The Joys of Editing: It sounded so much better when I was in the shower....

We have all had those glorious moments in the rain locker. There you are...glistening wet skin, the perfect echo chamber, and your favorite song. The need to belt out the words seems as natural as breathing in and out. We are braver somehow in those private moments of utter nakedness. The world seems different. More magical. We take the risk and go for the gusto. Karaoke bar be damned, we have found that inner rock star or dancing diva. Invariably we have the magical moment of acoustical perfection, and we believe for just a twinkling of the eye that we were meant for greater things. We are Maria Carey, Whitney Houston, and John Bon Jovi rolled into one perfect, soapy package. All we need is the record deal and an open road and life as we know it would be perfection.

We step out of our shower dripping with confidence and then the cold air of reality hits us. We sing a few tentative notes in our bedroom as we plaster our dreary day-clothes over moistened skin and realize that perhaps our vocalizations weren't quite as perfect as we thought they were. In fact, the farther away from the humid acoustic hall we get, the more we become aware of our imperfect pitch and quavering voice. By the end of the day, we are fairly certain music is for misfits, and we are hesitant even to hum a few bars of our favorite tunes on the radio. By nighttime, we are curled into a fetal position with sweaty arm pits, a dripping upper lip, and the deepest, darkest dread of ever hearing another note again.

Then morning comes, and we find ourselves in the shower again. In the magical, mystical shower, and suddenly, hope springs anew. The notes appear once more and we are ROCKING!

Okay.....so this is a bit of a stretch but you know what I am talking about. We have all been there in some form or another, and in the realm of writing, there is that "place" where everything seems so "right". Where you find your fingers flying over the keyboard of your computer, and you hear the words issue from your lips, "OMG...I am so good!" Tears spring to your eyes. Your heart soars, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the great masters of literature are MORONS compared to the work you just created. You are the next Steinbeck. The next Shakespeare. The next Jane Austin. You have achieved the height of literary greatness in your disheveled writing nook. All you have to do is find that lucky literary agent who is blessed enough to represent your brilliance.

Then you put the work down for a time. You get busy. You get a call. You have surgery. You pop out a few kids. Whatever. When you go back and read your brilliant masterpiece that will cause the world to weep from its magnificence, you find yourself saying, "OMG...I suck! I can't spell! And what the heck is a schloombov?"

You have just been hit by the cold wind of reality that I call the need for revisory rethought. It is a fancy way of saying you need to edit what you wrote because the first go-round of your glorious master piece isn't going to be perfect. Listen to that again.....It is never going to be perfect the first time around.

All writers get hit by the reality of their imperfection, if they are honest. It is true, some need that revisory rethought more than others, but the need is there regardless of the author. It is why even back in the day, the masters had revisions and multiple editions. They added things. They corrected things. They took things out. We take all of that for granted because the process happened centuries ago, before our great grandparents were glimmers in their parents' eyes. But trust me, those masters of old went through the editing process just like we have to today. And they had their writing "shower moments" too when they thought something sounded grand on paper and then regretted it once they took a second look at it later on. Why do you think we keep finding these "lost works" of theirs? These are the pieces they really didn't want anyone to see.

I have shower writing moments all the time. In fact, they are part of what keeps me humble. I love the writing process and getting lost in the worlds I create, but the editing process keeps me grounded in the reality of how fallible I am as a writer.

I suck at spelling. I catch my own inconsistencies all the time when I go back and edit my stories. I even got the name of one of my semi-main characters wrong once. (Should I even admit that?) ZOIKS!! The fact is, no one is perfect, and that is the beauty of it. But editing can be daunting, especially when the cold, hard reality of your imperfections hit you in the face for the very first time. When you realize that the "perfect" story you just finished writing needs a little work....or maybe a lot of work.

Fear not. Even the best of the best of the best have editors. We all pepper our work with too many adverbs. We often spell like we have regressed to the glory days of kindergarten when we are really on a roll, or maybe we just sound like a Valley Girl from time to time when we are trying to write an authentic Medieval piece. The point is, the editing process helps smack us back into shape. It smoothes out the rough spots, and if we are open to it, helps make our story better than it was when we started.

Here are a few of my rules to edit by:

1. Give your work time to sit once it is complete.

Never start the edit immediately after you have completed the work. You are way too close to it emotionally when you have just finished it. Either one of two things will happen if you don't give yourself enough time. One - you will still believe you are a writing god among men and will find nothing wrong with your Olympian prose, or two, you will think every word of it is crap and will end up deleting it all. I will never forget reading the Twitter of one writer who deleted 64,000+ words after spending weeks toiling over them. BIG MISTAKE! Even if it was crap, there might have been some tidbit worth keeping. Deletes are forever, so let the work breathe for a bit.

2. Find a good editing software to help make the first round of edits more clinical.

Editing is always emotional, so anything that can put it at arm's length is a bonus. I swear by Smartedit. It runs a series of reports against your work and looks for a host of issues for you - repeated phrases, adverb usage, cliches, curse words, misused words. It's great! Each problem is linked to the portion of the story where it can be found. I often find myself editing around the phrases I go to correct. By the time I get to the read through, I have a stronger piece of work. Does it make it perfect. No, but it does a heck of a job for an algorithmic based program.

3. Get another pair of eyes on your work.

For some people, this is hard, especially when they are just starting out. It feels a bit like asking your neighbor to check out that swollen boil on your butt. Once you go down that path of exposure, you can never go in reverse. They have just seen the best and worst you have to offer. Asking someone you know to view your work can feel much the same way. It makes you feel raw inside. They might laugh. They might poke fun. They might not like it. The thing is, once you get out there and published, you are going to have a host of people waiting to take pot shots at everything you put to paper, so you might as well take the risk and ask someone to look over your story. Have them look for the basics....slow points, inconsistencies, things they like, things they don't. The feedback can be invaluable in the end as you work your way to your finished product.

4. Edit more than once.

One read through is never enough. There is such thing as over editing where you spend so much time tweaking the story, you never finish it. Not really. But don't ever stop at "once". That would be like going for your all important driving test having given parallel parking a go "once". Not really a good approach to take if you think about it. For me, I always miss things the first time around. I know even the professionals miss things. I cannot tell you how many times I have been reading a New York Times Best Seller only to catch a typo of one kind or another or even places where I found myself going 'Huh?' because a segment of a paragraph didn't seem to fit what I was reading (copy/paste error anyone?).

The point is, allow breathe-time for your work, get some editing software and extra sets of eyes, and take a repetitive approach to editing. Combined with diligence and care, these things will help mitigate a lot of heartache. Yes, there will probably still be those times when the genius writer is wrestled awake by the reality of their imperfections, but hopefully, when the edits are done and it is time to create again..........

