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
Do you like to read short stories? Even though it’s one of the most demanding writing forms because of its concentrated plot and characterization, writing short stories is also one of the most personal and fun writing formats.
Short stories allow the reader to meet a new character or characters, experience a situation, setting and conflict in a limited amount of words and reading time. Short stories allow the reader to get a glimpse into someone else’s world and often finish the entire encounter in one sitting. And if the story is an emotional, humorous or a suspenseful one, the reader gets to cry, chuckle or cringe as an added bonus. What can be more fun than that?
Every day we tell or hear a short story. It can be a long harrowing story steeped with conflict or a short slice of life that depicts the everyday life of ordinary people. There’s the caring next -door neighbor who goes to the aid of a sick friend across town and gets a speeding ticket on the way home. Or the irksome elderly man in the check-out aisle (ahead of you, of course) who argues with the weary cashier over his expired coupons–and who finally decides to abandon half his items while the line grows longer and longer. . .and longer.
The difference between being a short story teller and a short story writer is just simply having the ability to put your story into a permanent written format that has a beginning, middle and end.
It can be something you read, something you heard, something you’ve seen or something you’ve experienced. It can be a “What if” moment when you’re daydreaming. Obviously, every incident must be expanded into a story idea and encompass a few basic fundamentals of short story writing like plot and problem, setting, characters, time and theme. And like any fiction, characters and conflict drive the story in the short story.
Unlike novels, short stories can be created in reasonable time frames that range from short shorts of 500 words to novelettes of 10,000. If I had to make a list of my favorite short story writers, the Grimm Brothers, Alice Munro, Edgar Allan Poe, Jack London, and Louis L’Amour would be on it. Who are your favorites?
As a writer, be situationally aware. Look around you when you’re out and about. There’s ideas and stories if you carefully observe…or even eavesdrop!
A Contemporary Mystery and Romance
Rich leaned against a post and reread the letter, then stared off to the distant hills fading away as gray dusk turned to darkness. One more thing to add to his long list of things to do. Renovate the outdated monstrosity of a house. Find a buyer at a worthy price. Go on a wild goose chase to locate a half-sister he didn’t even know existed. And last, unearth century-old jewels from Austria—rubies to be exact—that no one else in over a hundred years could locate. Rich sighed. What a fine cactus patch he fell into! Now his plan to blow into town, sell the house, and make a quick exit within the month was shot to hell.
“Did I throw you for a loop, Richard Lee Junior?” a scratchy voice asked.
Rich jumped and looked around. From the farthest corner of the porch, a rocking chair moved slowly back and forth. Back and forth. But there was no one sitting on it. The night was still and tranquil without a hint of a breeze.
He set the glass and letter on the railing and rubbed his tired face with his hands. “It’s been a long day,” he muttered to himself, “and now I’m hallucinating. I swear I’m hearing a voice sounding like Grandmother Gertie’s.” His gaze traveled to the moving rocker, and he gave it a quizzical look.
“You are hearing me, young man,” the voice said. “Hallucinating, my foot.”
Rich continued to peer at the rocker, now rocking at a faster pace.
“Grandmother? Gertie? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“I am dead,” the voice replied.
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Judy-Ann-Davis/e/B006GXN502/
Life can at times be frustrating, joyous, depressing, boring, even mysterious. It is not always clear in the moment why things happen as they do, but one thing is for certain, unless we make the best of what we’ve been given, life cannot be lived to the fullest. I think I always knew this, but it took a change in direction and taking a risk to grasp its true meaning. Changing direction and taking risks reveal life’s true meaning.
In fact, as an elementary student, I despaired of even being competent in the language arts. It should be said that my early education left a great deal to be desired, but that is another story. It was not until my senior year of high school that I had a rewarding creative writing experience. Thank you, Miss Miller, wherever you are. Once in college, however, I put aside creative writing for the rigors of historical research and expository writing. Another degree and several certifications later and I have come full circle.
