Thursday, November 8, 2012

A Writer's Harvest

Since I'm a country girl and we raised crops, cattle, pigs and chickens, I've always known that the harvest is the culmination of your hard work. The reaping of the rewards, which for a farm family meant a full larder and a freezer filled with meat. The summer veggies and fruit had been canned and safely stored in the root/storm cellar. 
For a writer, the harvest is a little different. Instead of seeing shelves of shining glass jars filled with pickles, jams and produce, I can look on any of my distributor's (Amazon, B&N etc) author pages and see a row of covers with my name on them. And while it is rather satisfying to see them, it also spurs me to write another book. 

My latest novel, BAD VIBES, is the third in my hot romantic thriller series set in the lower Rio Grande Valley on the Texas coast. The order of the series is BAD MEDICINE, BAD KARMA and now, BAD VIBES. To enter my November contest, please comment below with your email or drop me a line on the contact page. The winner will receive a free download plus a Bad Girls Need Love Too...tee shirt in their size from small to XL. Hope that autumn finds you well and reaping the harvest of your labors.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Who's the Boss?

Sometimes I have to seriously stop and ask myself that question. Who’s the boss? Me or Lydia?  I can see all of you already owned by furry four-footed housemates smirking. Lydia of course.
One niece says that Lydia is my sidekick. It’s more than that. I think she wants to stick close to make sure this servant does what she’s supposed to, when she’s supposed to. And somehow, our time schedules seldom mesh.

This is way past open the door, close the door, open the door….This entails arguments. Usually about food.  I heard that small dogs tended to be picky eaters.  Ha! No one shared that with Lydia, my 65 pound Boxer. Dry dog food is the stuff that goes into a cube she can knock around for entertainment. She does eat what flies out. Why this tastes better than when it’s put on her dish I have no idea. Certain brands she refuses to touch. Dry or wet.  My brother’s dog has been the happy recipient of many of Lydia’s dislikes. She does like people food – mostly. But there are some things she won’t eat there, either. Once, she seemed to have an upset tummy and wasn’t interested in any food, dog or people. Then I started cooking taco filling. That, she was interested in. Put a little on her plate and she lapped it up. Weird dog.

Also a weird vocabulary for a dog. Hungry, she understands. That’s not so strange. What drives me insane is that she understands cooking is related to food and is related to hungry. Seriously. If I tell her I have to cook she sits in her one particular waiting for food spot and waits for it. If  it’s taking longer than she thinks it should, she comes to investigate. Wants to make sure I’m staying on task. If  I take something from the oven, and she wants it, she sits in the middle of the kitchen floor and waits for it. The other day it was cornbread. I gave her a corner of a piece of my cornbread. She loved it. I was done eating and went back to the family room. I heard barking in the kitchen. Sure enough, there was Lydia, standing in front of the stove where I had placed the pan of corn bread. She wanted more.

These furry companions are a lot of fun, but they sure are bossy things.  I always wondered why there were pictures of people, with their dogs at their feet. Now I get it. It’s like looking at the toddler when they’re clean and tucked in bed and could not have possibly wreaked havoc around the house, even if they did. That is moment they look adorable. Animals too. When they’re laying so nicely you don’t remember that they have been places where they shouldn’t be or have driven you crazy playing doorman, or personal chef. Every once in a while, I pretend I’m the boss, but I know how this really goes.  Who’s boss in your house?

Friday, October 12, 2012


People sometime ask where a writer gets their ideas. I just released BAD VIBES, the third novel in my romantic thriller series: THE EDGE OF TEXAS. This series was inspired by the beautiful south Texas coast, close to the border with Mexico. I used to enjoy sailing catamarans and raced on a circuit for 7 years. One of the most enjoyable places to race was off the South Padre Island beach. South Padre is a semi-tropical resort built on a strip of sand separated from the mainland by a 2.5 mile causeway over the Intracoastal Waterway. This channel was dredged and is maintained by the Army Corps of Engineers and it runs from the tip of Texas all the way to Florida. It is part of the coastal defense system built to protect our shores from enemy submarines during WWII. This was a favorite place to sail and my family enjoyed the many weekends we spent there. However, the mind of a writer (and perhaps even more so, the mind of a mystery/suspense writer) can find evil anywhere, so I have corrupted this paradise and my heroes and heroines get into all kinds of trouble there.    