The music of the mind will call to you once more and before you realize what you are doing, you will find yourself blissfully shaking your glistening wet brain and belting out the music that is your next big idea. And in that glorious moment of pure abandon, the notes are perfect, just as they always have been. Just as they should be in the moment of creation.

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If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to connect with H.L. Stephens on Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. Also check out H.L. Stephen's mystery series The Chronicles of Mister Marmee. Book 1 - The Case of Jack the Nipper and book 2 - The Case of the Wayward Fae are available in print and eBook format at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online retailers. Coming Soon! Book 3 - The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune.

Say It Isn't So......Covers Really Do Make a Difference

We are always admonished never to judge a book by its cover, but in truth our judgment of packaging is a prejudice we apply liberally every day. Industries of every shape, size, color, kind, and creed play upon this judgmental tendency in an effort to draw our attention away from the competition and towards their product. I am not immune to the tactics, even as I apply my logic to the shopping list in hand. I find myself invariably drawn to the flavored water bottle with the refreshing cluster of juicy fruit painted upon the label when compared to the flat, unappealing label that bores me to death with words of promise for quenching my thirst. The prettily painted bottle might taste like moistened gym socks, but chances are I will reach for the packaging that appeals to me the most. Book covers are no different.

No one ever likes to admit their folly, so for me to acknowledge, in writing, the mistakes of my cover art for my first novel is tantamount to my standing naked before the world and giving each gathering gawker twenty minutes to draw their own personal crowd to watch me squirm. The funny thing about mistakes, however, is they offer us the opportunity to learn valuable lessons, and lessons are meant to be shared with others. What you choose to do with the information is entirely up to you.

When I first began writing The Case of Jack the Nipper, I had a vivid image in my head of what the characters looked like. They were as real to me as the world around me. I knew the sound of their voices, the jaunty manner of their walk, the nuances that made them who they were. It was like watching a movie of old friends. I did my best to capture those images in a painting of the two main characters; the result of which you see to the left. I was so excited by my efforts, I used a portion of it on my business cards, on bookmarks, and even on the first book cover of the first release.

I should have known there was a problem when I started handing out my business cards and people would say, "Oh you write children's books." Their smiles always weakened as they said this as though to utter it carried with it some sort of dread disease.

"No," would be my polite reply. "My books are meant for an older audience." I would proceed to explain what my book was about. I had my schpeel which often would liven them up a bit, but the damage was already done. People had already passed judgment on my book based on the cover. The colors of my painting were bright and cheerful, but the overall painting did not convey what the book was about. Using it as the cover of my book was a mistake. As a result, it lost me sales; sales that might have moved me farther along the path that I so desperately long to follow. It took me a year to swallow my pride and realize my error.

I found an award winning artist in Greece who designed and created the cover art for the first book. On the one year anniversary of the initial release, I re-released The Case of Jack the Nipper. What a difference the cover made. It grabbed people's attention rather than putting them off. In a single glance, the average passerby could tell there was a mystery involved, and the cat on the cover with the surprised expression intrigued people enough to make them read the back and find out what the book was about.

When my second novel The Case of the Wayward Fae was released, I took no chances. I had learned my lesson the first time and I hired a cover artist with a fantastic reputation and tons of experience to design my cover. Upon release of the book, I was thrilled at the results, and it helped boost sales of the first book as well.

Am I rich as a result of all of this? No. Am I a New York Times Best Seller? No, not yet. But I am a whole lot wiser now than I was when I started out, and I do have people spending their hard-earned money buying my books. It says something about the decisions I have made with my first two novels......that perhaps I got something right.

To draw a reader in, you have to provide three things:
1. A cover that intrigues (that is the appeal that pulls them across the room and sets you apart from all the other books around yours)
2. A great 'pitch' on the back of the cover or inside flap that gives the would-be buyer a sixty-second WOW that pushes him or her past the point of trepidation and over to the realm of wanting to spend their hard earned money on your work.
3. A great story that keeps them searching for your name for other titles when they are done with the one they just bought (assuming you have other titles for them to purchase).

If you can't get past number one, however, you certainly will never make it to number 3.

I am learning to lay down my pride in most things when it comes to this business of writing and publishing. There isn't a whole lot of room for it, outside of taking pride in writing a great story. But I recognize there will always be people out there who are better than I am. There will always be better writers, better artists, better editors, better marketers, better spellers, and people with better hair, and I am okay with that. At least I have enough sense now to leave certain things to the professionals.

If you are going to do a cover for your work, make sure it is a mantel that is worthy of the effort you have put into the rest of the book. Whatever you do, don't half-ass it. You spent forever perfecting the inside. Take some time perfecting the outside. It is after all the first thing people will see of your work. The price of neglecting such an important detail can cost you more than you will ever know, so make it count. Your future reading public awaits you.

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If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to connect with H.L. Stephens on Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. Also check out H.L. Stephen's mystery series The Chronicles of Mister Marmee. Book 1 - The Case of Jack the Nipper and book 2 - The Case of the Wayward Fae are available in print and eBook format. Book 3 - The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune will be ready for release in the Fall of 2014.

Life Lessons From My Dog: Never Forget the Importance of Play Time

Have you ever heard the old adage "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"? It is the mantra of my perky Pomeranian, Peanut Pumpkin Pie, except her version is a bit more personal and goes something like "All work and no play makes my mommy a dull girl."

I never truly appreciated the statement or its deeper meaning until Peanut became a part of my life almost 10 years ago....back when I was in the throws of college, trying my darnedest to become an engineer. I certainly didn't grasp its importance to a little fluff ball that was small enough (at the time) to fit into the palm of my hand.

I had always done well in school and rose to whatever challenges were laid at my feet, so when I was offered the opportunity to return to school and get my degree, I chose the most challenging curriculum I could find. Big mistake. It is not that I floundered when faced with the rigors of a top engineering program; it was quite the opposite really. It is just that 9 classes a semester proved a daunting load, and I quickly redefined the concept of what "dull" really meant. I became the poster child for the word and lost my sense of joy in the process.

Peanut was 6 weeks old when she came home with me over Christmas vacation. She was my gift to myself. She was an old soul, even as a baby. It is what people said of me when I was her equivalent age. She was quiet....watchful....ever mindful of the world around her. She did not scamper with her brothers and sisters or pull my shoe laces like countless other little ones had done that I had looked at and walked away from. She did not wander off disinterested by the boring stranger who came to visit her on a whim. She just sat on the hard, concrete floor, watching me.

It was as if Peanut was trying to decide something about me; trying to determine what she would do next; trying to determine if I was worthy of her efforts. She was 4 weeks old when we first met, and yet there was something so infinitely wise about her. I knew that first day I could never love another dog the way I loved her. I knew it when she walked over and asked me to pick her up. I knew it when she looked deeply into my eyes and put her nose to mine. I knew from that first spark of understanding that kindled a passionate love between us that my heart belonged to her, and I would do her bidding for the rest of her life.

