GENRE: historical fiction
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 BLURB:
 
In 1897, a young cockney nursemaid takes her first train ride, leaving London for the lush and sprawling Sandringham Estate, private home to Britain’s royal family. Hired by the Duke and Duchess of York to help rear their royal children, Charlotte Bill is about to become privy to all the secrets families hide, and caught between the upstairs and downstairs worlds.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~
 Excerpt One:
 
Of course I’d been out on the for-hire steam launch on the Thames my father captained, but in the railway carriage, I felt I was flying.  It was noisy too, here in third class with the huge engine just ahead, huffing and blowing smoky steam which dashed past the windows.  .  Where I sat was quite plain with the leather seats a bit worn and cracked, but I felt I was in a magic cart to the moon anyway.  My father had said the tracks would be well-kept since this was the route the royals themselves used to get to their Norfolk estate where I was headed.  But when he’d put me on the train, he’d been disappointed that none of the royal carriages were on this run. 
 
As I was sent for to become undernurse to the royals at York Cottage on the Sandringham Estate, it was the first time I’d been in a railway carriage and the first time so far from home.  I was going one-hundred-and-twenty miles from London, and didn’t have to pay for the passage ticket either!  Maybe that would be one of the grand things being in service to the royals, because Mama said they were all rich, rich, rich.  Honestly, I didn’t care a whit about that, just that I could better my station and send some money home in these tough times, but how I missed my former and now grown toddlekins from Dr. Lockwood’s family in London.  They didn’t need a nurse anymore, all grown up to only need their new stepmother.

​AUTHOR Bio and Links:

NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestselling author Karen Harper is a former university (Ohio State) and high school English teacher. Published since 1982, she writes contemporary suspense and historical novels about real British women. Two of her recent Tudor era books were bestsellers in the UK and Russia. A rabid Anglophile, she likes nothing more than to research her novels on site in the British Isles. Harper won the Mary Higgins Clark Award for DARK ANGEL, and her novel SHATTERED SECRETS was judged one of the Best Books of 2014 by Suspense Magazine. The author and her husband divide their time between Ohio and Florida.  For more information please visit: www.karenharperauthor.com

GENRE: Romantic suspense
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
The past and present collide as FBI analyst Jake Bernstein is recruited to go undercover and investigate an elderly American grandmother, currently on a tour of England and Ireland with her granddaughter, who is suspected of WWII war crimes. Jake joins them and runs into complications when his growing attraction to the granddaughter challenges his obligation to remain emotionally detached. As the investigation intensifies, a neo-Nazi group tries to prevent him from learning the truth and achieve justice for all concerned. Danger mounts, and Jake struggles to stay alive long enough to either prove the old woman’s guilt or exonerate her.
 
Despite Meg Larsen’s mounting passion for the stranger who has joined their tour, she suspects he’s not who he claims to be. When she realizes her grandmother is the target of the man’s investigation, her first instinct is to protect the woman who raised her. Eventually, however, Meg must face the possibility of her grandmother’s lifetime of lies while forced to trust a man who has become both their nemesis and bodyguard.
 
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Note from the Author:
 
My new FBI series, INTERNATIONAL RELEASE-JUNE 8th, is the Jake Bernstein FBI series--A BODYGUARD OF LIES, Book One. If you love a genre that's chock full of danger, suspense, crime drama and a heavy dose of sizzling romance, you'll LOVE THIS SERIES! FBI agent Jake Bernstein is my epitome of a hardy, justice-seeking federal officer who combines good looks, a sense of humor and unyielding courage. He knows how to investigate as one of the Bureau's best undercover agents, but he also knows how and when to bend the rules for the sake of true human justice.
 
The idea for this book, A BODYGUARD OF LIES, struck me when I was tipping a pint with fellow tourists at an Irish pub. There on the wall was an old, WW II photo of Irish dockworkers sharing their pub with German U-boat sailors. That started me wondering about the role that Ireland played during the war, its uneasy relationship with Nazi Germany and the German spies who infiltrated Ireland and England. Lots of research followed, which led me to a contemporary story about an FBI undercover agent who investigates an elderly, naturalized American grandmother, wanted by MI6 for war crimes. Little ol' Mary McCoy Snider, a dangerous WW II Nazi spy who caused the deaths of thousands? Even Agent Jake Bernstein finds that an unbelievable stretch. The granddaughter whom Jake finds himself falling in love with also disbelieves MI6's allegations.
 
