One of the most important questions you can ask yourself as a writer is why do I write? This may seem like a simple question, but the answer is often complex and almost always multi-faceted. An honest assessment of the driving force behind this all-consuming venture helps to define genre, tone, and most importantly, voice. Voice is the way you “speak” on paper. It is how your words come across to the reader, and it will be different for every writer. Voice depends on the style you choose – formal, informal, technical, chatty, poetic, etc. – and the words you choose to express this style – simple words, scientific terminology, slang, etc. Some writers strive to enlighten, teach or inspire. Others may want to challenge social norms, shock sensibilities, promote a cause or prompt action. Many harbor more simplistic goals such as to entertain. Most, though, can probably attribute their desire to write to a combination of factors including my favorite double negative, “I can’t not write.”

I find the most compelling impetus behind creating my novels is to entertain by taking readers on an amazing and outrageous adventure which generally results in the characters discovering courage and strength they didn’t know they possessed and a deep and binding love for each other through shared sacrifice. I have to admit, that as a geographer and avid traveler I do hope to peek people’s curiosity about our world and maybe even occasionally incite a reader to pull out a world map. And I must confess I’m one of those who, can’t not write. I’ve tried a time or two, but before long an idea forms and I’m back at the computer entrenched in a make-believe world in an exciting or faraway land.

As we were preparing for print on one of our recent releases, Garrett, a cover blooper was discovered during proofing so hilarious, I just had to share.

Can you find the blooper?

Imagine my surprise when an email from Jayna popped into my inbox that read, ”Garrett is toothless.” What…?

Sure enough, he is!  At least on this version.

Now let me assure you–in the book, Garret is the epitome of hunky Texan male. The tortured-soul type, raised to be a gentleman, who needs just the right spunky lady to get him back in church and transform his struggling existence into happily-ever-after.

What he isn’t is toothless! 

If you haven’t checked out this gem of a inspirational romance, be sure to read the excerpt below!

Joan

EXCERPT:

“I see you decided to show up.” The harsh words grated like a meat grinder in Garrett Hearth’s ears. They echoed with double impact in the small metal building that served as the town hall.

His brother, Gabriel, shoved a straw cowboy hat on his head and stomped in the direction of the large, glass front door. He slammed into Garrett’s shoulder as he passed—a childish gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

Garrett took a step back to absorb the shock of the aggressive move. The churlish greeting came as no surprise. Gabriel could always be counted on to let him have it, no matter what the situation or who was watching.

“Good to see you, too.” He raised his voice loud enough for others in the room to hear. He wanted to draw attention, simply because his brother disliked it, but Gabriel never looked back. Guess he wasn’t in the mood today.

Garrett didn’t understand Gabe’s animosity and he never would. Their lives were so opposite they might as well live on different planets.

He pulled his attention back to the here and now. The folks filing out of the city hall building wore a variety of expressions, from angry to nonchalant to visibly stressed. He’d missed the meeting. Not that it mattered. Most everyone in town was against him anyway. Well, he didn’t care. His property belonged to him, and he could sell it to whomever he wanted. He didn’t owe anyone anything.

A shaft of late-afternoon light pierced his eyes as the front door opened, and he squinted. A young woman with bouncy brown hair and long, slim legs jogged out the door and caught up with Gabriel. He watched as the two talked, the woman using lots of descriptive hand gestures.

Moments later, she returned to the building more slowly than she’d left. By this time, Garrett stood in the entryway alone. She stopped in front of him, the smell of earth and flowers wafting around her, and gave him a slight smile that ruffled his soul like a warm breeze.

“I need to lock up. Are you ready to leave?” A pleasant enough voice, Garrett decided, although she looked a bit tired from this closer perspective, and she seemed a bit exasperated.

She stood in the doorway and jangled a set of keys from fingertips that sported well-chewed fingernails. Her jeans were worn in the knees and torn in places. Soil covered the tops and sides of her athletic shoes. She wore a t-shirt that read It’s Easy Being Green on the front. Rich, brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, but some of it had worked free and was tucked behind her ears. She’d clearly been working outdoors, but her beauty shone through all the dirt.