Over that Christmas break we bonded. We played and scampered the way new mommies and their fur babies do. We laughed more than I had laughed in some time. She helped me heal from the pain of loss of my Snoopycat some three months before. It was a magical time. I didn't want it to come to an end. But reality came crashing back upon me, and I knew I would soon be leaving for school once more with little Peanut in tow.

Near the end of that break when the restart of the semester was fast approaching, my dad told me a secret to lasting happiness with Peanut. It was a secret I would never forget. Peanut and I were cuddling; all smiles and messy hair and fluffy fur. It was early morning, and we were avoiding the responsibilities of the day. Peanut and I would be packing up our things and heading back toward campus together. I wasn't looking forward to leaving, but in my heart I knew it would be different than it had been before. This time I would not be alone in my little home away from home. I relished the idea of having my new little love with me, especially with as hard as the first part of the semester had been.

The truth is, sometimes our daydreams don't always fall in line with our reality. I felt gushy holding Peanut in my arms in the safety of my real home, far away from the stresses of school, but my father knew me. He knew I was hard-working, focused, driven to do well. He knew how stressed I had been when I had come home and how very near the breaking point I had come. It wasn't enough for me to have a distraction to take my mind off of my school work. I now had a commitment to Peanut, and the choices I made as a result of that commitment would determine how our relationship would develop from that day forward.

His words were simple. "You know honey, Peanut will spent the rest of her life waiting for you. Every ounce of love and devotion she has will be yours from now until the day she dies. It will never waver. It will never end. The least you can do is try to give her your best in return." The secret sounded simple, but it wasn't until I was in the midst of the worst series of exams that I got the meaning of it all.

I arrived back at my apartment after a grueling 4 hour exam. I had less than two hours to eat, rest, and prepare for my next exam which was threatening to be worse than the one I had just left. I was frazzled to a bare, bloody nub. Peanut sensed my stress the moment I walked through the door. Her old soul told her I needed her. We went for a potty walk, but that was all I "had time for". Peanut, in her miniature, infinite wisdom, knew better. Playtime was always the best medicine. She brought me a toy from her corner of the bed. It was her favorite toy. Her giant elephonky. The one that was three times as big as she was. She dragged it over to me and began to gut it with great enthusiasm, right on top of my textbook.

My nerves were raw. Couldn't she see I was busy? Couldn't she see I was stressed? I was too stressed for her games, so I set her on the floor with her toy and gave her a chewy stick. Certainly that was enough.

Then I saw it. The secret my father shared with me slipping away from me as two shiny black eyes stared at me over the edge of the bed. Two wise little eyes that had only wanted to help make things better for me. Two hurt little eyes that didn't understand why I had rejected her. Now it was my turn as I watched little Peanut....to make a decision about which path I would take. Peanut had chosen me when she was no more than an infant; now here was my chance to choose her with all my adult years to guide me.

I closed my textbook, laid it aside, and slid to the floor with my little furry miracle. Peanut and I played for a long time together. We ate lunch on the floor, nibbling from the same plate. We cuddled for some time, and I studied with what time was left over; while Peanut slaughtered an assortment of over-sized stuffed animals against my thigh. It was a great afternoon; the best of that semester. I can't remember how I did on the exam that day. The truth is, it doesn't matter. My greatest lesson and hence my greatest gift was found in the eyes of my wise little girl.

Peanut and I have weathered some pretty hefty storms together. Some worth mentioning; some not. One thing I will say is this. I made the right choice that day. I continue to make that choice every day I have with Peanut, and I listen to the silent wisdom that comes from her shiny black eyes. I am long since out of school, but there are still times when I work from home, whether slaving away at my day job or crafting away at my novels. Regardless of which avenue I am pursuing, Peanut is always there to remind me it is time to take a break and play. I have yet to turn her down. I have yet to say no. The giant elephonky is still her favorite toy of choice.

I guess you might say, with Peanut, life is never dull, but then again, I chose to never let it be so from the day she walked into my life. I let her love be my comfort, and I have yet to regret that decision. May the same be said of all the relationships in my life that matter - that I never fail to put them first in my heart or life and that I never forget to make room in my day for "play time" with the ones I love the most.

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Mister Marmee Has Returned - The Case of the Wayward Fae Is Now Available

There are some moments in life that are worth celebrating. Marriage. The birth of a child. The big promotion. Getting that goiter removed. For me, I have tremendous cause for celebration because my second novel, The Case of the Wayward Fae ~ A Chronicle of Mister Marmee, was released on December 7, 2013, just in time for the Christmas holiday. I know, I know. We are two months past the release date, and I am only now getting around to posting about it on my blog. I never said I was the best PR person in the business or very good at marketing in general.

The truth of the matter is, it felt like the release day would never get here. Not the announcement part....the release part. The journey to bringing The Case of the Wayward Fae was a hard one. It was paved with sweat, as one would expect, but it was also paved with pieces of my shattered heart.

I suppose every novel can be described as a labor of love, but for this novel, it could not be more true. As most readers will discover when they reach the conclusion of this adventure, tucked within the 'Thank You' at the end of the book, is the soft, nuggety truth behind this story. The Case of the Wayward Fae might never have been completed. At least not for a long, long time. I know. It sounds a bit dramatic, but it is true.

My real-life Sir Happy Heart...my inspiration for the dachshund detective in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee...passed away February 19, 2013 before I had completed the novel. I was roughly two thirds of the way through the manuscript when my world was shattered by his loss. His death was not a peaceful one, at least not peaceful for my heart, and I did not know if I would be able to finish the story that had begun so joyfully with him laying by my side. Every time I looked at my computer, the brittle pieces of heart that I had managed to gingerly pull back together fell apart once again. I could not write the words without feeling the emptiness on the bed beside me.

The voice of the story seemed to die with my boy as if he held in his tender paw the key to it all. There was silence in my head and in my heart. No words would come to me. There was an emptiness in me that defied expression. I wondered if I would ever hear the rich tones of Sir Happy Heart's and Mister Marmee's voices in my mind again; there distinct Bristish accents bantering back and forth. I wondered if my heart could bear to hear them. I often wondered if my heart could bear their crushing silence.


It took time, but in the aftermath of my loss, I found my way back to Victorian London. Slowly, the ending of the story took shape, and miraculously, I found my way to the last word of the final chapter. But it was months...MONTHS before I could bring myself to touch the novel for editing. My heart was too broken. Too shattered. There were too many eerie parallels between the story I had written and what had happened when I had lost my boy. The parallels were unintended and were written when my world was whole and full of happiness and the sounds of my real-life Sir Happy Heart. After he was gone, I found every excuse under the sun NOT to touch the manuscript again. I  even cleaned out my fridge. Who does that unless it is out of sheer desperation or under direct order from the Centers for Disease Control?