Until his investigation draws him into the middle of a dangerous, secret neo-Nazi group that'll stop at nothing to protect one of their own. And then Jake must choose, the old woman and her lovely granddaughter. Or justice!
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt Three:
 
Her expression grew serious once more. He hated to see her worried. Hated the idea that Meg and her grandmother were falling under that couple’s control. Hated even more the possibility he might never see her again after today.
 
“Code? Like what?”
 
“You said they were talking about photo shoots in Berlin and Hannover. If they take you there...for Berlin, tell me your plane had to stop in Boston on the way back to Texas. B for B. If it’s Hannover, your plane stopped in...”
 
“Houston. I get it. I’ll improvise.”
 
“Good, you’re a quick study. If they take your phone away, well, I’ll have to assume it’s Berlin first, then Hannover. MI5 will think you’ve gone home but they’ll expect you to get in touch with me, so my cell phone might be monitored. At least, for the first twenty-four hours after you leave. Enough of a delay for me to get to Germany and the right city.”
 
Meg looked uncertain. “You’ll ditch the MI5 agents?”
 
“You bet I’m following you.”
 
“Good, I’m glad. I don’t trust those people. You won’t believe this, Jake.” Meg was preceding him down the inn’s narrow, wooden stairway. “They’ve been speaking German to Grandma, calling her Clare. Madeleine’s even calling her, mother. And Grandma’s so zonked out, she believes them! I’m so confused, I’m half believing them myself.”
 
“Meg, we think your grandmother is Clare Hillenbrand Eberhard from Hannover. She was a gifted foreign language teacher and amateur actress until her husband, Horst Eberhard, recruited her to join him in the Abwehr. He was her handler during the war. Both of them were moles, spied for the Abwehr and then later the SS. Horst was killed during the war, sometime in early 1945 during the German retreat from Italy. Your grandmother…well, she hooked up with your grandfather, Captain John Snider of the Army Air Corps, married him and, you might say, got out of Dodge as soon as she could.”
 
Jake looked back at Meg as she halted by the inn’s door to the kitchen. By the look on her face, he could tell she wasn’t totally surprised. He was just confirming what she’d already tossed around in her mind. Still, the truth hurt. He dropped the key on the counter as the blushing teenaged boy watched them stop and talk.
 
They lingered beside the kitchen door, reluctant to part. Jake’s pulse quickened at the melancholy look Meg wore. She shook her head morosely.
 
“So Gran’s been undercover all these years. What a terrible burden for her, regardless of what she did during the war.” Meg looked up at him. “I thought I knew my grandmother. I don’t really know her at all, I guess. Jake, I think Gran was in touch with the Le Blancs before this tour. I think they met up on purpose.”
 
Her voice sounded on the verge of breaking, so Jake tried to console her by stroking her face with the back of his knuckles. He wished like hell he could assure her that his investigation had cleared her grandmother. Just the opposite was true, and now the Le Blancs had unwittingly confirmed his and MI5’s theory.

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Donna is a retired high school English teacher and is finally able to fulfill her dream of writing fiction. She lives in Northern California with her husband and three cats. When she’s not writing novels, she’s singing with the Sacramento Valley Chorus or traveling with her husband. Life is good and she feels very blessed.
 
Visit her on Facebook or at www.donnadeloro.com
www.thewildrosepress.com/DonnaDelOro
Contact her: donna@donnadeloro.com
​

​
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.

What was your first book?
Leaving Shangrila: The True Story of a Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape is my debut memoir.


Describe your first break.
The prologue of Leaving Shangrila, which is also the excerpt for this visit, was the first turning point in my life. Having been the last pick on any sports team I was on, I dreamt about one day being chosen first.  That dreamed seemed elusive when all my strategies to achieved them did not get me very far. But then circumstances led to a reframing.  I played a different position, more suited for my skills.  Was the first time I deeply longed for something that came true.  That moment was so powerful in my story, that not only it is Leaving Shangrila’s first chapter, but also a mantra that I adopted for myself when at first I don’t succeed when I truly desire something.  I ask myself “how can I become a goalie in this situation?” That is, there are often multiple paths to an outcome.  It is just sometimes hard at first to figure out what it is.


What is your favorite genre to read? To write?
For entertainment purposes, I love historical fiction. That is, I enjoy more than just an entertaining story, I love to learn something when I read. That was true of my most recent reads, such as the Nightingale, that provided detailed information about life during WWII.  More recently however, I read many book that would loosely be categorized in self-help.  These are research projects that are grounded in real life.  Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman is a fantastic example of that.  I read it both for the information it provided, but assessed my life and my own level of emotional intelligence.  
 