She tapped her toes, and Garrett remembered she’d asked a question.

“Yeah, I guess I missed the meeting. I better head out.”

“It was a good one. I think we’re finally starting to convince the property owners that selling out to the developers is bad news for Sweet Home. We’re already beginning to see the effects of heavy construction everywhere. Those vultures.” She pursed her lips and narrowed a pair of hazel brown eyes. Garrett stepped around her and out the door. He didn’t want to get into a debate right now.

The roof’s overhang blocked the light, making it possible to see without a glare. Her expressive eyes sparked with raw emotion, and for a moment her passion for the town almost swayed him from his resolve on the issue dividing Sweet Home—to sell or not to sell.

Almost.

Progress had been creeping into the small Texas town for years. A rural area not far from Bishop, Texas, Sweet Home had drawn the attention of big-city developers. Landowners were being offered good money to sell. The situation had neighbor pitted against neighbor. For months, town meetings had tried to bring unity, but so far, the efforts had only added fuel to the fire.

“I’m sure I’ve seen you around before, but I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

The young woman’s statement refocused his mind and he noticed her ringless hand stretched out toward him. How long had he been lost in those beautiful brown eyes?

“Garrett Hearth.” Their hands made a warm connection. Hers sported a layer of dirt, which she transferred to him during the handshake, leaving his skin feeling a bit gritty.

Enthusiastic and beautiful. Too bad she was on the wrong side. That made her a beautiful bother.

“I saw you talking to my brother, Gabe. How long have you two known each other?”

Rumor had it that Gabe was involved with some dark-haired woman. One of his co-workers told him that she was a well-to-do real estate broker from Bishop. Gabe always traveled there to see her. Could this be her? For some reason, he hoped not. She looked more country than city.

“Gabe’s your brother?” Her eyes lit up like amber stars. “Then you’re another descendent of this town’s founding family!”

A sense of pride surged through him, then fell away like leaves from a tree in autumn. His ancestors had settled here long ago, and others established homesteads around them. The Hearth family had named the town. For many years, life in Sweet Home had been ideal for all residents—pure, simple country living.

Now it was time for change.

“Yeah. That’s my family.”

“You must be so proud of your rich heritage. What a history this area has.”

Her eyes sparkled as she looked toward the surrounding hay fields, where golden bales glowed in the early evening sun. Beyond them, a densely wooded area boasted a variety of trees—old oak, pecan, and cottonwood stood tall and majestic alongside smaller mesquite trees. All of them slated to be cut down.

“War, drought, the Depression, flooding…this town has made it through it all.” This gal was nothing if not single-minded. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting bulldozers coming in and tearing it all down. Oh, well. We just have to keep praying.”

A big smile spread across her face, replacing the serious expression from half a second before. Garrett allowed his eyes to roam from her face to take in the rest of her. Whatever it was that she did outdoors, it must involve physical labor. Well-defined muscles in her arms flexed slightly as she turned the locks on the door. Even in work clothes, she had a classy air about her.

“Oh! Your brother.” Her ponytail bounced as she spoke. “I didn’t answer your question. I haven’t known him long. I own a small plant farm and sometimes do installs for clients. Gabriel hired me to complete his landscaping project at his house. Been working over there all day, and I’ll be there at least another two days. Lots of work.”

Thinking about the job must have made her self-conscious because she dusted her jeans and held grimy hands in front of her, fingers splayed. “I’m a mess. Barely made it to the meeting—not a chance of going home to clean up. I didn’t call the meeting this time, and it wasn’t convenient at all.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Garrett couldn’t help grinning at her sudden discomfiture. “You look great. And these old farmers and ranchers don’t give a hoot about appearances. You’re fine.”

So she wasn’t Gabe’s girlfriend. Excellent.

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Charlie and Myrtle Smith sat on the porch of their small South Texas farmhouse, watching the afternoon sun slip out of the cloudless sky. “Been thinking, Myrt,” Charlie said as he rolled himself a cigarette.

