Sea Glass and Sand Memories now has a cover!

Sea Glass and Sand Memories, my June 1st paranormal erotic romance short story release from MuseItHot publishing now has a cover! Credit goes to artist Delilah Stephans for her work. I especially like how the text she created resembles sea glass. The setting, in the dunes area of Lake Michigan is a favorite spot of mine, having many childhood summer vacation memories. I'm glad this story is being published, as a tribute to those wonderful memories.

Blurb:

Looking forward to a relaxing week at a Lake Michigan coastal resort, Kate finds much more than the picturesque dunes she intended to paint.

Adventures start when her requested room is switched beside an unusual couple – a witch and her lover, a ghost.

During her stay, the handsome ghost, Anson, tries to ensnare her into helping him escape the witch who killed him and then enslaved his spirit. The witch holds him captive on the property of his mother’s resort. Anson wins Kate’s heart and loyalty; she goes to great lengths to free him.

Warning: This story contains paranormal sex, pagan abuse of a ghost spirit, nightmares, and happy family memories.

Visiting exotic Persia with my work in progress, Illusions of Intimacy

My work in progress, Illusions of Intimacy, is a time travel erotic fantasy involving eight exotic settings. This is a true delight for me because I love creating magical worlds.

The hero and heroine are lovers joined by a bond of their souls. When the pair come together, their combined magic is so intense it commands notice from all, both good and evil. Dark powers seek to possess their unique bond and cast the couple asunder through tragic injury or death. Break their love and the magic is for the taking. Yet, their souls hold fast across many reincarnations into new mortal bodies. Foiling the forces of darkness, so they may remain beside each other, becomes their quest.

In my writing progress, their present generation lives in ancient Arabia, traditionally called Persia. The inherent mystery of the sea of sand provides the perfect backdrop for entrance of the first villain.

As I create an atmosphere I enjoy researching culture – architecture, clothing, art, folklore, music, dance. I take those components and flavor a unique fantasy setting.

I’d like to share some entertaining finds I made while conducting that research. Here are two videos of Arabian music, both enticing and alluring as they illustrate romanticism of that culture. The first is entitled Arabian Waltz, by The Silk Road Ensemble with Yo-Yo Ma as their guest. The second, filled with lovely landscape images, is Sufi music performed by Omar Faruk Tekbilek.

Okay . . . I'm finally a Floridian

I'm nearing the end of my first year as a Florida resident. The move from NW Ohio seemed as drastic as relocating to a foreign country. Every season in Tampa brought curiosities, frustrations, and wonders.

Summer greeted me with unusual heat. This was no problem since I always worshiped every day of June through August, wishing I could somehow bottle those easy, relaxed days to reopen them when numb during weeks below freezing. I'm passionate about cycling and 90 degree weather only required a second water bottle and extra sunscreen. Although accustomed to stopping for water only when my legs needed a rest, after about ten miles, it took just one bout of dehydration to remember to break much earlier. From hours biking and at the beach my hair bleached to the light color from my childhood – no argument about being blonder.


However, considering from May through October you'd almost die without air conditioning here, I still cannot understand why windows are merely single-paned in Florida – hardly energy efficient. However, my first real annoyance came with some invisible little monsters the natives call no-see-ums, which I'm fairly certain I haven't spelled correctly. As a biology major I'd like to know what their true identity is, so anyone who knows, please tell me. The bites from those critters itched beyond comparison to those from any northern mosquito. Lucky me, I learned my body was ultra sensitive to their toxins. So, I spent many weeks armed with DEET to repel, not deer ticks carrying Lyme disease, but to ward off the wee indectible beasties.

Autumn . . . hmm . . . did it happen? I thought it was still summer when a mid-October trip back to Ohio startled me with pumpkins, Indian corn, and shops scented with cinnamon. After a few days seeing the gray gloom of winter settling over fields of browning corn stalks I wanted my turquoise sky again.

Winter reared an ugly head this past year – extra cold, the coldest on record in nearly eighty years. Again, I dreamed of double-paned windows. Actually, this was my second winter here, since I paid my mother an extended visit the previous winter to help get her settled into a new home. Who could blame me for escaping Toledo ice, snow, sleet, slop? But this winter meant covering plants against frost. My vine, pictured a couple posts down, tolerated it well, probably enjoying its chance to dress up and play ghost.

Spring . . . ah, spring . . . it's paradise. I found that is a commonly held belief. The first warm day I went mall shopping, realizing I didn't have enough summer clothes. To my horror, a late February afternoon, which in Ohio would have been deserted with people hunkered down at home, proved a shopping day from hell. Cars were even parked in creative lawn spots, all others being taken. Mental note – NO SHOPPING ON WEEKENDS IN FEB./MARCH.

I do love the beach. And I love to write at the beach, where this post was drafted. With my legs sprawled out in the lapping surf as I sit in a beach chair, I'm easily inspired to create sensual tales. With your toes wiggling in talcum-powder sand what else could you write? My forthcoming book, Tears on a Tranquil Lake, sprang to life and was largely written while there. It's easy to understand why I wrote about the life and loves of a mermaid, falling for and deciding who to trust, the merman who turned her or a smooth-talking pirate captain. Look for this to be released on February 1st next year from MuseItHot publishing and enjoy the beach along with me!

A living fairy tale for my muse

Most muses expect to be fed occasionally. Some whimper for chocolate, others demand shopping sprees. Mine usually is satisfied with a pot of special blend white tea, kept steaming on a warmer for the evening of writing. But, once in a while she begs for an outing to someplace exotic. Lush settings captivate her. While taking lit classes in college, she prodded me to read every 19th c. novel she could find. That included the entire collection of Thomas Hardy, whose settings of mist-shrouded moors covered with purple heather in Wessex are every bit as memorable as his romantic characters, Tess and Angel, Bathsheba and Gabriel. She balks at workshops on world-building, maintaining a keen eye and an overactive imagination serve better. Nothing pleases her more than an afternoon at the beach. Once my toes are wiggling in sand beyond the towel's edge, she skips my pencil across pages at lightning pace.

Last Saturday I took my muse on a new adventure to the local Renaissance festival. I hoped she'd like it, since unnaturally cool Florida winter weather precluded beach days. And she did.

A curious array of earthy scents greeted us: fresh-milled wood chips underfoot; vendors newly-tanned leather vestments and boots; toasting cinnamon-dusted nuts; spirals of sandalwood incense. Visual delights also intrigued her. The grounds lay amid a grove of gnarly trees draped with Spanish moss. Their swags swayed with magic around tents belonging to tarot readers. Street performers and festival goers alike dressed in costumes, a variety of old world fantasy mixed with buccaneer accoutrements. Diaphanous layers of ladies skirts flowed like dreams. Coins adorned hats, headdresses, belts, wristlets, and necklaces – catching dappled sunlight and jingling with each step. I expected something of a pirate theme, following from the popularity of the Gasparilla festival, a pageant given by Ye Mystic Krewe in honor of their captain, Jose Gaspar. The result – a surreal tapestry.

Enchantment and swashbuckling in every direction. A human chess game and giant sand castle thrilled imaginations of young and old. Druids lay half hidden, clinging to tree trunks. A pickle vendor alerted me to fairies climbing in branches above, planning mischief. Celebrators extended cordial welcomes to all. The eclectic merriment painted an unwritten scene from Alice in Wonderland. My muse drank in the splendor of that living fairy tale.

In the days since, I felt her scrambling for characters to add to the new world. When finished, she hands me a complete setting and characters, detailed with personalities and attire. If she enjoys the characters enough she will lend a hand with plot. Then, my muse rests and sips tea until impatient with my plodding for months over what she created in days. I'm always behind, thankfully. She plays hard and works hard, never leaving me with writer's block. But the best gift is seeing the world through her eyes. A writer's blessing.

From the sands of Arabia, an update about my novel, Illusions of Intimacy

A quick hello to all reading. I am Gamal, a camel herder here in the village, at least during this wet season. While my boys watch the herd in its feeding corral, I shall spend a few moments seated here upon the woolen carpet of my tent with quill in hand. The author, my creator, asked me to compose a note relating my activities in her novel, Illusions of Intimacy. Please know me by my given name, Wadji. In Arabic it means being of strong emotions and love, like my soul. But, I must depart soon to meet someone, so I'll hasten at my appointed task.

Though a simple nomadic trader, I travel with my wooden locker of treasured volumes, many very old and given to me from my family. Reading helps pass lonely evening hours. Curiously, one book led me to meet the lovely noblewoman, Fareeda. Maybe you saw her – fair with long, golden hair escaping her niqab veil. Word travels fast about foreigners.

Yesterday she chose to bathe in the river and my herd ran upon her, our customary watering location. Since the sun baked us as we crossed the sand to the river, I understood her need for cooling. I yanked back my mares and spoke a dozen apologies. So beautiful, I dared to look upon her face and bosom, even if I'd receive punishment. Deep beyond the lady's beauty, I recalled her face from some memory. Haunting.

At today's trading souk she passed my camel pen, behaving as if she knew me. Her blue topaz eyes commanded me to stare. Minutes later, her servant returned, handing me a note certain to be a charge against my inappropriate attention. But no. Blank. I turned the sheet over, studying it and looking for traces of ink. Then, I gasped. Before my eyes print appeared, as though arising from within the parchment.

How? I scanned every visible detail of the paper. Once the market closed, I rushed here to my tent to seek one particular book from my trunk. Underneath blankets and keepsakes I found it, a black leather volume covered with gilding. I opened it, holding Fareeda's loose parchment alongside in my shaking hand. The papers – same dimensions, hue, weight, and grain. I stepped to the door and lifted the tent flap to gain more light. The same flowing, feminine hand scripted the words. I could not believe. Fareeda and the woman who had written in this journal, the same? How?

“I do remember. Your eyes haunt me. I have something to show you. When the moon is just risen please come to the east tower of Lord Nidal's palace."

So many times I read those pages, wondering why I possessed the book. Probably by some accident. The lady's thoughts always haunted me, drawing me back many evenings. On those nights, my dreams filled with topaz eyes, the very same as Fareeda's.

My heart raced. I flipped backwards and forwards through pages for clues. I found none, only confusion. In the passages, she addressed her lover, Lyvain, separated from her and how she may unite her soul with his for eternity.

The sun is low; I must make haste to the baths to not offend the lady. My pulse at my fingertips makes my pen shake over this page. Please excuse my penmanship. Many questions. Could she be the writer? How does she know me? What does she want from me? Did we know each other in a previous life? Were we lovers then? She is beautiful . . . I am but a lowly camel herder. Not likely . . . but perhaps. I will leave now. A goodnight to you.

                                                                                Your humble servant,
                                                                                                       Wadji