For writing, I believe memoir is the best option for me.  I often said that if I had set out to write a fictional story about a girl growing up in a remote farm in Brazil, I would not have come up with half of the life events that actually happened to me.  I often used the expressions “you just can’t make this stuff up.”

Are Happy Endings are must in your stories?
Because I write about life events that happened to me or people I know, I would much rather have happy endings.  But the truth is, happy endings can be important where life lessons are part of the message.  By definition, a memoir (or any story) requires some drama, or plot twist.  If not, what would be the interest to the author in writing it and to the reader in reading it? Having said that, having the ability to overcome adversity gives a satisfying end to what can be a harrowing story.  It is the ultimate triumph of good over evil.   That is why I believe many movies end up with happy endings, it would not be satisfying without it (there are many, many exceptions to this).  But an author’s job I believe is to evoke feelings in their readers. Happy ends (where they are true), achieve that.

What makes a protagonist interesting?
A relatable one. That is, one where the reader can see themselves in some aspect of the character. It makes them human, whether they are supposed to be emblems of good or evil.  And even the evilest of characters has some redeeming qualities about them, usually.

What is the best thing about being a writer?
Having the ability to reach so many people. In my day job, I am a consultant.  My reports have a limited audience, typically with a very narrow focus on an immediate, short term problem. But writing a book, that readers relate to and embrace, at all corners of the world, that is the best feeling.

What is the worst thing?
No matter how great the writing or the story, there are just some readers who do not relate to some part of it.  And that’s OK, actually.  I always say, what would be of yellow if everyone liked blue? But the issue when criticism is a reflection that the they were not the target audience for the story, rather than some inherently wrong with the writing or the story.

What do you see the direction of your future writing taking? What can we expect next? Give us a little taste.
I felt a strong calling to write Leaving Shangrila, and not necessarily a calling to become a “writer.”  I am so humbled and honored to have gotten to this point, and to the warm welcome and positive feedback associated with this project. I hope to use this as a platform to help others.  To give people the strength to overcome adversity, even when it seems that no one in the world will help them. To give others the courage to intervene and ask questions if they witness a situation that looks and/or feels wrong.  Who knows? They may be helping defenseless people to find their voice or to extricate them from a bad situation.

JUST FOR FUN


Cat or dog person?
I thought for sure I was a dog person. I had a yellow lab, who I called my first baby, who I loved as any of the closest people in my life.  But then my younger son developed an allergy to dogs.  We had to give her up (that was sad).  We were pet free for years, until my sons asked again that we have pets.  So we went to a shelter and rescue a polydactyl cat: this breed has extra toes, so his paws are huge relative to his body.  Now he is family.  So that makes me a pet person!

Favorite food?
Blueberries.  The ripe ones from early season.  I could eat them endlessly.

Favorite book?

Favorite movie?
I have a few favorites…  but if I have to choose one, it will be the one I watched the most, which is Mamma Mia. I love the message of girl power underlying the movie, the search for something that is missing, but then figuring out all along that you already have all you really need.

Favorite holiday?
I honestly don’t think I have one.  I appreciate them all!  Mostly because holidays are a time that I get to spend with family, doing something fun and relaxing. My life can get so hectic with my day job, writing and now promoting Leaving Shangrila, taking my sons to all their activities and engaging in their lives.  Holidays are a chance to slow down and just enjoy the moment.

Would you rather be the princess or the villain? Why?
Must I choose?  In writing Leaving Shangrila, I took great care to not portray myself as neither a victim nor a hero (not the same as a princess or a villain… but close).  Every princess has a little bad side to them, and every villain has a little spark.  But because I truly embrace living a life as honestly as I can, I suppose I’d have to choose Princess.  But a low-maintenance one.

Who has more fun, orcs or hobbits?
Honestly, I think neither… orcs don’t appear to have feelings and are mindlessly conducting somebody else’s plan that don’t take them into account.  Hobbits have to fight so hard for respect.  But if I had to choose, I’d prefer to be a hobbit.

Leaving Shangrila: The True Story of a Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape
by Isabelle Gecils
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 GENRE:  Memoir
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BLURB:
 
Leaving Shangrila: The True Story of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape by Isabelle Gecils, is the captivating memoir of a charmingly complex heroine. 

Isabelle paints a colorful world as she tells the tale of how she forged her own path in the midst of turmoil. The story, set in Brazil where she grew up, is populated with fascinating characters, both good and bad. From a narcissistic mother to her perpetually flawed lovers to three resilient sisters, Leaving Shangrila’s motley crew make for an endlessly intriguing storyline.

