Wild Rose Press is an exciting small electronic and print publisher of romance.
Our titles span the sub-genre spectrum from sweet to sensually erotic and are available in
all lengths, including short story, category, and single title.
We all know there's truth in fiction. But don't we want to know
specifics? What is autobiographical in this particular story? Read on,
and find out! Under A Halloween Moon
opens up with Annika and her five-year-old daughter Mindy on a windy
overcast day at a town Halloween parade that finishes in a town park
where families visit over hot chocolate and donuts. TRUE. I took my son
to this exact parade when we lived in western Pennsylvania.
Attending
the parade is Robin Hood on a horse. TRUE. Where we lived had enough
undeveloped areas that a few people still had acres of land, and horses.
One of these men dressed up in full Robin Head regalia and rode his
white horse in the parade.
Annika, Mindy, and her friend Livvy
ooh and ah over a baby costumed as a flower in a terra cotta pot. TRUE.
This baby won one of the costume awards at the parade I went to…beyond
adorable.
The fiction starts when single mother Annika locks
gazes with Livvy’s single father Cameron. He’s an architect, but what's
TRUE here is that I have always been attracted to architect’s
handwriting. So I’m giving my hero a sexy head start for any notes he’s
going to write to the heroine!
I hope you’ll pick up with Cam
and Annika and Mindy and Livvy and find out what else is in store for
the four of them as a magical Halloween weekend unfolds…
Hello everyone! I write light paranormal romance, both historical
romance (The Dragonfly Chronicles) and YA paranormal romance. I love the
idea of magic in the world, especially the kind that exists right under
our noses where everyday people, too wrapped up in their idea of
reality, miss it. I am a relatively average mom of three, ovarian cancer
ass-kicker, creative wife (wink, wink), author of romance, and lover of
chai lattes. I also totally believe in ghosts, mostly because I lived
in a haunted house for five years.
Yes, really!
I’m an
only child and my parents divorced when I was nine. My dad moved to
Virginia. He loved, and still loves, “fixer uppers” which is why he
bought an abandoned house. I first came to see “the mansion” when I was
twelve years old. The grass around the two-story, slate-roof house stood
to my waist. A sloping wrap-around porch had turned completely gray and
loose boards along it could swallow your foot if you weren’t careful.
The clapboard paint was peeling but looked like it had once been white. A
huge barn sat, its middle sinking like a swayback horse, in the yard.
We didn’t go in that first evening because the paperwork hadn’t been
signed yet, so I stared at the vacant, dark windows that reminded me of
assessing eyes. Yeah, I was spooked, but Dad was so excited about the
house and its history that I agreed it was beautiful.
The house had
been built in three parts, the oldest being up front, sitting just a
few steps from the narrow dirt road winding before it. This part of the
house was built before the Civil War. It was the manor house of a small
plantation, and unlike many others in the area, it hadn’t been burned to
the ground because it was used for a short while as a hospital for the
soldiers. My dad gleefully showed me several regimental-looking buttons
that he’d unearthed in the basement.
The first time I stepped
into the house I stood stunned, staring at the terrible graffiti that
had been painted across the walls by vagrants who’d used the empty house
for who knows what. Swastikas and profanity yelled back at me from
warped, horse-hair plaster walls. While Dad mowed the foot-tall grass
with a hand mower, I was supposed to sweep the floor and wash down the
walls so we could paint them. The electricity had yet to be turned on in
the house. I pushed the broom around in that silent room while the sun
set outside. All I could hear was the whir of Dad’s mower as it choked
through the grass and the broom bristles scratching the wood floor.
I
stilled like a panicked bird as cold enveloped the room. Goosebumps
prickled up all over my arms and I felt…anger. No ghostly howls came
from the staircase in the hall, no chains shook, no television turned
fuzzy (maybe it would have had there been one). But I had the
overwhelming feeling that someone or something wanted me to “Get out!”
