The song, Through The Eyes Of A Child by Air Supply, is the epitome of my website, my brand, my passion… It’s all about love and living your dreams.
Some say fantasy is for children. I see magical imagination as a powerful gift. Is it so hard to remember the dreams of childhood? In those days, I could be a princess, or a pirate,or anything my heart desired. I dreamed of castles and kings––but life dims the fantasy of youth. I wanted that feeling back again, the magic of pure innocence, of childhood hopes and castles in the sky.
It wasn’t an easy trek to find the path to my childhood dreams. But eventually, I did, because I never gave up. And now I write, with hope I inspire others to find their own destiny.
The pursuit of happiness drives everyone’s decisions. We search for happiness in relationships, jobs, our homes and careers. We also end things hoping to find happiness––divorce, career changes, and moving away. And we buy things to make us happy, too––but newness fades like the waning smell of a once new car.
How exhilarating to see life as a child again––to chase dreams like elusive butterflies. Everyone has the power within them to change their destiny––to use the past to propel them forward…Just look through the eyes of your inner child, remember your dreams, and do what you love…take a leap of faith and be inspired.
My newest release
Beneath The Lake
shares a heartwarming tale of
star-crossed love and second chances
in an unforgettable time-slip romantic suspense.
Click the picture to see Amazon reviews
A ghost town buried beneath Atlanta’s man-made Lake Lanier reportedly lures victims to a watery grave. But when Lacey Montgomery flees from an eerie stalker, she plunges into the lake and awakens in the arms of a stranger in a lost town, 34 years before she was born.
Bobby Reynolds, smitten the moment the storm-ravaged woman opens her eyes, sparks fire to melt ice into a stream of molten desire. Can Lacey battle bootleggers, defy twists of fate and find the key to a mysterious portal before time rips them apart or will their star-crossed spirits wander forever through ominous shadows beneath the lake?
If you’ve never read my books and want a FREE taste,
I have a gift for you:
What if you were given a Christmas miracle? I love mystical stories. The kind that leave a warm tingle all over me with a tiny “what if” tinge that lingers long after the end. That’s why I love writing magical mysteries and romantic suspense with a sprinkle of supernatural. Mix them all together and shake gently, what do you get? A Christmas gift that shares part of my soul…a gift for everyone who stops by my website. The Gift, is book 2 in my Destiny Series. A magical Christmas story that will steal your heart:
Savanna Bradford was given a magical chance to change her destiny…Her impulsive reaction to her boyfriend Ryan’s proposal spirals her into a rendezvous with fate. How could she choose between her dreams and the love of her life? Savannah panicked, took off to the solace of the lake despite the impending snow storm. She had to think, but her brief sabbatical didn’t include getting stuck in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, or spending the night with an enigmatic old woman from the twilight zone. Was it fate, or had her accident thrust her into a comatose dream? And will she discover that the mystical gift from her bizarre encounter holds the key to her true destiny before it’s too late?
If you like The Gift, you’ll love the unique magical twist in every DESTINY story.
Just click I Want This Below
Your Destiny is waiting for you…Five Novelettes With A Twist
This is an experiment in living. Do you follow excitment?
I am the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. That may sound impossible given the state of the world. The news has been dramatic lately. I will say there were months of being under water with all of it. Last fall, after finishing a project, I didn’t go back to writing. Days went by without touching the keyboard. I let it all be. No forced enthusiasm.
Six months elapsed, during which I didn’t push myself to write or to do anything with my free time I didn’t feel like doing. Without forcing anything, my days took on a certain shape, things I like to do emerged. One of those things was an increased interest in the news, even though the news was bringing me down. I didn’t fight it.
into all the stories, increasing my understanding of events and history as it unfolded. I became a bit more active, following the votes of my elected representatives and communicating with them. I carefully chose what I would do and not do so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. That bit of action lifted my head above water. Now I limit my new intake to twice a day, which also helps. If you read or watch the news and it bothers you, I recommend finding some way no matter how small to participate. It’s a known way to avoid depression.
In the quiet space of not forcing myself to do anything during my free time, another feeling, subtle and powerful, grew. I missed writing.
But how, and what? I want to write what I’m most excited about writing. I want to live in a way that I’m always doing the thing that is most exciting to me in the moment. Sometimes that is writing, sometimes that is photography, sometimes it’s learning about history. Sometimes it’s taking a nap or reading a book.