Leaving Shangrila begins with young Isabelle, trapped in a hellish world. Surrounded by lies, manipulation, and abuse, Isabelle is desperate to escape the adversity of this place. Filled with tremendous strength and an unyielding drive to survive, she begins her journey toward freedom and self-realization. Through the trials and obstacles along the way, Isabelle goes back and forth to balance who she is with what she must do to survive.

With themes of perseverance, self-reliance, and the resilience of the human spirit, Leaving Shangrila: The True Story Of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape highlights the important character traits one discovers on the path to finding their self. Truly empowering and inspirational, readers everywhere will relate to this coming of age story.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Excerpt One:
 
My entire class staged a school play, except that, unlike everybody else, I watched it rather than act in it. Joining the theater troop required almost daily rehearsals at one of my classmates’ lavish colonial homes near school. I was not invited to join the group. They already knew I would not come.
 
At the school grounds, my classmates cracked jokes about what happened during their afternoons together. They perched on one another as they traded stories and exchanged hugs. I heard about the English classes they took after school, their boat trips around the bays of Rio de Janeiro, the excited chatter that accompanied field trips I was never allowed to join. When the entire class decided to spend a lightly chaperoned weekend in Cabo Frio, a town with white, sandy beaches and coconut trees lining the boardwalks, my jealousy meter spiked. For two months, that is all anyone talked about. Since I did not even receive an invitation, nobody spoke with me.
 
I felt lonely observing them. I longed to be as adored as were the two most popular girls in my class: Isabela and Flavia. Isabela, despite the discolored white spots all over her skin due to type 1 diabetes, was the reigning queen. The boys swooned over Flavia, two years older than the rest of us although she repeated third and fifth grade due to her poor academic performance.
 
I observed these two girls, searching for what it was about them that made them special. Yes, they were both beautiful. While their beauty may have helped with their popularity, it surely was not the main factor, as there were other pretty girls too. I decided that what they had in common, what nobody else had, was that they were the best athletes in my class, even perhaps the best in all of the school.
 
Isabela and Flavia were always the ones everybody wanted to have on their team and as their friend. They were either team captain or the first pick. They seemed to try harder than everybody else. So I thought that if I truly focused on sports, then I could be just like them. If only I could excel on the handball field—as girls did not play soccer, despite the madness surrounding the most popular sport in Brazil—then maybe, just maybe, my social standing could change too. I made a plan. One day, I would be just as great as these two. One day, I would be chosen first.
 
At the beginning of each week, the P.E. teacher assigned two captains. They, in turn, each picked a team for the week. We played handball on Tuesdays, volleyball on Thursdays. And every week, for the past three years, I was the captain’s last, grudgingly chosen pick. I knew why. Had I been captain, I would have chosen myself last too.
 
I did not score any goals in handball. My throws were either too weak or out of bounds. Knowing this, my team did not bother passing the ball to me. I spent the game playing defense, barely succeeding at blocking the other team’s powerhouse players as they demolished the team I was on. When an opponent charged towards me dribbling the ball, I got out of the way. In volleyball, I removed my thick glasses for fear they’d be broken, and as a result, I could not see the ball coming to hit me in the face.
 
I did not particularly enjoy playing sports. However, to change my standing in the team-selection pecking order, I practiced with a purpose. During games, I became more aggressive. I wore my glasses. I reached for the goal, whereas before I simply stood on the sidelines. I blocked more aggressively too—even if it meant pulling my opponent’s shirt or hair—no matter that this often led to a penalty against my team. During these early weeks, I returned home with two broken eye glasses, earned a couple of red cards, and made my teammates angry.
 
At home, after completing my homework, I begged my two sisters to play ball with me. They did play, but not for long. When they grew tired, I threw the ball against the wall, attempting to increase my arm strength. When my arms felt tired, I ran around the farm to increase my speed and reflexes by dodging a pretend ball. At night, as I drifted to sleep, I prayed silently so that my sisters would not hear me plead: “God, please, make me be chosen first.”
 
As weeks turned into months, I became quite adept at catching the ball as it ricocheted from the wall towards me. I was no longer chosen last. That horrible fate was bestowed on a shy and almost as awkward classmate who had the extra disadvantage of being overweight, which slowed her down compared to me; I was slight and scrawny. Yet, despite months of effort, I did not score any more than before, did not throw the ball any harder or more accurately, and hardly touched the ball at all. Since I often increased the penalty count with my new, more aggressive tactics, the coach had me sit out whenever there was an odd number of players.
 
