cake pan on the stainless steel countertop.  Pressing her thumb lightly on the cake, she let out her breath in a long rush.  Just in time.
 
Her mother loved chocolate cake.  Sophia planned to visit her this afternoon.  Perhaps a peace offering would soften her harsh moods of late.
 
Sophia spied the letter, pristine white and accusing, laying casually on the sideboard where she had tossed it in her haste.  Without further thought, she stuffed it in the old cookie jar on the countertop and crammed on the lid.  That cookie jar held a lifetime of happiness and heartache—her marriage license, the kids’ birth certificates, Daniel’s death certificate and obituary—it could handle the letter as well.  Whatever problem lurked inside that envelope, it could wait.
 
Leaving the cake to cool, Sophia strode through the door to the porch, pushing through the screen and down the steps.  The grapes, fragrant in the midday sun, neared perfection—harvest a few days away, at best.  Sophia had plans for those grapes, unique varietals that would make unusual yet palatable wine … if she could just figure out the last piece.  She was close, though, closer than ever before.  Grapes—creating them, growing them, cajoling them to trust her—they were her true passion.  Unfortunately dreams didn’t pay the bills, as her mother never missed a chance to bludgeon her with that little bit or ironic reality.  So Sophia had to sell her skills to pay the bills and now found her days consumed with tending to grapes owned by Pinkman Vineyards, one of the vast commercial operations in the valley, that turned her carefully nurtured grapes into mediocre table wine.
 
She walked the rows testing the scent once more—the perfume of near perfection as her grandfather called the sweetness of grapes.  Memories filtered through the shadows of time like wraiths, translucent, elusive … fleeting.  When she quieted, stilled her mind and opened her heart, Sophia could hear his voice, rich and deep, his laugh, and smell the scent of earth and sun that clung to him, the wine on his breath.  But, she couldn’t see him anymore.  Like sun on paper, time had weathered and faded her mental pictures until only shadows remained, as if the present was slowly erasing the past. 
 
Worry dogged her, the letter and its unknown message on her mind as she tended to each vine, brushing back the canopy, weighing the clusters.  This far along in the season not much remained to do; nature would run her course.  This year Sophia had planted wildflowers and grasses under the vines to entice the bugs and keep them off the fruit.  The plan had worked well, as had her choice to prune more aggressively than normal this past winter. Under her care, her grandfather’s grapes flourished, and just now they were beginning to trust her, to give her their best.
 
This year’s wine had the potential to be the stuff of dreams.
 
At the far end of her property movement across the fence caught Sophia’s attention. Shading her eyes with one hand, she still had to squint against the assault of the sun.  Her next-door neighbors had sold their property recently to Specter Wines, a new player with new money.  Scuttlebutt had it the owner had made a mint somewhere back east.  Sophia shook her head as she watched heavy equipment struggle to tame the hillside, prepare it for planting.  These days it seemed just about every rich guy wanted a piece of Napa to cultivate his own grapes, make a signature vintage that would rock the world.
 
As if it was that easy.

​

​AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
My mother tells me I was born in Texas a very long time ago, but I’m not so sure—my mother can’t be trusted.  She’ll also tell you I was a born storyteller.  That I believe—I have the detention notices and bad-conduct reports to prove it.  However, the path from minor hyperbolist, or as I prefer to think of my former self, Grand Master of the Art of Self-Prevarication, to the author of the New York Times Notable Crime Novel and double Rita ™ finalist, Wanna Get Lucky?, the book that launched the bestselling series, was a bit tortured.
 
Someone once told me I lived a peripatetic life—yes, I had to look it up.  And he was right.  I’ve been everything from a mom, business owner, accountant, wife, pilot, flight instructor, lawyer …worse, a tax lawyer… to a writer. The three personas I’ve kept suit me the best: mom, flight instructor, and writer. And the other personas I’ve tried on then shrugged out of and discarded like an itchy coat were great grist for the story mill.
 
Chasing stories keeps me busy and out of jail…for the most part. Researching in Vegas can be a bit… sketchy. 
 
Prodded by the next adventure and the police, I keep moving. Right now I have a house in Texas, but that will change soon. I lived in Vegas for 15 years—the longest I’d stayed anywhere. And I get back there often. But other places, too, are calling.
 
