Make You Mine by Nan Reinhardt

My writing bestie Nan Reinhardt is here today and I'm always so glad to see her. We work together, talk an unconscionable amount, travel together...and there's wine and food involved ALL the time! She's here to talk about Make You Mine, the newest River's Edge book (think Madison, IN) and about where she gets ideas. Make her welcome!

So often I’m asked, where do you get the ideas for your books. I’ve tried to come up with answers that don’t make me sound as if I need to put away someplace or at the very least like I need to spend a few years in intensive therapy. But there isn’t really any better answer than the truth. So I take a deep breath and blurt it out, “I have these people in my head. They appear to me and want me to tell their stories, so I try to.” Problem is that, sometimes, the people talking to me aren’t the characters in my current work in progress.

That is a dilemma. As I’m writing book 4 in the Walkers of River’s Edge series and doing revisions on book 3 of said series, characters from book 1 of the next series are shoving to the front of the line demanding attention. It’s hard to tell them to slow their roll, so I just pull out the notebook for the next series and jot down thoughts and ideas. I’m not at all sure I won’t get characters, events, timelines, etc., mixed up if I try to write more than story at a time. I’m fairly adept at running two or three editing gigs concurrently, but I don’t think it work for writer Nan. So, I’ll continue with writing one book at a time, and let the people in my head clamor in the background. They’ll get their turn…eventually.

Speaking of the people in my head, two of them had their story released last week. Jack Walker and Maddie Ross’s book, Make You Mine is out now and available at all book retailers. Here’s the blurb—hope it intrigues you!

When his family’s company is on the line, business and pleasure definitely don’t mix, but maybe they should…

Madeline Ross left the city and a career glass ceiling behind, hoping to build a new life as the crew supervisor for Walker Construction in River’s Edge. She’s qualified and experienced, but new CEO Jackson Walker hires someone else. Even as she searches for a different job and builds a life in River’s Edge, the sexy memory of Jack teases.

After a rough year, Jackson Walker’s family business is still struggling. He needs a new construction crew supervisor, and Maddie Ross is perfect, except for the first time in his life, player Jack is suddenly smitten with the curvaceous redhead. He wants her in his bed more than on his payroll.

When his second-rate new hire is a disastrous mistake, Jack humbles himself on Maddie’s doorstep with an offer she can’t refuse. Maddie could be the key to saving his company as long as he hides his heart. But does he have to?

Amazon | B&N Nook | Apple Books | Kobo | Google Play | Tule Bookstore

EXCERPT

Setup: Jack has hired someone else and it didn’t work out so now he’s groveling on Maddie’s doorstep…well… groveling as only Jack Walker can do it.

As she struggled up the stairs with a stack of boxes, Maddie scolded herself. Idiot. You should’ve made another trip. She should’ve, but this was the last of the boxes, and she was tired and damp from the rain that was making the wooden steps up to the apartment above Mac Mackenzie’s garage rather slick. She should’ve known it would start raining while she was toting the last load upstairs.

The box on top leaned precariously and just as she moved her hand to catch it, her foot slipped on the wet step. I’m going down, was her first thought, but then footsteps thumped up the stairs behind her. A hand righted the box at the same time a strong arm wrapped around her waist and caught her.

“Careful now.” That deep voice was familiar, but Maddie was in no position to even turn her head at that point.

“T-thanks,” she managed and got her balance back.

The firm hold remained as a blond head peered over the boxes. “Let me take some of those for you.”

Jackson Walker?

One step below her, Jack lifted the top two boxes, leaving her only one, and when she moved her face toward his voice, his lips were mere inches from hers. His blue eyes smoldered dark navy and, for a moment, time stood still.

Maddie closed her eyes. Time does not stand still. Open your eyes, stupid, and get moving. She opened her eyes, but he was there so close, she felt his minty breath mingling with hers. When she opened them, he was gazing at her as if he wanted to . . . but he held back for a second, waiting, giving her time, it seemed, to say no. When she didn’t . . and then he did.

Clutching the boxes in one arm as if they held nothing more than feathers and moving his hand from her waist to grasp the banister behind her, Jack leaned in and very lightly touched his warm, full lips to hers. Her eyes closed again, automatically, and when he tipped his head and deepened the kiss, every nerve ending in her body went on point. The kiss was a crazy contradiction of gentle and passionate, sweet and sensual.

Bless whoever taught this man to kiss because she could’ve stood there in the rain forever in a lip-lock with Jackson Walker.

But finally, he lifted his lips and a wry smile curved his mouth upward. “So . . . that’s not why I’m here.”

She blinked and her voice came out croaky. “Why are you here?”

“Because I need you.” He shook his head as if to clear it. He hadn’t moved his arm yet, and it pressed against her back, sending tingles up her spine. “We . . . we need you.”

“We who?” Maddie knew the answer, but she asked anyway because she wanted to hear him say the words.