So
I got out, running straight off the porch to my dad and refusing to go
back in until he had electricity. Luckily by the time I turned fourteen
and moved in with my dad and stepmother, he had electricity and running
water and even a room for me. Guess where my bedroom was? In the oldest
part of the house of course. We seemed to attract stray dogs, so we had
five. One small Benji-looking dog was mine. Since I was an only child,
and my dad and stepmother left at 5:30 AM and returned home at 7:00 PM, I
was alone most of the time. Just me and my dogs and…
It became
pretty apparent that something was going on in the house. All of us
would hear footsteps going up the worn wooden stairs that led to the
hall just outside my room. We’d hear the unplugged vacuum cleaners
rolling on the wood floor at night and find it on the other end of the
hall in the morning. The dogs would stare together at a single corner,
tipping their heads in unison and whining. “What? What is it!?” I’d
yell, but they never told me. Once I woke up for no apparent reason to
see my little dog whining at something in the shadowed corner of my
room. Then she jumped up on my bed and dove under the covers. I joined
her there until morning.
I had a friend sleep over. I didn’t
tell her about the weird sounds in the house because I didn’t want to
scare her off. We started hearing the rattling downstairs hours after my
parents had gone to bed. I told her to stay put. I walked down the dark
stairs into the dining room (yes, also in the oldest part of the
house). Silence sat with the moon beams coming through the naked
windows, as if waiting for me. Then suddenly all the china in the glass
hutch began to vibrate in their little stands. Nothing else moved in the
room, but all the china quivered, making a ringing noise. I was
literally petrified, couldn’t move until it stopped and I ran back
upstairs. Throughout the night I kept hearing it, but never again after
that night.
Occasionally doors would open on their own,
reminding me that we were sharing our home, but there were no more angry
feelings. In fact I began to feel like the ghosts (as we felt there
were more than one, not sure why) were looking out for me. Perhaps once
they realized we weren’t there to harm the house further, they accepted
us.
They certainly didn’t accept one of my boyfriends. Poor
Mark. One night we had a fight. I remember him saying “fine, then I’m
leaving.” I didn’t want him to go and perhaps the ghosts could see it in
my face. As Mark strode to the door of the room (old houses seem to
have doors on every room, no open floor plans), the door, which was
standing open about three feet, slammed in his face. Well, now!
After
that Mark wouldn’t leave my side when he visited. When I had to use the
bathroom, he’d stay just outside the door. LOL! One night as he was
leaving, very late after my folks were asleep, I stood on the front
porch waving. He stopped his car, stared at me with huge eyes and then
peeled out of the driveway, his tires spitting gravel. The next day I
asked him what the hell he’d been doing as he’d woken my dad.
“Was your dad wearing white and standing on a chair right behind you when I was leaving?”
“Uh, no.”
“That’s why I left. The ghost was watching me leave.”
“And you just left me there?!”
“They like you!” was his defense.
Well,
yes, that was true. They did like me. They looked out for me, perhaps
even growing attached to me. When I was packing up to go away to
college, they were quite unhappy. I had a music box with a porcelain
doll holding a miniature bird cage on top of it. For two nights before I
left for the University of Maine, starting around 2AM, I would wake up
to my music box singing and the doll’s coiffed head tipping and tilting
on its gears. Yes, every hour on the hour, those pranksters wound up my
music box and I’d have to listen to it until it wound down. I had
already learned to sleep with my head under the pillows from years of
freaky night noises. Perfect preparation for dorm life.
The
first time I came home from college, the electricity just happened to be
off only in MY room. I had been away, living with real people with no
ghosts around, for months. When I walked into my totally black room, I
felt what I can only call a presence or pressure, like someone was in
the corner.
“I’m not used to you anymore. I’m sorry, but you’re
scaring me,” I said. “I think you should move on or whatever you need to
do to leave this house. I’m going back downstairs and when I come back
in five minutes, I’d really like it if you were gone.” I threw in a “in
the name of Jesus Christ” just in case and left. When I came back up,
the pressure seemed to be gone. The next day my dad found the wire that
had mysteriously come undone in the wall. After that Dad said he didn’t
really hear anything from our ghosts. The footsteps up the stairs to my
room had faded away.
Maybe I should hire myself out for
exorcisms or something. Since then my dad has sold the house and a
lovely family lives there. They have not heard nor seen anything
unusual. I’m glad that the ghosts, perhaps of those soldiers (although I
sensed a female at times, I mean what guy would bother to vacuum?),
moved on to wherever their spirits were supposed to go. I will certainly
always remember them. They have influenced me in so many ways, in my
writing, my ability to consider the unusual, and my conviction that
there are magical things in this world if we are willing to open our
eyes and “see” them.