 Myrtle loosened her bun and began to unbraid her hair. “What about?”

 “Moving to town,” he replied. “For five hundred dollars Slim Albright said he’d sell me his barber shop and that little rent house over on Baize Street.”

“Where you going to get that much money?” She began to brush her hair, counting the strokes aloud. “One, two, three…”

Charlie used his teeth to close the drawstring of his tobacco pouch. “I figure we can get pretty near that much for this land, the house, and our livestock.”

“Sixteen, Seventeen. Pretty near? Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty.” She shifted the hairbrush to the other side of her head. “What about the rest? Twenty-one.”

“I’ll have to sell Pretty Boy.”

“Twenty-five. Never thought I’d hear them words come out of your mouth, Charlie Smith. Twenty-six.”

“Never thought I’d say them. But I’m sick of farming, always worrying about rain and grasshoppers and early freezes. Giving two-bit shaves and haircuts to businessmen and drunk cowboys can’t be that hard.”

“Whatever you think, Charlie. Forty-one. I married you for better or worse. Forty-two. What do you figure you can get for Pretty Boy?”

Charlie took a draw on his cigarette. “Can’t afford to take no less than a hundred dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money, even for a fancy horse.” She set her hairbrush aside.

“Yep,” Charlie agreed. “But old Benny Baker’s been wanting that big palomino ever since he laid eyes on him. He’ll pay a hundred for him, maybe more.”

“Baker’s a shrewd horse trader,” Myrtle observed. “He’ll skin you if you give him half a chance.”

“I know that, Myrt,” Charlie said, exhaling smoke. “Benny can’t get to me if I skin him first.”

“I guess I’d better start packing up.” Myrtle gathered her hairpins.

Charlie nodded. “Reckon I’ll make a trip to town in the morning.”

***

Myrtle watched through the window as the lone rider unlatched the gate and approached her house. It was Benny Baker, sure enough. “Charlie better not have let that shyster get to him,” she muttered.

Benny dismounted and threw his horse’s reins across the porch railing. He glanced briefly toward the house, then turned and sauntered toward the barn.

Beginning to feel her anger rise, Myrtle stepped onto the porch. “Morning Mr. Baker,” she called out.

“Morning, ma’am.” Benny tipped his hat. “Is your husband home?”

“No,” Myrtle replied. “I reckon he’ll be back directly.”

Bennie grinned. “I saw Charlie in town. We made a deal for me to take Pretty Boy off his hands.”

Myrtle put her hands on her hips. “Let me tell you one thing, Benny Baker,” she said, her Irish brogue intruding on her South Texas twang. “No matter what Charlie said, you’ll not get that horse for one penny less than one hundred dollars.”

Baker stared at her, motionless and speechless for several seconds. Finally he spoke. “That’s a powerful lot of money.”

“It is,” Myrtle agreed. “But that’s the price. Take it or leave it.”

Bennie used the toe of his boot to break a clod of dirt. He looked away and then moved his eyes back to Myrtle. “Mrs. Smith, I believe I’ll just pay you and take Pretty Boy right now.” Baker counted out a hundred dollars in fives and tens.

Myrtle checked the money twice. It was more cash than she’d ever seen in her life. “All right, then,” she said, tucking the bills inside her bosom. She stood on the porch, arms folded, while Benny brought Pretty Boy out of the barn, put a halter on him, and rode away with the beautiful horse prancing along behind him. Bennie might put the shuck on a lot of folks, she thought, but he’ll have to get up early in the morning to cheat me out of a fair price.

Not long afterward, Charlie came rushing into the house. “Myrtle, you ain’t going to believe this,” he shouted. “I done sold Pretty Boy–”

“I already know,” Myrtle said. “Benny Baker come and got him an hour or so ago.”

“I didn’t expect he’d be in such an all-fired hurry.” Charlie pushed his straw hat back and took out a plug of Bull Durham tobacco. “For once I skinned old Benny good. He agreed to pay me a hundred and twenty dollars for Pretty Boy, and we shook hands on it. What do you think of that?”