A year into this futile attempt, I felt a deep sense of disappointment but realized the foolishness of pursuing an utterly impossible dream. Maybe one had to be content with their lot in life, I concluded. Any attempts to try to change who one was, or what one wanted, were futile. Feeling defeated and deflated and knowing that, despite any effort, the sports court was not a place for me, I talked myself out of my goal. I stopped practicing in the afternoons. I removed my glasses again during games. I accepted that I was not meant to be popular and that the world where my classmates lived did not belong to me.
 
I hated my life. I hated going home where there was nothing to do and nobody to play with. I hated how different we were—with our round house, with our religious meetings, with our inability to do anything other than go to school. Not knowing what to do to change any of it, I returned to my routine, finding friendship in books and getting all my validation from my grades.
 
Two months later, I felt sick.
 
My head and muscles hurt; my nose was running; and I coughed uncontrollably. I barely slept. My mother suggested I stay home. No matter how sick I felt, I would never choose to stay home with my stepfather lurking around. Anywhere was better than home. Despite my illness, I dragged myself to school that day. It was a Tuesday, which meant handball day. That morning, I walked to the handball court, hoping my swollen eyes and drippy nose would help me avoid playing at all.
 
“Coach, I am sick,” I said with narrowed eyes. “Can I sit out the game today?”
 
“Being sick isn’t enough reason not to play,” the P.E. teacher said, not even bothering to look at me. “So, go play.”
 
Although students never questioned the decisions of a professor, I protested feebly.
 
He dismissed me again, treating me as a little pest who could not be taken seriously.
 
“Here is what you will go do,” he told me. “Your team needs a goalie. Go defend it,” he said, pointing towards the goal. The regular goalie was also sick that day, but unlike me, she had the good sense to stay at home.
 
Off to guard the goal post I went, grateful at least that I did not have to run or be pushed around on the court. I hoped that a strong team defense would prevent me from having to exert much effort. My teammates groaned and shook their heads in disbelief as they saw me standing in front of the goal, mumbling that the team had already lost. The opposing team congratulated themselves before the whistle blew. “This will be easy,” they bragged within earshot, ensuring I knew they considered themselves to have already clinched victory. Having me guard the goal was the same as having no goalie at all.
 
A surge of anger and despondency bubbled up within me upon hearing their snickers. I felt tired of always being at the bottom of the totem pole, tired of feeling ridiculed and different. I puffed my chest as if this would make me larger, ignoring how painful it felt to take deep breaths.
 
My team’s defense did not keep its end of the bargain. The balls from the opposing team flew towards the goal at unreasonable speeds, from what appeared to be impossible angles. Yet, I blocked them out. I blocked every single ball that came towards me. I shielded that goal as if my life depended on it. At the end of the game, my team won by a landslide.
 
Not used to the taste of victory, I did not distinguish the elation I felt from the confusion at this unexpected turn of events. My dumbfounded classmates looked at me as if they saw me for the first time, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
 
They, and I, were in awe.
 
My feat as the goalie made the gossip circuit and by the following week, despite some lingering doubt about my abilities, I was picked third in the line-up. I had jumped seven places in one week! This was better than an improvement; it was a major victory!
 
At the sound of the whistle, the players moved. I tried to concentrate. Not feeling as angry as I did the previous week, my confidence waned even before the game started. But I wasn’t playing for the game. I was playing for my dream, my rank in the social pecking order, and my desire that for once, people would pay attention to me.
 
Nobody pierced my defense of the goal. My team won again.
 
Two weeks later, the captains planned the team selection for the school’s annual Olympic Games. The teams played together for two months in preparation for the week-long competition, held at a sports complex where all the parents—and the large, extended families that most Brazilians had—watched the games. The Olympics was the talk of the school.
 
My class split the girls into teams; these teams would play both handball and volleyball. The P.E. teacher selected the team captains. To my utter surprise, Isabela was not one of them. Thus, there was a possibility that Flavia and Isabela, the two best players, could be on the same team together. And that, I was sure, would lock in victory for whichever team they were a part of. I hoped that I would be chosen, even if last, to the better team. It was obvious to me that the opposing team would have no chance and would simply be crushed.
 
There was an air of excitement and nervousness at the school playground as the captains readied themselves to make their picks. Flavia was one of the captains. Ana Cristina, a strong but not stellar player, was the captain of the opposing team. After a coin toss, Ana Cristina was first to select players.
 
 “I want Isabelle,” she said pointing at me.
 
She clearly meant Isabela, with an “a”, and not me, with the French spelling of a name most Brazilians did not get right. It made no sense to me that she would have chosen otherwise. So I did not budge.
 
“You heard her, Isabelle,” the coach said, tapping me on my shoulder. “Hurry up and move to Ana Cristina’s side.”
 