My other life is in public education as a reading specialist and secondary school administrator, but about five years ago after I retired to part time work, I decided to pick up my creative pen again. I can’t say exactly why or when the decision was made. That is one of those mysteries. All I can say is I came to feel a burning desire to write and the experience has been a revelation and a joy.
Nothing in life worth having ever really comes without some pain. Sending out queries and the rejections that came with them were not particularly fun, but it was not as difficult as I thought it would be. With novels that are being well received, I can now say that the process was definitely worth the risk.
More importantly, my venture in writing has allowed me to reinvent myself, and through reinvention, I have found renewal as well. We humans are truly multifaceted creatures, but unfortunately we tend to sort and categorize each other into neat, easily understood packages that rarely reveal the whole person. Writing has allowed me to tap into skills and talents I had all but buried for many years. I am a newer, better version of myself for the experience.
Perhaps you, too, want to step out of the box in which you find yourself. I encourage you to look at the possibilities and imagine. Be filled with childlike wonder in your mental wanderings. Envision what might be, not simply what is. Let us never forget, all good fiction begins when someone says to herself or himself, “Let’s pretend.”
Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel from Soul Mate Publishing
Confederado do Norte from Soul Mate Publishing
When War Came Home from Real Cypress Press
Casablanca: Appointment at Dawn from The Wild Rose Press
I have been in love with the past for as long as I can remember. Anything with a history, whether shabby or majestic, recent or ancient, instantly draws me in. I suppose it comes from being part of a large extended family that spanned several generations. Long summer afternoons on my grandmother’s porch or winter evenings gathered around her fireplace were filled with stories both entertaining and poignant. Of course being set in the American South, those stories were also peopled by some very interesting characters, some of whom have found their way into my work.
As for my venture in writing, it has allowed me to reinvent myself. We humans are truly multifaceted creatures, but unfortunately we tend to sort and categorize each other into neat, easily understood packages that rarely reveal the whole person. Perhaps you, too, want to step out of the box in which you find yourself. I encourage you to look at the possibilities and imagine. Be filled with childlike wonder in your mental wanderings. Envision what might be, not simply what is. Let us never forget, all good fiction begins when someone says to her or himself, “Let’s pretend.”
I reside in the Houston area with one sweet husband and one adorable German Shorthaired Pointer who is quite certain she’s a little girl.
Favorite quote regarding my professional passion: “History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.” Voltaire
Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel: http://amzn.to/16qq3k5
Confederado do Norte: http://amzn.com/B00LMN5OMI
When War Came Home: http://amzn.com/B010RXNZRO
As a writer, I’m always reading…reading someone’s glance, another’s strained look, or the revelation that a certain elderly couple met on a train – he going to war and her somewhere else to teach, that brief encounter was enough to bring them to an eventual life together. Those moments of tension or glory become seeds of inspiration in my thoughts, some sprouting into pages and pages of living and dying, loving and hating, reactions and regrets. You are the book I read.
First was the news story about a woman who disappeared and the ensuing conjecture as to where she had gone and why. From that came “Mine to Tell,” a wife’s account of her two week disappearance unearthed after two generations of shame having crippled her family.
Second was “Asked For,” a tale based on what I heard a man, ages earlier, say of another man’s wife – “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
And lastly, “Love on a Train” came about from knowing of far too many relationships formed for all of the wrong reasons – convenience, pressure, ‘the right thing to do’…instances where the heart belongs to one, yet we find ourselves with another.
I have notes jotted here and there of smiling husbands alongside expressionless wives, widows realizing too late they’d been cut from their husbands’ wills and goodwill, fiancés and spouses who vanished without explanation or trace, and a multitude of other skeletons writers can see on the closets of people’s faces, and even in their own mirrors.
Fact is stranger than fiction, helping us write what we know and write it well, whether it’s our own stories or yours. Somewhere in most stories there is an element of truth – he said, she said, he did, she didn’t, everyone should have. It makes the truth more palatable when it’s shared, and observed at a safe distance in characters who overcome.