Have you ever experienced something you can’t explain? Do tell : )
Heather McCollum
Romance Wrapped in Magic
A picture of the house as it looks today is at the beginning of my book trailer for my YA paranormal romance, SIREN’S SONG
When I finished writing my first novel I had no idea to write either
historical fiction or a series. However, we had moved to an area on the
mid-north coast of New South Wales, an area that figured prominently in
the early days of Australian colonization, and I became interested in
its history.
This led me to explore the attitudes towards
women in the nineteenth century, and I decided that my next book must be
about the life of a woman in that era, when women had few rights and
were dominated by men. I determined that my character would be a
spirited woman who did not take kindly to subjugation. Then I began to
look at the attitudes towards women over the years, and decided it would
be interesting to do stories of three generations of women – mother,
daughter and grand-daughter – spanning the second half of the nineteenth
century and up to the end of the flapper era. Would the patronizing
attitudes of men towards women have altered? And how would women change?
I realized it could not be told in a single book, and decided it would
be in a series of three books, one for each generation. So far so good.
What I did not realize was the problems posed to writers of series.
The first book, "A Woman of Spirit", was straightforward. The main
character, Kitty, lived her life in the book and when book# one ended,
she had a daughter, Joy, who was a baby. Now, I had to continue Kitty’s
story in book# two, so I couldn’t just start it when Joy was a grown
woman, too much time would have passed.
First problem – how to
cover the years as Joy grows from child to young woman, and hold the
reader’s interest. Not an easy task. She went to school. She learned to
ride and developed a love of horses. Not riveting phases of her life.
So book# two," In Search of Love", continued Kitty’s story, and covered
Joy’s life from age thirteen to young womanhood, a period when every
young woman’s thoughts turn to love and, eventually, to marriage.
Second problem, as time passes there is the continuation of
characters, and how they change as they were affected by the changing
history of the times. I thought I knew my characters well but when it
came to writing scenes I realized there were so many small details to
remember, particularly with places and minor characters. How exactly had
I described Lady Barron? Craddock? Harry Osborne? Which hotel in
Sydney had Kitty stayed in? Minor points perhaps but important.
With a series there is always the question of how much to explain in
the second, and subsequent, books in case readers start with that one
first. Each book must be able to stand alone as well as being read in
sequence, but it’s hard to do that without boring readers of the first
book. Finding the balance between these needs is challenging. Each book
must have its own plot, its own characters, including some from previous
books, and its own changing tensions. But it must still relate to the
preceding story, and answer the questions left unanswered at the end of
that book, and, if you want readers keen to continue the saga, to have
its own problems unresolved at the end.
When I finished "In
search of Love", which is due to be published soon, I knew it was time
to get on with book# three, but already I could see that the planned
trilogy would not be enough if I was to fulfill my original intention.
Now that book# three, "An Ambitious Woman", is finished I am
already thinking ahead to book # four. And will that be enough? Only
time will tell.
Rhys Merrick, Duke of Roydan, is determined to be the antitheses of his
depraved father, repressing his desires so severely he is dubbed "the
Monk" by Society. But when Olivia Weston turns up demanding payment for
gowns ordered by his former mistress, Rhys is totally flummoxed and
inexplicably smitten. He pays her to remove her from his house, and
mind. But logic be damned, he must have this fiercely independent
woman.
Olivia's greatest fear is becoming a kept woman. She has
escaped the role of mistress once and vows never to be owned by any man.
Rather than make money in the boudoir, she chooses to clothe the women
who do. But when a fire nearly kills her friend and business partner,
Olivia's world goes up in smoke and she is forced to barter with the
lofty duke.
As their lives weave together, Olivia unravels the
man underneath the Monk, while Rhys desires to expose the lady hiding
behind the dressmaker. Will his raw passion fan a long-buried ember of
hope within her? Can this mismatched pair be the perfect fit?