I was too stunned to hear the loud murmur emanating from the cluster of the other girls at this unexpected choice. This could not be right. I thought Ana Cristina had been crazy to select me. This choice guaranteed that Flavia would pick Isabela next. Ana Cristina’s team would be decimated. No team could win against the two stronger players.
 
I looked at Ana Cristina with panic in my face and shook my head. “Don’t do it,” I whispered. “Pick Isabela first.”
 
She looked at me, puzzled.
 
“Why?” she asked
 
“Get the next strongest player. Don’t let them be on the same team. Worry about the goalkeeper later!” I stated, with a modicum of desperation in my voice.
 
She stared at me with a serious frown on her face and gestured impatiently, beckoning me.
 
“Isabelle, just come over here.”
 
As I walked, she spoke loudly enough for all the other girls to hear. “If I do not choose you, Flavia will. Then my team will not ever have the slightest chance. Nobody can score when you are defending that goal. You are the most important player here and the one I want on my team.”
 
Still stunned, I moved next to Ana Cristina as the selection continued until all girls were sorted into teams. Once I got past my horror that we would now face Flavia and Isabela together, I remembered my wish made months earlier, the one I gave up so easily, about being chosen first. Yet, even in my wildest dreams, I had never expected that it would happen during the most important and visible athletic event of the school year. I felt an unfamiliar feeling of elation fill my chest. I felt I could burst. A broad smile spread across my face. I went home, screaming with joy: “I was chosen first! I was really chosen first!”
 
And for the first time in my life, I believed I was good at something.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Isabelle Gecils grew up in Shangrila, a remote farm in a lush jungle in Brazil. But who really knows where she hails from? Her immediate family hailed from 6 different countries: France (dad), Egypt (mom and grandma), Turkey (grandpa), Lithuania (grandpa) and Poland (grandma).  There is a freedom in belonging nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Leaving Shangrila is the story of Isabelle’s journey from a life others choose for her to one she created for herself. To support the writing of this memoir, Isabelle completed the Stanford Creative Nonfiction Writing certificate program. She currently lives in Saratoga, California, with her husband, four sons and two territorial cats.
Isabelle_gecils@yahoo.com
www.Isabellegecilsauthor.com
 
LINKS:
https://www.facebook.com/IsabelleGecilsAuthor/
@IsabelleGecils
www.Isabellegecilsauthor.com

GENRE:  Non-Fiction
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
BLURB:
 
How to Draw Cool Stuff: Holidays, Seasons and Events is a step-by-step drawing guide that illustrates popular celebrations, holidays and events for your drawing pleasure. From the Chinese New Year to April Fools' Day, Father's Day to Halloween, Christmas and New Year’s Eve - this book covers over 100 fun days, holidays, seasons and events, and offers simple lessons that will teach you how to draw like a pro and get you in the spirit of whichever season it may be!
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Excerpt One:
 
This book evolved out of necessity. After exploring art catalogs and libraries and wading through the "how to draw" section of book stores, I found a few good resources but none that had all the qualities I was looking for in a drawing book. Some ideas were too basic and often insulting to my older, more artistic students. Other material seemed to serve as a showcase for beautiful artwork but lacked any concrete instruction.
 
As a "travelling" art teacher with a limited budget and limited preparation time, I need a single resource that is easy to transport and can be used to teach all levels of students from middle school to high school and beyond. This book was created to fill that need and I want to share it with teachers and artists in similar situations. These projects will allow you to bring interesting and informative lessons that offer clear objectives and foster achievement without the need for expensive/multi-dimensional supplies: a regular pencil and eraser is all that is needed (sometimes a ruler or fine pen). Fancy art pencils, costly paper or kneaded erasers are not required for success. All pages have been student tested and approved.

How to Draw Cool Stuff Review
​
Normally, I don’t do reviews because often I don’t read the genre and believe my opinion won’t be helpful. I do like to draw and would like to be better at it, so How to Draw Cool Stuff sounded like a fun read.

Author Catherine V. Holmes starts with an excellent preface that explains why we need art. She organizes the books by months of the years and significant holidays in each month. It isn’t a picture book with pages of sketches. It is more of a hands on guide book that takes you through each illustration.

I like the aspect that she builds on what you already know. It is written at a level that both children and adults can easily read and use the book. The real test was sitting down and trying to draw following the instructions. The results were amazingly good considering all I could find was a sticky note and an ink pen.

This is an excellent resource for anyone who wants to draw. It also lends itself to school, home school, children’s groups, even a day spent with the grandparents. As the person who used to shelf the drawing books in the library, this book is so much better than what’s currently out there.