-by Carlene Havel
Author, “A Hero’s Homecoming”, co-author, “Daughter of the King”

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With Mother’s Day only days away this week’s blog could be nothing else but an ode to mothers. My mom has been visiting for the past week and it reminded me how much I miss her when we’re apart. Here’s to all the mothers out there who care for us, love us, support us in all we do and who will always hold a special place in our hearts. Happy Mother’s Day!

Does family really matter?

Check out this new release from Prism Book Group!

After spending years in foster care, Bonnie Blakley starts her bid for independence only to find herself attracted to single dad Morgan Masterson.

Morgan finds his attraction to Bonnie as a betrayal to his wife who passed away.

Can Bonnie get over her fear of family to forge a future with Morgan and his toddler Maddie?

Does family really matter?

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READ AN EXCERPT!

Her new heels clicked a happy beat on the sidewalk as Bonnie Blakley hiked the block and a half to the florist shop from the Elmvale Nursing Home. The schedule left by the previous Activity Director called for Bonnie to teach a flower-arranging class with the residents in the afternoon. David Barnes, her new boss, said the partners at Petals and Posies expected her to pick up older flowers at a discount. After finishing her training and moving far away from her past, Bonnie knew this job was her chance for happiness and a life of independence.

She smiled at the young family coming toward her, holding hands. Bonnie envied their contentment. An elderly woman beamed up into the eyes of her husband as he helped her from their car. Bonnie was not going to lie awake anymore, thinking about problems she had no control over. Determined to leave dysfunction in the dust behind her, she gave her foot an extra scrape on the sidewalk as if that made her decision final.

Perspiration from the summer heat gathered on her forehead and threatened to run down her cheeks. Today, her first day as the new Activity Director, she didn’t need her hair frizzing or her face all flushed while she tried to make a good impression.

She stopped on the curb opposite the flower shop on the corner of Brock and Main. A gust of wind picked up tendrils of her long hair and whipped them across her face. She battled with the errant strands for a moment then stepped off the sidewalk.

A shrill voice yelled, “Watch out!”

A large, box-style delivery truck sped past her. Startled, she swayed, almost knocked off her feet. A gust of air flattened her clothes to her body. The words Petals and Posies, spelled out in colorful flowers, were painted on the side of the truck.

It almost ran her over!

Coughing on exhaust fumes, on shaky legs she reached the safety of the florist shop.

Cool air and heavenly fragrances greeted Bonnie as a bell tinkled a welcome overhead. She stepped onto the clean wood floor as the beveled-glass door whispered shut.

A woman approached with a perky smile, her dark ponytail swaying. “Good morning.”

“Did you see that? Your delivery truck almost knocked me down.” She took a breath to calm herself. “I’m Bonnie from the Elmvale Nursing Home. I think you have some flowers ready for me.” She mopped the perspiration from her forehead.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, just a little shaken.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dawn.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron before they shook hands. “I’ll just get the order for you.”

Bonnie crossed her arms and looked around, finding relief in the cool environment. The pleasant room helped to compose her. Flowers of every color and shade captured her gaze. Astonished, she took in the variety of tulips, hibiscus, mums, and others she didn’t recognize. Crossing to a wall of coolers, she admired the arrangements behind the glass. Daisies tucked among baby’s breath caught her attention, delicate and arrestingly pretty. Someday she would make enough money to buy and enjoy a bouquet.

The door to the back room banged open, and an elegant woman entered holding a long, white box—the kind long-stemmed roses came in. “Hi, I’m Grace.”

“Good to meet you. I’m Bonnie,” she acknowledged, shaking the stately woman’s offered hand.

“Ah, these are for you then.” She laid the box on the counter and opened it.

Roses mixed with other flowers lay on a bed of ferns. Some were beginning to wilt, and others had lost their leaves or petals. Bonnie closed her eyes as the aroma filled her with memories. The sweet fragrances brought visions of her childhood—picking flowers with her granddad in his garden. The memory was so poignant she choked up.