On sale for .99 cents at all major online retailers includingAmazon
Excerpt
She knew he was tall. Any fool could see the man was at least two or
more inches over six feet, but from this vantage point—directly beneath
him—he was so very tall. She could smell the starch of his
shirt mixed with a faint whiff of smoke and possibly brandy. She slid
her gaze over the shirt and waistcoat to his cravat—a conservatively
tied Oriental—to the firm, slightly cleft chin, moving on to the lips,
very swiftly past those, and finally resting on his eyes. Pure molten
gold. Yes, exactly like those of the Burmese tiger she had seen at a
menagerie in Paris. His bearing was just as predatory.
“It would appear, sir, in order for me to move, as you require, you will have to bestir yourself as well.”
She
thought she saw one side of his mouth shift ever so slightly upward
into what might have been the merest twitch of a smile. She could not be
one hundred percent sure because, to do so, she would have to look at
his lips. The duke shifted his weight and made a small bow. Her shoulder
brushed the superfine of his midnight blue jacket as she hurriedly
squeezed past him.
She strode almost to the mirrors before wheeling around and giving him what she hoped was an accusatory look.
“Well, Your Grace. I hope you are satisfied.”
“Satisfied,
Mrs. Weston?” He raised that infernal eyebrow. “Oh no, madam, I am very
far from satisfied. However, I am hopeful I will be, in the not so
distant future.” Again his gaze raked over her. “Yes, I do live in
hope.”
Many successful authors of creative fiction recommend outlines of plot
and characters before beginning the story. It keeps a writer on track
with the storyline and fleshing out the details of a story’s cast of
characters. For many writers, already knowing the details of their
characters, like description, history, associations, and motivations
within the story can enrich their writing, giving depth and atmosphere
to the story.
I highly recommend outlining as a writing tool, but
this technique just doesn't work for me. The fastest way to kill a
story idea of mine is to work out the details of plot and characters in
outline form first. They die a swift and horrible death in such a dry,
analytical environment. By the time I get to the first page of writing,
there is no magic left and I have to let it go.
However, I don’t
begin from scratch, sitting down to a blank page with not a thought in
my head on plot or character. I make general sketches and keep notes as
the story progresses to remember crucial details and keep a logical
progression of the story. But the magic in writing is the unexpected
evolution of both plot and character. In my writing world, this
evolution is driven by the characters.
I can’t count the number
of times I’ve begun to write with a storyline in mind and had it go in a
completely different, unexpected direction due to the unfolding
dialogue and actions of the characters. I’m the creator, so I’m supposed
to know where these things come from, but this is why I call it magic.
The twists and turns take me as much by surprise as they do my readers.
It fascinates me to watch the story unfold beneath my fingers, to see
the characters grow and change before my eyes. They begin as two
dimensional figures and blossom into beings so real I can almost believe
they are alive.
Some might argue this makes my story
two-dimensional at the beginning, but the beauty of editing is I can go
back and flesh out the characters and storyline, or hack and slash as
necessary. This writing method affords me all the creative joy without
the life-sucking, mind-numbing effects of the formal outline. I can’t
recommend this method to every writer, though. What works for me might
drive another author to drink or ruin their writing experience. To each
their own. As for me, I’m into evolution.
MOVIES TO BOOKS OR BOOKS TO MOVIES?
WHICH DO YOU PREFER?
Ever
see a movie based on a book that drives you to pick up a copy of the
book? Or vice versa--read a book that sends you to the theater
adaptation? Chances are you may be disappointed by one or the
other...unless you are an author. I was conflicted after seeing "The
Girl on the Train" at a theater recently. The flashbacks and setting
locales were confusing. While reading the novel would have helped clear
things up, it would have removed the suspense and "who-done-it"
conclusion.
Any author who has gone through the editing process
with a professional editor is often cautioned every scene should drive
the story forward. Rule exceptions that stands out with a "but" are
mysteries that requires red herrings--like Girl on a Train--or
historicals that call attention to actual history. A backstory that
reveals character may also earn a pass for adding length to a novel that
may or may not be cruicial to the story.
about how each scene must
thread into plot lines and some are more important than others in
driving the story forward. In fact, most editors say that
A
screenwriter's job is to taper that novel length down to a fixed number
of screen minutes. That may mean vaporizing characters, dialog, and even
some plot lines until a viable outline of the novel remains to be
adapted. Even some of the author's "little darlings" that remain may end
up on a cutting room floor once the screen editor does his job. If
you've read the book first, at least you can plug in missing links to
the story.
