Rachel's Launch of Morgan Media

Today's post is an especially proud moment for me. As many of you know, Rachel Morgan has done the cover designs for my novellas. Of course, neither of us realized at the time a comment I'd left on one of her blog posts (about South Africa, one of my favorite countries, and where Rachel lives) would blossom into such a fab working relationship. I think it began when I got my dream-like memories out of South Africa's Kruger National Park and bemoaned my fate that I was trying to figure out how to do something on a computer but couldn't because I was a computer dinosaur. Ha ha, LOL!

I wasn't looking for an answer. I hadn't a clue Rachel was a computer genius. (I later learned her university degree's in genetics. *gulps* That's tough stuff.) But back came an e-mail with simple (but not insulting) steps about how to solve my computer problem. You coulda knocked me over with a feather. Rachel had turned the complicated into something I could actually do on a computer. (If you're not a computer dinosaur this won't translate.) I was over the moon!

Anyway, one thing led to another and, I kid you not, within weeks Rachel was photographing a lit candle on her kitchen table when her mother walked in. This photo became the cover for "Remy Broussard's Christmas."

Actually, after brainstorming ideas for the cover, angels had won the day. All excited, I told hub. "Noooo," he said. "Not angels." (I know. I know. When you're on the two yard line, don't ask about kicking a field goal.) Come to find out, after Catholic schools all the way up, hub had had enough of angels. Something about being an angel in Sister Mary Catherine's school play and after school rehearsals when he wanted to be playing hockey. Guy stuff. (But he was right as the candle really worked.)

But Rachel understood. (Because she's very, very kind-hearted!) But we couldn't find a candle photo. So she took one. Then she had to work her magic on the computer so the flame wouldn't be blurry, like flames can be. But here's the real point: Rachel could've moved on, but she didn't. She stuck with me. As you can imagine, I'm grateful. As is my Marine Corps husband. Sempre Fi is a big deal in our household. We -- my soulmate and I -- really, really want Rachel's launch of Morgan Media to be a huge success.

But, okay, you say, there're a lot of computer geniuses out there. And, okay, you're probably right. But if you need help with the technical stuff that turns your hard work into reality, you need a computer genius who will work with you, something I can't overstate. Rachel's a successful author who knows the devil's in the e-pubbing details. And therein lies the key to what I think will zoom Morgan Media to the indie world's stratosphere: Rachel wants you to be happy. She's very sensitive to you, the person.

This includes budget friendly rates. If you're like me, you don't have a fortune to spend but want to step into the indie world with your best foot forward. I can tell you from experience that Morgan Media's rates are reasonable -- hmm, I think slang says it better: You get a lot of bang for your buck!

Morgan Media's launch blurb is below. If you've got a sec drop by and wish Rachel luck. Or send (virtual) flowers. Hey, you know the custom. (I sent yellow roses.) Don't be shy. Shower her with flowers from your spring garden. Spread the word about Morgan Media on Twitter and FB with each bouquet. Let's join hands with Rachel on this, her special day.

Morgan Media is a small business offering quality services to indie authors at affordable rates.

Message from Rachel Morgan, the founder of Morgan Media:

"I'm an indie author, and it's taken me many, many, MANY hours of work to figure out how to navigate every step from finished manuscript to published work. There's the ebook formatting and the print book formatting and the ebook cover design and the print book cover design. Then comes the marketing--of both yourself and your book--and for that you need blog tour buttons and blog headers and Facebook fan page cover images and artwork for bookmarks and button badges and postcards and whatever else you might want to give away as part of your book launch. All of this takes a spectacular amount of time that you probably don't have, especially if you're busy promoting one book and trying to write the next one. So why not get someone experienced to take care of most of these steps for you? That's what Morgan Media is for."

Find Morgan Media in the following places online: 

Website | Facebook | Twitter | DeviantArt | YouTube

a Rafflecopter giveaway


Cover Reveal: "Bayou Princess" -- I looove the cover Morgan Media did for my next novella (to be released in early September). Madeleine, one of my main characters, is growing up. Ahhh, nooo. It can't be!