“Walker Construction.”

“Why? I thought you already hired someone.” She wanted him to beg. Maybe that was shallow of her, but he’d turned her away before and now here he was, telling her he needed her. He should grovel, just a little bit. Besides, he’d kissed her, something she felt had nothing whatsoever to do with Walker Construction. The man was an enigma.

Jack tossed his head and rain dripped off his wet hair onto her boxes. “Can we continue this conversation in a drier place, please?”

She stared at him, debating the wisdom of letting him into her apartment. Into her life, for that matter. However, she needed a job, and it seemed he was about to offer her one. But there was that kiss, that incredible, unexpected kiss . . . Her belly flipped at the thought. What was she supposed to do about that?

With a short jerk of her chin toward the door above them, she started up the stairs. “Come on, then.”

Nan Reinhardt is a USA Today bestselling author of sweet, small-town romantic fiction for Tule Publishing. Her day job is working as a freelance copyeditor and proofreader, however, writing is Nan’s first and most enduring passion. She can’t remember a time in her life when she wasn’t writing—she wrote her first romance novel at the age of ten and is still writing, but now from the viewpoint of a wiser, slightly rumpled, woman in her prime. Nan lives in the Midwest with her husband of 50 years, where they split their time between a house in the city and a cottage on a lake. Talk to Nan at: nan@nanreinhardt.com, stop by her website, or follow her on social media: Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Friendship and 33 Dozen by Joe DeRozier

I'm always happy when Joe steps out from behind the table to come through the Window Over the Sink to visit. His stories are always special, and this one is even more so. Thanks for coming, Joe. Take it away. 

There are days I travel to neighboring cities and meet friends in designated areas to deliver donuts. It isn't a highly lucrative adventure for me... Well, not monetarily. I sell them for just $10 a dozen, am out of the bakery for a couple hours, so I have to pay someone to hold down the fort, and try to stay under 25 orders so I don't disrupt the normal routine of my co-workers ("co-workers" is a rather generous title as far as my inclusion in the "co" part). The real compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. Many share with me where they are taking their donuts while wearing smiles from ear to ear.

I met a Mr. Smith, who was stationed in the same area of Panama that I was. I met a man from Chicago who moved here decades ago for a job. His accent is now only slightly prevalent, but completely resurfaces when the topic touches on one of his passions...like paczkis. I've met business owners, young parents, teachers, radio hosts, and even someone I knew in Peru when I first arrived in Indiana. It is not only fun—I like to feel that I am spreading good will.

My last delivery location was Pizza Quik in Rochester (one of my favorites because, ironically, I love Dunkin and never leave their city without gifting them a dozen donuts), and since this venue traditionally fills up quickly, I was keeping my eyes on the number of orders coming in.

 "Ding." My phone alerted me of an incoming message. The communique was from a wonderful lady I had met through Facebook a few months ago. Though certainly not one of my fortes, I happened to remember her name because of its unique spelling and the kind words she had shared with me. She wanted to place an order of 33 dozen donuts for the Rochester delivery. She was pressed for time, and promised to tell me more about the program she wanted to bless at a later time. The whole time were typing, something nagged at me. Something I should remember... But I'm old and have accepted the fact that I forget a lot of things, so paid no further mind to it. Because this order put us well over the number of donuts I usually deliver, I posted that Rochester had filled up, and would be taking no more requests for donuts.

The evening before the delivery, I was doing something close to nothing (name that tune), when... "Ding." My friend messaged me again. I assumed she simply wanted to confirm, or maybe to share with me more about the establishment for which she was buying donuts. Her message read, "I think I've made a terrible mistake. Please call me." She followed that plea with her phone number. Her phone number had an area code I didn't recognize. When I called and heard the intonation in her voice, I immediately remembered that thing that had been nagging me... My friend does indeed live in Rochester... ...Rochester, New York. Our previous communication a few months back, was about getting my books. That's how I knew she was on the east coast…and that was that tidbit of information my old brain wasn't willing to release to me when she requested the 33 dozen.

She felt horrible, as I tried not to laugh...I failed. After all, I thought, what an honor to have someone from so far away follow my bakery and all of my shenanigans! It was too late for me to get hold of the bakery to cancel the order, as my team would already have started production. What made this situation even easier to swallow was that my friend from Rochester, New York, offered to pay for the entire order and told me to donate them.

"That is awfully sweet," I replied, "but what are you going to do for donuts?"

She said they were scouring the city for donuts, and the prices ran $20-$30 a dozen. So, she was not only willing to spend between $660-$990 to get the donuts she needed, but she was going to pay me $330 for donuts she would donate to people several states from her, that she didn't even know! The donuts she was donating in New York were for a group of kids, ages 12-18, that give up their spring breaks to fix up homes in rundown areas of their town. It's called the Flower City Work Camp, and my friend's husband has been leading this group for 35 years. The number of volunteers has multiplied significantly over the years. Each volunteer works eight hours, Monday through Thursday. They eat and sleep at a parish near the neighborhood they're working. Materials are purchased by the churches and the volunteers themselves. On Friday, the last day of their break, the volunteers will share what they have seen and learned. It can get very emotional.