Doing what you’re excited about is an incredible way to live. Try it.
I know I have more free time than average. But even when I worked seven days a week, I would try to do tasks that excited me first and then yes, I would have to force myself to get started on other tasks.
Tune into inherent excitement even in dreaded tasks. When working and having a lot of chores, there is an element of manufacturing excitement, at least at first. But checking things off a list can be exciting. Here’s a tip that you probably know but it’s a good one for dreaded tasks. Dreading something is usually caused by being overwhelmed, the thing being too big. You can trick your mind into not dreading it by breaking off the smallest bit possible to do first. That gets you going. Then keep breaking the whole thing down into small achievable steps.
Experiment with doing whatever most excites you in the moment. Concentrate fully on that moment. With writing, I’m doing that, and it’s amazing. When I sit down to write I work on whichever project most captivates me at the moment. It’s turning out to be something different than I’ve written before and quite challenging, but I’m breaking it down. Every day I open the file and add ideas to the brainstorming page, do some research, add ideas. I’m not putting a deadline on the process. Since it’s new to me, it may take a very long time, and that’s okay.
try milking each moment for what you enjoy, whether it’s washing the dishes or working on a project. With your free time, try to not make decisions about what you will do with that time and see what it is you enjoy the most. It might be different than you thought.
Here’s a book I was very excited to write and publish last year. I drew on what I learned from helping take care of my mom when she was disabled. Cara Cruz and Jason Ward both love his mom, who is disabled, and taking care of her turns out to help them find their paths in life.
Super student Cara Cruz made it all the way through her prestigious MBA program only to choke on the last final. Ordered by her advisor to take the summer off and clear her head, she’s home in Lobster Cove for some fun before retaking the exam. If she fails a second time, she will lose her dream job offer in Chicago. Meanwhile her best friend happens to be her ex-boyfriend’s mom, which means close contact with the man who broke her heart. Twice. This time she’ll protect her heart no matter the cost.
Ex-major-league baseball pitcher Jason Ward blew his money, his elbow, and his love life. Now at home taking care of his mom and working on a new life plan, he wants Cara back, but he already struck out, didn’t he? Maybe not, and now his mission is to win her back without telling her the truth about why he really came home.
Winning at love will be the only be the only play that counts. Nicci
Here’s where I connect with readers online:
I decided to take the leap and join a Weekly Blog Challenge for 2017, but little did I know that my biggest challenge would not be taking the time to write a blog post each week, but rather to share so much of my personal self. The idea of the challenge isn’t just to revive my stagnant blog—as was my intent—but to share little bit of personal information each week. Some days I feel as if I’m drowning in a sea of selfies and…
TMI (too much information!). With the new normal of marketing consisting of live videos and spewing personal information online, how does an introvert learn to swim? Most people’s favorite sound is that of their own voice- not so for many of the introverted and selfie-challenged people of the world who practically get hives at the thought. Raises hand.
It’s not that I have something to hide, but instead I often feel as if I have nothing exciting to share. Thriving on a life striving for comfort, routine and monotony does not make for an interesting read.
So, I’m making the best of this look at me decade by
Gather author advice, but find a happy medium. You’ll often receive conflicting advice, so you have to decide what defines you as an author, your stories, and most of all—what makes you happy in your writing.
Don’t force it. Find the places you like to market and focus on them the most. People can tell if you’re being genuine and not just spamming a social media feed. For me it’s Facebook. How About You? Do You Like to Share? Or Is the Thought as Uncomfortable as a Dream of Being Out in Your Underwear?
If I want to be extroverted, I live vicariously through some of the heroines of my books, but not all of them. My introverted heroine from my book, Destiny Calling, struggles to accept her newfound, very extroverted, very unusual family.
Blurb for Destiny Calling:
When the woman who raised Hope is murdered by something not human, Hope loses the only family she knows and discovers one she might wish she never met. With a touch that can make the desperate hopeful, Hope is the answer. The only question is if she can deal with sibling rivalry, accept that entities feeding off despair exist, and determine if Griffith is the man of her dreams, or not at all what he seems. http://amzn.to/2cVm4ME
Maureen Bonatch grew up in small town Pennsylvania and her love of the four seasons—hockey, biking, sweat pants and hibernation—keeps her there. While immersed in writing or reading paranormal romance and fantasy, she survives on caffeine, wine, music, and laughter. A feisty Shih Tzu keeps her in line.