And, wow, Southern Writers Magazine is hosting me today. My post, "A Dash of Dis and a Dash of Dat," can be found here. If you can, please drop by. Thanks! 

A Feline Conspiracy

Chester was a Siamese "watch kitty" who had a series of nightly patrols. When he recognized the "we're-going-to-bed" signals, he'd begin looking under beds and behind furniture. After my husband and I went to bed, he'd go into the kitchen, and, with a technique he'd devised, he'd open the lower kitchen cabinets to see if anyone were hiding inside.

Chester would sniff my breathing during the night. One night he screamed meows in my ear. When I awoke, I realized my blood pressure had fallen and reached for hub to get orange juice. But Chester had jumped over me and had awakened hub as I reached over.

Chester had figured out I have very low blood pressure that can sink like a brick. Through the years, various doctors have wanted to install a pace maker, then rejected the idea because my blood pressure could sink beyond recovery during the operation. So, wherever we live, the doc and I carefully monitor the situation. Exercise. Proper diet. Manage stress. (One reason I blog/comment when I can. I can only do so much, what with housework, cooking, and so on and have learned to balance my worlds, so to speak.)

Anyway, when the opportunity arose to go to Macedonia in 2003 for two years, we first took Chester and Chena to their vet to see if there were a reason why our 'kids' couldn't make the trip. They were getting along in years, and, to be very honest, if the 'kids' couldn't go, we wouldn't either. We had a responsibility to care for Chester and Chena properly. Period.

But the vet said they were both in great shape and didn't have any reservations about them making the trip. So off we went.

Both adapted well to their new environment in Skopje. Chester continued his nightly patrols. And Chena continued to sit on hub's lap when he watched sports on TV. She particularly liked basketball. Her head would move along as a player dribbled the ball down the court.

About a year and a half into our stay in Skopje, Chester developed stomach cancer. It was an aggressive cancer that had struck with a vicious speed no vet could stop. The vet said Chester was in pain and had to cross the Rainbow Bridge. Through sobs and sobs and buckets of tears, hub and I said our good-byes, then waited in the vet's reception room. Through the closed door I heard her call out, "Toj ne saka da odi." (He doesn't want to go.)

I translated for my husband as I flew into the room. Chester was on the table, his eyes toward the door. Hub kissed his forehead one last time. I kissed his forehead one last time.

Chester was seventeen years old. His passing was like losing a child. We took it hard, really hard.

Cremation wasn't possible in a Christian Orthodox country. Nor did pet cemeteries exist at that time. A friend's friend built a coffin for Chester. Another friend's father offered a peaceful spot near a tree overlooking a vineyard where Chester could be buried. With Macedonian and American friends around us, we had a little ceremony. As the ceremony ended, a small flock of white birds nearby took flight. Macedonians told us they'd never before seen that type of bird in their country.

Time passed. We returned to the States with Chena. (The same stomach cancer took her three years later, at age 21. Her passing was just as painful for us.)

One morning my Macedonian friend called.

A woman who lived in a one-room stone house further up the hill from where Chester rested had convinced the police either a bomb or an infant and not a cat was in Chester's grave. During a period when problems internal to Macedonia were coming under control, she especially feared it was a bomb and had stirred up emotions and fears among those in this rural environment to such a point the police decided to act.

According to my friend, police evacuated the area, then cordoned off the area with 20 or so police vehicles behind that yellow tape police everywhere use.

Wearing protective gear and using special equipment, they exhumed Chester's grave.

The police re-buried Chester, along with his can of favorite food, his favorite toy mouse, and the single roses people had brought to his little ceremony.

To this day, the woman living in the stone house insists the police lied, that there's either a bomb or an infant in Chester's grave. More than a few people believe her.