I was so touched by the kindness of the program and everyone involved that I was left at a loss for words...not a common occurrence for me as you all well know. As she was asking for my address to send a check for the donuts she had mistakenly ordered from me, I was making a request on Facebook to anyone in the administration of Rochester (Indiana) schools. Before my New York friend could finish her twelfth consecutive apology, I arranged to have all 33 dozen taken to the school, where they would be distributed to all school employees. When I told my friend, she was so happy, but still wanted to pay for them...

"Absolutely not, Danise," I replied. As I stated earlier, my compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. I had the pleasure of communicating with my friend from New York, I was able to feel the love from the Rochester (Indiana) school district, and I learned about a wonderful program in Rochester, New York, where the younger generation is giving to those in need... I believe I've been more than compensated.

Wonderfully Made by Liz Flaherty

"My emotions aren’t in the dictionary." - Heather Lende

The other day, on Facebook, I read this from Deuteronomy: "Foreigners who live in your land will gain more and more power, while you gradually lose yours. They will have money to lend you, but you will have none to lend them. In the end they will be your rulers. All these disasters will come on you, and they will be with you until you are destroyed, because you did not obey the Lord your God and keep all the laws that he gave you."

I admit it...I'm not a Biblical scholar. But something about this didn't fit with what I've spent a lifetime as a Christian learning. Which was this, from Leviticus: “When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God."

Leviticus had some other rules, too--a bunch of them. I've always liked most of them. But there in Chapter 1, talking about burnt offerings...I kind of skip over that, because it's not reasonable, because we've gotten past things like that (or should have), because when we are made (wonderfully, by the way--Psalms) we are given brains to learn with, minds to think with, strength to do good, hands to give generously from, and hearts to love one another. We have these powerful senses to see rightness (and its opposite) and beauty, to hear justice and mercy (and their opposites), to taste, to smell, to feel the things that build and add to the original wonderfully made. 

Heather Lende 

Heather Lende says her emotions aren't in the dictionary, and mine aren't, either. Neither are yours. We get them from how we're made and what our environments have added on. We get them from those senses we all have and how we choose to use them. We get different ones because we are different--which is something to be celebrated. 

I admit celebrating unlikenesses--like the differences between the Deuteronomy passage and the Leviticus one--can be hard. Even accepting them can be hard, but we are indeed too wonderfully made for it to have been done with cookie cutters. No, it's more like we were made from scoops of dough. We're not the same shape, the same color, some of us have more salt or chips or--heaven knows--more nuts. But we're all part of the whole. We all have flavor and the ability to give pleasure and sustenance. 

Unless we choose to be otherwise. To do otherwise. To confine our emotions to a dictionary.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

Amazing Days by Debby Myers

Have you noticed how everyone is talking about April 8th? Many of us will be elated to experience the most astounding astronomical event of our lifetime. The solar eclipse. Yet I’m going to have a really hard time being excited about anything, including a total eclipse, on April 8th. It’s also my daddy’s birthday.

It's been 35 years since my dad died in the dead of winter in January 1989. He suffered a massive heart attack. I shouldn’t say he suffered. He died before he hit the floor, as the doctors told his sister that his heart exploded. It’s been 35 years since I’ve seen his face or heard his voice call me his "little ground squirrel." On April 8th, he would have been 83 years old.

His name was Ernie. He was born in Elizabethton, KY, and his family moved here when he was 12. He was 23 years old when I was born, and he went to work at Chrysler. To hear him tell the story, he instantly fell for my mom the first time he saw her. As soon as she graduated high school, they were married in December. I came the following July.

In high school, he played basketball for the Peru Tigers. Their team won the sectional two years in a row. He held the record for best free throw percentage and highest scorer up until the time Kyle Macy came into the picture. When Kyle broke both of his records, he became his biggest fan.

He loved the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago Bears. But basketball was his first love. He rooted for the Kentucky Wildcats and Los Angelos Lakers. I’d have to say my love of the game came directly from him. We would sit and watch Kareem and Magic together whenever he was home, which wasn’t very often.

My first memories of him were all playful. Taking me by the hands and swinging me around in a circle, sitting in our little pool with me in the backyard with his feet dangling over the edge, giving me a big plastic bat and pitching a whiffle ball to me over and over, and helping me climb the tree in our backyard.

As I grew older, I remember spending a lot of afternoons at the softball field at Maconaquah Park watching him play. I also remember spending evenings at Hillcrest Lanes watching him bowl. Most girls my age were at home playing Barbies or outside on their swing set. I was hanging out with my dad.