Here is the description for BAD VIBES:
When government agent Mike “The Iceman” Burke invades her South Padre Island turf, Deputy Darla Calhoun is assigned as liaison officer to his team. Her skills as a sniper come in handy when a gang of human traffickers strikes close to home, kidnapping local women including her best friend. Darla is recovering from her husband’s suicide and trying to be a good parent to her twin sons. The ICE assignment takes her out of her misery and plunges her into a dangerous mission and a steamy affair. Mike and Darla tear up and down the Intracoastal Waterway in search of the kidnappers and the captive women while Rafael and Javier conduct their own investigation. Will they rescue the captive women or will the kidnappers slaughter them as they have done in the past? Two teams race to find the answers before it's too late.

When government agent Mike “The Iceman” Burke invades her South Padre Island turf, Deputy Darla Calhoun is assigned as liaison officer to his team. Her skills as a sniper come in handy when a gang of human traffickers strikes close to home, kidnapping local women including her best friend. Darla is recovering from her husband’s suicide and trying to be a good parent to her twin sons. The ICE assignment takes her out of her misery and plunges her into a dangerous mission and a steamy affair. Mike and Darla tear up and down the Intracoastal Waterway in search of the kidnappers and the captive women while Rafael and Javier conduct their own investigation. Will they rescue the captive women or will the kidnappers slaughter them as they have done in the past? Two teams race to find the answers before it's too late.

The following excerpt takes place when Mike has gone ashore to pick up the sheriff's liaison officer assigned to work with his team. He isn't especially happy about working with local law enforcement, thinking that they are too territorial. He was blown away when he finds out that the sheriff's "man" is the petite, female deputy who arrested him. This scene opens on the boat transporting them back to the Long Shot, the agent's boat.


Mike Burke shouldered the two green duffle bags and hoisted them into the rubber rigid hull boat that was to return him to the cabin cruiser with the sheriff’s “man.”
Another tall, Hispanic deputy, beefier than the Sheriff, manned the craft. He seemed to hold Darla in high regard, chatting affably with her during the short trip.
The air was damp to begin with and droplets of water hit Mike’s face as the boat thudded over the water. In a short time, the rigid hull bumped against the side of the larger craft and the deputy handed Darla on board.
“You be careful now, Darla. You hear me?”
She leaned down to grab his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “If I don’t come back, I’m willing my kids to you, Adriano.”
He grinned, patting her hand. “My wife thinks we’ve got something going on anyway.” Adriano tossed the duffle bags aboard and turned to Mike, a Jekyll and Hyde transformation coming over him.
He jammed a finger into Mike’s chest. “If Darla doesn’t come back in mint condition, I will fucking kill you. Got that, Iceman?” He glared at Mike, his teeth gritted together in a threatening grimace.
Mike maintained his cool gaze, thinking that this big bull of a deputy could do some damage, even to a man of his own size. “You just threatened a Federal Agent.”
Adriano gave him a mirthless smile. “Good. You did get my message.”
Mike nodded. As he climbed aboard, he wondered what was so special about Darla Calhoun, other than her pretty face and fine body. He’d noticed that she was no longer wearing her wedding band. He figured that she’d taken it off for the assignment. It was probably on her nightstand at home. But still, he had to wonder.
Freddy’s eyes lit up when he saw Darla and he grinned from ear-to-ear. He took the hand she offered in both of his. Mike wondered if Freddy was going to slobber all over it, but his partner managed to control his drooling.
Mike did a mental eye roll. This is going to be a nightmare.
“Where am I going to sleep?” she asked.
Mike bit back the answer that sprang to mind. “There are two bunks below deck. You can sleep in which ever one is empty at the time.”
She gave him a look that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “No, you will show me which bunk is mine, and which bunk is to remain mine for the duration of this assignment. I don’t care where you sleep.”
Freddy was about to wet himself, he was trying so hard to keep from laughing. “I’ll show you the bunks, Darla,” he said. “You can take your pick. Mike and I can share the other. One of us will be on watch at all times anyway.”
Darla nodded and followed Freddy below deck.
Mike swallowed something that felt like a boulder at the back of his throat. He stood, gripping the railing, sorry now that he’d given up cigarettes.
In a short time, Freddy returned topside, a big grin on his face. “Sweet!”
“Shut up!” Mike snarled.
“Our girlfriend is getting settled in. I may have to brush my teeth.”
“We’ve got a job to do,” Mike bit out.
“Right and it just got sweeter.” Freddy leaned closer. “Do you know what she’s got in those bags?”
Mike snorted and gave him a look intended to denote disinterest. “Her lace teddies and her collection of Victoria’s Secret catalogues?”
“She’s got her clothes all rolled up in one and the other--” He thumped Mike on the shoulder. “It’s full of weapons and ammo. She is so my kind of girl.”
When Darla came on deck, she was wearing shorts and a cotton shirt tied at the waist. She looked the part of a tourist on a rented fishing boat.
A giant fist slammed into Mike’s gut, He lifted one side of his mouth as a form of reluctant approval. “So, are you going to fish?”
“If need be,” she said. “Don’t worry. I can bait my own hook.”
Mike digested this, wondering briefly what she was going to use for bait.