A Path in Time

First, a hearty congratulations to those of you who completed the A-Z Challenge! And if Life jumped in front of you and you couldn't complete the Challenge, that's okay. Pat yourself on the back for doing what you could. The sun still shines!

Actually, one entry would've been more than what Yours Truly made. I didn't enter the Challenge because hub and I have made the firm decision (we waffled last year for a variety of reasons) that we're moving from Virginia to North Carolina next summer.

Again, for a variety of reasons, the major pre-move organizational push must be now. What with other balls being juggled, April was a complicated month. But there's progress. Hub estimates we've donated about a thousand pounds of books, clothes, and STUFF (yipes, stuff!) to various organizations. The most difficult donation for him was the 16-speed bike he'd ridden in triathlons. But he's left that world to focus on marathons and has high hopes an old enough kid somewhere will get his bike and be inspired to ride on and on and enter competitions.

Anyway, the above accomplished (as much as can be for now) painters then entered so we could 'sign off' on a couple of rooms with vaulted ceilings. There's more to paint, but these were the toughest rooms to reign in.

Since we worked within a schedule (of sorts), hub got his work done. (He's self-employed and can manipulate his work schedule a bit.) I completed "Bayou Princess" pretty much on schedule to apply for a copyright. What with sequestration and all that jazz, there was a squeeze to submit early May at the latest for an August copyright for a September pub.

Looking ahead to September, I've got a question I hope someone can help me with: How does one create a 'path' on Amazon when one e-pubs?

For discussion purposes, suppose the book's a mystery that deals with stolen gold found in Antarctica. Beyond the generic 'history' category, how does one keep narrowing down beyond Amazon's selections to specifically hit Antarctica or some such realm of narrowed readership?

I've googled around and know that a lot of authors do this, and it sounds so easy when I read what they've done. But, ahem, I'm not kidding when I say I'm computer illiterate. How exactly (with baby steps, please) does one create this path? I'd be most grateful for any and all help and advice and thank you very kindly for taking the time to explain.

Boston Strong

My hub's a marathoner. He hasn't run one in a bit because he hasn't had the time to put in the long miles necessary to train. But, through the years, he's run about 30 marathons (and completed several triathlons) -- from the USMC Marathon in Washington, D. C. to the Honolulu, Hawaii Marathon to the Berlin, Germany Marathon, to the pre-Olympic marathon in Athens, Greece, to the Boston Marathon.

The Boston Marathon wasn't the last marathon he ran and he ran many in-between those mentioned above, but he thinks of the Boston Marathon as THE marathon. . . the marathon that seared his heart with pride of accomplishment.

Training was intense in order to make Boston's qualifying time as he was on the cusp of moving into another age group's time. I was the 'rabbit,' the one who drives the car so runners can focus on a point. Now, it's never entered my head to run a marathon (fast-walking suffices, thankyouverymuch), but as I learned a rabbit's responsibilities, a combo of driving, encouraging and kicking butt (in a nice way), I gained a deeper appreciation for the hard work that goes into running a marathon before the official first step.

Behind the scenes is an army of volunteers who've devoted long hours to planning and implementing the details that enable a runner to do his or her best.

The horrific bombings during the Boston Marathon hit our house hard -- very hard.

Hub graduated from Providence College in Rhode Island. Boston was a weekend hang-out.

Hub's a devoted member of the Red Sox Nation.

Through the years, I've seen Boston through my husband's eyes, a deeper experience than my first trip as a tourist. Tour guides point out, give a brief history of sites essential to our country's birth, and move on. That's fine. It's their job to complete the tour in a specified time. But to see those sites through the eyes of someone whose blood is one with the Charles River is a paused experience where one feels the history that touches who we are as a nation.

On the lighter side, if you haven't been to an Irish bar/pub in Boston, pull out your bucket list of things to do one day. You don't drink? That's fine. You're accepted for who you are.

