If you enjoyed meeting the Hinton Family in A Heart Made For Love, you won’t want to miss A Man With A Pure Heart! Samuel Hinton’s story comes to life on May 3rd, 2017.
Samuel Hinton learned at the tender age of fifteen just how violent some men could be. But now, in 1910, as he investigates the murder of a schoolteacher, even he is shocked by the brutality.
Kathleen Campbell travels to rural Florida to seek justice for her sister’s death. What she finds is an instant and unexpected attraction to the handsome Investigator who swears he will find the killer.
As another murder fills Samuel with a sense of urgency, he struggles with the depth of his feelings for Kathleen, the conflict of knowing he intends to kill the man he seeks, and how that killing will clash with his own Christian beliefs.
How fine is the line between justice and revenge? After all, when the one you love is in danger, is there really a difference between right and wrong?
Stay tuned for up-dates and give-aways!
P.S. Many heartfelt thanks to all who left reviews on Amazon for A Heart Made For Love!
If you think writing a book is easy, you’ve never tried. Or, if it is easy for you, than be grateful, very grateful!
I have been struggling for two months. Not one word written. I have two stories started, one with 10,000 words and one with 3,000 words, but I could NOT add to either. My poor husband has been a rock, putting up with moodiness, tears, and a few tantrums. And then today, he unwittingly lit the match that set fire to the whole dry period.
He is the controller of the remote in our house. Period. Mostly because I have never taken the time to learn how to work the darn thing. Anyway, he is the one who peruses the choices available to us and, for the most part, picks what movies we will watch. Today he chose one that both of us had chosen to pass over several times, for whatever reason. (He’s a big believer in “things happen for a reason”, and feels there was divine intervention in today’s choice, and who am I to argue?).
Today we watched “Finding Forrester”, with Sean Connery. There was one line in the whole movie that smacked both of us in the face. Sean Connery, as Forrester, asks a simple question.
“Why are the words we write for ourselves so much better than the ones we write for others?”
BOOM! We looked at each other and I burst into tears. I have been trying to write for others. Publishers, editors, possible future readers, etc. Not that any of those are to blame for my drought, the blame is all mine. I started thinking about my “future” career and stopped thinking about the things close to my heart. The things I know. The things that evoke happiness and pain, curiosity and adventure, satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment in my heart.
I was truly afraid that there would be no book number three for me. I mean truly afraid, as in I have not been able to sleep, eating too many carbs for comfort, feeling damn sorry for myself, afraid!
But just sitting here looking at the words as they appear on my screen tells me it is going to be okay. I am a writer, and I will have book number three, and Lord willing four, and five, and twenty!
So. If you’ve ever thought you might want to write a book, go on, try it. Hopefully it will give you the same sense of joy and accomplishment I have felt, and will continue to feel for many years to come, Lord willing. But be prepared for mountains of self-doubt to climb, and rivers of tears to cross, because being a writer exposes your inner self to the world, and that can be very painful. But the joy of holding that finished product in your hand is indescribable. Or reading a review on Amazon and knowing that your story, that book that you wrote, has touched another person’s heart.
Anyway, I’m a story teller. I am a writer, so I will write.
For all of you who have been following the “birth” of A Heart Made For Love, WE MADE IT! It is now available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and The Wild Rose Press, in both e-book and paperback.
And I cannot thank folks enough. We have some great reviews on Amazon, and several have told me they cannot wait for Samuel’s story in A Man With A Pure Heart. You will find the first chapter of his story at the back of Mae’s book. Those of you who loved the first chapter will be glad to hear that A Man With A Pure Heart is now in the hands of my wonderful Editor and I received the contract for it on September 9th. So stay tuned for news on the progress. Thanks again!
BIG NEWS!! Now available for pre-order in Kindle, paperback will be available soon! http://amzn.to/29O5Teb release date is 08/24/16 It’s the story of a young woman’s life, shattered by an act of violence, then reshaped by an inspired desire to help others in the same situation
I am so happy to share the story of Mae Hinton. I hope every reader will come to love and admire her, just as I did.
I want to share some of the excitement that I’m feeling with all my friends. I am waiting on the final galley of a “Heart Made For Love” to come in. My wonderful, patient, Editor advised she would get it to me as soon as possible. Once I have signed off on the last checking of the manuscript, it will be submitted for a release date.
But in the meantime, I have received my beautiful book cover from the great Debbie Taylor.
This cover is such a perfect match that I can look at this photo and actually hear Edward speak to Mae!
“I will be leaving Wednesday, Mae.” Edward felt the shudder pass through her. “But the important thing to remember is, I will be back. I had not given a lot of consideration to where I would begin my practice once my commitment was filled, but now I know. I will be coming home. The question is…what will I be coming home to?”
Yes, I can just hear Edward! And I can’t wait until you all have the chance to read about their love!
Stay tuned…it’s coming soon!
I am giddy with excitement. The Wild Rose Press has accepted my manuscript, “A Heart Made For Love”.
This story is a reflection of my work history of forty years. Whew! I forget sometimes just how old I am. But to be fair, I started my working days at the age of seventeen. It was the month of June, I had just graduated high school, and you had to be eighteen to apply for the job. I lied. My birthday was in August, and I lived in fear for two months that I would be caught and fired.