The order of this series is 
(2) BAD KARMA                                 
(3) BAD VIBES                                                                                                                                                                     
(4) BAD DREAMS <Under Construction>

Visit J.D. Faver’s website:                                                                                                               
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I hope everyone has a chance to visit South Padre Island and the Lower Rio Grande Valley. In the meantime, you can visit through my series and keep up with the happenings. My goal is to entertain…and keep you up nights. ;-)

Monday, September 17, 2012

Sink Your Teeth Into This...

I’m surfacing. Finally. Please excuse the flour dust and my apron.
Because I’m a little left of insane at times, I decided I needed a change from my normal writing routine. As June keeps harping I am such a foodie that I should be writing a cookbook. Since I was spinning my wheels in other areas, I took up the challenge and joined her and Stephanie Berg in assembling a cookbook. The first one is different from the others I have planned. More on that in a moment.  This one is A Vampire Cooks: 40 Recipes to Sink Your Teeth Into.

I love writing about vampires. Since vampires have problems eating, I had to think about what they would like to serve their mortal friends. The recipes are light on a variety of colors: red predominates.

But why write a cookbook at all? Because I am not just a foodie. I grew up in a family of foodies. A little background: I’m of Italian descent. My father’s family was from Calabria and Abruzzi. My mother’s family is Sicilian. With that kind of background there were always a lot of family events growing up – holidays, birthdays, religious milestones – and they all involved food. Lots of food. This doesn’t count the spur of the moment visits by family and friends (most who were Italian), which entailed more food. This scenario is not so different from what a lot of people experience. Now these larger events often meant both sides of the family would be together in the same house at the same time. No problem. Where some families would talk about current events  my family talked about – food. Not just how to prepare it or where to buy it, but about the food business.

My father had a pretty exclusive restaurant.  I grew up there. By the time I was 9 I knew how to devein shrimp, write menus and make French Onion soup. In quantity. When I was older, he had changed venues (long story about the building) and now had an Italian take out and pizza shop. I could toss pizza with the best of them. My father had one sister and two brothers. The sister married and had a family and cooked a lot. One brother who lived nearby decided to open his own pizza shop. His sons pretty much run them now and he oversees things.  The other brother had a restaurant in New York City. On my mother’s side, her mother had a pizza shop (think we had a monopoly here?) and my mom’s sister also worked there. Since my grandmother would occasionally keep an eye on the grandchildren, we all grew up assembling pizza boxes, making sausage, making pizza sauce and leaning how to sweep out the pizza ovens. As soon as we were tall enough to see in the ovens, we would get the peel and check for doneness and yell to an adult to remove the pizza.