Boston is more than a city with a downtown and suburbs or a major international hub or a cultural/historical/university center or a sports' magnet or a state's capital. More than any city I've ever been, Boston is a city of interlocking neighborhoods . . . Boston is a feeling -- from Sweet Caroline at a Red Sox baseball game . . . to the cop walking his/her beat and knowing the people and stopping to chat . . .   to the rhythm of all walks of life riding the subway together . . . to, well, the nooks and crannies that flavor Boston's personality, from the gritty to the manicured.

When the New York Yankees sang the Red Sox's signature song, Sweet Caroline, at one of their baseball games after the bombings, tears rolled down my husband's cheeks. I last saw him cry when those sweet children were murdered at Newtown. Before that horrific massacre -- when his parents died 20 years ago.

Although he's a military man, a combat-tested Marine with a chest full of ribbons and medals, my husband deplores this senseless violence our country's been experiencing. He doesn't think civilians should be caught-up in combat-like situations. During combat in Vietnam, he variously carried (and used) a pistol, M14 and M16 weapons (they could be either automatic or semi-automatic 'by simply moving a lever,' to quote my husband) and knows the full extent of what these weapons can inflict. His platoon carried their dead in body bags for ten days in Vietnam's jungle heat.

Like other Marines, my husband has mentored those who've gone off to war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Several died from IED explosions. Their photos are in what has come to be a scared room at The Basic School at Quantico, Virginia, with walls filled with the photos of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice.

War. It's a terrible thing.

Marathon. It's a beautiful thing.

My husband wept for those who died -- those who awoke in the morning, unlike those in a combat situation, not knowing this could be their last day on earth and lost their smiles, hopes, and dreams. He wept for the maimed and wounded and the steps once so easily taken that now had to be fought for, dreamed about, and hopefully taken -- but those steps and their lives will never be the same.

Tears fell through an emerging smile at how a community responded with determination and sacrifice, at how people worked together and cooperated, an amazing feat in a polarized era of petty bickering, nasty name-calling, gotcha politics and self-serving politicians better positioned on Mars.

He wept for the brave and dedicated first-responders, each a volunteer, in West, Texas, who lost their lives serving their neighbors and for a small town practically demolished by an explosion beyond words.

And I wept with him during those moments when the heart ached.

It was a tough week.

But we're a country that's 'Boston Strong,' and we'll move forward.

Big Papi got it right.

* * * * *
From the heart, I want to thank Michael Di Gesu (HERE) for showcasing my novella, "Rings of Trust," as the 'R' during the A-Z Challenge. Wow, his intro really rocked! Thank you! Michael had very graciously (for he's that kinda guy) asked earlier if he could do so. I was, of course, both flattered and humbled but missed the posting as, quite honestly, I put my blog and WIP on hold and hung out with my hub in front of the TV -- or worried about a friend's daughter who had crossed the Marathon's finish line about two minutes before the bomb explosion there. She wasn't physically hurt but was emotionally shaken and has gone into counseling to thwart a possible PTSD situation.

Once I catch up with a bit (ha!) of housework, I'll be back to dropping by your blogs for a cuppa tea. I thank you, really thank you, for your patience with me. Hugs! K.

A Little Box in Zanzibar

When the Kenyan Airways flight from Nairobi, Kenya, landed in Dar es Salam, the capital of Tanzania, I didn't know what to expect. Those few I knew who had visited Dar had described the city as 'sleepy' and then turned to talking about how they'd climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanazania's famed mountain and exotic attraction in the late 1980s tourists knew about but hadn't yet conquered. Nor had tourists swarmed to the Serengeti for photo safaris. Roads leading outside Dar turned into unpaved challenges.

So this trip focused on Zanzibar, the coastal 'spice' island where so many of David Livingston's 19th century explorations had begun and ended.

As warned, Dar turned out to be sleepy. Buildings were mostly baroque and representative of the country's colonial past or cinder-block utilitarian and representative of the Soviet Union's influence. Unlike Nairobi, few cars traversed the downtown's paved streets, and even fewer people were on sidewalks. Those who did were solemn-faced. Shopkeepers waited behind window displays with scant merchandise. Like many countries in Africa during this period, Tanzania struggled to establish a foothold, both politically and economically.