Someone asked me the other day where I lived. The question stopped me cold.  Finally I said, “On Southwest Airlines, third row, window seat, either side.” Always in search of a story.  And the adventure would be perfect if they could just stock a split of nice Champagne.
 
www.deborahcoonts.com
 
https://www.facebook.com/deborahcoonts/
 
https://twitter.com/DeborahCoonts
 
http://www.amazon.com/Crushed-Heart-Napa-Book-1-ebook/dp/B01AIMM17E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1454958792&sr=1-1&keywords=crushed+coonts
 
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/crushed/id1074006072?mt=11
 

​GENRE: travel adventure/memoir
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
When Susan and Charles receive a letter from Cyprus friends, now in Taiwan, they get a chance to help crew a sailboat from Sri Lanka across the Indian Ocean. They have no clue what to expect. Susan reminds Charles she isn't a good swimmer. He tells her a life jacket will do the trick, and convinces her it's the opportunity of a lifetime. A must-do travel adventure. They say goodbye to friends and family in sunny California, fly to New York and on to India, arriving the day the Indian government has issued a state of emergency. And then onto the boat, and into the ocean. In monsoon season. With no charts.

In this true-life travel adventure, Susan keeps a journal and record her bizarre thoughts and telling dreams. A real life thriller, Susan's monsoon-season journey is about discovery and spiritual realization—one dream at a time.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Excerpt One:
 
Ch 2
 
The crew scrambled to get into their seats when the captain announced we were on our final approach, “Prepare for landing.”
 
Downward, we dove through a dark blanket of clouds. All belted in for a smooth landing.
 
As we neared the ground, the clouds cleared. We crossed a crowded expressway with bumper to bumper afternoon traffic. I could see passengers sitting in cars waiting to move forward. Touchdown was seconds away.
 
Without warning, the craft groaned and shuddered. Flaps shifted. Engines roared. In an instant the aircraft pitched sharply and climbed skyward with great speed.
 
Items tumbled from overhead bins as the plane shook violently in midair.
 
I gripped Charles's arm.
 
The plane made a sharp turn to the left and the ground fell away.
 
Below us, I saw a huge orange ball of fire erupting on the runway.
 
“Oh my God,” I said, gripping Charles's arm tighter.
 
The fire sent black smoke billowing into the air above a twisted, burning plane.
 
“No survivors there,” Charles said, craning his neck to see what was happening on the ground.
 
A few minutes later, the sound system crackled and the captain announced, “As you’re aware folks, we've had to abandon our final approach to land on runway 221. We're lucky to have missed a major disaster. Eastern Air Lines Flight 66, a Boeing 727, was struck by lightning on its final approach to JFK,” his voice cracked, “and has crashed on the runway. Eastern was the plane landing  in front of us. If we had arrived a split second before the Eastern plane, ours would have been the plane struck. We're lucky to have been second on the approach path

​A good adventure is one you survive. A great adventure occurs, when not only do you survive, but you learn something from it.  Ms. Joyce survived not only one, but also two great adventures.  While she details her adventures from a first person narrative, including many personal details, it also highlighted how little respect women were afforded even in the 1970’s. From Ms. Joyce not having control of her money to her husband making the decisions that involved both of them.
This enlightening memoir included growth and insight along with her travelogue touches. It also took me back to a time where traveling across the world was not an easy thing, and was often dangerous. Kudos to Ms. Joyce for being lucky in this lifetime and in all the others too. 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 Born in Los Angeles California, Susan Joyce spent most of her childhood in Tucson, Arizona and returned to LA as a young working woman. Inspired as a child by postcards from her globe-trotting great aunt, Susan left the United States at age 20 to see the world.
 
She planned on being gone for a year, but ended up living her 20s and 30s in Europe and the Middle East. As a Jill of all trades, she worked as a secretary, freelance writer, taught computer classes, wrote songs, and became an accomplished artist while writing her first children's book, "Peel, the Extraordinary Elephant."
 
An award winning author and editor of children's books, Susan's first adult book in her memoir series, "The Lullaby Illusion--A Journey of Awakening" is a travelogue of the politics of Europe, the United States, and Israel during a twelve year 'roller-coaster' period of her life and an adventure of survival through friends and sheer determination.
 
The Lullaby Illusion was awarded
* Readers' Favorite 5-Stars and the 2014 GOLD Medal Winner, Non-Fiction--Travel in the 2014 Readers' Favorite International Book Awards.
* Honorable Mention Prize Winner--2014 Stargazer Literary Prizes
 
Her second memoir, "Good Morning Diego Garcia" is about her adventure from India and across the Indian Ocean in monsoon season in 1975.
Available for pre-order: http://www.amazon.com/Good-Morning-Diego-Garcia-Discovery-ebook/dp/B017S0ZXP6/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
 
Read more about Susan's life adventures at: http://susanjoycejourneys.com/
Stop in and say hello to Susan here: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSusanJoyce/?fref=ts