I wished I had his southern accent. His was just slight, not as evident as my grandma "Gigi." Dad took me and my brother, Jeff, to her house often. She always made four-course meals for us. And you had to clean your plate to get dessert. Dad was used to it. He would eat and eat, and if we couldn’t finish, he would wait until Gigi left the room and finish our plates, so we could have her homemade from scratch cake or pie.

I will always love and miss my dad. April 8th I will be remembering him on his birthday. His sudden death was the most staggering day of my lifetime. And I’ll be thinking of him when I’m watching the most astounding astronomical event of my lifetime.

The Vee Trilogy tells the story of two families from different sides of the track. It starts set in 1969 in Brookton, Pennsylvania when the families are fused together through marriage and their saga begins. The Crawford’s and Hayes’ families are followed over four decades until 2009. Their struggles and celebrations remind us of how one marriage changes the lives of dozens of people for years to come as they are all entangled in three family businesses, sibling rivalry, and the parent/child dynamic. This cozy mystery shows that crime and addiction happen in all types of families and even small communities. ‘Vex and Valor” introduces us to the heroine of the series, Vanessa Hayes Andrews at the age of ten. “Verdicts and Vows” will bring the reader closer to the characters as we say goodbye to some and meet new family members. The final book "Verve and Virtue" has just been released!


https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0948D9ZJG?ref_=dbs_p_pwh_rwt_anx_b_lnk&storeType=ebooks

I Wish I Had... by Liz Flaherty

Thank you to everyone who responded to last week's post. If anyone was helped or encouraged, I am so glad. 

I have been trying to think of something to write about, and not doing very well. So I started thinking about regrets. I'm lucky that I don't have many big ones. I'm sorry I never lived outside of Miami County, that I never lived in a new house, that I wasn't a better mom, and that I haven't traveled more than I have. Other than that...

I'm sorry I never saw the Beatles or the Eagles perform live. 

That I ever worried about how my kids wore their hair.

That I didn't smoke pot at least once.

That I never learned to swim.

That I never wrote a political column. (I could do that or I could do this one--I had more faith in my ability to do this one.)

That I ever smoked cigarettes, although I enjoyed every one I ever smoked.

That I've wasted so much time on anger, on having my feelings hurt, on worrying because I'm not a good housekeeper. 

That I've never kept off the 35 pounds I've lost at least 10 times, but who's counting?

That I don't see my grandkids enough. 

That I ever bought my 2006 Pontiac Torrent. 

That I can neither sing nor dance in ways anyone else should have to hear or see. 

That I've watched as much TV as I have. It's time I can never get back, and I'd have had a lot more fun doing other things. 

That I didn't stick to my guns on things that mattered and, conversely, that I did stick to them a few times when they didn't.

That I haven't read more books and that I've finished ones I hated. 

That I can't roller skate. Or ski. Or do my hair the way other people can.

That I haven't been more helpful in my life. Kinder. Funnier.

That's all I can think of. I'm sure if I gave it more thought, more time, the list would be a lot longer. But it wouldn't be more important, because there are so many more things I don't regret. 

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.

As I shouted all over social media this week, I won the second place medal in the 2024 Gal's Guide Anthology: Nourish. I have been so excited and so honored. The book will be on sale on Amazon in April and is available for pre-order from Gal's Guide Press now. 

Sad on Sunday... by Liz Flaherty

I don't remember when I wrote this, although the mention of when I stopped smoking makes it about 18 or so years ago. It was hard to write and hard to think about, but I thought it was important. I still think it is, and I've written about it a few times, a few places since I wrote this. Several of us talked and laughed today about what we take to keep ourselves...okay. I laid claim to my little green pill and others spoke of other pills, other methods, dark days and not-so-dark ones. 

       Depression wasn’t something I gave a whole lot of thought to.  It was something that happened to other people.  Young mothers who’d just had babies and were overwhelmed by the endless and huge responsibility of it all; middle-aged men who’d lost their jobs and didn’t know where to find new ones; people who’d suffered emotional losses of such magnitude I couldn’t begin to imagine how they felt.  Being on the self-righteous side, I also thought you only really suffered from depression if you gave into it, if you didn’t outrun it with a healthy sense of humor, or if you just wanted people to feel sorry for you.  Average people, people like me, didn’t get depressed.

          A little over four years ago, I stopped smoking.  Aside from being self-righteous, I’m also an unmitigated coward, so I did it with medication.  I didn’t care; it worked, and the side-effects of the medication were minimal.  I’d always said that if I didn’t smoke, I’d weigh 200 pounds--not a good thing if you’re short and small-boned, which I am--and I’d suck down antidepressants like they were candy.  I was joking, okay?  Just kidding.  Really.

          Well.