I found a lovely program called SmartEdit that enabled me to begin the process of editing my novel in a more clinical way. I lanced the adverbs and slashed the repetition. I boiled the clichés and the bad word usage right out of my novel without ever breaking a sweat or shedding a tear. It took the sting out of the emotional prose I had written and turned them into cold text that I could analyze without breaking my heart over and over again. It gave me time to heal. Then, when I was ready, I read my story.

This time I cried; not because my heart was broken from the loss of my boy but because I felt the triumph of seeing him once more gallivant across the page. The characteristics that made me love him in life were captured in all their charming glory. He was not lost to me. He was alive again in the pages of my book. Oh yes, I cut and pasted and bled upon the pages, "killing the little darlings" I had worked so hard to write over the two years of this book's creation. I would be lying if I said my words came out perfect the first time, but even in their imperfection, I could see him. My Sir Happy Heart. The little tenacious boy I love still. Though I miss him as much today as I did the moment he left me, I feel a comfort in knowing he is near me once again as I write.

In fact, one of the reasons why it has taken me so long to make this post is the fact the voices of Sir Happy Heart and Mister Marmee have been hounding me with a vengeance. The third installment of the Chronicles of Mister Marmee is well on its way. The Christmas holiday proved very productive and gave the story a boost I could only have dreamed of.

The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune is proving to be a fun adventure and every bit as unexpected as the first two novels. I cannot wait to see where the story will take me to next. The one thing I know for certain, above all other truths. No matter where the story leads, Sir Happy will be with me, walking by my side through each and every word. Wherever we end up, I know now we will journey there together, just as we always did.

If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to join the community by clicking 'Join this site' on the right or by following via Google+. Checkout H.L. Stephen's novels 'The Case of Jack the Nipper' and 'The Case of the Wayward Fae', available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.





Life Lessons From My Dog: Throwing Off the Shackles of a Sophisticated World

Grow up. Act your age. Be an adult. Be serious.

We have all heard these phrases before; either directed at us or someone we know. If we are old enough, perhaps we have even found cause to say them ourselves in moments of anger or frustration. So often, there comes a turning point in our lives, when these phrases cease to be just phrases that are spoken out of a moment of rash impatience. They become our mantra....our identity....the banner by which we live our lives, where we no longer identify with the child we once were. Where there is no room in our hearts for that child to exist.

The moment tends to come when we reach that magic age of maturity. At that golden pinnacle of maturation, we are expected to grow up. Be mature. Put away childish things to embrace a world that is serious and sophisticated. We replace Kool-Aid with mixed drinks. We pretend to be chic - cooler and hipper than we really are. We scoff at the simple pleasures that used to bring us joy, like chasing fireflies in the back yard and walking barefoot in the grass. We seek instead to fill our lives with more grown-up noises and distractions, as though somehow sophistication will make our lives feel more meaningful and fulfilled. We forget what it feels like to be silly and care free, because in our grown-up world, part of being grown-up means taking the weight of the world upon our shoulders and plugging our ears to the sounds of joyful jingles and silly giggles.

I have felt the growing weight of my grown up world as of late, and I have, at times, felt suffocated beneath the burdens it has laid upon my already over-burdened shoulders. I have found little solace, or joy for that matter, in the sophistication and serious demeanor the world has taken on around me. I marvel at the letdown I feel in the environment I once craved so much as a burgeoning young woman. I could find no comfort in any of it. Not the noise. Not the sophistication. Not the grown-up ways. I thought I would be swept away by it all until a simple, little fluff of joy showed me the secret to maintaining my sanity in the midst of my crazy, grown-up life.

My secret lies with Peanut Pumpkin Pie. She just turned nine years old. That means by human standards, she is very mature. In fact, some might even go so far as to categorize her as having passed the old fart stage and slipped well into her Sansabelt-wearing, shuffleboard playing years. She is mostly blind in one eye, she had her right knee reconstructed, she has issues with her gall bladder, and she has a touch of arthritis that plagues her when the weather grows cold or when the air conditioner is turned up too high. She has a retinue of medicines that have to be taken on a schedule; some of which are compounded by our local pharmacist. She is a mess, but you better not tell her any of that, because Peanut won't listen to you. She is too busy enjoying life.

Peanut doesn't "act her age;" she defies it. She is the same silly billie baby she was when she was little. I have had her since she was six weeks old, so I should know. Maybe it is because no one has ever told her what her limitations should be. I never set the ground rules on how she should act, aside from 'don't poop on the floor' and 'no chewing mommy's shoes'. Even such transgressions would be forgiven were they to occur. I have just spent the last nine years relishing the joy Peanut brings to my life; the uncomplicated, silly, undemanding, pleasurable joy that comes from the life we share together.

Peanut and I wear silly clothes together. I have often said if I were to open a line of shops, they would be a string of 'Mommy and Me' boutiques where eccentric owners like me could buy matching outfits for themselves and their pets. Sweaters, shirts, coats, flashy shoes, the works! The sky would be the limit as far as what I would offer. Not because I view pets as an accessory to be dressed up and shown off but because pets are too integral a part of our lives to be given anything less than what is equal to what we give ourselves.

Peanut and I play with the same toys. I have often assaulted and annoyed my fellow shoppers with my incessant need to test the squeakability of the dog toys I contemplate buying my little angel. In my mind, it must have the right tone, texture, and look to be acceptable for my Peanut. And not just any toy will do. It has to be something that will bring out the smile on her face; the smile that I love so much.

We sing together, break bread together, do laundry together, read books, tell stories, run amok, you name it. There are so many things Peanut and I share. I could enumerate them all, and still never reach the end of the list because something new would come along and add itself just at the moment when I thought I had reached its ending. Peanut is full of surprises and so is my life with her.

With Peanut, I am not sophisticated. I giggle like a child when she kisses my face. I seek her kisses just so I can feel the giggles bubble up from my tummy and burst forth, lightening my heart in a way nothing else can. I run in the grass with her like a gangly adolescent; awkward and graceless, true, but oblivious to anything but the joy I feel when that little smiley face looks back at me. I roll on the floor when we play in the house; forgetting that I am "too old" for such childish behavior. We share popsicles together, and I always give her the best part. I kiss her nose with abandon, never contemplating the germ count or what she might have been sniffing or licking before coming to say hi.