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Maureen-L.-Bonatch/e/B00KHY1KK8/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
To the untrained eye, it is simply a regular tree-dotted lawn with a rose arbor and flower-strewn islands mulched with finely-ground dark oak bark. What may appear as a simple floral bush, to a more sophisticated gardener as hydrangea, to me, is an heirloom. So who’s in your garden?
It’s hard to know exactly how many generations these hydrangea bushes represent. The ones in my yard came from my mother’s shrubs, which came from her mother’s shrubs, which likely came from her mother’s, and so on. My mother’s hydrangeas were always French blue, except in late autumn when they retained more green, but I never saw hers turn pink or purple.
I’ve been composting with the mornings’ leftover coffee dregs and grinds. This apparently changes the acidity in the soil, makes the blooms take on different shades. I like the subtleties of the tingeing. But I’m wondering if my grandmother would approve, if she’d expect me to keep the mopheads in their traditional sky hue. Or if it isn’t the coffee but her magic fairy wand slipping in with the dew and blushing them just for me.
Suddenly she is with me on the walk; my grandmother in her housedress with a snuff tin in her pocket along with a chewed twig from the sweet gum tree that she used as a dipping stick—or as I called them—toothbrushes. She knew how to dye Easter eggs from onion skins and flower petals, harvesting their colors naturally.
A little further along I notice the iris blooms have withered, as have the lilacs. However, their spikey leaves remain, and so does the memory of lifting them from our neighbor’s edging where they’d spread into our lawn.
Although no relation, I called her aunt. This was common in the south. Overweight, weak-kneed, with a slackened bladder, she used to wet herself while laughing, walking, or rising from a chair. She smoked Virginia Slims and More cigarettes, the latter I recall being long dark skinny tubes which rendered a skunky odor. Always dieting, though never losing weight, she drank Tab and ate windmill cookies, and cut diets from magazines. Most involved cottage cheese, pineapple, and eggs.
She fell asleep one evening after putting a pot of eggs on to boil. They boiled dry and exploded, sending dried yolk and whites all the way to the ceiling, leaving behind a sulfuric odor. I helped her clean it up by standing on a step stool. I never minded cleaning at her house. She cursed a lot, which made it fun.
Even if washing the collection of Made in Occupied Japan what-nots, her fine bone china, or polishing her silver, I enjoyed being there.
It had to be assembled each year from a box of silver tinsel branches which were threaded into a pocked-with-holes center pole. It was always a chore finding just the right one for each placement. Then the Victorian ornaments, worth the entire Christmas holiday, would be unearthed from the spare bedroom where her brother stayed when he was drying out from a drinking spell. That was the closet with the Pollyanna board game too.
It never occurred to me to find irony in these details. Things like the classically traditional blown glass teardrops and balls, painted with golden trim against Dickensian scenes, adorning a modernistic silver tree. What did seem like the most decadent thing in the world, was the fact the tree was too delicate for strands of lights and had to be lit with a round multicolored-glass floor lamp which rotated, spinning one color at a time onto the tree’s reflective surface.
Not the charred remains from the final time she forgot the egg pot, gutting the house, leaving behind another cavity in the earth.
There are two large round stones on my walk. I always pause by them, captured by the memory of what lies beneath, long gone to dust. Little bodies of beloved pets, the other shepherds we lived with and adored. I can’t stay there long or tears will fall. As I step away and onto something in the grass, a sweet aroma wafts through the air. Lemon balm? Mint?
Backing up, I spy a wild patch meandering through the bottom field. I know where both came from; the picket-fenced garden I copied once from Martha Stewart. A poodle tree—a juniper trimmed into three balls—centered the intricate sections of triangles and rectangles. Sweet pea, tomato, basil, pumpkin plants which never produced more than gourds, bell pepper, cucumber and lettuce, all braced against the pickets.
To plant gladiolas, raspberry bushes, lemon balm, and mint. Soon, it was a raspberry briar patch inside a mint tangle. My husband bulldozed the whole thing and planted grass. Sometimes, as now, a patch of the mint makes an appearance, its long running root system refusing to give up.