That was the beginning of an eighteen year career in the fashion industry. For nine years I worked on a high speed sewing machine, churning out high end dresses that were sold in New York. We created items for labels like Manhattan Dress, Schrader Sport, and Lord & Taylor’s.
After nine years, my supervisor submitted my name for a new position being created. I became the assistant to the Production Manager. I began to work with designers and suppliers from New York to Miami, and I loved every minute of my job. I got to see the “it” fashions before they even hit the runways. I soaked up the color and textures everyday.
Near the end of the eighteen year run, it became apparent that the garment industry was in decline in the United States. We were one of the last large manufacturers located in Central Florida. I saw the handwriting on the wall, and decided to change professions. (the plant closed a year later)
Talk about a change in profession, I went to work in Law Enforcement. I spent almost a year in dispatch, then moved up to Crime Scene Investigator. It was a civilian position, meaning I was not in direct danger, which was okay with me. I spent the rest of my twenty years looking at the bleak side of humanity. The only colors I could soak up were blood-red, and black and blue bruises. I learned more about domestic violence than the average citizen can imagine.
My husband sat me down one day. He said, “This job is killing you, slowly, and you need to get out.” I realized he was absolutely correct. So I got out.
It took me a year to actually “see” the average world again. He bought me a camera and I began to photograph living things. I began to thirst for color again. I knew how to sew, but I needed a challenge.
So I became a milliner. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s a woman could make a living creating beautiful feminine gowns and matching hats. After creating, and photographing lovely hats, I decided to write about them.
I sat down one day, and the next thing I knew, a story was pouring out of me. The story of a young woman who was sexually assaulted by strangers. A story of triumph over fear, of perseverance and faith; with a little murder and revenge thrown in. And of course, a milliner.
It is a story for all women, because if you’ve never been personally abused, you know a woman or child, who has. And if you know one who has survived, and managed to get past it, you know what an emotional battle she fought. Such a story is “A Heart Made For Love”.
Please go to my website and sign up for the newsletter. There will be give aways for the Cover Reveal and you don’t want to miss your chance. In the meantime, enjoy the photos of some of the hats I’ve made.
Yes, we are approaching that crazy, hectic, warm and fuzzy, sometimes sad, time of year.
We take on SO many things, that often we don’t really enjoy what should be a time of peaceful reflection. Many of us are involved in school projects with our kids. Some of us are entangled in a writing frenzy, better known as NANOWRIMO.
Whatever your ‘extra’ responsibilities, you should take time for your inner joy. Whether it’s reading, shopping, restful walks in nature, or just visiting with loved ones, try to steal a few quiet moments for you. You are probably a care-giver for someone; a help-meet for your husband, a guardian to a child, or a dependable employee. In either case, if you don’t take care of yourself, you will not be able to do well for others.
Okay, now that I’ve done my best to ‘mother’ everyone, I’ll share a little something that brings me inner joy. It is an excerpt from the sequel to A Heart Made For Love. It is a ROUGH draft, so please be kind if you leave a comment, and I hope you do!
She untied the boat and continued rowing north, keeping close to the eastern shore. She needed a spot clear enough to pull the canoe in and hide it. She had rowed another half hour and her bladder was threatening to burst, when she smelled smoke. She looked at the moss and could tell the wind was coming out of the east. She must be fairly close to a camp or a house. Maybe someone who could help her find her way to Tallahassee. Another five minutes of rowing and she found an opening in the brush along the banks. She nosed the canoe in till it drug bottom then stepped out into the water. She tried not to break down the underbrush as she brought it up onto the bank. She managed to drag and carry it about twenty feet into the trees before she stopped to pee.
She walked back to the waters edge, cupped up a handful and drank.
“Alright, now we head inland and look for help.” She rubbed her belly, then place her bundle under one arm, and the lantern and knife in the other hand. She had fought her way through about a hundred yards of growth, when she came upon a narrow path.
“Well, what do you think?” Talking to the child in her belly had become second nature now. “It’s probably an animal trail, but at least it’s level. Alright then, it’s agreed, we’ll stay on the track.”
She finally stopped to lean against a tree and catch her breath. She looked up at the treetops. The wind had changed and was coming out of the north. At least, she thought it was north. The sun was up full now and she had been trying to keep it right on her face as she walked, and besides, she couldn’t smell the smoke any longer. She was about to step away from the tree when she heard something moving behind her. She froze. No. It couldn’t be him. No. There was no way he could have found her. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it might burst. She turned and took off down the trail like a wild deer.
She was making so much noise she couldn’t tell if there was anyone behind, but she kept running. She was drenched in sweat, and her breath was becoming labored, when she suddenly burst through the trees into a large, wide field. Across the field, she saw a small cabin with a thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney. She ran a few more feet, when she heard a grunt. She looked over her shoulder and her blood froze in her body. A bear. A large bear, was lumbering out of the trees.
The woman took off running toward the cabin again. She didn’t think she had a good breath left in her, but managed a scream that rent the morning air. She could see a small figure outside the cabin now, but her eyes were on fire from the sweat running down her face, and she couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. She had long since dropped her bundle and the lantern, but she kept a death grip on the butcher knife as she ran. Her breath was coming in short bursts of flame, and her legs had begun to quiver. She was only fifty yards or so from the cabin when the chain came untied from her waist and fell to the ground. Her right foot came down on it and her left ankle rolled. She was face down in the dirt, before the pain could even register in her fear-fogged brain. What little air she had left in her whooshed out, as her chest slammed into the ground. Her blood was pounding so hard she could not hear, but she could feel the rhythm of the bears gait in the ground beneath her face. She barely had time to think of dying when there was an explosion near her, followed closely by a second one, and a pained roar from the bear. A third explosion was followed by the earthshaking thud of the bear’s dead weight hitting the ground.
The woman managed to raise her head and look over her shoulder. She could see the bear not twenty feet from her. She turned her head back towards the cabin and saw two bare, black feet. She followed those feet upwards and saw a wizened little woman with white wooly hair. She was holding a gun that was almost as long, as she was tall.
“Lawd a-mercy! Child, you know how close you come to meetin’ yo maker?” The old woman lowered the gun to ground and leaned on it.
“That’s just too much ruckus before an ole lady done had her breakfast.” She now stood over the girl on the ground. “Oh, child, yo ankle ain’t lookin’ none too good. You hurtin’ anywhere’s else? Did that animal get you? And what you doin’ with a chain hooked to your leg, anyhow?”
I think maybe this is what my character may have seen as she paddled up the river.
I am not a big Halloween fan, but I do have a few good memories from my childhood that I bring out and relish occasionally. Since this is October, the designated month for ghosts, and goblins, and such, I thought I would share a few with you.
My mother died when I was ten years old, therefore, my childhood per se was cut a little short. We lived in Cleveland, Ohio, at the time, so you could expect cold weather, and sometimes snow, for Halloween festivities.
I remember she would drop a few of us girls at the corner, drive to the next block, then wait for us to make our giggling way down to the car. Afterwards, when our hands were frozen, our noses running, and our feet numb, she would take us for hot chocolate.
Those memories are a little vague; just generalities with no specific details. But there was this one fantasy that she and I shared that will always stay with me.
She worked at night, in a tool and die factory. We lived in an apartment, on the second floor of an old Victorian house. The head of my bed was against a small door, that probably led to the attic. One night, I got it into my young head that I heard something behind the door. Needless to say, I was not happy.
My mother was from Appalachia, had been raised in the mountains of West Virginia, and could spin a good yarn. So, she sat me down and told me that what I heard was the tiny little footsteps of the fairies that lived in the attic, and that she had asked them to watch over me at night, while I slept. She said that as long as I put out a snack for them, they would be very happy to do this.
There was a young black woman, who was studying to be a nurse, but came to stay with me at night. She would ride the bus to our place, then Mother would drive each of us to our school in the morning.
Each night she watched me pour a half glass of milk, place a cookie on a saucer, and put both on the dining table. And each morning the milk and cookie were gone. This was a ritual that continued for what seemed like years to my young mind, but was probably only a few months.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember what incredible circumstance could have caused me to forget my part of the ritual, but it came to a messy end one morning. My mother woke me by asking what in the world had happened in the kitchen. I jumped from bed and ran, only to find chaos. The dining table, and most of the floor, were covered in flour. There were shards scattered in the flour, from the broken glass and saucer.
I was horrified! I had forgotten to put out the offering for the fairies. I wept in heartbroken guilt. My mother pulled me onto her lap and soothed my tears with hugs. Then she told me that I would not hear the fairies anymore. That they had decided I was grown up enough that they no longer needed to watch over me at night. They had moved on to another little girl that needed them more.
This is one of the sweetest memories of my childhood. That my mother loved me enough to cater to my need to feel secure (not to mention her inner child). Only now, as an adult, do I understand the bond she was cementing with a little fantasy.
I went searching for a picture that depicted how I imagined my fairies to look; both adorable and mischievous. This one caught my fancy. Click to enlarge and enjoy the beauty.
Please feel free to share one of your favorite Halloween memories in the comments.
I’ve reached a point in my life where beauty has dropped to about a 5 on my scale of 1 to 10 most important things to worry over. This face and this body have been on display for 65 years this month. Well, not exactly on display, but visible to the world. Okay, the face anyway. And while it won’t be displayed in next months Glamour, it is mine and I have grown accustomed to it.
On the rare occasions that I want to “dress it up”, I will apply make-up, but I’m never quite sure of what is best for it, even after all these years. I don’t shop at the Estee Lauder counter. I’m more of a Walgreen’s or Wal-mart kind of girl, so it’s just me, walking up and down the aisle looking at all the different brands and trying to figure out which one would be best suited to my face.
So I was very happy to find a blog from the Cluttered Closet that gave a pretty good run-down on the numerous brands available to the “common” woman. Follow this link and see if it helps you in your search Cluttered Closet unless, of course, you DO shop at the Estee Lauder counter, in which case you have some lovely young thing to assist you in your decisions. Now if she would only assist with the cost!