One of my favorite movies, Gone With The Wind, was a
very large and popular novel that became a very long and popular classic
movie. But when I read the book, I noticed several characters had been
eliminated in the movie. Scarlett had two other children by her previous
husbands before she married Rhett, and commentary about Civil War
battles was obliterated by the character-driven plot. I appreciated the
history in the novel, but I loved the streamlined romantic movie version
that still took four hours to tell.
I felt the same about other
favorite movies, after reading the books, Raintree County and Pride and
Prejudice. The screen version of The Last of the Mohicans was almost
unrecognizable as a book adaption when the romanticized Daniel Day Lewis
movie was released twenty years ago. However, To Kill a Mockingbird was
entertaining in both of its venues.
Some fans of Diana
Gabaldon's Outlander books have commented about some of the casting in
the Starz TV series of Outlander. Wrong hair or eye color, a different
twist in the plot? I've read all the Outlander books and think the small
screen version has brought the books to life with uncanny accuracy.
Diana wrote one of the screenplays herself, and has been concordant
about any changes, remarking instead on the talented cast and
scriptwriters in the lavish production. I wholeheartedly agree. Adapting
a novel to the screen is a huge validation and compliment to any
author. And reading the book--before or after you see the screen
version--can be a DOUBLE TREAT, even with a preference. Which do you
prefer?
This morning, I overheard my twelve-year-old twin sons concocting a
story. One took charge of the writing; the other, the illustrations.
The longer I listened, the younger I felt. Memories from my own
childhood came rushing back. The hours I spent dreaming up stories.
The passion that flowed through me as I put pen to paper. The joy of
conjuring just the right words to paint a picture, a character, an
entire world. That passion and joy guided me toward my present life as
an author. They took center stage as I penned my historical romance, Flight of the Raven, the first of The Novels of Ravenwood.
Fiction
is fun! It’s magical and fills me with childlike wonder. Inspiration
strikes, and my mind comes alive with faces, names, settings, and
scenarios. Characters become as real as family and friends. Dialogue
flows, and suddenly, I’m taking dictation. The story unfolds, and one
page wends toward three hundred.
Before I know it, I’ve created a
whole world. Readers I’ve never met will enter and inhabit it. Their
imaginations will add to it, shaping my world into something unique to
each reader. That’s the miracle of fiction. As writers and readers, we
co-create experiences that not only enhance everyday life but lift us
out of it into a realm where anything is possible.
The greatest
gift for an author is knowing her work makes others happy. Needless to
say, I’m a fan of happily ever after. And I’m a fan of anyone who
embraces the magic of the written word. A big thanks to my children for
reminding me of it this morning.
I hope you enjoy Flight of the Raven. Happy reading!
Do you remember the first time you met your significant other? Did you
know it was love at first sight? Well, I didn't. Sometimes we meet the
"mirror" of us. We are interested at first. I suspect that this is
because like personalities attract like personalities. But
then...conflict happens.
I certainly am no expert at relationships, but I know what I've learned over the past forty years.
As
good feminists, we know what we are supposed to think - we are strong,
confident, driven. We must be appreciated as equals with our male
coworkers - and we are. But then why do some women fall into escapism
of being drawn to
Success can take place in
many forms, and all successful people are certainly not perfect people.
No human is. Everybody has an Achilles Heel, a vulnerability. They are
our challenges. If we overcome them, we become successful. It isn't
that these obstacles are gone from our lives - we just learned to step
over them.
In other words...FEAR OF FAILURE NO LONGER BECOMES AN OPTION.
With success comes confidence. With confidence, the fear of failure decreases with the each subsequent challenge.
So, what does that have to do with romantic attraction and an alpha male?
An
alpha partner no longer allows a fear of failure to stop them. They
run head-on into a challenge. That is why we see them in romance novels
as the military man, the business CEO, the Navy Seal, the police
officers, the warrior, and even the paranormal wolf - or whatever
strikes your fancy. Even a building engineer who knows his stuff, and
shamelessly wears his kilt in public exhibits alpha male personality
(Yes, Welshman - that means you too! ).