Annabelle Crouse believes her great-grandmother’s, Julianne Crouse’s, story is hidden somewhere in that boarded-up house Annabelle’s great-grandfather sequestered Julianne to after an unexplained two week absence. Both great-grandparents long since gone, the shame lives on, binding all of the Crouse women into ceremonial right living that is never enough to undo their tainted reputation. Against her fiancé’s and family’s insistence she leave the past alone, Annabelle unboards Julianne’s house and moves in, her only companions the shy man down the road she’d ignored during childhood, and the story her great-grandmother had left hidden behind. Walking in her great-grandmother’s past, Annabelle uncovers Julianne’s tale and discovers the two of them – two women, two generations apart – shared a singular path in love, loss, and forgiveness.
“Write the book.” Leigh Michaels, successful author of too many published romance novels to count, gave that advice at a conference to spare the wide-eyed wannabe authors the paralyzing shock of the demands and responsibilities regarding social media. I know we are told that beginning to market yourself soon is never soon enough, but I stumbled, relieved into Leigh’s advice and focused on writing the book. That book was “Mine to Tell,” and once written and published by The Wild Rose Press, it shot to number one on Amazon, giving it its own sort of promotional momentum. Shortly after that publication came the inner unction that said to write, write, write. Give your readers who loved one book, more to read. So I do that…I write. It’s my priority, and promotion happens because of and in addition to the sage advice to write quality and quantity first.
Have thick skin that only goes so deep. I decided before I ever put a pen to paper that I would have thick skin – I accepted I wouldn’t please everyone, nor would I always write as well as I intended. Both convictions were true, and both were put to the test countless times. It was the second part of my lesson which came much later – thickness that only goes so deep. Not every critique is without personal criticism, nor is every person qualified to render judgment or suggestions as to the value of what I’ve written. I had to learn to know where to draw the line between true support and that which was best left behind. True support isn’t always flowery, but comments best left behind are generally destructive rather than constructive. Therefore, there is a tough but permeable layer beneath my epidermis where words with no profitable merit are never allowed to pass.
“Mine to Tell” http://amzn.to/1PNJo4S
Other buy links:
Buy Link to “Love on a Train” http://amzn.to/1m9eYCx
Buy Link to “Asked For” http://amzn.to/1TyflEu
Have you ever longed to beam into outer space? Debra Doggett stands on this amazing planet, and stares at the endless Universe, inspired by the stars! Space is an awe-inspiring motivator…
I love space. Not just the room to move in my home or workplace, although I love that kind of space too. What I mean is outer space, interstellar space, the galaxy, the solar system. All of it fascinates me. If I were more scientifically intelligent, I’d find a way to set every story I write somewhere in space. Alas, that is not the way my brain works.
I was, most of the time, a straight A student. The exception was when it came to science and math class. Math I did the minimum to get by and got out of those classes. When it came to science though, I kept taking them all the way through college. The consistent C grades I got didn’t deter me from the opportunity to explore the world through the knowledge science classes offered. For me, that’s where the fascination centered. Science class showed me there was more, more to the amazing planet I live on, more to the universe I live in and more inside of me. They showed me space where wonderful, and sometimes terrifying, things exist.
Despite how awful things may seem at times, how difficult life may become at times, science tells me there’s more. The knowledge of the planet, the stars, the galaxy reassures me that the journey is long and often difficult, but it continues. Tragedies, comedies, and even sheer boredom cannot take away the ongoing exploration that space beckons me to do. Star Trek may have called it the “final frontier”, but I doubt it will be so easily settled as others have been. That’s a good thing. It means we have a lot left to find, a lot left to uncover. A lot to keep us looking forward rather than back.
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. Being a writer is more than something I do. It is the way I see the world, the way I process it. I believe in the power of stories. They make us smile, make us think and give us untold moments of enjoyment. My stories come from the landscape around me and the worlds I build in my head. I am proud to be a storyteller, and I hope my work leaves you both satisfied and entertained.
I need a drive through the woods. I need it now, before leaves and vines cloak the ravines, rocks, and pioneer dwellings from view. This I need because 2016’s hectic pace continued past January 1, 2017. It’s time for new beginnings after being seperated from success for over forty years.
My first book to achieve publication came out in the fall of 2015, promo followed. More than 40 years separated that success from my initial attempt with book-length fiction after a career in journalism. I vowed not to self-publish back when doing so was mostly a vanity endeavor. After sticking to that vow, I watched things change until the market all but closed to new writers unable to attract an agent.
A traditional house open to unagented submissions. They accepted manuscript number three. Number one, a mainstream, is almost ready to give it another try with traditional marketing. Novel manuscript number two, a mystery, will be my venture into self-publication. You might say I’m setting New Year goals a bit late.
My return to speaking engagements is underway after not putting myself out there for too many years. The knee surgery is behind me, my husband’s troubles with his back are behind, but my husband, whose serious lung condition thankfully is improved, just coughed a room away from me. Major noise I’ll have to get used to.
New hearing aids will help me better hear questions from participants in my writing workshops. I must say though, tapping the keyboard today for the first time with those devices sounds a bit like the old linotype clattering in the newspaper office where my journalistic career began fifty years ago.
Writing, speaking, and enjoying the process.
But tomorrow the schedule demands time in beautiful Northwest Arkansas’ back country with hubby and our son. Too many months passed with me too busy with other things. We natives of the open prairie with few trees discovered the woods late and love them.
One discovery I made after moving here was that a shrub featured in the mystery I wrote back in my prairie days, would not have those scarlet leaves in late November. “Self-editor to Raymona, re-do that scene.”
Once that is an actual book rather than a manuscript I want to readdress the first book-length–my favorite of all. I will not let Myra fade away.
Meanwhile, tomorrow promises sunshine for that day in the woods. We can lunch at the once-stone-mill site, where a rustic café that serves excellent food now stands. The structure overlooks Sugar Creek. Parts of the early works create a mini-waterfall. When last we were there, a couple of adventuresome young boys tried to raft over the cement remains with less than successful results.
They kept trying. That is always my advice to anyone who has a personal goal, no matter how discouraged one becomes at times. Keep trying!
Rescued by tomb looter, Miguel Zamora, Sonrisa Lyons struggles between her contempt for Miguel’s thievery and her need for his help in returning to civilization.
Miguel, haunted by the loss of his wife and son would like to abandon the troublesome trouser-wearing woman from the future, but his cultured upbringing and compassionate heart rule. Forced companionship on the trail through Yucatán’s steamy jungle blazes into mutual passion, and in spite of herself, Sonrisa is drawn into Miguel’s true mission. At journey’s end, she finds a possible way to return to her time. Will she try to open the portal or choose life with Miguel?
She opened her eyes to a smile that lacked only a canary feather between the man’s lips to indicate self-satisfaction.
Miguel cocked an eyebrow suggestively. “You are weary this morning?”
Sexual banter wasn’t safe; every nerve ending in Sonrisa’s body zinged with remembered pleasure and longed for more. “I was resting up for the journey ahead. When do we start?” She swung from the hammock.
He pooched his lips. “You are so eager to leave me?”
“I just want to find my way back to my time if possible. Seeing Nicte made me realize how much I miss my nieces and nephews.”
“Yes. To part with a loved one is the worst torture.” No longer flirtatious, his eyes shadowed, Miguel looked past her at something far away in his mind.
Sensing he needed comfort she dare not offer or she’d melt into his arms, Sonrisa retreated a few steps. “I will find a way back home.”
“As you should,” he said, his face a mask now.
“You could help me.”
“If you mean guide you to Mérida, I cannot.”
“Just as you cannot give up your thievery?”
“There are things that you do not understand, gringa.”
Things like a another woman’s name spoken in passion? “Isabel is in Mérida, isn’t she?”
Wariness slid into his expression. “What do you know of my wife?”
“You are married then.” So why did she, Sonrisa, feel betrayed?
“I told you, I have no obligations as a husband.”
“And you want none, do you? You like the adventurer’s life: easy women, easy money from stolen treasures.
“You know nothing about what you say,” he shot back, eyelids narrowed. “And you break your promise of last night.”
He responded to her puzzled frown with a snort. “You scold, and twenty four hours are not passed.”