Current events at the dinner table?  Not here. It was about pizza ovens, recipes, the competition and exchanging trade secrets. The Abruzzi/Calabrese side vs the Sicilian. It was never dull.

I plan on talking more about my family, and food in the future cookbooks I have planned. How could I not? The next two deal with biscotti, and Christmas Eve.  For now, since I’m in the mood for soup, I’ll leave you with one of the recipes from A Vampire Cooks.

Manhattan Clam Chowder.
Very different from its heavier New England cousin, this soup has a red and flavorful broth.
  • 3 (6.5 ounce each) cans minced clams
  • 1-1/2 cups water
  • 1 (16 ounce) can diced tomatoes, undrained
  • 1 cup chopped onion
  • 2 potatoes, peeled and chopped
  • 1/2 cup finely chopped carrots
  • 1/2 cup finely chopped celery
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • Ground black pepper to taste
  • 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

  1. Drain clams and reserve liquid. Set clams aside.
  2. Add enough water to reserved liquid to equal 3 cups.
  3. In a large saucepan, pour clam juice and water mixture, tomatoes and their liquid, onion, potatoes, celery and carrots and spices. Cover and simmer for 35 minutes.
  4. Reduce heat. Add clams. Heat thoroughly.

Serves 6

Friday, September 14, 2012

From Deep in the Heart of Texas

by J.D. Faver

A few years back, I wrote a cookbook. This idea was born when my son married a gorgeous girl from New York and he moved up there from Texas with all his worldly possessions in his pick up. My daughter-in-law is a lovely young woman and when she called me one day to ask if my son was pulling her leg about chicken fried steak, I wasn't sure how to answer. 
"I mean, you don't actually put batter and gravy on a perfectly good steak do you?" she insisted.
This gave me pause for thought. There are so many things we take for granted, and certainly the foods we grow up with are a part of our comfort zone. So I set about chronicling our lives in food. 
The oldest recipe in my possession had been an old recipe when I was a little girl. My grandmother had a box of index-size cards and papers folded to fit. One such paper had yellowed with age and was hand written in loopy cursive. My grandmother informed me that this recipe had come over on the boat from Ireland when one of our foremothers (yes, that's my word and I'm sticking with it) immigrated during the potato famine. My grandmother frequently prepared this version of Irish Potato Soup, especially when someone was feeling under the weather. I know from experience that this soup will fix you right up, no matter  the ailment. 
In our family this is known as "Irish Penicillin."
I wrote down every recipe I could think of that I had ever fed my son. Now he grew to be a great big 6'4" strapping, Texan who ate everything that wasn't nailed down when he was growing up. I swear I never knew what leftovers were until he left home.
Then I expanded my recipe collection as I went along. When my mother was alive, I asked her for some of the recipes she had made and I wrote them down as she dictated. I also contacted my mother's youngest sister and she contributed some of her favorites. My collection ended up being quite a large tome. I printed it out and bound it as a cookbook for both my daughter and daughter-in-law one Christmas. I also made a CD for them in case they wanted to add their own recipes.
Recently, my friends and fellow authors, Tara Manderino and Stephanie Bancroft Berg were chatting with me about our recipe collections. The upshot is that we decided to publish our individual recipe collections. 
I am going to put out four seasonal cookbooks from my own perspective here in Texas. Tara, a Pennsylvanian of Italian descent cooks and bakes all the time for her family. Stephanie is of German/French ancestry and lives in Michigan. So we are all working hard to share our love of cooking with the world at large. 
Next week, I will be sharing a peek with from the first to be published: A TEXAN IN THE KITCHEN~Autumn Recipes. I sincerely hope you like this because it comes from deep in my heart...