Everything in life is sweeter for me when Peanut is near. I have often wondered why that is. Why does Peanut transform the world for me? Why does she make my life so special? One day the veil was lifted, and I was blessed with a rare moment of understanding. Every day, Peanut renews and rekindles the child in me. She reminds me what it feels like to embrace the wonder and the innocence in the world around me. She helps me throw off the shackles of my oppressive "grown-up" ways so I can once again find the joy in chasing fireflies and walking barefoot in the grass.

With Peanut in my life, I can see the pictures in the clouds as they float by. She helps me believe in fantastical possibilities, which are the essence of the worlds I create. As a writer, it is paramount that I have the ability to dream the impossible; to imagine realms beyond the world in which I live my daily life. Such pure abandon is something I knew when I was a child, unfettered by the harsh realities of an unyielding world. Everything was possible then, and with Peanut as my daily example of silliness and unsophistication, all things are possible once again.

I am still required to live within a "grown-up" world with its "grown-up" responsibilities. I still have bills to pay and people to answer to. Sometimes the two are as unpleasant as it gets. I do not live in Never-Neverland. I have discovered, however, thanks to Peanut's example, that I do not have to live by every rule the "grown-up" world requires.

As long as there are fireflies to chase, I will chase them. As long as there are clouds in the sky, I will look for the fantastic images they form. I will run and giggle and seek every opportunity I am granted to let the child in me come out to play. If I am truly blessed, each one of those moments of pure abandon will be shared with a little 10 pound Pomeranian named Peanut Pumpkin Pie who reminds my heart each day what it means to live life to the fullest at any age.

**********

If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to click "Join this site" in the upper right hand of the screen. Check out H.L. Stephens' novel The Case of Jack the Nipper available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The Case of the Wayward Fae, book 2 in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee series, has been newly released and is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

H.L. Stephens is mystery and fantasy novelist who lives in the Appalachian Mountains with her best friend and Pomeranian Peanut Pumpkin Pie. She is currently finishing her third novel Journey to the Darkened Realms, a fantasy adventure novel, and has just begun work on the third installment of the Chronicles of Mister Marmee series entitled The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune. Both novels are due out in 2014.

Life Lessons From My Dog: Taking One Day At A Time

For so many of us, as life unfolds, it begins to feel a little like a game of chess. It is never enough to plan for tomorrow; we must stay several moves ahead of the game, planning out aspects of our lives to the umpteenth degree. Parents plan their children's academic careers while their children are still in diapers. Teenagers begin their lifelong battle with anxiety over becoming a failure before they have a chance to enter puberty, and adults (if they are "smart") begin to plan their retirement before they are old enough to buy alcoholic beverages legally. We live so far in the future in our planning, in our hopes, in our worries, we tend to miss out on the important little things that happen around us each and every day.

I will be the first to admit that I have been caught up in the future's game before. It is an easy enough habit to slip into. I always loved the game of chess, and even as a child, I was a natural at the strategy it required. I was never annoyingly competitive the way some people are. I just loved the challenge of out-thinking and out-maneuvering my opponent; surprising them with moves they could not anticipate. I loved learning from my mistakes and my losses, which were many in the beginning but grew fewer and farther between as I gained experience.

I would focus on the game and make sure at all times, I had at least seven moves planned out ahead of where I was. I always tried to anticipate my opponent's response to each of my moves, planning in turn what I would do next. It was an exhilarating mental exercise. I used these skills when I went to college, and I applied them when I entered the work force. I had every move of my future planned out perfectly, but then life happened.

The one big difference between chess and life is that chess has rules that every strategist must follow. Your opponent can't knock your pieces off the board or smack you in the face with them. He or she can, but they can expect to be banned from the game. Life on the other hand is not limited by such restrictions. There is no etiquette when life knocks you on your rear-end. It just happens, and all the planning in the world...all of the strategy...cannot prepared you for what you weren't expecting. You have one of two options when this happens. You can fold...give up...admit defeat...lay down your king and walk away, or you can pick yourself up...wipe off your bloody knees...allow yourself a good cry (if you are me) and start a new course.

I have been knocked down so many times in life, I have a pillow tied to my bottom for good measure. I plan for the future. Don't get me wrong. I dream of things both big and small. I am a writer. I weave the impossible every day. What I try very hard not to do is allow myself to become so focused on tomorrow that I miss the beauty each day brings. The simple little miracles that uplift the heart and keep you from being eaten with regret if and when tragedy strikes.

No, I didn't attend a self-help seminar to help me reach this moment of clarity, and I didn't gain any wisdom from staying at a Holiday Inn Express. I learned the importance of living each day to its fullest and taking each day as it comes by living my life with my dog, Peanut Pumpkin Pie.

Peanut is a nutball...my silly billie girl. She gives me more reasons to laugh in a single day than anything else. She is my happy place, and I have written about her many times, to the joy and perhaps annoyance of others. I have shared her adventures, her antics, her wisdoms and her copious photos. What I have not shared...what has remained my private struggle...has been the many times I have faced losing my precious little girl.

I have always known my time with Peanut would be too short. Dogs don't live as long as people. We are only gifted with their unconditional love for a short time, but I had always planned on it being at least 15 years of bliss. That was my minimum. The first time I was faced with the possibility of losing her because of her health, Peanut was 3, and I was still a wreck for weeks after she pulled through. She was up and playing with her toys; I was balling my eyes out about how unfair life was. The second episode wasn't much different. She was fine, living each day as a new day while I was looking into the dark, unknown wondering when the terrible day was going to come along and destroy my happiness forever.

Then, it was my turn to scare my family with illness. That is when I discovered what it meant to take one day at a time. I won't go into the details of my illness. It really doesn't matter. It was long. It sucked. It required surgery. That sucked. I was out of work for two months recovering. All the while, my Peanut was there by my side. Each day was a new glorious day for her. It didn't matter what tomorrow brought. Today was the best day. Mommy was home. I wasn't leaving. That was all that mattered for her today.

Peanut knew I was sick; catastrophically sick. When she brought me toys, it wasn't so we could play some rowdy game of tug-o-war or "it's gettin' me". It was so I could rest the toy in my hand, and she could groom it, because somehow she knew that was all I could handle. My recovery was hard, but Peanut helped me get through it one day at a time, without dreading the next day. The next day didn't matter. All I needed was to get through the day I was in.

Peanut and I got through my illness together. We have gotten through a great many things one day at a time since those days. I have never forgotten the lesson she taught me.

The last time Peanut got sick, I was faced with the possibility of her dying. Her liver and gall bladder were damaged by toxins in a high end dogfood, and we didn't know if her little body would pull through. I spent every penny I had to save her and then some, wracking up a massive bill with her vet. We did everything modern veterinary medicine offered as a solution. All we could do once the medicines were given and action was taken was wait and pray. I had a choice. I could either fall to pieces and miss whatever time I had left with her, or I could take it one day at a time and relish each moment Peanut and I had together. I chose the later of the two choices.

Peanut wasn't well enough to play, but I wanted her to have as much interaction with me as I could give her, so I carried her everywhere. I sang songs to her; songs I had made up over the years that had her name in it. I brushed her. I rubbed her ears. I caressed her. I did all of the things I could think of to make her feel the full measure of my love for her. I took one day at a time, and I made sure each day was as full as I could make it. I endeavored as much as was humanly possible to lay down the worries of tomorrow, and I just took one day at a time. Peanut and I are still taking one day at a time.

Life has bopped me in the face so many times since I learned Peanut's valuable lesson. It feels sometimes like life is challenging my ability to just take it one day at a time. Some days it is easier than others, and there are those moments when I find myself reverting to those old habits of plotting my moves far into the future. Then little Peanut comes along with a toy or a scrunchie or a happy sock, begging me to remember the joy in the day that God has given me. I look at her smiling little face I find so utterly irresistible, and I lay my strategizing down once again. I never regret the surrender; at least I haven't so far. It has gotten me through too many other challenges that life has thrown my way.

Leave it to a dog to teach mankind what true happiness is all about.

If you enjoyed this blog post, don't forget to "Join this site!" on the right of the page. Also, check out The Case of Jack the Nipper Book 1 in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee, available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The Case of the Wayward Fae, Book 2 in the series, is coming soon.

What is Written In the Stars

For millennium, mankind has looked to the stars for answers. We have sought guidance for our future and validation for our decisions going back as far as our written records can capture. It is an age old habit. Even in this modern era of iphones, tablets, social media, and instant communication, we still look to the stars to validate our worth, and we use the same stars to validate the worth of others. If you don't believe me, go to the nearest big name online store, and see if the stars don't tell you something.

As a writer, I know the stars have value. I am not talking about horoscopes and fortunetelling. I am talking about those wonderful star reviews that are attached to every published work. Every writer who puts their work out on the market watches those stars as if their very life depended upon them. In some small way, it does. The life of their work depends upon those stars. Poor reviews can break an author, just as much as great reviews can make them. Every author hopes for 5 star reviews. We shout to the world when they come in. We are slightly less enthusiastic when the number reduces to 4. We are delightfully silent when the number of stars falls to 3 or less. To most authors such lackluster reviews are hardly worth mentioning. In fact, many believe they should be hidden in some dark corner of the world where no one can see their dim light. But I say, there may be something written in those stars that is worth our notice.

Back during the gold rush, everyone was looking for the giant hunk of gold that would make them instantly rich. Few people paid much attention to the tiny flakes of gold that drifted by on the currents of the rivers and streams where they panned. Those flakes and specks were hardly worth mentioning. They were hardly worth the effort to chase after them. After all, what could they possibly be worth?

The industrious few who had the gumption to sift through the muck for the gold dust and gold flakes others ignored or rejected were able to make a comfortable living for themselves. They weren't afraid to accept a less than perfect outcome, and they didn't give up. They may not have "struck it rich", but they did well for themselves.

I still remember the first time I got a 4 star review. When I read what was written by the person giving the review, their praises were so glowing, it made me wonder why not 5 stars? Then I decided to see what was written in those stars. I looked at the other reviews the person wrote. What I saw surprised me.

The ratings this person gave were very dim elsewhere. 2 and 3 stars were the most this person ever granted. I received the highest rating for any book or product. Those 4 stars were a precious gift....the highest compliment that reviewer could bestow. I felt the full measure of that honor as I once again poured over the words that were written about my book. It didn't matter how many stars were there...it was what was written in the stars that counted. I was humbled. I stopped counting the stars and started reading their message from then on.

Later on, after my first 4 star experience, I was searching for a book on a particular topic. Research for another novel. I found a book that seemed to have exactly what I was looking for, but it only had a single review. It was a 1 star review. I had learned my lesson, and sought what was written in the stars. As it turns out, the reviewer loved the book! They had accidentally hit one star instead of 5, and the system would not allow the person to change it. They wrote the most glowing review. Had I not looked beyond the number of the stars to the message behind them, I never would have seen what I needed to see. I wound up buying the book, and I celebrated that decision when I read it.

I have received several 4 star reviews for my first novel, and so far, that is the lowest I have received. I do not expect however to remain unscathed by the disgruntled reader who does not like what I have written. If I have learned nothing else in life, I have discovered you cannot please the world, and in a day and age of social media, the world has the right and the empowerment to make their opinions known. The best thing I can do is receive it graciously.

I have grown to celebrate each review for the gift that it is. Evidence of one more reader who took the time to sit through my work; whether they liked it or not. Whether they could follow the language of my novels or not. The fact that they made it to the end of the book is a joy in and of itself. They finished it. They didn't throw it away when they reached page 10. There is something to be said in the completion of a book.

I welcome the stars in all their number. Even a single star sheds light on the world. Never forget that as children, we wished upon the first star of the evening. We weren't afraid of the solitary star, shining all alone in the sky. We shouldn't be afraid of it now. It has so much to tell us.

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Rediscover the joy of reading with The Case of Jack the Nipper available on Amazon or Barnes & Noble. The Case of the Wayward Fae is coming soon!

When Love Breaks Your Heart ~ Saying Goodbye To My True Sir Happy Heart

There is a saying that behind every myth or legend is a grain of truth; no matter how small the grain may be. The same may be said for every story conceived by the heart of man. Somewhere between the layers of fiction and fantasy.....amid the fanciful scenery and unknown realms.....wrapped inside the quirky habits and eccentricities of the characters that draw the reader ever deeper into the story they enjoy lays some truth about the writer's heart. Whether it be a writer's love of the history so artfully woven into a historical novel or a striking resemblance of a villain to a writer's own real-life nemesis, reading an author's stories will tell you something about them, no matter how insignificant the revelation may be.

To read The Chronicles of Mister Marmee will reveal much about me and my heart, for it is a tribute to one of the greatest love stories of my life. It is a love story that will forever shape and influence me no matter where my life may lead me. It is a love I cannot and will not ever forget. On Tuesday, February 19, 2013, the real Sir Happy Heart - the inspiration for the Sir Happy Heart in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee series - died. He would have been 15 years old February 22.

Sir Happy Heart, or Happydog as we were prone to call him, was a miniature black and tan dachshund. He was a small dog - about 15 pounds - but there was nothing small about this bighearted little boy. In so many ways, he was a giant even among giants.

Trying to capture the essence of my Happydog in words is like trying to capture the magnificence of the universe with a single photograph. It is a task which is impossible to accomplish because the tools are inadequate for the task. Oh certainly, he was as much a down-to-earth dog as the next spectacular canine companion, but there was something about Happydog that made him different. It was his spirit, and anyone who ever had the privilege to meet this little dog felt it as clearly as one feels the sunlight on their skin on a warm, summer day.

Happydog survived demodectic mange, 2 serious back surgeries (within a month of each other), and a host of other illnesses that would have put any other dog down. We jokingly called him our million dollar dog because we spent every penny we had and maxed out every credit card to save him each and every time. Had he been any other dog, he would have succumbed to one or all of these physical battles, but Happydog was a fighter that wouldn't give up, so we didn't either. And he pulled through, every time. I thought he would live forever. He marveled his vets and the specialist who worked with him. He humbled them when they said he might never walk again and he did within hours of the surgery, but that was just the way my little miracle boy was. His spirit wouldn't let him give up. He kept fighting, right up to the very end.

Happydog wasn't just a fighter. He was a soul mate, and not just to me but to each member in my family. Happydog was my momma's dog, but I guarantee if you were to ask anyone in the house who his favorite was, they would whisper behind their hand (or paw), "It's me!" He just had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in his world when he was with you. When I had my tonsils removed and had an arterial bleed.....twice....Happydog lay with me and never left my side. For six weeks, he lay on the couch with me watching and waiting for me to get better. In 2011, when I ended up in the ER where doctors found massive tumors in my abdomen, and we feared it was cancer, after the surgery and for two months during my long recovery, Happydog lay in bed with me watching and waiting for me to get better.

It was just his way to always be there, like my beautiful black and tan guardian angel. When I was in school, he did homework with me and when it was time for a break, we played. Is it any wonder that such a glorious heart would become the breath of inspiration for The Chronicles of Mister Marmee? Oh yes, I know, Mister Marmee is a cat who tells the tales of his adventures with his beloved friend Sir Happy Heart. But if you listen carefully, as you read the words of the story, you will begin to hear the melody of the heart of my boy in the tenderness and charming refrain of Mister Marmee as well. For I can no sooner separate the voice of my boy from my two favorite characters than I can remove the love I have for him from my heart. He is everywhere within the pages of my books.

Through every word of the Chronicles of Mister Marmee ~ The Case of Jack the Nipper and through most of the first draft of the Case of the Wayward Fae, my own Sir Happy Heart lay with my little girl Peanut Pumpkin Pie and watched me write his adventures.

Now that my Happydog is gone, there is a void in my spirit that defies description. I did not know I could feel such pain as this. I know in part it is magnified by the loss of my beautiful Jessie Bess in November of last year, just three short months ago. He was another glorious dog who left me way too soon. For Happydog, there is a special sense of emptiness for he gave life to the stories I love to write so much. For a time, I feared his voice would be silent forever, buried beneath a grief I could not overcome. This weekend however, I dared to try...to face what I feared the most.....the unbearable silence of my boy's stories. I am still working on the ending of the Case of the Wayward Fae, and I need to finish it for Happydog. I need more than anything for his story to continue. For it to end would be like losing my Happydog all over again. The most miraculous thing happened as I once again looked upon the written words that represented in some small measure the spirit of my boy......his voice once again came alive in my head.

I may have lost the precious Happydog that brought such joy everyday to me, but I still can celebrate and share the spirit that gave him life. Sir Happy Heart.....my Sir Happy Heart.....will live on in the pages of each new novel in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee series. It is the greatest testament to his love for me and the greatest way I can honor him for 15 years of selfless love and devotion. I know one day I will see my boy again if God deems me worthy to run among the angels, for surely that is where my Happydog is. He was an angel come to earth for a time who has returned back to heaven. Run free my little love. I will miss you, always.

Chipping Away At the Fiscal Cliff One Book At a Time

The Fiscal Cliff. It is a term we have all heard a million times before. It is the proverbial dead horse that has been beaten and ground into the mud so many times, there is little left to look upon but a greasy smear. I certainly have grown weary of the debates and the raucousness associated with those two little words. I had pretty much decided to move on with my life and ignore the Fiscal Cliff - that is until I found myself pushed over its edge. 

I got my first paycheck from my day job for 2013 the other day, and I saw in bright, undeniable terms just how real the Fiscal Cliff was to me and how real it would be to millions of Americans across this great country of ours. Frankly, it hurt me in the pocket book. My check was smaller.....much smaller. I discovered to my horror I was bringing home less money than I did when I started my job some 5 years ago. I found myself scrambling to redistribute money I had already budgeted out for bills, groceries, and, yes, the occasional moment of entertainment with a now more anemic pot of money, just to get me through another two weeks before my next anorexic paycheck was direct deposited, so I could start the process all over again.

I resented this process and the shock my sudden fiscal misfortune caused, but it got me thinking. As I worked through the devastating effects of the Fiscal Cliff reality on my life, I knew there would be others who were battling with the same predicaments I was, and they would be asking the same question I found myself asking as I looked through my list of wants and needs, determining what I could actually afford. What expendable item should I cut from my budget first? I knew the answer before I even asked the question. Entertainment items would be the first thing to go. The fun things are usually what suffer in times of financial crisis. The more expensive the fun thing is, the more likely it is to be cut from the list.

It is a shame when you think about it. The fun things suffer when hardship comes. In hardship, aren't we most in need of something to distract us and take our minds off of the difficulties we face, even if it is for just a brief moment? As I thought about this conundrum of finances versus entertainment needs, I thought about my writing and my first novel. I want more than anything to make a living doing what I love to do. In order to do that, I have to have an audience for my first novel. If I have an audience for my first novel, as I work diligently on my second novel, it will create (hopefully) an automatic readership for it. The key to this happening is for people to buy the first book and fall in love with what they read. If the country is locked in a financial crisis where most families are faced with the same dilemma of a limited budget, the likelihood of my first novel being included as part of that budget dwindles.

The thought was pretty disheartening at first; this idea of my potential success as a writer being affected by circumstances in Washington that were out of my control. Then it hit me. I may not be able to control what happens in Washington or even what choices people make in regards to what stays on the budgetary list and what does not, but I can make my first novel more affordable and more accessible to the average reader on a budget. And that is exactly what I have done. I have permanently lowered the price of The Chronicles of Mister Marmee ~ The Case of Jack the Nipper eBook from $4.99 to $2.99.

When I was a kid growing up, we didn't have a lot of money. In fact there were most weeks where we spent the last few days before payday on a wing and a prayer. I babysat, did mail in rebates (when they were still offered in the coupon section), collected aluminum cans.....you name it.....just to bring in a little extra money to help my family make ends meet. I never thought of us as poor. I just knew we were cash deficient. My one big treat every now and again was a trip to the used book store that was down the road from our house. It was back in the day when a new paperback book was under $3. This bookstore sold used books for half off the cover price, and I could usually afford to spend $3 every other week or so. I would scour the shelves for my hidden treasures and would carefully count out the change to the man who owned the store when I found exactly what I was looking for. Somehow it always came out just right. It never went over the $3 I carried in my pocket. There was always some 'special deal' that kept me from having to part with one of my treasures and put it back on the shelf with the hope it would still be there the next time I came to call.

I have often thought back on that time and the used bookstore I loved so much. I believe in my heart of hearts the owner knew my financial situation and always managed to find a way to work out the price of my treasures so I could afford to have some distraction in my day to day life. He knew I needed to have those worlds to lose myself in. Those wondrous worlds found only in the pages of my beloved books. I don't think he ever made much money off of me, but I think he gained a lot more from the experience than could ever be deposited in the bank.

In my small way, just like the man at my favorite used bookstore, I am taking a stand for my readers. It is a small gesture I know. It won't make much of a dent on the Fiscal Cliff, and it won't change the reality that so many families will be facing throughout this next year, but it is a chip nonetheless. A single chip that in its smallness, weakens and marrs the face of what had once been a seemingly impervious and unmarred cliff face. And who knows.....perhaps my small act will inspire others to chip away at the cliff as well, remembering always that we rely upon each other to get through this life in one piece. If enough chips are made in the cliff, perhaps it will crumble, and we will discover that together, we can weather the worst. Perhaps we will be scraped and bruised but never overcome, as long as we chip away at these cliffs together.

I know......it sounds like a tall order for a small chip, but it has to start somewhere. Someone has to strike the first blow, and today, my hammer swung. Perhaps tomorrow, you will have the courage to pick your hammer up and see where it lands.

The Chronicles of Mister Marmee ~ The Case of Jack the Nipper can be purchased for $2.99 from the following retailers:

Amazon
Apple iTunes
Kobo
Smashwords (all formats)

Pricing will be reflected at other retailers (Barnes and Noble, Diesel, Inktera, etc.) over the next few weeks as the distribution lines are updated.

The Next Big Thing...Blog Hopping With H.L. Stephens

Hello friends! Today is a bit of an experiment for me so bear with me as I muddle my way through it. I was graciously invited to be part of THE NEXT BIG THING blog hop by Vicki Taylor, a fellow novelist and all around generous soul, who coordinated all of this so the rest of us could share our newest projects with the rest of you. Here is how Vicki describes the purpose of the blog hop: 

“THE NEXT BIG THING” is designed to raise awareness of our work, or work in progress. We do that by answering ten questions about it. We graciously thank the person who nominated us, and tag four to six other authors whose work could very well be THE NEXT BIG THING.

So having made the introductions, here we go:
 

What is the working title of your next book?

The Chronicles of Mister Marmee ~ The Case of the Wayward Fae
Book 2 in the Chronicles of Mister Marmee Series

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The idea of the Wayward Fae popped into my head one day when I was showering. (For some reason, I get a LOT of ideas when I shower. Some people sing in the shower; I apparently write. Go figure.) There is a story from my mother’s childhood I have always loved. She was a precocious little girl and extremely bright which is reflected in the events of this particular story. I had been reading quite a bit about fairy lore; more specifically about the historic references to ‘encounters’ with fairies and the like. I started thinking about the story of my mother and about the things I had read involving these encounters. I suddenly had this idea begin to weave itself in my mind, and within a short period of time, the Case of the Wayward Fae took shape. It was rough but that is how it came to be.

What genre does your book fall under?

The Chronicles of Mister Marmee series falls into the crime/mystery genre but with an unconventional twist. It is set in Victorian Era London and in some ways has a Holmesian vibe, but toss out what you know or think you know about this writing style. I like to break the rules a bit.

As far as age group, I don't write with a specific age group in mind. I view my audience as ageless, if that makes sense. I would hate to tell a child in middle school they couldn't handle Pride and Prejudice or an adult they aren't allowed to enjoy Harry Potter. I think each person can decide for themselves whether my novel is something they would enjoy.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Although I had not contemplated it before this blog hop, I will take a stab at casting the lead characters ~

Mister Marmee: (voice) Sir Derek Jacobi
Sir Happy Heart: (voice) Orlando Bloom
Lady Jasmine: (voice) Kate Blanchett
Doctor Stephen Hanover: Colin Firth
Charles Hurst: Jude Law
Amelia Hurst: Mia Wasikowska
Inspector Hyrum Farley: Chris Hemsworth

 

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Upon retreating to the country for a much needed holiday, Mister Marmee and Sir Happy Heart’s investigative skills are pushed to the absolute limits when a series of fanciful fairy encounters are complicated by two suspicious accidental deaths, two attempted murders, an arson, and the disappearance of a young girl who no one knows is missing.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The search is currently underway for appropriate representation for this work.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Mister Marmee has been an old friend of my imagination for many years now. My first novel in this series, ‘The Case of Jack the Nipper’, was an act of love which took the better part of six years to complete from start to finish (including editing and release). I was going to school full time and working so I crammed in what I could when I could. The second novel is much the same. I will note it is still a work in progress, but I got the idea for the second book two years ago while I was still neck deep in the first one. I guess if you pushed together all of the hours I have written on the second book over the last two years and viewed it as if I were writing it on a full time basis, it has taken me a few months to get where I am in the manuscript.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I honestly don’t know of any books that are like mine, although I have been told there are mystery books with cats in them. From what I understand, mine is a unique concept, but The Art of Racing In the Rain by Garth Stein is a book that has the similarity of being told from an animal's perspective.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

If a picture says a thousand words, then, here are four pictures that speak to the amazing little boy who is my Sir Happy Heart. Fifteen years ago this February, we brought this amazing little boy home, and he has taught me so much about the spirit, ingenuity, loyalty, and love these little creatures have. My Sir Happy (or Happydog as we call him) has gotten me through some of the best and worst times in my life. He has been a faithful friend and as true to me as any person I have ever known. There is no greater inspiration I could have for the Sir Happy Heart in my story. Mister Marmee in truth was the perfect compliment to my little boy. I never planned on writing a novel really but I wanted something that would be a lasting testament to the amazing individual Happydog has always been. I wanted to honor him for his love and friendship, and so I started to write the story of a dashing young dachshund who could solve any puzzle and sniff out any clue; a perfect reflection of my little boy.

 

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

The Case of the Wayward Fae is more fast paced and action packed than The Case of Jack the Nipper was in many respects. The main characters are well established, and so I was able to do more with them, pushing them to greater depths in this novel than I could in the first novel. There are moments which will leave you reeling from unanticipated twists and turns, yet I promise you, every time, you will find yourself coming back to discover what happens next. This manuscript has been thrilling to write, and I believe it will be equally thrilling to read.....or so says my muse Happydog.

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