The peonies are still hanging on here and there. They’re from Mother’s cuttings too. Big round pink pompoms, heavy-headed, and always crawling with ants though I don’t know why.
The arbor is covered this year, red baby roses cascading all the way from the top arch, along both side fences. It’s spectacular, and forms a nice background for the single long-stemmed white, and the red Abraham Lincoln—the only actual name I remember, and yellow—is it named after Texas?
It’s from a cutting I took from the rose spray on my mother’s grave on the second day of the New Year in 2014. Her funeral was on New Year’s Day. Too bereaved to consider weather, I didn’t think about the impending freeze until the following morning when I awoke to the forecast and all I could think about was another death—that of the floral spray—as if it wasn’t already doomed to die.
I had to go right then, as early as it was, maybe not even eight o’clock. My husband drove me and I wore a huge wool coat and thick gloves. Peeling away a half-dozen roses, to save, to root, to try to see one more time, I was taken by the frosty grass crunching beneath my feet, the sod in broken segments like patchwork. It was as if her death took light, warmth, happiness from the world and left behind permafrost for our hearts as well as our eyes.
“I need soil,” I said.
“We have some at home,” my husband said. Sure enough, he gathered it from the basement along with six pots and a rooting hormone. Only one made it and now it’s in the earth within my vision line. Soon it too will bloom and bear witness to its reason for being in my garden. And there she’ll be, my mother, planted as surely along the walk as my grandmother, sweet neighbor, and a pair of shepherds.
Renee Canter Johnson is the author of Acquisition, The Haunting of William Gray, and Herald Angels. Behind the Mask is her fourth novel with The Wild Rose Press and highlights her three favorite things: storytelling, travel and foreign food. Renee has studied in France and Italy, and is a fellow at Noepe Center for Literary Arts on Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts, and University of Iowa’s Novel Intensive Workshop. She lives on a farm in North Carolina with her husband, Tony Johnson, and two very spoiled German shepherds named Hansel and Gretel.
Renee Johnson is a member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network, Romance Writers of America, Women’s National Book Association, and She Writes. Her essays have appeared in Bonjour Paris, Study Abroad, and Storyhouse. She maintains two blogs: writingfeemail.com for travel insights and reneejohnsonwrites.com which is focused on her writing journey.
“The fog, signora. It was very thick right before you fell into the canal. Most people do not take risks in Venice during such low visibility.” There was a suggestion of culpability in his words that even he heard as they escaped him. His rawness was affecting his ability to remain objective.
“Venice?” Surprise rose in her voice. “Venice, Italy?”
“Yes, signora, you are in Venice, Italy.”
She looked off to the right, cocked her head to one side, and winced. “What am I doing in Venice?”
From The Wild Rose Press:
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/johnsonrenee
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/reneejohnsonwrites
History was my favorite subject in school. Westerns were my favorite TV shows. My favorite books ranged from mystery to historical romance. Every movie on my favorite list is a historical. So when I began my first novel, guess what? It was a 19th century historical romance epic that took years of research, spanning several states I personally had to visit. Write what you know and love.
Birthweight was more than a ream of paper. And when I was told by agents or publishers that it was too long, or “sorry, try again,” I wrapped it in cellophane and boxed it up in the garage freezer. For years. Thirty to be exact.
FAST FREEZE THE FIRST BOOK!
Thin-skinned over rejection! Hubby eventually scanned all 700 pages into his computer and then onto a thumb drive that is now in our safe deposit box. But I still have that initial freezer baby—lingering now in a warm file cabinet—waiting to be edited into two, maybe three books.
Fast forward to present. I’ve attended a dozen writer conferences in the last four years, and even pitched the freezer book at a few of the early ones. Still too long. But the advice I was given paid off. Write a shorter book first, build a platform and presence. Then bring out the big one…or divide it into a series. Meanwhile, I had been writing shorter stuff: stories and articles for the local paper, national anthologies and magazines.
I entered contests…
And I placed or won. Good sign. Skin thickened. When I received an award at a Women Writing the West Conference in Kansas City for a short story, Publisher Rhonda Penders was in the audience. We connected over dinner and she told me to contact her if I expanded the story to novel length as the judge had suggested.
A year later, The Accidental Wife was in galley at Wild Rose Press. My inspiration for the time-travel romance was Diana Gabaldon, whom I met at two of the HNS Writer Conferences. The Accidental Wife was a Golden Quill finalist—ironically for best FIRST book. The Accidental Stranger was released two months ago and I’m researching now for book three in my “Accidental Series.”
So what about that real first book—put on ice? It could be a good prequel to the present series. But living in Minnesota, I’ve grown accustomed to ice…and skating into opportunities when they arise. I’m on a roll now with thicker skin and a series agenda. But someday…
About CJ Fosdick:
Cj Fosdick was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wis. but has lived longer in Rochester, MN. where her writing career escalated from local and Nationally published award-winning stories, articles, and anthologies to her first novel–The Accidental Wife. Though she has lived on a woodsy 12-acre hilltop deer haven for decades, she has ventured down on rare occasions to climb a waterfall in Jamaica, float in the Dead Sea, kiss the Blarney Stone, and train wild mustangs, several dogs, cats, children and one patient husband.
CJ’s newest release, The Accidental Stranger, is available now!
Shooting him was accidental. Loving him was not. Learning who he really was and where he came from? A twist in time!
Jessica Brewster is being watched…and things go missing from the remote Wyoming home she shares with her toddler. In a freak accident, she shoots the bearded thief stalking her before she recognizes the mesmerizing green eyes that belong to the only man she ever loved.
Has Mitch bridged time to find her? In a race to save his life and change hers forever, she takes him into her home and heart. But his memory loss and puzzling clues curry doubt and expose mystery and danger. Is he truly her son’s father or an irresistible stranger in her arms?
Shooting him was accidental. Guilt saved him. Love transformed him. Learning who he really was, and where he came from altered history and changed three lives… forever.
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The worst thing for an author to experience is when the voices stop talking to you in your head. I had to face this problem for the last few months. I love to write so when the voices stopped telling me their stories, I was surprised. I couldn’t seem to form a sentence, a paragraph, or a scene.
I struggled for months, then after some tests, a doctor told me I had cancer. I was shocked, but deep down inside I had suspected something was wrong. After all, the voices left me.
Now a few weeks after my operation, I’m getting back on my feet. My stamina isn’t up to par, but the voices in my head are chatty and I’m so happy to have them back.
My most successful author tip is to write consistently. I found the best way to do this was the 100-word challenge. You write 100 words ever day for 100 days. If you miss a day, you must start at day 1 again. I had to start seven times before I learned to write every day now I do, I write each day. Give it a try and I think you’ll be surprised at your success.
The most successful promo tip I have is to share every author who is in your genre on your Facebook and Twitter. I love sharing authors and I love learning about new writers. It’s a wonderful way to make friends with awesome authors who inspire me every time I read their books. I hope you expand your circle of fantastic authors.
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Kayden loves sexy, well-crafted stories of lust and love. Her sensuous style drives the characters in lustful romps. When she is not crafting erotic romantic stories, she can be found crocheting or making jewelry. Kayden is a member of Romance Writers of America, Toronto Romance Writers, and Writing Community of Durham Region.
She hopes you enjoy her other books, HELL’S BOUNTY, TIMELESS PASSION, and RED HOT all published by The Wild Rose Press. Kayden loves to hear from her readers.
Her latest book Tartan Temptation, is part of the Real Men Wear Kilts series published by The Wild Rose Press in the Scarlet line.
Financial planner Cora Siegfried has returned to her hometown to settle her late father’s estate. Get in, get out, that’s the plan. When she’s almost run over by a kilt-wearing hottie on a motorcycle, all her well-laid plans go up in smoke, and all she can think about is getting well laid by her childhood crush. But after what she hoped would be a one-night stand, leaving him might not be as easy. Talk about a tartan temptation.
With his throne on the line, Brodie Murdock needs to secure his kingdom by taking a bride. When the only woman he’s ever wanted steps right into his path, he knows the legends are true. She is his destiny. The feisty female isn’t hard to seduce into his bed for the night, but she’s proving difficult to convince they are meant for forever. And then there’s the secret that could destroy any chance of their future–a secret he’s not ready to confess. Not until his stubborn soul mate admits she needs him for more than sex.