I was given this book for a free and unbiased review.

 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
Catherine V. Holmes is an art/ELA teacher and visual artist from historical Plymouth, Massachusetts. She studied at Boston University and at Bridgewater State College where she earned her BFA and MA in ED. She is currently working towards her second Master's from the University of Scranton. Catherine Holmes specializes in portraits, architecture and illustrations. Her art is inspired by her feelings, ideas, and experiences, whether they are found in nature, the media or in man-made structures. Catherine is also heavily influenced by the interests and suggestions of her students. "To see success through their eyes inspires me to be a better teacher and creator of art."
 
Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/drawcoolstuff
Website: www.HowToDrawCoolStuff.com
Amazon Link:  http://www.amazon.com/How-Draw-Cool-Stuff-Holidays/dp/0692661980
Series Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/bookseries/B00UNEFTYU
​

INTERVIEW 14
If you could apologize to someone in your past, who would it be?
In the Jewish tradition, people are required to apologize on Yom Kippur to those they have offended in the past year. I think this is a great practice---it keeps people mindful and accountable, and reinforces the need to learn from their mistakes. Some years I have a short list, and sometimes it’s longer.
If you could keep a mythical/ paranormal creature as a pet, what would you have?
I think a fire-breathing dragon would be a very useful companion to have, particularly when dealing with rude and aggressive people in traffic jams.
How do you keep your writing different from all the others that write in this particular genre?
It’s crucially important to be yourself, rather than trying to emulate a certain style or individual writer that you admire. If you stay true to your own voice, you’ll inevitably produce work that is unique and different.
What are the best and worst pieces of writing advice you ever received?
The best: my first creative writing instructor in college hammered me mercilessly with the need to abandon lazy habits, and not to use clichés or accessible phrases. It was painful to achieve, but it was extremely valuable.
The worst: When I graduated from college, I went to work for a major metropolitan daily newspaper (which shall be unnamed). Three years later I was ready to leave and seek life experience in the wider world. When I announced my decision to quit, I had several editors who felt strongly that newspapers were the best way to hone your style as a writer. They were wrong, and I’m glad I didn’t listen to them.
Are the experiences in this book based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
The main character---the chef who sells his soul to the Devil for fame and fortune---is based on someone I worked with many years ago. A number of other situations and characters are based on personal experience. For that reason, it took me a long time to spit out this story. The value of autobiographical material is that it can be very vivid, if rendered correctly. The drawback is that writers tend to be too close to that type of material to see it clearly.

Excerpt One:
 Several years after the opening of Chateau de la Mer, the triumvirate of Avenzano, Walsh and Ross appeared to be one big happy family, although there were rumors of strains in the relationship. One night, at the height of the Festival of Champagne, there was an incident. Ross, a notorious womanizer, was sipping Cristal with a redhead at the restaurant’s corner table. His wife slipped through the front door of the mansion, unannounced. Walking slowly through the dining room, past the Medieval memorabilia and dramatic cast-iron griffins, she strolled up to Ross’s table, took a revolver from her evening bag, and calmly shot him through the heart.
 
The ensuing chaos did more to establish Joseph Soderini di Avenzano in the American imagination than his designer pasta, his Bedouin-stuffed poussin, his recipes transposed from Etruscan or Old Genoese, or his library of 10,000 cookbooks. This was more than a good meal, after all. This was sex and death in Palm Beach. Even more intriguing was the Chef’s refusal to comment on Ross after his death, except for informal and effusive eulogies in his famous baritone.
 
“Watch that Cristal,” David’s friend Bill Grimaldi told him before he left Manhattan to do an assigned story on the 25th anniversary of Chateau de la Mer. “It’s a killer.”

AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 
 
Mark Spivak is an award-winning writer specializing in wine, spirits, food, restaurants and culinary travel. He was the wine writer for the Palm Beach Post from 1994-1999, and was honored by the Academy of Wine Communications for excellence in wine coverage “in a graceful and approachable style.” Since 2001 has been the Wine and Spirits Editor for the Palm Beach Media Group; his running commentary on the world of food, wine and spirits is available at the Global Gourmet blog on www.palmbeachillustrated.com. He is the holder of the Certificate and Advanced diplomas from the Court of Master Sommeliers.
 
Mark’s work has appeared in National Geographic Traveler, Robb Report, Men’s Journal, Art & Antiques, the Continental and Ritz-Carlton magazines, Arizona Highways and Newsmax. He is the author of Iconic Spirits: An Intoxicating History (Lyons Press, 2012) and Moonshine Nation: The Art of Creating Cornbread in a Bottle (Lyons Press, 2014). His first novel, Friend of the Devil, is published by Black Opal Books.
 