With a sense of relief, we boarded the hydrofoil for Zanzibar, the only passengers on this sleek new vessel. Once we'd cleared the mainland, a young lady emerged from the pilot's cabin and joined us. She and her husband, the pilot, were from South Africa and had gambled their futures Zanzibar would turn into a tourist destination their hydrofoil could service.

As it turned out, they were right. Dar es Salaam now bustles with activity and shines from travel magazines. Zanzibar has an international airport, an international film festival, and tucked-away resorts high-end tourists seek. Whenever I see an advertisement for either, I sometimes wonder if that couple survived the lean, in-between years. I hope so.

In the meantime, the Indian Ocean's fresh air rejuvenated spirits, and we enjoyed the ride. After docking, we wished the young couple well and made our way to a quaint house not far from Stone Town, the former capital of the Zanzibar Sultanate, where we'd secured reservations before leaving Nairobi.

But, as it turned out again, we were the only guests. With scant running water in the un-airconditioned room, we patted water on our faces, set up the mosquito net, then shut the windows. We'd have to return from Stone Town before the mosquitoes found a way in through the loose frame (and, to our surprise, would swarm the white netting until it practically turned black).

As we neared Stone Town, our eyes widened. It was as though we walked into National Geographic, as close to a surreal experience I've ever experienced. Not only was it the visual experience of children playing in the town's dusty square near the historic Old Fort or vendors selling corn roasting on portable stoves or vegetables for sale or women gossiping beneath gnarled trees -- much of this existed elsewhere in Africa as well.

No, it was a combination of all of this and the Indian Ocean dotted with dhows -- and, more -- it was the scent of cloves. . . everywhere . . . on people's skin and clothes like the finest perfume . . . dancing on every ocean breeze . . . resting in narrow passageways . . . everywhere.

We bought ears of roasted corn and sat beneath one of the trees -- very happy we were the only tourists -- and munched our corn. A middle-aged woman approached us. In her hands she held a box that was about four inches by six inches.

She had made the box entirely of cloves. When I opened the lid, it was as though every holiday treat ever baked wrapped around my senses and brightened every smile ever smiled.

She wanted to sell me the box. When I asked how much, she replied, "One thousand dollars."

Two other women joined us, each with boxes. Some good-natured bargaining followed. The price changed to $100,000.

Ahem, that's a lot of money.

Convinced they'd met me half-way, the ladies were disappointed when I didn't buy one of their boxes.

I was, too.

But through the years, the memory of how a simple spice floated on breezes has made me think upon occasion . . . as it did after the massacre in New Town . . . as it did after the bomb explosions in Boston . . . for there was a time when a certain innocence prevailed . . . when a day began without tears for a loved one or friend or a stranger's heavy heavy heart didn't slow steps . . . and the thought of what-might-be wasn't held prisoner by what-had-been . . . so, as if reading my thoughts, my husband, a marathoner and tri-athlete who ran Boston some years ago, asked, "What if go to Boston next year to watch the Marathon?"

"Sure," I said. "I'm in."

And we returned to the television and the horrific events in Boston. . . it's all so sad, so very sad . . . but a sense of resolution and support propels one forward.



(Note: This in the second in a series of Things That Happened Along the Way.)

Approaching Zanzibar by air.  (Wikipedia)

Stone Town (Wikipedia)

A Taste of Greece

I love Greek food, and, to be happily honest, it loves me.

Three years ago, hub and I rode the ferry from Venice, Italy, to Patras, Greece, picked up our rental car and embarked upon one of our greatest trips ever: three weeks of exploring Greece, the birthplace of Western civilization . . .

