Looking for Loveda Brown


Will the real Loveda Brown please stand up?

I spent the weekend holding interviews for my murder mystery novel. I’ve already hired an editor. A book cover designer is currently on board. The folks at Amazon don’t know what’s coming and frankly, I’m excited to walk into their site and let them know. Pinkies up.

No, the interviews of the moment are for the enviable honor of being on the front cover of my books. So many applicants. So little time.

Here’s the advertisement:

Wanted: Image of Loveda Brown, heroine of a new murder mystery series set in Idyllwild, California in the year 1912. Must own simple historical clothing and aura. Visual of face not necessary but an independent and saucy attitude in both features and pose must be apparent.

Hairstyle must be up, hat or pompadour optional. Visible button-up shoes a plus, and must own a pocket watch. Long term gig. Should be available for multiple books into next year and have the flexibility to change up clothing colors or share space with a variety of other characters or props, as needed. Should also be comfortable being reframed to a 5’4” height and a curly brunette.

Extra consideration will be given all applicants who can quote movie lines from Pollyanna, The Great Race, The Music Man, Somewhere in Time, or Season One of Downton Abbey.

Applicants who receive a call back will be asked to demonstrate ability to embrace dirt, gallop on a horse, drink tea, and shoot with both a pistol and a rifle.

It’s not much to ask.

Thousands of interviews later, I am down to the final five. This week, I put them through their paces, and may the best lady win! Stay tuned!

Don’t miss the fun of our cover reveal! Sign up for the Newsletter.

NaNoWriMo Because I Hang Out with Crazy People

Lest I feel that dedicating this year to earning a “Novel Writing Certificate” is small potatoes…

Because it’s not enough to spend Tuesday and Saturday mornings driving in traffic for an hour in order to diagram plot points and decide whether my historical protagonist likes her coffee black or with a smidge of stevia…

Because meeting total strangers for the sole purpose of discovering that they are master writers and I am a kindergartner wielding a purple crayon…

They gotta throw “National Novel Writing Month” on top of it.

Did you know that novelists – the guys doing the real deal – have three to four books somewhere in progress while simultaneously coming up with new book ideas to pitch to publishers and they still teach classes, hold workshops, and market like crazy to make the money happen?

Do you know how much work it is to maintain a business social media, website, and amazon presence? No, you don’t, because if you’re smart you’ve hired me to do it for you. I run a freelance writing business on the side to pay for my obsession. That puts me one step closer to crazy town than I thought.

Me: “Don’t you think attempting to write a brand new novel in a single month will distract me from the one I’ve been trying to write for the last three years?”

Teacher/Author: “I highly recommend NaNoWriMo. Especially if you have a hard time with perfectionism.”

Me: “Who, me? Don’t be ridiculous preposterous silly.”

Teacher/Evil Person: “The idea here is that in one month, you sit down and make 50,000 words. That’s only 1,666.66666 words a day. Easy peasy. As long as you don’t edit while you write.”

Me: “But that’s what people love me for pay me to do.”

Teacher/Gastroenterologist: “You can’t keep a good steady outgo if you’re blocking with analytics. You have to relax. Just enjoy the word vomit.”

Me: Simultaneously whimpering and signing up online. My code name is Jolie Guacamole.

If you clean your house before the cleaning lady arrives, you know exactly how I feel.

And if you know how I feel about vomit, you also know exactly how I feel.

Buckle up. You will still get regular blogs in November because I love you, but they will be made ahead of time and auto-post with updates on my progress.

If you have a completely random character, setting, villain, plot twist, vehicle, pet, name, or an especially exciting way to kill off boring side characters, give it to me right here in the comments! Then tune in next month and see how I wrote about it.

Better yet, sign up yourself and join me on the dark side. *evil laughter*


I’ve been working on several projects at once, which makes me crazy and happy simultaneously, and occasionally I’d like to share bits of them with you lovely readers.
Sometimes you can hear the several mugs of tea that went into the writing of a blog and sometimes I hope it’s obvious that God has fingerprints all over the page.
But this little excerpt is from a book I’m writing simply titled “Abide”.

What makes a person stay in a place where they don’t feel safe, when they have all the choices in the world to choose from?

If there’s a chance that the specter you fear may not indeed be real, would you question it?

When you take away the fight and you remove the flight, what do you have left?

When you won’t be a martyr and you refuse to be a victim, who are you?

Can you separate the specter from the circumstances?

There is a place in the middle of everything and everywhere. It’s a pinpoint in space between time and location and thought and energy. It’s the vortex, the crux, the center.

But for this book, I’m calling it the bend in your elbow.

Because it’s a place you have never once considered.

And it’s right in front of you.

And a lot of stuff hinges on it.

This was a lesson I learned very young, and then forgot.

Sometimes, you can bend that elbow, flex that arm, and step deliberately into the crux.

In second grade, all of my classmates played the same game every single day at recess.

The boys, in a pack, would chase the girls, in a pack, all around the playground and into the girls’ bathroom. The girls would proceed to hang out in the bathroom for the rest of our play time, giggling over the boys, sending out “spies” who would run shrieking back.

I thought it was awfully mean of the boys to hold us hostage in there, when I would rather be on the monkey bars or playing hopscotch.

I vividly recall the day I had a thought. It was a radical and new thought.

Something that, obviously, had occurred to no one else.

Which automatically makes it suspect in second grade.

What if? (Oh boy, there it goes again. I wonder how to get my mother’s voice out of my head?)

But what if…we stopped running?

You could count on the boys never, ever giving up the chase. They were delighted with the whole arrangement. You could be sure the adults in the area weren’t going to do something about it. Why should they care? Everyone seemed okay with the game.


We were in charge of what we were gonna do.

Weren’t we?

We second graders who weren’t in charge of anything…?

I told the girls what I was going to do. They were horrified. There was absolutely no telling what would happen to a girl if a boy actually caught her. Boys were mean and awful and full of cooties. They were fast.

We watched the clock tick slowly towards recess, holding our breath.

The bell rang, the boys and girls gathered up their collective teams, and off we went.

It took me all the way to the bathroom to gather my courage.

I stopped five paces from safety, turned, and stared those boys down.

The pack of boys skidded to a halt, inches from me, arms flailing and shocked faces registering a little too late, that something had gone awry.

“What are you doing?” they shouted, “Why did you stop? We totally got you.”

They were mad.

“Yeah?” I said, sarcastic even at that tender age, “Just what are you gonna do with me, then?”

Total silent confusion. I love that.

That is exactly what your fears do when you gather just enough courage to skid to a stop, grab a monkey bar for support, and stare them down.

“I’m never running from you guys again,” I said, “It’s a totally stupid game and I hate staying in the bathroom and I want to go play. Don’t bother me anymore!”

And they never did.

I watched the girl pack run by once in a while, and I would feel sorry for them, except, they seemed pretty happy with the whole routine. It’s like they were okay with the attention, even if it was bad attention that wasted their time and held them hostage and amounted to nothing.


I mean, not that we ever behave like that as adults, right?


“I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.”    John 12:46