She signed a receipt and turned to leave when the man who nearly ran her down entered from the back room. Dressed in a blue uniform with the Petals and Posies’ logo, he filled the doorway with his broad shoulders. He swiped at a

loose blond curl that hung over his left eye.

“You were driving the truck!” Bonnie gasped.

“Miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I turned onto Brock and there you were, tugging at your hair. I swerved to miss you.” The expression in his big brown eyes begged forgiveness. His open palms confirmed it.

“Do you know each other?” Grace stepped forward.

“No.” Bonnie kept her tone crisp. With the flowers signed for, she swung toward the door to make her escape from the suddenly charged atmosphere. “Thank you,” she called.

A buzzing sound erupted near her ear, then something tangled in her hair. She screamed, dropping the box. Her precious cargo spilled onto the polished floor.

“Help me. Get it out.” The urge to run was strong. A flashback clenched her throat.

Mrs. Grimes dragging her by the hand and locking her in the shed for punishment, where she couldn’t escape the bugs. Bees had made a hive in the corner, and she was forced to sit still for hours to avoid getting stung.

Bonnie slammed her heart shut on those bitter memories and concentrated on the bee. She pulled at the strands to rid herself of the insect. It thrashed and buzzed all the louder. She danced and bent like a native person in a primitive dance, trying to untangle the bug from her long curls. Strong male hands grasped her and pressed her against the wall of coolers.

“Stand still.” The man’s voice held annoyance as he plucked at her hair. Bonnie squirmed. She understood firsthand what bee stings were all about—huge, painful welts that lasted for days.
“Oh, please, get it out.” Her cheeks heated as tears slipped down her face while she shifted from foot to foot. Why was he taking so long?

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April 15th- The Avid Reader
April 16th- Wolfel’s World of Books
April 17th- Live Read and Breathe
(Stop 2) SMI Book Club
April 18th- Emily Wood
(Stop 2) Storm Goddess Book Reviews
April 19th- Save Your Money For Books
April 22nd- Emerald Musings
(Stop 2) Plotdriven
April 23rd- Busy Mom’s Book Reviews
April 24th- Paws and Print
April 25th- For the Love of Bookends
April 26th- Book Babe
April 29th- Books and Buttaflies
(Stop 2) Paranormal Romance and Beyond
April 30th- Tiffany Talks Books
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May 1st- Reading is my Time Out
May 2nd- Flirting with Romance
May 3rd- Romance Bookworm

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Enjoy!

My mother was cleaning and found something written by my Dad seven or eight years ago. Dad’s now in memory care, his mental capabilities decimated by Alzheimer’s dementia. He doesn’t know who anyone is now, not even himself. Dad never mentioned his waning memory to anyone, but what he wrote makes it clear he had some awareness that something was going on.
Characters:
Herb – the author, my father
Billie – Herb’s wife, my mother
Fewsus-With-the-Flaming-red-eyes – one of my imaginative brother’s crazy cats

THE MAGIC BENCH

My eyes are dim: my hearing is not so good anymore. I don’t get around too well either. Worst of all, my memory is fading. I spend part of my day sitting on the old school-bus-waiting-bench where my children and grandchildren sat and waited for the big yellow school bus to come by each morning and take them to school.

I call this place my magic bench. As I sit here and day-dream of days gone by, I see tricycles, bicycles, motor scooters, automobiles and trucks. I remember horses, cows, calves, dogs, and cats and chickens too, pet rats, snakes, fish and Fewsus-With-the-Flaming-red-eyes. They each had a name. Though years have come and gone, memories of our children still fill our home. Billie sits and knits, sometimes stops to bake a pie,

I spend most of my time thinking of the old days, and wonder how they got “old” so fast.
This is a thumbnail sketch of my life with Billie. My life has not been ‘spent’ it has been invested in children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

I think I’ll go out and set on the magic bench again before I have lunch.

***

A grammarian would have a field day with this note, but my family treasures it. Maybe you should write something and tuck it away to be found and cherished later.

Carlene Havel
Author, “A Hero’s Homecoming”
Co-Author, “Daughter of the King”