Parthenon (Wikipedia)

 and the home of some of the most delicious food in the world. . .

including Dolmadakia Yialandji--also called Dolmades--Stuffed Grape Leaves--and one of my absolute favorites. You can stuff the grape leaves with just about anything, but, for me, the simpler, the better--just a few seasonings with the rice mixture--and there's sheer bliss! (theshiksa.com)

And, so, I'm sharing with you Martha's recipe (with her permission). Martha's a Greek-American lady I met some years ago at a Christmas function. One taste of her Dolmades and I knew Santa Claus was for real. Oh, yum! Her recipe is very simple, but it works. Instead of being overstuffed with too many competing flavors, these Dolmades are bursting with flavor. And, I didn't have to adjust the salt much (always a personal choice).

Surprisingly, Dolmades aren't difficult to make and easily feed a crowd. After Martha's recipe, there's a YouTube clip that shows how to roll the leaves and then gives a lemon sauce recipe for dipping, if desired. The chef in the video has a different recipe than Martha's for more ideas. You can be really creative. When we lived in Egypt, a neighbor added chopped garlic not only to the rice mixture but put a few cloves of garlic among the layers, along with a few slices of lemon. Other variations exist among the Mediterranean countries and elsewhere.


Martha's Grape Leaves Stuffed with Rice (Dolmadakia Yialandji)

4 medium onions, finely chopped
1 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup raw rice (short grain)
3/4 cup olive oil
l tablespoon fresh dill, chopped
l/2 cup parsley, chopped (reserve stalks)
3 bunches scallions, including green tops, chopped
1 small grated carrot (optional)
salt and pepper
juice of one lemon
12-ounce jar grapevine leaves (found in most specialty stores and larger supermarkets)
l cup boiling water

Prior to combining ingredients, soak and drain grapevine leaves several times to remove the brine; if you have fresh grapevine leaves, wash carefully.

Steam onions over very low heat with 1 teaspoon salt, stirring occasionally for 5-10 minutes. Remove from heat. Add rice and l/2 cup of olive oil and mix. Add herbs and mix. Add salt and pepper and half the lemon juice.

Separate grapevine leaves carefully. Snip stems. Place 1 tablespoon filling on underside of leaf. Starting at the base, fold over, and fold in sides, rolling tightly toward point. (Note: the video starts with the sides; I think Martha's way gives a tighter roll as these leaves do expand.)

Place reserve stalks and any torn leaves on bottom of pan. Arrange Dolmandakia in layers with seamed side down. Add the remaining lemon juice and  3/4 cup olive oil. Place a plate on top of dolmadakia to prevent them from unrolling.

Cover sauce pan and simmer for 20 minutes over low heat. Add l cup boiling water and simmer for 25 minutes longer. (Note: Video calls for baking leaves. Have never done this so don't know.)

Transfer to platter. Drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice, if desired.

The YouTube clip is HERE.

Enjoy!

Cover Reveal: Rachel Morgan's "The Faerie Prince"

Title: The Faerie Prince
Author: Rachel Morgan

Publication Date: May 30th 2013

Description:

Guardian trainee Violet Fairdale is just weeks away from one of the most important occasions of her life: graduation. After messing up big time by bringing a human into the fae realm, Vi needs to step up her game and forget about Nate if she hopes to graduate as the top guardian of her year. 

Everything would be fine if she wasn’t forced to partner with Ryn, her ex-friend, ex-enemy, current ‘sort of friend’. They might be trying to patch up their relationship, but does she really want to spend a week undercover with him for their final assignment? 

On top of that, the possibly-insane Unseelie Prince is still on the loose, free to ‘collect’ as many specially talented faeries as he can find—and Vi is still at the top of his list. Add in faerie queens, enchanted storms, complicated not-just-friends feelings, and a murder within the Guild itself, and graduation is about to become the least of Vi’s problems.

Add THE FAERIE PRINCE to your to-read list on Goodreads.

If you haven't yet read the first book in the Creepy Hollow series, THE FAERIE GUARDIAN, you can find it at the following places:

Amazon, B&N, Apple iBookstore, Smashwords

To connect with the author, visit Rachel Morgan's blog.