          I don’t weigh 200 pounds, (2024--my weight goes up and down like a yoyo; this has never changed) but I did gain 35 in the year after I stopped smoking, and it’s still there--I’ve discovered that chocolate chip cookies are a great replacement for nicotine.  But the other thing that happened in that year was that I found out depression really does strike average people.  To borrow a term I’ve heard often in the past three years, I hit the wall.

          Since I’m one of those people who always have the symptoms described in articles about diseases (it’s amazing I’ve lived this long!), it was no surprise that I had several of the indicators of clinical depression.  You know what they are.  You’ve read them in the doctor’s office while you’re waiting or at Walmart or Kroger while you’re taking your blood pressure.  You’ve read them and thought, “Hmm...” because you had a couple of them.  Sometimes.  But then they went away, so you were okay.

          But what happens when they don’t go away?  What do you do when you were sad on Sunday afternoon and you’re still sad at bedtime on Thursday?  When you’re so tired you can barely get through the day but you’re sleeping way too much?  Or you can’t get through it because you’re hardly sleeping at all?  When nothing’s fun anymore?  When you can’t see an end to feeling hopeless?  When, even though you’d never consider suicide yourself--oh, of course, you wouldn’t--you understand people who do?

          When I hit that wall, I was one of the lucky ones in that I never for one moment thought suicide was an answer.  I was seldom sleepless, never slept too much, still had fun.  Sometimes.  But working an eight-hour day wore me out to the point that I never really wanted to get off the couch after I got home.  I looked around at my husband and kids and grandkids--even them--and was bewildered because, Good Lord have mercy, how could I possibly be unhappy?

          But I was.  Oh, I was.

          I didn’t really want to start smoking again, but I knew I’d be happier if I did.  What was worse--to die of lung cancer or of depression?  “I don’t know what to do,” I told my doctor.  “Maybe I need to smoke again.  Just some, you know, not a lot.”

          “No,” he said.  “No.  I know what to do.”

          So he gave me a prescription and talked to me a long time about clinical depression.  “You’ll be fine,” he promised.  “Maybe six months, maybe longer.  But you’ll be fine.”

          I hated taking Zoloft.  Zoloft was for weak people, people who gave in to being sorry for themselves, people who wanted others to feel sorry for them.  I’d try it for a little while, but it wasn’t going to work, not on me, Mrs. Average.  I hated it.  

          But it wasn’t really so bad.  Maybe six months.  That should get me over the hump, and maybe I wouldn’t start smoking again.  I could always blame the 35 pounds on it.  You know, I couldn’t lose weight because I was “on medication.”  No one had to know I was a spineless wuss who was taking antidepressants. 

          Six months became two years.  Not that it took me that long to feel better--that’s how long it was before I got the courage up to stop taking the Zoloft.  I was so afraid to stop.  What if I feel that way again? I thought.  I would surely die from it.  But stopping was painless, and the depression is only a memory.  But it’s a memory that can make me miserable in a heartbeat, make me question myself if, just once, I happen to be sad on Sunday afternoon.

          But I am all right, I remind myself, because by Thursday night at bedtime, I have forgotten the sadness.  I feel good.  No, better than good; I feel wonderful.  I haven’t smoked for four years and one month.  And I will never, ever take any of it for granted again.  It is a gift.

2024

    It is indeed a gift. But several years into my time without Zoloft, things happened--or didn't--that I had trouble dealing with. I still never thought of suicide, still slept okay, still laughed and enjoyed life. Most of the time. But sometimes--too many times--I was sad on Sunday and still sad on Thursday. 

    "They call it the leveler," someone told me about my little green pill, and that's what it does for me. I know people who need more than I do, people who don't need any help at all, and others who are like me. 

    I thought of this last week when I was listening to the audio version of Kristin Hannah's The Women. She wrote about the pills that in the 1960s and beyond were called "mother's little helper" that drove countless women into addiction. 

    I'd forgotten all about them, but they were what I feared. Unlike hard drugs or the opioids of today, they were hidden under a cloak of innocence. I feared that pseudo-innocence and I looked down on people who'd gone down the rabbit hole of addiction because...well, I don't have an excuse, because I should know better than to look down on anyone. 

    Because had I needed help then, who's to say I wouldn't have been one of them? 

    I don't know what I should say here. I don't want anyone to take anything they don't have to, to keep taking it when they don't need it, to use it as an excuse for bad behavior instead of a crutch to help you. I know crutch isn't an acceptable term, but when you are broken, sometimes you need help with the healing. You need a crutch.

    Be blessed this week. If you need help, ask for it. If someone needs to talk, listen. Be nice to somebody. 

    

The Art of Being Thrilled by Liz Flaherty

Okay, it's probably not an art. Being thrilled, I mean. It's something I've never given much thought. I don't read thrillers, don't watch thrillers, am categorically scared of anything described as a thriller. I'm not afraid they'll hurt me--they're mostly fiction--but they will keep me awake, reappear in my dreams when I do get to sleep, and make me say after watching one that "there go two hours I can never get back."

But there's a real difference between dramatic thrillers, which really are art, and just being thrilled. Which is just fun.

Yesterday, a bunch of us had lunch together. We met at noon and at 2:30, we finally vacated the table. We've been friends for over 40 years, that bunch that met. We share memories, we care for each other, and we laugh a lot. We don't meet often, nor do we have to, but I am thrilled with the days that we do.

Also yesterday, I had two notes from publishers. Neither of them involved money, contracts, promises, or bestsellerdom, but they were personal and friendly. In the constantly changing publishing industry, I am totally thrilled with personal and friendly.

Peru High School's basketball team is at the semi-state today. What a thrilling ride the past few weeks have been for the players and their supporters. 

Picture borrowed from https://www.facebook.com/groups/868515521440675

Just this week, I was thrilled to have cleaned off the dining room table, the kitchen island, and the table next to my chair. Like most thrills, those won't last long. 

I've been thrilled to have coffee every morning in the silence of the office, to save 10 cents a gallon on gas, to have dinner at Beef O'Brady's, another dinner from Ebenezer Church pizza, and one last night at Farmhouse Cafe. I'm also thrilled that I don't have to cook if I don't feel like it. 

Wishing you a Happy St. Patrick's Day and a great week. I hope you find a thrill here and there. Be nice to somebody.

Being Stuck by Sinclair Jayne March 13

The Window welcomes the charming and talented Sinclair Jayne today, talking about a subject every writer knows and dreads.

Shout out to the fun and clever Liz for letting me crash her blog this week.

Have you ever been stuck?

I believe it’s more common than any of us want to admit as many women fall into the trap of thinking we need to be some sort of version of Ed Sheeran singing Perfect as we juggle all the spinning elements of our lives-work, and yet sometimes something drops. Or everything does. Maybe even us.

I was emailing with Liz about the feeling of being creatively stuck a couple of years ago on the last book or my Misguided Masala Matchmaker series—Stealing Mr. Perfect. Completely unexpected. I used to be a teacher and taught creativity workshops. I’d researched creativity in writing. I knew the tricks, and then I hit this wall I’d heard about, but had imagined I would never hit it hard. And if I did bump my head or toe on the wall. I would take in a deep breath and walk around or awkwardly clamber over. 

At first, I was more curious than worried. Why this book? Why these characters? I knew my hero and heroine. My heroine had been a main supporting character in the previous three books in the series. She was the driver, the matchmaker and yes, she was loving, enthusiastic and always misguided. She found or stumbled into the perfect match for her family through judgment errors, luck and stubborn misreading of a situation or person. She was lovable and funny. Rani Kapoor’s HEA was supposed to be a slam dunk, and yet I stumbled and missed the basket three times until I was starting to freeze up and fantasizing about throwing my computer out of a window and applying for a job at Starbucks. 

I wrote and revised. Reworked. Started over and over and over again. I Conferenced with my editor and consulted friends. But what I really wanted to do, and what I started practicing was the email to my editor and publisher saying that I didn’t want to write the book. It wasn’t working. The series would work better as a trio. Totally unprofessional and since I’d argued that Rani needed her story to wrap up the series when we were discussing a three or four book contract, my fantasizing about backing out felt like a limp white flag.

I was stuck. And as a developmental editor who has held the hands of many authors who have a crisis of faith and become stuck, I was ashamed of even thinking about not writing the book. It was something I’d never imagined not doing. Writing a book is a journey, a thrilling honor, an adventure, a joy and yeah, sometimes a teeth-grinding frustration in gorging on humble pie. But not doing it? Inconceivable. 

My mind spun round and round. What to do? What was my next step and how did I take it? What finally shoved me back on my feet and out of the ditch was when I imagined telling my daughter—then a college freshman who is absurdly talented and driven and who’d not whined once when she lost several months of her senior year performances, rituals and activities and who was starting college on Zoom--I was giving up. I had flown my resiliency flag my whole life, and it was definitely a theme when I raised my children. When Angela Duckworth’s book Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance came out, I read it, gifted it and wouldn’t shut up about it.

I used to teach with someone who often intoned ‘suck it up butter cup.’ And I knew that I had to take a new approach—the fourth attempt to write Stealing Mr. Right. During another Zoom with my fabulously brilliant and creative editor and author Kelly Hunter, I finally realized why I was stuck, when she was trying to guide me in a different direction that felt wrong all the way to my fingertips. She argued passionately that the theme of the book was “What is love.” And that’s when I realized that the book—yes, a romance about a matchmaker who falls in love, wasn’t really about love. It was about identity. Rani’s and my hero’s. 

That’s why I couldn’t write it. I was writing the wrong book. Rani had been defined by others her whole life, and her growth arc was about finally coming into herself. Gaining confidence. Defining herself and taking full agency of her life. Jasminder has been so alienated from his culture and family that he is disconnected from himself and life and only has his career. By setting off separately to learn about themselves, they can love themselves and then fall in love. It was so sudden and so clear that I abruptly ended the meeting, opened the new file and began to write starting on page one. One month later I hit save and send. Happy. Relieved and proud because the book sang. 

Grinding it out might not seem inspirational, but it is effective and gritty. Being emotionally stuck requires, I’ve discovered, a bit more finesse, and self-kindness along with support. When my mother passed last year after several years of decline and illness, I felt totally spent. I was scheduled to attend a writer’s retreat a couple of weeks after she died and vacillated about going. But my husband strongly encouraged me to go as did the three other authors I was meeting. And spending time talking story, talking lives, family and goals while walking in the gorgeous nature that surrounds and imbues Canmore, Canada, soothed and inspired me.  And when I was brainstorming the plot for the fourth book in a new series The Coyote Cowboys of Montana, I felt devoid of ideas. I admitted how empty my brain and heartfelt—how I was again stuck. It felt scary admitting that, and yet they bounced ideas with me for The Cowboy Charm, which released last month. “Use your feelings,” Author, Publisher and bestie Jane Porter advised. “Let them drive the story.” 

Usually when I write, I’m in my imagination. Sure, I’ll grab a snippet from something I read or hear about on occasion, but mostly it’s me and the wild animals rampaging through my head. Harnessing the grief, the exhaustion, the frustration and the disquieting giddiness of relief that the worst had finally happened life, sounded scary. What would happen? Doom and gloom. And yet, The Cowboy Charm was one of the easiest books I’d ever written. It flowed and my hero and heroine, both of whom were at uncomfortable turning points in their lives danced. Even when there was heaviness, The dialog, the visuals, the secondary characters shone with light. I was having fun. My hero was having fun, and my heroine, who was as stuck as I had been, found her groove and fun again.

It was freeing to face something hard head on, not in a stoic way, but in a ‘let’s play’ way. I hope I can seize the chance again. But I do know that after navigating two deeply different but equally challenging moments of being stuck creatively and emotionally, I have more confidence that future me will grab the challenge rather than duck it or pretend it will go away. 

Have you had a moment where you really felt stuck? How did you rise to the challenge? A response will be chosen randomly to win a signed and print copy of the two books that illustrate my most recent moments of becoming unstuck. You can DM or email me at authorsinclairjayne@gmail.com.

A former journalist and middle school teacher, Sinclair Sawhney lucked into a job as a developmental editor with Tule Publishing nearly ten years ago and continues to enjoy working with authors. As Sinclair Jayne, she’s published over twenty-five romance novels and counting. She loves her cowboys, small towns and HEAs. When she’s not writing or editing, she’s often hosting wine tastings with her husband of over twenty-seven years in the tasting room of their small vineyard Roshni, which means light filled, in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Cheers.

Happy Saturday

I'm taking the day off today. I hope you're having a good weekend. Spring is on its way. Don't forget to change your clocks!

If you're looking for something to do this afternoon, stop in at Gallery 15 from 2-4 PM for music from Sarah & Ron Luginbill & Friends Monroe Alfrey and Ron Youngblood. 

Coming soon! Gal's Guide Anthology: Nourish, a collection from Hoosier authors (including me.) It's available for pre-order now at https://tinyurl.com/3kh5383v Reserve your copy now!

This anthology is sponsored and published by the Gal's Guide to the Galaxy Library in Noblesville. 

See you next week. Have great days. Be nice to somebody.

Phooey Kerflooey, Perfect Peace, and the Chaos of Camp Ministry by Kristen Joy Wilks

When my three sons were young, they asked me to write about our Newfoundland dog, Princess Leia Freyja. Now, I knew that a story for kids had to have adventure and chaos and fun. So, the method of producing chaos that I chose was a rampaging squirrel.

Our family lives and works at an off-grid Bible camp and we have had a number of rampaging squirrels over the years. We’ve had squirrels that broke into the house, the camp buildings, the pantry. We’ve had squirrels eat food, tear things up, and drag stuff all over the place. We’ve even had a squirrel that started a fire!

What started out as just fun and games became much more serious and close to home as my story grew. You see, any character must face a dark moment and grow into a new person because of it.

I didn’t just pull my theme of finding God’s peace in the middle of squirrel and puppy chaos out of a hat. My husband and I have worked in full-time camp ministry for almost twenty-five years. Camp life is a life of chaos and not just the good kind, either.

Yes, you have the delightful fun of watching the campers think up and perform crazy skits. But you also have the clean-up when they inexplicably decide to dump pudding on someone’s head or dealing with the necessary 911 call when they include a light-hearted joke and rub hot sauce on the camp director’s (my husband Scruffy’s) back and the sauce turns out to be a lot more potent than anyone imagined.

Yes, you have the charming chaos of water fights, night games, and sand castle competitions. But you also have the responsibility of protecting campers from injury, sunburn, and exhaustion after a week full of activities.

Yes, you have the joy of telling children of God’s love for the very first time. Amazing moments like when the great great grandchildren of the camp founders’ pastor ask to be baptized in the horse trough in the camp meadow. But you also have the grief of seeing people decide that they don’t need God, growing older and walking away from their faith, their friendships, and their relationship with you.

Yes, you have the victory of watching children who were campers grow to be camp counselors, camp interns, leaders in their own churches, and even the parents of campers. But there are those you can’t save. We have loved with all the strength we had within us and then found out that the one we loved so deeply still chose to take their own life in the end.

Joy and pain and chaos and grace, all smashed together into this thing we call camp ministry.

It is no wonder that I ended up writing about a boy who wants God’s perfect peace but all he seems to get is a whole lot of chaos. This is a journey I have lived and it is one that you will live too, dear reader. So, don’t wait for the world to stop spinning to reach out. God is love. Even when everything around you is not. He gives the kind of peace that can handle a little bit of chaos . . . or even a whole lot.

Isaiah 26:3

You will keep in perfect peace

all who trust in you,

all whose thoughts are fixed on you! NLT

 Kristen Joy Wilks

Author of Phooey Kerflooey

 

A puppy will fix everything.

A boring new house?
Boring house + puppy = adventure!

An attacking squirrel?
Evil squirrel + puppy = a squirrel-battle extraordinaire!

A daredevil brother who zooms into constant peril?
Rowdy sibling + puppy = calm days snuggling their furry friend!

What could possibly go wrong?

Amazon: https://a.co/d/hZDj2Ea

Kristen Joy Wilks writes from a remote mountain meadow that alternates between quiet and chaos. The mom of three sons, an orange cat, and a giant Newfoundland dog, she lives with her camp director husband at Camas Meadows Bible Camp where she is photographer and camp storyteller. Kristen once climbed a tree and snuck into a church through the balcony to return a library book (and check out another) and has been pursuing stories ever since.  Her writing highlights the humor and grace God gives amidst the detritus of life. She can be found tucked under a tattered quilt at 4:00 a.m. writing a wide variety of implausible tales or at www.kristenjoywilks.com. Try one of her stories for free with her newsletter!

An Open Letter by Liz Flaherty

It's no surprise to anyone that I have a soft spot for teachers. I've written about it and about them before. I've been angry about teachers' pay ever since I learned how much it was. I am reminded daily of how teachers have affected nearly every aspect of my life. So here is my letter to some of the teachers who've changed my life. 

Dear Mrs. Sullivan:

I was scared to death of you. But you taught me to read and to read well. It is a gift that has gone on giving ever since I was six.

Dear Mrs. Cripe:

You were so kind. I hope I would have already known about kindness from my mom, from Sunday School, from living day-to-day, but I remember yours from ever since I was seven.

Dear Mrs. Kotterman:

You made third and fourth grades a soft place to fall. I remember that from when I was eight and nine.

Dear All My Elementary Teachers:

You read aloud to us Every Single Day. You introduced us to Heidi, Little Britches, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Lazy Liza Lizard, Caddie Woodlawn, and more others than I can begin to remember. In case I didn't thank you then, is it too late? Oh, good. Thank you for every day.

Dear Miss Boswell--or more lately, Mrs. Small:

You taught me to type in my sophomore and junior years. You didn't make me fast or particularly good, although you tried. I've written 20-some books, using what you taught me in each of them. Wow.

Dear Every-English-Teacher-I-Had:

Those 20-some books I mentioned up there? You taught me spelling and grammar and to pay attention to both. Goodness knows, editors make writers' jobs immeasurably easier, but I wouldn't know how to write without the basis you gave me. 

Dear Mr. Wildermuth:

Algebra didn't take, but the cherishing of humanity did. Still does. 

Dear Miss Name-Omitted:

In high school, you taught me the hard way that not all teachers are fair. Not all of them are good. Not all of them care about students. Not all of them should be in a classroom. Ever.

Dear Mrs. Mungle:

When I couldn't find you one day, it was because you were playing Christmas songs on the piano in the cafeteria while the kids were eating lunch. That was so much more important than whatever the reason was I was looking for you. 

Dear Coach Bridge:

You still remember their names.

Dear Mrs. See:

You still call my grandboy "one of mine."

Dear Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, and Dr. Flaherty: 

I am so proud of you.

Dear Public Education:

Thank you. A thousand times over, thank you.

Have a good week. Thank a teacher if you were able to read this, count up my mistakes, and remind me of everyone I left out. Be nice to somebody.