Their confidence also
comes from many failures, as yours did. They faced trials, learned from
them, and overcame obstacles. Most of all, the alpha recovers from his
failures. He is still evolving...just as you are.
Marriage is
full of challenges, and everybody knows that. An alpha will evolve from
failures to become confident and strong. As the cream always rises to
the top, so will the alpha in their mate's eyes. After all, strength
attracts strength and all people are attracted to leadership.
So, are you with that person who challenges you?
Blessings!
Cindy James
Their Highland Trust http://www.cindyjamesauthor.com FB @BiokmstWrites
an alpha male? Doesn't that make us submissives? How
could we ever be happy marrying one?
In Morgan D'Arcy: A Vampyre Rhapsody, the hero Morgan D'Arcy is an avid
horseman, and his horse of preference is the Andalusian. Guessing why
is easy: I bred, trained and showed this marvelous horse for many
years, my stallion earning 2 national championships in halter
competition.
For years I loved the Arabian horse and bred the
Egyptian Arabian. They are refined and lovely, but then I met the
Andalusian horse at a show in Atlanta. I also met a long-time friend,
Irene Benjamin, who helped me along with my passion for becoming a great
rider (I don’t think I ever achieved this goal, but I had another
partner—my Andalusian stallion Bonito). I sold all my Arabians and
bought this young stallion imported from Costa Rica. He was simply
gorgeous with the most beautiful eyes and wonderful personality, even if
occasionally spiced with mischief. He had quite a sense of humor! We
had a bumpy journey sometimes because he was trained to a higher level
than I was, but I wouldn’t trade a moment.
In fact, he was such a
friend that when I was getting a divorce and was confused and sad, I’d
go to the stables into his stall, and he’d hug me with his big arched
neck while I cried.
We did a musical freestyle to Phantom of the
Opera. The ride began with a complete side pass across the arena. We
performed a bit of piaffe (trot in place) and a canter pirouette (canter
in place). He was not your ordinary horse, but then no Andalusian is
ordinary. I have a poster in my guest bath that says “This horse will
change your life.” It is absolutely the truth.
Allow me to tell you a little about this extraordinary breed. They are the bullfighting horses of Spain—either quick or dead.
The
Andalusian is an ancient pure breed that has been carefully preserved
over the centuries. In Northern Spain, cave paintings depict men
leading Mesolitic horses with convex heads, solid muscular bodies,
elegant necks and luxurious manes. Circa 1,100 B.C., Homer refers to
the Iberian horse in his Iliad. The Iberian horse carried Hannibal
across the Alps in his invasion of Italy (though the elephants got all
the credit!). History records Richard I and many of his knights mounted
on "airy Spanish Destriers".
In the heyday of European
monarchies, the Andalusian's flair, style and formidable carriage made
him the mount of choice for the aristocracy. Not only did the Spanish
horse excel in battle but he was a fancy parade horse and an elegant
fine harness animal. This popularity earned the Iberian horse a
grandiose title, "Horse of Kings" or "Royal Horse of Europe." Indeed,
there was a time when no crowned head would consider having a portrait
painted on any horse other than an Andalusian.
The plot
for McLaren’s sixth mystery, “No Known Address,” was mentally making a
nuisance of itself, so I decided to do something about it while I was in
England. I wanted a unique setting for a section in the novel,
and--after book-researching candidates such as Matlock Bath’s cable
cars, the flooded Speedwell Cavern, Peveril Castle’s ruined keep
(erected in 1176), and the moors surrounding the Cat and Fiddle Inn (the
two centuries-old pub is the second highest in England)--I thought the
old windmill in Heage, Derbyshire sounded a perfect choice. Heage is
about seven miles as the crow flies from the bed-and-breakfast where I
would be staying in Dethick. But add at least twice that mileage for
the twisting roads.
Armed with directions from the B-&-B owner,
and confident I could find the thing, I set off. Twenty minutes of
driving in what were probably circles, U-turns and figure eights never
brought me to the mill. Nor produced any signs proclaiming the thing’s
existence. I was more than disappointed; my frustration verged on
panic. That wonderful scene was evaporating into the hedgerows and
stone walls that kept me from my goal. But when my anxiety finally
lessened, I realized I had another option.
In my circular wandering
I had discovered the village of Crich and the old Wakebridge Engine
House. Wakebridge is a remnant of the by-gone lead mining days in
Derbyshire, and joins the list of other mines with colorful names:
Bacchus Pipe, Leather Ears, Merry Bird, Pigtrough, Silver Eye, Wanton
Legs… The region wallows in mining history stretching from Roman times
into the 1950s. With such a past, surely I’d get something useful out of
Wakebridge. So, assuming a bird in the hand is worth more than trying
to locate its nest, I latched onto the mining house. Which is why
you’ll read about Wakebridge instead of the Heage windmill in “No Known
Address.”
I still love the idea of a scene in the mill, though.
The creaking of its six sails, the moaning wind whipping up the hill,
the birds huddled in the loft, the scuff of thick-soled shoes on the
wooden steps… Perhaps next trip I’ll find where it’s hiding. A
potential scene in a mill is too good to become chaff in the wind.
You'll be hearing a great deal about this new author!
I
was given an ARC of Haunting Highland House for an honest opinion and
review, and I am so thankful I was because Kathryn Hills' debut novel is
definitely a winner.
Set in New England in the present--and
100+ years prior-- this is a story of a love that survives the vestiges
of time, war, death, and change.
When Samantha Merrill arrives at
Highland House as the new event manager, she feels a tiny sense of
familiarity and a little niggle of uncertainty. Has she been here
before? Things look familiar, but they...don't and aren't. An orphan
raised by two much older adoptive parents, Sam knows nothing of her life
before the age of 4. Pretty soon she starts to doubt her sanity when
she's confronted with what she thinks is the ghost of Robert Pennington,
the original owner of the now historic museum. But he's not a ghost.
He's a living, breathing, powerful man. And he wants Samantha; almost--
if not more than-- she wants him.
Sam's life quickly spins out of
control, traveling back and forth through time to meet with Robert, his
family and friends. When she discovers a terrible event will befall his
family, she wrestles with telling him and potentially changing the
future, or allowing events to proceed as they already have.
I
don't like spoilers so I leave the plot line there, but this book
utterly captivated me from page 1 until the very last page. And what a
last page!!!!! I'm usually fairly good at knowing how a book ( or TV
show!) ends, but Ms Hills' ending totally blew my mind! And in a great,
great way.
Mark my words, you 'll be hearing a lot about this wonderful author from now on. Haunting Highland House gets 5 well deserved stars from me!
One of my best holidays was the time I saw an Australian platypus, a
bizarre semi-aquatic mammal that lays eggs and uses echo-location to
find its prey, which it digs from the river bed. It is an egg-laying,
duck-billed, beaver-tailed, otter-footed mammal with water proof fur.
And its elusive behaviour means most people never see it outside a zoo
or sanctuary I hoped to see the shy and mainly nocturnal animal in
its natural habitat, swimming in the Broken River in the Eungella
National Park, Central Queensland, Australia.
So here we were
before dusk, standing in the viewing area on the bridge over the Broken
River. We’d taken up our positions an hour earlier, waiting patiently,
and scanning the river for signs of activity.
“Watch for
bubbles on the surface of the water,” the Ranger told us. “The platypus
dives to the bottom for food, and strains it through his bill. Then he
comes to the surface to eat it. He’s only on top of the water for a
few seconds, and then he dives down again searching for more, so you
have to watch carefully. And it won’t happen until the sunlight is
off the water.”
Accordingly we scanned the shady areas of water
carefully. We had a few false alarms as we saw tortoises swimming below
us, and insects skimming the surface often gave the appearance of
bubbles.
Peter trained his binoculars up-river and suddenly there
it was, many meters upstream. Creating wide ripples as it dived, the
platypus was clearly visible. We watched its progress as it dived and
swam towards us. Finally it passed directly below us, under the bridge.
It was larger than we expected at about two feet in length, and we saw
quite clearly its distinctive bill, the tail, and the dark brown fur.
We hurried to the other side of the bridge, hoping for another glimpse,
but it had disappeared.
It was truly a unique event to see this shy, elusive creature in its natural environment.
We all know there's truth in fiction. But don't we want to know
specifics? What is autobiographical in this particular story? Read on,
and find out! 