Thursday, September 6, 2012

The Hole in my Heart

by J.D. Faver
Having a quiet, sad, reflective few days after spending a week comforting my old dying cat. She wasn't in pain and spent most of that week in my lap or on my bed. I tried to rub her ears off and she rewarded me with lots of purring. Em
ily has been my loyal companion for 17 years, which was amazing since she had an enlarged heart and a vet told me she shouldn't have lived more than a few years. I can agree that she was a kitty with a big heart and a big attitude. My wonderful son-in-law came over (they all did) to make sure she got a proper burial. Glad I have a family that understands the importance of the furry family members. So, I have a hole in my heart, but Daisy, my other cat is trying to make up for my loss by becoming a cat-version of Velcro. Life goes on...

This is Emily, the small, bossy Manx that was my long time companion. What she lacked in tail she made up in attitude. She was able to express her wishes quite eloquently. 

Emily was the official greeter. Anyone who entered our house would immediately have an opportunity to pay homage to the cat...the whole cat...and nothing but the cat. Since she was gray and white, you were always outfitted with cat hair to coordinate with any outfit. She had white socks with one little striped paw on her left forepaw which you can see in this picture. Yes, I miss my kitty. I keep expecting to see her on my bed or in her favorite window spot. As I write this, Daisy (my 25-lb white cat) is plastered against my thigh, delivering a massage and purring. I'm sure we both need the comfort. ~J.D. Faver

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Thank You Lord for Time

The other day I went through a drive-thru, where when I don't forget, I order a senior coffee. :) I'm allowed. Ha.

When the cashier handed the cup over, she said, "Enjoy, Sweetie."


I thought, Oh Lord. Now I've really reached the senior level. Then I remembered all the times I'd also called a lady, "Sweetie." I felt bad. Bad that I had possibly caused some tic in a perfectly nice person's day.

Anyway, I completely understood the cashier's comment. Here I sat, no make-up and a gray streak running through the front of my hair. At a younger age, I'd have never, never even gone to the mailbox without make-up. Boy how times have changed! Once back at home, I took a good look in the mirror. I barely recognized myself. You know, it's that memory we have locked inside our heads that we're still as fresh and great looking as we were at an earlier age. Twenty-something or just topping thirty. Well, that lady didn't stare back at me. I was older, not getting any younger.

I went about my humdrum day and started the next thing in my day. I stopped and considered what would happen if I didn't do "that next thing." Nothing. Nothing would happen. "That thing," would be there the next day staring me in the face. So I didn't do it. Sure enough, the next day I had to add it back into my chores. No matter, I got it done without a hitch.

The following day I had an appointment with the dermatologist. Hubby had gone the previous week for a mole removal. I was tense about the mole, as it looked strangely like some of the cancerous moles I'd researched on the internet. So the nurse called me in and when the doc came in, I proceeded to show him the reason I was there. He checked out different areas, and was about to begin the procedure. All of a sudden, he pulled back my collar and said, "What about this?"

"Oh," I said. "I forgot to show you that one." I smiled, and thanked him for finding the spot. I'd wondered about it for a couple of months, but didn't really think much about it being serious. I'd actually forgotten about it.

"What you have there is skin cancer."

A light breath would have knocked me over.

"No problem. I'll burn it off and if it comes back, make an appointment and we'll get it taken care of again."

Okay. All was well with the world again, I'd simply watch and wait. I could do that. For such and unexpected diagnosis, I was perfectly calm after I left the office.

About two hours later, the phone rang and it was the same doctor's office calling for my hubby. They wouldn't give me a message other than for hubby to call them. Well, my heart jumped in my throat. Could hubby have cancer too? If so, it would probably be worse than mine, because of the shape and size of the mole and the fact that another doctor had suggested he have it checked out.

Hubby called me back with great news. No cancer.

I was thrilled. I thought about how ironic it was that I was so concerned about hubby, yet I was the one with bad news. Except the bad news had a positive prognosis. I was thankful. I have too many books to write. No time for that old nasty cancer.

The rest of the day, I didn't concern myself with the removal of a cancer. I looked forward to doing my chores, my errands, everything that crops up to take up my time.

Now, my time is used for positive. I won't let the negative mar what I have to do, what I want to do. If cashiers want to call me "Sweetie," so be it. I won't even let it register.

I have time on my side.

Enjoy your time and make the best of each day.

Carol DeVaney

If you'd like to check out my books, you can find them listed on my website.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Peanut Butter and Imagination

Yesterday, I saw a commercial where this little boy grabbed a jar of peanut butter, reached inside the jar and brought out a huge fist full. With his other hand, he did the same with a jar of jelly. He looked at his hands for a second, then jammed his hands together and took a bite. No bread. Isn't that just like kids? If they have no utensils, their hands serve them well. I laughed so hard at the boys reasoning.

I suppose we as adults do the same, except not peanut butter and jelly, and our hands. Hopefully.  :)

A couple of weeks ago the day had gotten away from me and I needed something quick to eat. The lunch meat tray was empty, I had soup, but no time to heat and eat. The only bread in the house was a couple of wheat hot dog buns. I grabbed one of the buns, and spread both sides with peanut butter. Peeled a banana and slid it inside the bun. Easy peasy. No slicing or dicing. Talk about good! I'd eaten banana sandwiches all my life, with peanut butter or mayo, but on regular bread. Either one is okay with me.

Writing is kind of that way. Imagination is a wonderful thing and we all have one. We, as writers, make do with what we have. By that statement, I mean if one thing doesn't work, we reach down inside and try something new. That's part of a writers make-up. We don't give up. The what ifs, the whats, the whys. Will this new thought, this new way of twisting the story work? If it doesn't, then we delete and start all over. Sometimes we can take the same plot and turn it around with planning and persistence. If we're lucky, our characters will intervene and give us the next around the bend development. Give characters a little peanut butter and jelly, they'll come through every time. They go together, they mix well.

So, what's your inspiration?

Carol DeVaney

You can find my books at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and other epub outlets.
A Smoky Mountain Christmas
Perfect Match
A Matter of Taste (a short story)  

Thursday, August 9, 2012


by J.D. Faver

Well, I've done my part to celebrate this day. I have waited on my dog, Minx, to the point that she is rotten. I am of the opinion that your pets should be considered part of your family and should share your life completely. She has a fenced back yard and she is the queen of all she surveys. When I let her out in the morning, she polices the yard and makes sure no squirrels or birds have invaded her turf.  

Minx is also known as Heart of Darkness because she is full of mischief and way too much dog for me. She is half Chihuahua and half rat terrier; in other words pure mutt. She is black and looks more like a very small rat terrier with bigish stand up ears and more energy than a bushel of ferrets.

Every morning, I accompany her into the back yard armed with her toys. My job is to throw them as far as my poor little arms can throw. Her job is to fetch the toys back to me. This is her only trick. The only reason she has mastered this single trick is because I do not fetch. If she doesn't bring the toy right back to me, I go inside. Now if she fails to bring the toy to me, I can tell her to go get it and she does. She is probably very disappointed that she can't train me to fetch.

I get more distance when slinging a Frisbee across the back yard than with one of the balls or the rope toy. But when I had a regular size Frisbee she would grip it with her teeth and step on the curved edge which would knock it out of her mouth. For this reason, I went to the pet store and spent a whopping $9.99 on a mini Frisbee about the size of a saucer. Now, she can actually pick it up and come racing back to me...Priceless!

I know she is convinced that we are both dogs. We have to play together, go outside together, we must be in the same part of the house together. If I step out into the garage, I have my little black doggie escort. When I go out the mailbox by the front curb by myself, this sets up some serious complaints. Did mention that my dog is a yappy, talky dog? She has quite a vocabulary which ranges from a high-pitched and continuous yipping to a very vocal wowowowow. I could swear she says, "Wi wuv wu." But then again, I say that to her all the time, so it makes sense that she would say it back. :-)

So spoil your dog today, and everyday. If you don't have one, please go by a shelter and find your new best friend. Your dog is waiting for you and needs you to give him/her a forever home.
Hugs from me and a warm, sloppy kiss from Minx...

Living Without Regrets

At ninety years old, Mom is still getting around pretty good, but her legs are giving out. Always ready to go when someone drops by or my sister asks her if she'd like to get out for a while, she pushes herself to the limit. I can picture the smile on her face now, and know a lunch of fried chicken and biscuits is in the back of her mind. :)
She's the one who guided me into adulthood, along with a village of love. Yes, I'm aware it takes a village to raise a child, and my mom had a large village full of loving family and friends who willingly took over when she couldn't. So many times I think of everything she did within the adversities of her unsettled life. But, she kicks back all the bad times and looks forward to seeing her children, grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren. She doesn't get to see all of them often, but is proud and loves each one.

I guess the one thing that sticks in my mind is Mom was, and still is, all for the underdog. Material possessions weren't on her list of importance, and I've known her to give her last dollar to the church. If she knew someone was down and out, she was the first to gather what she could for the family. Her huge heart is full of compassion for others.

As I look at photos of Mom scattered around my house, I'm filled with love, good memories and plenty of smiles. But...I get this sinking feeling in my gut, that things could have been so much better for her. Do I have regrets? You bet I do. Still, I know I've done so much that made her happy and that alone helps relieve some of the regrets. We all have regrets, but I'm trying each day to wipe out everything I can to avoid living with regrets.

As I write this, the sky is overcast, dark and the thunder rolls overhead. I don't want my heart to feel this way when I can brighten Mom's day.

Speaking of bright, lightning is popping all around and the power has gone off three times. Time to shut down and maybe I'll call Mom just to say hello. After the lightning stops of course!

Here's an excerpt of my upcoming novel, Not My Own
The sunlight’s warmth lay a spider-web across the gray marble floor, yet a chill cut to Megan's bones. Death hung in the air. She smelled it. Felt it. Her senses alive with its familiarity. Each click of her heels inched her closer to a hissing respirator in room 407.
Accommodating the Vail attorney’s request, providing closure to a chain of unhappy incidents in her past, was not what she’d had in mind. Still she’d come.
Megan pressed three fingers against her temples and moved into the room. Facing the man in the slanted bed, would be the hardest thing she'd done since her husband and son's death.
Uncertain of his feelings, or if he was even aware she was there, Megan moved into the room and stopped beside her father's bed. She was unprepared for the toll the terminal illness had taken on his body.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her tears. With a smile pasted on her face, she braved seeing the man who no longer resembled her father.
Her breath caught at the blue eyes, that had once tormented her, staring back glazed in impending death. Anger and resentment passed like a storm in the night over their seven years of separation.
He’d been a virile, yet vain man. The salt and peppered hair that he’d taken such pride in, had turned to alabaster. Thin, yellowed skin folded into crevices of his skeletal form and stilled bony fingers, did little to satisfy her need for revenge. Why  did it matter that he’d not know she’d become successful in spite of him?
Megan recalled her mother’s words. ‘Time waits for no man. Savor every moment.’ There would be no more moments for her and her father. No more time to ease the pain of separation and the precious lifetime they’d spent apart.
A lump rose in her throat, choking off her breath. A kaleidoscope of beautiful memories rushed through the bad ones. They’d both cheated themselves of time. Had being stubborn been worth what she knew now to be the last days, maybe hours of her father’s life?

Carol DeVaney

You can find my books at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and other epub outlets.
A Smoky Mountain Christmas
Perfect Match 
A Matter of Taste  (a short story)