Website: http://www.markspivakbooks.com
 
 
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4659831.Mark_Spivak?from_search=true&search_version=service
 
https://www.facebook.com/mark.spivak.3
 
Amazon author page URL     
 
http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Spivak/e/B007QASMAC/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1458677775&sr=1-2-ent
 
Barnes and Noble Author URL
 
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/mark+spivak?_requestid=552756
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GENRE: Fantasy (with LGBTQ romance)
 
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BLURB:
 
Every night the monsters hunt.

A city that is the whole world: Theosophy and her companions in the City militia do their best to protect the civilians from the monsters, but they keep crawling from the Rift and there’s nowhere to run. Theosophy knows she’ll die fighting. It’s the best kind of death she’s seen, and at least she can save lives in the meantime.

They say the Scarred carve you up while you’re still alive.

A village in the shadow of a forest: Refugees from the border whisper about the oncoming Scarred, but Briony can’t convince her brother to relocate his children to safety. Briony will do anything to protect them. She owes them that much, even if it means turning to forbidden magic.

When Theosophy and Briony accidentally make contact across the boundaries of their worlds, they realize that solutions might finally be within reach. A world beyond the City would give Theosophy’s people an escape, and the City’s warriors could help Briony protect her family from the Scarred. Each woman sees in the other a strength she lacks—and maybe something more.

All they need to do is find a way across the dimensions to each other before their enemies close in.
 
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 Excerpt Three:
 
The spirit was beautiful, a tall, statuesque woman who had a hard glint in her eyes. Her hair was short, indigo blue through the glow and tightly curled, her skin a lighter shade over wiry muscles. One hand clenched a smallish item made of metal, the other a long tube with some kind of blade on the end. Briony had never seen anyone like her. Though she glanced around and held her body like someone expecting danger, her bearing was proud and strong, and every inch of her spoke of power and competency. A warrior. Briony had heard stories of them, left over from the Great War, but had never seen one herself.
 
Was that when this woman was from? The War?
 
“The trio—the monsters—where am I?”
 
Briony realized she hadn’t responded, and that perhaps this spirit had been looking for someone to talk to for a very long time, and maybe she would assume Briony couldn’t see or hear her either. “Don’t be afraid,” she said.
 
The spirit's eyebrows rose. "That's a...never mind. What is this place?"
 
“Well,” Briony started, taking a step forward. But her ankle buckled and she stumbled, managing to catch herself before she fell.
 
“You’re injured,” said the spirit. “Were you attacked?”
 
“Yes—you see, there was a Fracture back there, and—” Confusion crossed the spirit’s face. Maybe she was even older; maybe she didn’t know about the War.
 
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AUTHOR Bio and Links:
 It is a little known fact that Kit was raised in the wild by a marauding gang of octopuses. It wasn't until she was 25 that she was discovered by a traveling National Geographic scientist and brought back to civilization. This is sometimes apparent in the way that she attempts to escape through tubes when startled.
 
Her transition to normalcy has been slow, but scientists predict that she will have mastered basics such as fork use sometime in the next year. More complex skills, such as proper grocery store etiquette, may be forever outside her reach.
 
Kit can be found cavorting about the web at her blog (http://landsquidattack.wordpress.com) or website (http://kitcampbellbooks.com), on Pinterest (https://www.pinterest.com/campbell1091/), and even occasionally on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/KitCampbell).
 
 
Siri Paulson writes all over the fantasy and science fiction spectrum, including (so far) secondary-world fantasy, urban fantasy, steampunk, Gothic, historical paranormal, and YA with spaceships. She is also the chief editor at Turtleduck Press (http://turtleduckpress.com/). Siri grew up in Alberta, Canada, but now lives in an old house in Toronto. By day, she edits non-fiction for the government. Her other current passion is contra dance, a social/folk dance done to live Celtic and roots music. Her favourite places in the world are the Canadian Rocky Mountains and a little valley in Norway.
 
Siri's short fiction and the anthologies she has edited can be found on Turtleduck Press, at  http://turtleduckpress.com/wordpress/2010/11/30/who-is-siri-paulson/ . She blogs at https://siripaulson.wordpress.com/ and tweets at http://twitter.com/Siri_Paulson.
 
 
Multi-region buy link for ebook: http://authl.it/B01DYSR7QE
 
The book is on sale for $0.99 on Kindle or Nook the day of the tour.
 
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