A bit of holiday romance - #Homelessness #Self-publishing #ChristmasRomance

 

For my post today, I have a bit from my story Slush: A Holiday Romance. This title represented my very first foray into self-publishing, nearly five years ago.

A lot of books under the bridge since then! I’m still fond of this gentle tale, though, about a rich guy who’s rescued by a homeless young woman.

You can get a copy (only 99 cents!) at Smashwords, Amazon, BN or Kobo.

Blurb

Hot shot Boston lawyer Ian Pierce has everything but peace of mind. Christmas Eve finds him alone, wading through the slush to his BMW so he can drive back to his lonely luxury apartment. Then everything goes black. He awakens with an aching skull to find himself in a freezing, boarded-up garage occupied by a street kid. At first he blames the dodgy-looking youth for his troubles, but before long he realizes the raggedy girl who rescued him from the gutter may well be a Christmas angel in disguise.

Excerpt

“Hey, mister – you okay?”

The youthful voice filtered down the deep, dark hole to Ian’s flickering awareness.

“Urgh.” That was his own voice, a groan that kicked up pounding echoes in his head. Irritated by his own incapacity, pushing the pain aside, he tried again.

“I – uh – I don’t know...” He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking to dispel the maddening blurriness, and tried to focus on the pale face hovering over him. “What – what happened?”

“I think you were mugged. I found you unconscious in the alley, lying in the gutter next to some fancy car.” The teenager had a thin face with a toothy grin. A knitted Bruins cap pulled low over his ears hid the kid’s hair. His breath condensed into white clouds when he spoke.

A shiver wracked Ian’s body. Even that slight movement exacerbated the throbbing at the back of his skull. Damn, it hurt! And it was freezing in here!

“Where am I?” Ian tried to sit up, impatient as always with any kind of weakness. “Ow – shit!”

He sank back onto something yielding, breathing hard. A damp smell of mold assailed him, mixed with hints of motor oil and wood smoke.

“Better not move,” the kid counseled. “You might have a concussion.”

Ignoring this advice, Ian managed to work himself into a half-sit. The softness beneath him was an old mattress, covered with a stained woolen blanket. He leaned against a plywood wall. Cold seeped through the thin barrier from the winter night outside, all the way through his coat and his shirt. His back muscles cramped and he shivered again. He glanced around the dim, crowded space, noting that the other walls and the floor were bare concrete.

“Here – try this.” The younger man grabbed a thick wad of newspapers from a pile in the corner

 

“Tilt forward – yeah – that’s right.” He slipped the papers into the space between Ian’s back and the wall. They worked surprisingly well as insulation. The kid smiled, showing those even white teeth once again. “Better now?”

Ian nodded, then regretted it as the pain in his head surged. “How did I get here?”

The teen’s laugh was high and girlish as he gestured toward a rusty supermarket cart parked near the door in the plywood partition.

“You’re joking!”

“Nope. A sled might have been better on a night like this, though.”

“But how... why...?”

The kid gazed at him, hands on his hips. “I couldn’t leave you there in the slush, could I? You would’ve froze to death, no question.”

Ian peered more closely at his savior. The teen – well, he might have been twenty, twenty one at most – looked plump in his miscellany of sweaters and sweatshirts. Underneath the bulky layers, though, he was slightly built. His hands, wrapped in orange mittens, were small. Bright red long johns showed through the holes in his ragged jeans. Despite the inclement weather, he wore no boots, only dirty sneakers, which looked soaked through. That observation made Ian realize how wet and cold he was in his own clothing.

He shivered again. “Don’t you have any heat in here?”

The kid shrugged. “I could light a fire, I guess. I don’t like to do that too often – makes it more likely someone will figure out I’m in here. But I suppose nobody’s going to be prowling around on Christmas Eve, ‘specially when it’s so miserable out.”

He dragged a battered oil drum with a deeply dented lid into the center of the room and started piling on bits and pieces of wood from a box near the newspapers. Then he crumpled some of that paper onto the top and struck a match.

The merry flames made Ian feel marginally better. The ache in his occipital region faded a bit and the numbness shrouding his brain cleared. He began to remember, brief impressions at first, then whole scenes.

Charity Sunday: Rosie's Place - #Homelessness #Sanctuary #CharitySunday

Welcome to this month’s Charity Sunday.

I’ve been thrilled at the great response from other bloggers who’ve joined Charity Sunday over the past few months. It’s always enjoyable for me to see what causes my colleagues choose to support. I’ve noticed that many of you donate to local rather than national or international charities. So today, I thought I’d focus my Charity Sunday on a “local” charity, too: Rosie’s Place.

Of course, Rosie’s Place – the first homeless shelter for women in the US, established in downtown Boston in 1974 – is not exactly local to me any more. However, for years, when I lived in Massachusetts, I was an avid supporter. Homelessness is a persistent problem in the United States, despite our affluence, and in some ways it’s harder for women than for men. Women on the street are more likely to be victimized or brutalized. Homeless women often have kids to care for. And even in the twenty first century, it’s still harder for a woman to get a decent-paying job that will make it possible for her to pay for a roof over her head.

Rosie’s Place was born when its founder Kip Tiernan saw poor women disguising themselves as men to get a meal at men-only shelters. Think about that. Think about the danger, and the shame.

Rosie’s provides free meals 365 days a year; a food pantry with non-perishable items and fresh produce; showers, laundry and lockers; overnight beds for up to 21 days; and providers who offer health and wellness care. Rosie’s Place also offers job and life skills training, and connects its guests with legal and financial professionals who can help them navigate the complex maze of government assistance programs.

I could say more – but I urge you to go check out the organization's inspiring website. The bottom line? For every comment I receive on today’s post, I’ll donate two dollars to Rosie’s.

I have the perfect excerpt for you, too, from my lesbian tale The First Stone, first published in Cheyenne Blue’s anthology Forbidden Fruit: Stories of unwise lesbian desire and now available as part of my own short story collection, Burn,Baby. This story takes place in a women’s shelter in Boston, not all that dissimilar to Rosie’s, and explores the unlikely relationship between a recovering drug addict and a nun.

“You're kinda pretty, for a nun.”

The voice was low and throaty, laced with echoes of the ghetto. It dragged me away from the columns of figures marching down the screen in front of me, out of the well-ordered realm of accounting and into the messiness of our inmates' lives. Our guests, I corrected myself. Nobody was forced to stay at Serenity House.

“Um — excuse me? Can I help you?”

My interlocutor grinned at me. Her plump, mauve-painted lips framed teeth that were a shocking white in her ebony face. She shook her head. Cheap, brassy earrings dangled from her fleshy lobes, swinging back and forth over her bare shoulders.

“Just wanted to say hi. Oh, an' to ask if I can stay out past curfew tonight. Heard you were in charge.” She extended a hand tipped with hot pink fingernails. “I'm Magnolia. Me and Moonbeam just got here yesterday.”

November in Boston, two weeks before Thanksgiving, but Magnolia's skin felt August-hot. The woman's breasts almost overflowed the sequined tube top that constrained them. Below, she wore baggy sweatpants with a Celtics logo that didn't hide her more than ample curves. Her feet were crammed into open-toed high heels of scuffed gold-toned plastic. She towered over me. I felt pretty sure that would be true even if I were standing.

“Moonbeam?” Confronted by this apparition, I couldn't seem to manage more than a couple of words.

“My kid.” Magnolia indicated a diminutive toddler with kinky pigtails, sprawled on the floor of the common room, surrounded by alphabet blocks. Hard to believe that delicate child was the offspring of this Amazon.

“Ah — um — well, you're very welcome here, Magnolia. We're glad to have you with us.” I struggled for the warm yet professional manner I'd learned to adopt with our guests. Rising from my chair, I gave her hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing it. My skin tingled in the aftermath. I'd been right; she stood half a head taller than my five feet six inches, and probably weighed nearly twice what I did. “Have a seat, please. I'm Sister Kathleen Patrick, the assistant director. But I guess you know that.”

She settled her bottom into the chair I'd indicated. “Yeah, the other gals told me. Pleased to meet you, Sister.” Her plucked eyebrows knotted into a frown. “That what I should call you? I ain't had much experience with nuns.”

Her obvious concern made me chuckle. “'Sister' would be fine. Or you can just call me Kathleen. We don't stand on ceremony here at Serenity House.”

“Not like at Baystate Rehab. You forget to call one of the nurses 'Miz' or 'Mister', you lose privs for twenty-four hours.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brown forehead, which was beaded with sweat. The woman must have a furnace inside.

There was something lush and tropical about Magnolia. Her name fit her. She seemed totally out of place in this shabby office lit by the unrelenting gray of the late autumn sky. I could imagine her wrapped in a rainbow-hued sarong, dancing barefoot on a beach beneath swaying palms. Or swimming naked through the waves under a golden moon...

I hauled my thoughts back to the present. “Is that where you've just come from?” Not all our guests had substance abuse problems, but it was pretty common.

“Escaped is more like it.” She giggled. “This place's like heaven after Bayhab. Six fucking weeks — oh, sorry, Sister — I mean, six long weeks in that hellhole! Away from my baby, too. 'Course, I deserved it. All the junk I pumped into my veins, not thinkin' about who'd care for her if something happened to me. Then the OD — I really fucked up. Oh, I'm sorry, Sister!”

“Never mind. So you've made yourself comfortable, then? You're happy with your room?"

 

Yesterday had been my day off. Rachel must have done the intake. I reminded myself to check Magnolia's file after she'd left the office.

“It's great. I'm sharing with Lou-Ellen and her little boy. He's only a couple months older than Moonbeam. Food's good, too.” She flashed me another grin and glanced down at her generous body. “Not that I need it!”

Her laughter kindled mine. Our eyes met. Hers were espresso-brown, practically black, fringed with mascara-augmented lashes. They snagged me like magnets.

Something jolted through me — a lightning strike, a sudden storm, some personal earthquake. The floor dropped out from under my chair and I found myself suspended in space. My breath caught in my throat and perspiration soaked the armpits of my gray wool sweater. I'd been chilly before — we tried to stretch our donor's generosity as far as possible — but now I burned. I couldn't tear myself away from her gaze, though I knew I'd been staring far too long.

**** 

Magnolia could easily be one of Rosie’s guests.

Please be sure to leave a comment. Every one helps women in need.

And I hope you will visit the other bloggers joining today’s Charity Sunday blog hop. You’ll find links to their posts below.

Thank you!

Charity Sunday: True Colors Fund #lgbtq #homelessness #CharitySunday

Welcome to my December Charity Sunday! In case this is your first visit—once a month I devote my Sunday blog post to some worthy cause that needs support. I talk a bit about the charity, then share an excerpt from one of my books. Then I encourage everyone I can think of to come by and comment.

For every comment I receive, I donate one dollar to the month’s selected charity.

Doing a good deed doesn’t cost you anything but a bit of your time.

I was torn about what charity to choose this Sunday. The holiday season always makes me grateful for having a warm, comfortable, secure home. What could be more awful than being on the streets at this festive time? So I was thinking that I wanted to select a charity that’s working to combat homelessness.

At the same time, I felt like celebrating the recent Australian law legalizing same-sex marriage, by highlighting a charity working for LGBTQ rights.

I managed to find a cause that combines these issues. True Colors Fund (https://truecolorsfund.org/) is a charity co-founded by singer Cyndi Lauper to help address the problem of homelessness among LGBTQ teens. Although youth identifying as LGBTQ make up only 7% of the overall population, they constitute more than 40% of the homeless teens in America. Often these kids are forced out of their homes by families who can’t handle their alternative sexuality. Once they’re on the street, LGBTQ teens are even more vulnerable to violence, sexual exploitation and mental health issues. 

 

True Colors Fund works through advocacy, education, and youth collaboration to raise awareness of this problem and develop leadership and self-sufficiency among LGBTQ youth. During this season of sharing, I hope and pray that every person has a safe, loving home—no matter who they are.

For my excerpt, I’ve got a bit from my short holiday romance Slush, which happens to feature a homeless heroine who’s camped out in a chilly garage. Read and (I hope!) enjoy!

And as special holiday gift, I’ll send a free PDF copy of Slush to any commenter who includes his or her email address! (In addition to donating to True Colors, of course!)

Happy Holidays!

An odd sense of well-being stole over him as he propped himself against the wall, watching Daisy move around her rudimentary shelter. Her every gesture had an economical grace. With her back to him, she busied herself at a makeshift counter of planks and cinder blocks along the opposite wall. He caught the snap of a match, the chemical odor of Sterno. Her blond tresses were a shower of gold, illuminated by the single dusty bulb in the ceiling, When she stood on tiptoe to grab something off a shelf near the ceiling, her pert buttocks flexed under the red long johns. Ian mentally scolded himself as his cock twitched and filled. But what could he do? She was, quite simply, enchanting.

A heavenly aroma filled the space. Ian’s stomach rumbled. “Oh my God, that smells delicious! What is it?”

Daisy smiled over her shoulder. “Just Campbell’s tomato soup. About all I can afford these days. You want some?”

“Is there enough?” He felt so guilty, craving her meager supplies.

“Sure. I’ve got some crackers, too.”

She brought him a steaming bowl and a bent, stamped metal spoon. “Careful, it’s hot.” She scattered cellophane-wrapped two-packs of saltines over the blanket. “Help yourself. It’s easy to filch more from work.”

“You have a job?” He dipped his spoon into the soup then blew on the hot surface. The smell reminded him of his childhood. His mom used to make tomato soup when he came in from playing in the snow.

“Sure. What’d you think, I was some kind of bum? At Donut Heaven, down on Huntington Ave. Only part time, and not even minimum wage, but I get a free uniform, lunch if I don’t have a split shift, and all the day-old doughnuts I can eat. Unfortunately, they make awful doughnuts.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “But it’s a lot better than nothing!”

Seating herself cross-legged on the mattress beside him, she tucked into her soup with the single-minded intensity of someone who was famished. “I was off today, though,” she added, as if in explanation.

For a while, they savored their soup in silence. What a mystery she was – beautiful, kind, self-sufficient, living on the streets, or nearly. What was her story?

“Been homeless for nearly six months now.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if he’d asked the question aloud. “Came here last spring from West Virginia with my boyfriend Hank. Hank had folks here, an uncle who swore he’d get us good paying jobs in the hospitality industry. Turns out the uncle ran a so-called strip club up on Route 1. He’d paid Hank to bring me up here. Once I saw how things were, I ditched Hank and set out on my own.”

“That was brave. Why didn’t you go back to West Virginia?”

She set down her empty bowl. “Honestly? Weren’t much down there for me either, unless I wanted to marry some jerk and pop out kids. No, I figured I’d have a better chance here in the city. I didn’t realize how hard it would be, not knowing anyone. I was willing to do pretty much any kind of legal work, but with economy in the toilet and the cost of living...”

Her head bowed, her hair falling over her face. For the first time Ian heard weariness in her voice. How could he begin to understand what this girl had been through? He’d never lacked for anything – at least not anything material.

He reached out, stroking her golden locks. He couldn’t help himself. Her hair was as silky as it looked. Daisy glanced up at him through the blond curtain, her smile returning.

“How’s your head?” she asked, the brightness in her voice almost believable.

“Much better.” He allowed his hand to drift to her shoulder and down her arm. She trembled when his fingertips brushed her bare skin. “Thanks to you.” He squeezed her tiny hand in his larger one. “You’re my Christmas angel, Daisy.”

Don’t forget to leave a comment! Every one means more resources for homeless LGBTQ youth. And include your email address if you want a free copy of my story!

Charity Sunday 2: Rosie's Place (#CharitySunday #donation #homelessness)

Welcome to my second Charity Sunday. In case you missed the debut of this feature lastmonth, it works like this. On the second Sunday of each month, I devote my blog to a specific charity or cause. I’ll talk a bit about the charity I’m supporting, plus give you links to find out more. Then I’ll give you a sexy excerpt. (I am, after all, an erotic author!) You’re invited to comment on the excerpt or the post.

For every comment I receive, I will donate one dollar to the specified charity.

This month, I’m supporting Rosie’s Place, a women’s shelter and helping community in Boston, Massachusetts. I’ve been a Rosie’s Place donor for nearly three decades. They’re a hands-on demonstration of the power of love and respect in action. 
 

Rosie's Place was founded in 1974 as the first women’s shelter in the United States. Their mission is to provide a safe and nurturing environment that helps poor and homeless women maintain their dignity, seek opportunity and find security in their lives.

Today, Rosie’s Place not only provides meals and shelter but also creates answers for 12,000 women a year through wide-ranging support, housing and education services. Rosie’s Place relies solely on the generous support of individuals, foundations and corporations and does not accept any city, state or federal funding. Thanks to these donations, 88 cents of every dollar raised goes directly to services for poor and homeless women.

There’s so much I love about Rosie’s Place: their deep personal commitment to women of all ages and ethnic backgrounds; their understanding that helping women means helping their kids, too; their creative programs to build skills and self-respect, as well as to raise money; their recognition that each woman has her own story and her own path, with no “one size fits all”.

I’ve never been homeless, but one of my good friends from university spent months on the street. Although she was a brilliant young woman who’d been accepted by an Ivy League school, she had a psychiatric condition that required regular medication. If she went off her meds, she started acting truly crazy. That was the genesis of her homeless period. For some reason, I really identified with her situation. I guess I realized we’re all susceptible to bad luck.

I’ve written a couple of stories featuring homeless characters, and have several more roughed out in my notebook. Here’s a bit from my holiday story Slush, a holiday romance which is currently free as part of Smashwords Summer Sale.

“You say you found me near a fancy car? A silver Beemer?”

The kid pulled off his mittens to warm his fingers over the flames. “Sorry – I wouldn’t know. I really didn’t notice. I was busy trying to get you into my cart.”

Ian patted the pockets of his fleece-lined leather coat, then shrugged it off his shoulders. Finally the place was starting to warm up. “Did you find my keys?” He rifled the pockets of his soaked trousers, with increasing urgency as he discovered every one was empty. “Where’s my phone? My wallet?”

The youth looked up, face rosy from the fire. “The muggers probably took ‘em. Anyone can see you’ve got plenty of dough.”

Panic seized Ian by the throat. His iPhone, his Cartier watch, his Hermes wallet, all gone. No money. No credit cards. No way to communicate with the outside world. “How – how do I know you didn’t steal them?” He lunged toward the figure near the fire, sure he could shake his belongings out of those rags.

That stare, stripping him to the bone. That laugh again, like a crystal bell ringing in the cramped, stuffy ex-garage. “Come on! If it was me who ripped you off, why would I bring you back to my place?”

Drained by his sudden exertion, Ian collapsed back onto the lumpy mattress. “Ah – um – of course you’re right. Sorry. Thank you. I do appreciate your help, really I do. I’m just tired, and disoriented, and so thirsty...”

The kid retrieved a chipped mug from one of the crates piled up against the wall, filled it from a spigot above them, and handed it to Ian. “Here you go.”

Ian sniffed at the liquid before he took a sip. It smelled a bit musty, but he needed it too badly to care.

“I managed to score some aspirin today, too. Think you could use it more than me.”

His host popped two white tablets into Ian’s palm. He peered down at them, dazed.

“By Jesus! You think I’m gonna poison you?”

“No, no, of course not.” He washed the medicine down with more of the water. Somehow he felt better already. “You’re very kind.”

The young man shrugged once more. “Anyone would do the same.”

Not me. If I saw you lying in the gutter, I wouldn’t look twice.

The thought gave him more pain than the throbbing lump at the back of his head. Was it really true?

“Lie down. Rest. You hungry?”

Ian interrogated his battered body. “Um – no, I don’t think so.”

“Well I am. Gotta get out of some of these clothes first, though. It’s getting pretty toasty in here.”

The kid yanked off his woolen cap. Ian gasped as masses of fine golden hair spilled down over those narrow shoulders.

“You – you’re a woman!”

“Yeah – you didn’t know?” Her peals of laughter made him blush with embarrassment. Rage simmered underneath. No doubt she thought him a fool. It was so obvious now – the slender body swaddled in second hand sweaters, the little hands, the delicate features and fair complexion... But who would have expected to find such a pretty girl in a place like this?

“I’m sorry,” she said, gulping air in an attempt to smother her hilarity. “I sometimes forget. I’m not exactly a glamor queen these days.” She gestured at her raggedy clothing. “You don’t mind if I take some of this off, do you?”

Stunned, Ian shook his head. She peeled off a stretched out hoodie, two sweaters and a flannel shirt. After prying off her sneakers, she shed her baggy dungarees. Now she wore nothing but off-white athletic socks, a grass-green tee shirt and the scarlet long johns. Both of the latter clung to her willowy form, making it quite clear there was nothing underneath.

Despite his exhaustion and the pain in his head, Ian’s cock stirred inside his damp, hand-tailored trousers. You bastard, he thought. She saves your life, probably, and all you can think of is fucking her.

She didn’t notice. She was surveying her own petite body, the green top and red bottoms. “Wow,” she chuckled. “I look really Christmassy, don’t I?”

Her merriment was infectious. “All you need is a pointy cap and you could be one of Santa’s elves,” he told her.

Her face lit up with delight. “Thanks. I’m Daisy, by the way. Should have introduced myself before and spared you the shock.”

“That’s okay. My name’s Ian.”

She fixed him with one of those direct stares. Her eyes were gray, he noticed, not the cornflower blue he would have expected given her hair.

“Maybe you should take off your own wet things, Ian. Wouldn’t want you to catch pneumonia, or anything – after all the work of dragging you back here!”

~~~

Head over to Smashwords and get your own copy of Slush, absolutely free. Before you go, though, I hope you’ll leave me a comment. Remember, I’ll donate one dollar to Rosie’s Place for every comment I receive. I hope you will help me spread the word, too.

Help a fellow author facing homelessness (#ASMSG #donate #MFRWAuthor )

[This is a repost from my colleague Barb Caffrey Please offer what help you can! ~ Lisabet] 


Folks, one of the reasons I’ve been cagey for months here at my blog is because I’ve been enduring hardship. I can’t go into that many details as most of them are not mine to tell; all I can tell you is that in seven days, I am going to lose my home. And I need immediate help to relocate, get set back up on my feet, and to continue to create — because my goodness, CHANGING FACES is due shortly.

All of this upheaval is not conducive to creativity, to put it mildly. But I need somehow to get it done anyway.

Of course, I don’t know how I get all this done. Right now, I feel overwhelmed, overmatched, and extremely frustrated. I have tried very hard in my current situation to make everything right, and yet I could not do it.

I’m hamstrung in many ways trying to explain what’s going on right now. It’s a crisis situation. In seven days, the place I’m living will be sold…and I can do nothing whatsoever about it.

That much, I think I can say.

As anyone who regularly reads my blog knows, my health isn’t tiptop. I manage a number of health conditions, including carpal tunnel syndrome, asthma, allergies, and at least six others. I also must bring along with me my thirteen-year-old dog Trouble, as he’s my true friend and I refuse to leave him behind…he’s not always the best-behaved dog (thus his name), but I love him, and he loves me.

Anyway, I’ve set up a Patreon page. I’m asking for $4400 for help in relocating; this is a three-month projection of what I will need. Over time, I figure I’ll need about $1200 a month to live as my needs are small…an internet connection, a safe space to work, write, and edit, a good place for Trouble to take a walk perhaps…some serenity, because I surely don’t have any right now.

At Patreon, people offer things in exchange for support called “rewards” — I assume so we artists, writers, and creators don’t have to feel bad about asking for help. I’ve offered four things: “Trouble with Elfs” for anyone who helps me; if you pledge $5 per month, the reward is Michael’s original versions of “Columba and the Committee;” if you pledge $10 per month, the rewards is Michael’s original version of “Columba and the Crossing;” if you pledge $25 per month, I’ll send you the original version of Michael’s novel MAVERICK, LIEUTENANT…I don’t think he’d mind.

I intend to keep on writing, keep on creating, keep on doing the best I possibly can. But what I’m faced with right now is a disaster…I need to keep mind, body and soul together while I figure out what my next move is.

I implore you, please help me to do just that. Go to my Patreon page. Anything will help.


I’d also appreciate your prayers, good thoughts, warm wishes, and any job leads you think may be beneficial. I am an excellent editor with references; I am a solid writer who tells entertaining stories; I know how to research, to do administrative work, understand most computers to a certain extent…I’m hard-working, dedicated, resourceful, and persistent.

Thank you for reading, and I wish I hadn’t had to write this whatsoever.

Confession: I Broke Writing Rule #1 and I’m Not Sorry

By N.N. Light (Guest Blogger)

I admit it, guilty as charged. My name is N. N. Light and I broke the first rule in writing: never ever write about yourself or real life in a novel. The truth is I am happy I did both and here is why. I was inspired to write Princess of the Light through a chance encounter.

I first got the idea for my book one chilly morning back in 2012. It was a cold wintry morning and I was walking to the grocery store. I happened to look across the street and what I saw made me stop in my tracks. A homeless man was sitting on a curb next to the gas station. He wasn't holding a sign or asking for money. His eyes were closed and his head was uplifted to the sky. There was such a contented and happy look in his weathered face. It took my breath away.

I wondered to myself how he got to be homeless and if there was some way I could help him. I continued on with my day but my thoughts were filled with him and his plight. Could I help him? Who is he?

As the days and months passed, I saw him every day. He kept to himself and never begged for money. He walked. Yes, he walked the length of the town. Every time I saw him, I nodded and said good morning. The simple act of kindness didn't seem like a big deal to me but to him, it was as if I had given him the sun. I started leaving food and clothing for him. The more kindness I showed, the happier he appeared.

I knew in my heart it was my calling to tell his story. He isn't some nameless face; he's someone's son, brother, grandson, uncle, father, husband, and/or friend. If I had the power, I would be his protector and free him from the darkness keeping him prisoner. He would no longer be the forgotten man.

I made a promise to myself to donate part of the proceeds to food banks if my book got published. I am keeping my promise and through my marketing, people are donating to food banks on their own.

My motto for my book and for my life is spread the Light. It doesn't matter to me what your spiritual beliefs are for everyone has the Light inside them. Spreading the Light comes in many forms but it starts with being kind.

I also wrote about myself. Gasp! I know you’re in shock and hoping I brought smelling salts. Stick with me for a moment and let me explain. The romantic story between Mary and Joe is simply based on my own love story.

I met MR N back in 2001. We actually met online in a Buffy the Vampire Slayer yahoo group and hit it off right away. We both adore Buffy and it was one of many things we had in common. We started out as friends but soon it blossomed into love. Through some uphill battles and insecurities on my part, I broke his heart not once but twice. It pains me to admit it but the second time I was truly cruel.

I thought it was over and I had moved on. I joined another Buffy yahoo group in 2003 and as fate would have it, MR N was there. He and I got to talking one night off-list. I asked for forgiveness and he granted it. We took it turtle-slow and before I knew what happened, I was in love with him. I mean, true love (the hills are alive with the sound of music) and my walls came tumbling down.

Long story short, I moved up north and married him in 2004. This past July, we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Every day, I thank my lucky stars he forgave me and loves me unconditionally. This is my love story and every time I tell it (or MR N tells it), people swoon and say how utterly romantic it is. So I incorporated our love story into Princess of the Light. 
 

Blurb

Gabriel, the Archangel and Messenger of God - yeah that Gabriel - visited Mary Miller. He told her, as the key she is destined to spread the Light and vanquish the Darkness. Her first assignment is to restore the soul the Walking Man. Sounds simple enough until she’s thrown in the face of evil, and then Joe Deacons enters her heart. This battle just got a lot more complicated. She must complete her mission without losing all she loves.

Excerpt
 

Here is an excerpt from the scene where Mary and Joe meet:

The Information Counter sign was to the left just through the doors. No one was at the desk at the moment, but there was a woman wearing a red suit over by the periodicals. She looked a little over average height, but I noticed she was wearing heels. She had thick, long, dark red hair that encircled her face and flowed past her shoulders.

She was stunning.

I hoped she worked here not only so I had a reason to talk to her, but also so that I could get my books without having to do too much unnecessary leg work. That nap was still calling my name.

As I approached, I noticed that she barely wore any make-up at all. Her fair skin looked like it had been touched by the sun recently, too. She glanced up from the newspapers she was replacing from yesterday. She had incredibly animated brown eyes that had an unusual light that seemed to emanate from within. Her nose was small, her lips were full, and her skin looked so soft...

“Can I help you with something, sir?” The woman’s voice quivered slightly and she leaned a little, as if she suddenly needed the wall for support.

Whoa, I couldn’t help but think. I frankly felt like a moth to the flame. All I wanted to do was have a reason to get closer to her. The fact that her eyes seemed to shine with an actual light didn’t help matters. I had never felt such an automatic attraction before, and I wanted to lean closer and see what was going on with her eyes.

She was either looking at me like I was the only man in the world--and quite possibly the sexiest one--or else my open gawking had freaked her out. Either way, I couldn’t have told her which it was, because my mouth felt like a cotton ball container.

“Yes,” I managed to rasp to her. “Where is your Architecture section?”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Yes. You, I wanted to say. “I could look to see if it is in stock.” Oh. Are there more of you somewhere?

The sound of her voice was starting to make my heart pound.

She had an earthly beauty about her. There was nothing extraordinary in her features, yet something about her just seemed to glow.

I felt my breath quicken. Joe, what’s the matter with you? Get a grip. You’ve seen girls before.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts without worrying what I looked like and said, “Please forgive my manners, but what is your name?”

“Mary.” That just became my favorite name.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said as I extended my hand to her. “I’m Joseph. Please call me Joe.”

She hesitated for a moment before she shook my hand. Electricity bolted up my arm that I wasn’t prepared for. I wondered if she could hear my heart beating. Pretty sure these emotions weren’t winning me any bro-code points.

Her face was flushed and her eyes brightened with interest. Let go of her hand, Joe, I tried to coach myself. If I didn’t let go of soon, I might never be able to.

So I quickly let go of her hand but immediately regretted it. The whole room suddenly seemed cold and empty.

She probably thinks you’re some kind of wacko. Stop staring. You’re a logical guy... Be reasonable here. Besides, she’s probably married. I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to remember what we were just talking about. I looked up to see her glance towards the entrance. If she asked me to leave, I wouldn’t blame her.

I tried to act composed, while I glanced down at her left hand. I didn’t see a ring, so I cleared my throat and tried to act like a reasonable man again.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mary.” Even to me, my voice sounded unnaturally thick and hoarse. I cleared my throat and looked back at her.

“Yes, it’s great to meet you, