Mental Can Openers & Writer's Hash: A Mugging on Market Street

 This month, Brad Leach brings us his musing via a story: 
A Mugging on Market Street.
And yeah, I read it more than once. Wowzer. 

      

      Dreams.  They get lost, get hurt.  When they do, I step in.  I’m a dream private-eye.

      It was all clouds and snow when the old fellow slipped into my office and perched on the chair’s edge with all the confidence of a Swiss candlemaker at Edison’s lightbulb convention.  He dripped.  Claimed he was a writer.  Looked more like a ‘wanna be’, but his money’s green so I listened.

      Fresh from Nine-to-fiveville, he was eager to settle in Write-now City.  He dreamed of being the next Tolkien or Lewis, yada, yada, yada.  I’ve heard the story.

      He said things started out well.  Found a girl called Musie, a slot in a brownstone, a keyboard.  Claimed six months in, his dream got mugged.  I pressed for details.

      He didn’t know much.  Musie said some agent dragged his dream to a platform and caught a blog-train.  Said all dreams have to go down to Market and Madison Avenue.  It never came back.  He eventually found it registered in the intensive care ward, down at General.  Wanted me to find out what happened.  I already had a pretty good idea.

                                   

           I caught a cab down to Madison.  Big lights, big boards, big promises.  Just the place to sap some wide-eyed dream, hoping to be discovered, blinded by the neon covers and movie deals. 

      I walked the couple of blocks up to Market.  Rough crowd here.  These were hard men chasing harder dollars.  Even as I watched, a couple of naive dreams floated in.  Hungry eyes labeled them as marks.  I entered a sunken parlor called Write-a-Blockbuster.  I figured it was the sort of place a writing dream would haunt.

      It was crowded.  Every seat and stool taken, with plenty standing around, hoping.  All of them clutched papers.  A few harried agents moved drinks around, tossing a few elbows when the unwary didn’t make an aisle.  I muscled over to the bar and asked the big fellow behind it if he’d seen the old guy’s dream. 

      He nodded. “I see ‘em all, pal.  They’re all precious, all special.” He chuckled.  “’Round here, special means standard.”  He waved me over to a booth where my first suspects sat.

      I sat down across from Mr. Book, next to Joe Conference.  Book sported the literary look; open collar, the cardigan, a pipe.  Conference had the shark-skin suit.  Book grinned, admitting they’d met Dream. 

      “Yeah, I took him, so what?  He needed books, I sold him books.  Software, subscriptions, contests.”  I glared at him. “Hey, the writer’s golden age is over.  So is the silver for that matter.”  He fidgeted.  “I gotta live, too.”

      Then Joe Conference nudged me.  “He was good fer a few conferences.  Dose types always are.  Dey come in flush with cash, figurin’ ta buy a introduction into publishin’ whit a review and a conference ors two.”

      Sliding out from the booth, I next caught a fellow named Mr. Traditional, finishing pork rinds and a beer.  He’d promised Dream he’d get the book published.  All Dream had to do was research it, write it, change it, edit it, proof it, market it, video it, distribute it, and sell it.  Traditional even offered Dream a whole dime out of every dollar made!  I frowned.

      “He don’t like it?  Let him print it!  I got mouths to feed and this place is shrinking.  There’s hundreds beating on the door.”  I flexed fingers and reminded this “gentleman” rinds weren’t his only meal option.  He gulped, then pointed down a dim hall.

      Dream had gone through the back door labeled E-PUB.  I stepped up and a big gal dressed like an Amazon opened the door, and shoved me in.

      Dreams were jammed in.  Literally millions.  No gravity, they looked like a fog of ghosts.  They were tearing each other, mauling each other.  Scratching towards a vanishing portal labeled “Success.”  Young dreams, old dreams, dead dreams.  Some had books.  Some had none.  I was buffeted, sapped, and shoved back out.                                  On my way back up town, I swung by General.  I promised the nurse that if I could talk to Dream now, we’d do more than talk later.  She smiled.  I smiled.

      I slipped into the room. He looked like a skinned, bruised potato, hooked to an IV. 

      “There were dreams in there,” he said.  “Many dying.  Many better than me.  I couldn’t get across the room.  Some were giving books away!  No one was making it.”  He rubbed his arm.  “This race is hard when you’re late to the line.  I couldn’t keep up.”

      I nodded.  “It’s tough out there, Dream.  Especially when you’re older.  Go home!”

      “I can’t... tell him.  His book is his lotto ticket.  He’s hoping....”

      “I’ll tell him.”  I closed the door.

       I gave the old fellow both barrels, straight.  He took it, nodded, turned to go.  As he made the door, he looked back.  “I have to write you know.  It’s the only thing I’m any good at.” 

      I nodded.  You and two million other retirees, I was tempted to add.  But I didn’t.  He knew.  But he has to try.

~Brad 

Author Spotlight Featuring Marianne Rice & Her New Book, Staying Grounded

Today I have the joy of featuring Marianne Rice and her latest book, Staying Grounded. Wait until you read about her moving across country four, yes four times.  She now lives in one of my favorites spots in the country.....

Thank you for having me on your blog today, L.A., and hello to all you lovely readers! For those of you who aren’t familiar with my work, I write small town contemporary romances. Why? I’m not sure. I grew up in Los Angeles and moved to New Hampshire in elementary school. Then back to L.A. in junior high, and back to New Hampshire my sophomore year in high school. My heart was always in New England, though, and when my family moved back to L.A. AGAIN, I stayed put. At the time, I was in college at the University of Maine, madly in love with the middle linebacker on the football team. Since he was from southern Maine, I wasn’t going anywhere.

He had the stability of growing up in a small town, while I was the nomad city girl. I told him I wanted to build a house and never move again. And we did. Twentyish years and three children later…

I like to write stories about towns I wish I grew up in. Many are modeled after places we’ve visited in New England. Read closely and maybe you’ll figure out where Rocky Harbor would be if it were a real town.

Excerpt:

Graham turned his chair around and straddled it, resting his arms across the top, grinning. He should have looked foolish between the mischief in his eyes and the boyish way he sat. Instead he charmed and captivated her.

“What’s going on?” Needing a distraction, she picked up her cup and slowly sipped her coffee.

“Will you give me a few hours this morning?”

“To do what?”

He quirked his eyebrow and lowered his baby blues to her lips. Yeah, she’d need a change of underwear soon. “I want to show you something.”

Maggie choked on her coffee, imagining all the wonderful things he could—he had—shown her.

“No, not that. However…if that’s what you want…”

“Graham,” she warned.

“I like it. Much better than that Mr. Riley crap. Two hours. That’s all I ask. And no, not for that. For that I’d need all night.”

Buy: 

Amazon

Blurb:

Graham Riley enjoys the laid-back freedom of a pilot’s life—until one choice puts his career in jeopardy…

Graham loves his job—it allows him to escape his troubled past and the stigma of being a murderer’s son. But after an altercation with a drunk passenger is posted on social media, he's forced to go on administrative leave until his name can be cleared. To get his wings back, he must attend anger management classes, and to avoid the media frenzy near his home base in Texas, he heads to Rocky Harbor, Maine. 

Responsible therapist Maggie O’Fallon wants a stable relationship with a man who’s not going anywhere…

Maggie grew up with parents who were never around, physically or emotionally. Needing steadiness in her life and in a relationship, she only dates men with normal jobs. But when Graham walks into her office and flashes his charming steel-blue eyes at her, she's at a loss for words. Torn between her ethics and her heart, Maggie asks Graham to see a different therapist so they can explore the chemistry between them. 

He has everything she’s been looking for—except stability… 

Maggie touches something deep within Graham and he panics, pushing her away, too scared to face his feelings. But when a private investigator threatens to discredit not only Graham, but Maggie’s practice as well, he is faced with two choices. Fight…or take flight. 

Battling a lawsuit and his heart, Graham must decide what’s more important—the life he thought he wanted…or Maggie. Maggie might be the only thing that will ever help Graham…Stay Grounded.

Bio:

Marianne Rice writes contemporary romances set in small New England towns. Her heroes are big and strong, yet value family and humor, while her heroines are smart, sexy, sometimes a little bit sassy, and are often battling a strong internal conflict. Together, they deal with real life issues and always, always, find everlasting love. 

When she’s not writing, Marianne can be found chauffeuring her herd of children to their varying sporting events, and when there’s time, shoe shopping, scarfing down dark chocolate, and relaxing with a glass of wine and a romance book. 

Find Marianne:

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Instagram | Facebook Author Page | Twitter

Goodreads | Pinterest

Author Spotlight With Claire Gem & Her New Release, Spirits of the Heart

It's always a pleasure to spotlight a book that goes on sale the very day the author posts about it.  Don't miss this one, it sounds perfect for Valentine's Day.  
Take it away, Claire

Hi, L.A. Thanks for having me as a return guest on your blog.

Spirits of the Heart takes place in an abandoned mental asylum in the town where I grew up. The place has always haunted me since I was a child, and so it was the perfect place to set another ghost romance. 

I began writing the book in 2015 and took a trip back to my hometown to take some pictures, with the help of my sister/cover artist Terri DelNegro. We got some great pics, and it was a lucky thing we did. Two weeks later, the building mysteriously caught fire and burned to the ground.

My muse was temporarily deflated. It took me another nine months or so to rekindle (no pun intended!) my enthusiasm for this story, incorporating the fire into to the plot. I finally found my path, through the smoke and the mystery.

Excerpt:

       Laura Horton’s bad feeling began the minute she pulled up in front of Angie’s puke green, two-story house and parked at the curb.

Not Angie’s house, she reminded herself. Angie’s boyfriend’s house. Although they’d been pretty tight in high school, she and Ang had kept in touch mostly via telephone and email these past few years that Laura had been in grad school. Once, a few years ago, they’d gotten together for their five-year reunion, when Laura had come home to visit her ailing dad.

That was the first time she’d seen the compact craftsman bungalow—after dark—and she hadn’t realized it was such an ugly color. She hadn’t met the boyfriend, Miller Stanford, whom Angie either claimed to love with all her heart, or wanted to eviscerate with a Phillips head screwdriver, depending on the day. Nor had Laura noticed then that the house snugged up tight on one side to an ancient-looking graveyard. The only thing separating the two properties was a narrow strip of grass and a dilapidated, iron fence.

A shiver ran across her shoulder blades as she sat in her car, studying her new surroundings. Her new home.

Holy crap.

Chillier up here. Where’d I pack that hoodie?

She turned to dig around in one of the boxes squashed into the back of her tiny car, quickly realizing it was pointless. Nearly everything she owned in the world—besides a few pieces of battered, old furniture—filled the back seat, and passenger side, of her thrifty Kia. When she’d run out of room for boxes, she’d resorted to folding softer items, like her sweaters and sweats, into new plastic trash bags. Stuff crammed every nook and crevice in the car, leaving just enough space beneath the headliner for her to see out through the rearview mirror.

There was no way in hell she was locating her hoodie in Mt. Clothesmore.

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she climbed out and sprinted up the steps to the front door. She hadn’t been able to reach Angie by phone since she’d left Boone, North Carolina the day before, but that wasn’t too unusual. Her friend was a bit flighty, and prone to misplace her phone, her charger, or both. Angie had been juggling courses at the community college with a full-time night job, tending bar at the pub just down the street, for the past two years. Laura couldn’t blame her for acting a bit squirrelly at times.

She reminded herself how nice it was of Ang and Miller to rent her their spare room. When Laura landed the job in Middletown, her initial exhilaration had been tempered by a glaring question: where the hell was she going to live? There was no way she could move into her father’s tiny condo with his new wife, Deirdre. And securing an apartment on her own was out of the question, at least not until after her first few paychecks hit the bank.

Laura squared her shoulders, which were quaking slightly in the cool spring breeze, tipped up her chin, and rang the doorbell.

Twice. She shifted her sneakered feet against the creaky porch boards, folding her arms against the chill. After another long moment with no answer, she rang the bell a third time, holding down the ancient button a full ten seconds this time. She could hear the electronic buzz through the peeling front door, but no other sounds at all.

Angie had to be here—she knew Laura was coming. It was Friday, but Angie’s last term of college ended last week, and it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. There was only one vehicle parked in the short driveway, a late-model Ford pickup. But Laura wasn’t sure what it was Angie was driving these days.

Then, she heard the booming, thumping sound. Footsteps? Deliberate, heavy, booming steps. Did Bigfoot live here too?

A dull click, then the tinkle of chain skittering on the inside of the wood. The door burst open. But it wasn’t Angie standing on the threshold.

Laura didn’t have time to suppress the involuntary gasp that escaped from her open mouth.

The man was huge, not only tall but massive, with a broad, muscular chest, one lightly furred with golden hair.  His bulbous biceps were cut, sculpted like a Greek statue. And he wasn’t wearing much more than Michelango’s David, with only a steel grey towel snugged around narrow hips to match the steely glint in his blue-grey eyes.

She blinked and swallowed, stumbling back a step. “Is Angie here?” she asked in a small voice.

The giant snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Who’s askin’?”

Buy: 
Amazon 

View:
Book Trailer

Blurb:

An addiction counselor and a security guard struggle to free a little girl and her father, two lost spirits trapped inside an abandoned mental asylum.

Addiction counselor Laura Horton returns from college to move in with an old friend and start her career. But her homecoming is jarring. Her friend moves out, leaving Laura alone with the gorgeous but intimidating ex-boyfriend—in a house that snugs up to an ancient graveyard.

Officer Miller Stanford is a man with a shattered past. His alcoholic dad destroyed their family, a weakness Miller is terrified will consume him too. The last thing he needs is a sexy, blonde addiction counselor watching his every move. When he begins to see specters in the dark, he starts questioning his own stability.

But Laura sees her too—a pathetic child-spirit searching for her father. Then Laura starts digging into old asylum records . . . Can Miller and Laura uncover the secrets of Talcott Hall without jeopardizing their love—and lives—in the process?

Bio:
Strong Women, Starting Over

   ~Redefining Romance~

Claire is a multi-published, award-winning author of emotional romance—contemporary, paranormal, romantic suspense, and women’s fiction. She writes about strong, resilient women who won’t give up their quest for a happy-ever-after—and the men lucky enough to earn their love. No helpless, hapless heroines here. These spunky ladies redefine romance, on their terms.

Whether it’s a sexy contemporary read you’re seeking or a thrill ride into the supernatural world of hauntings and ghosts, Claire will take you on a memorable journey.

Her paranormal/romantic suspense, Hearts Unloched, won the 2016 New York Book Festival. Her contemporary romance, The Phoenix Syndrome, won the women’s fiction division in FCRWA’s The Beacon Contest.

A New York native, Claire has lived in five of the United States and held a variety of jobs, from waitress to bridal designer to research technician—but loves being an author best. She and her happily-ever-after hero, her husband of 38 years, now live in central Massachusetts.

Find Claire:

Website | Facebook | Twitter |  Goodreads | Amazon Author Page | Pinterest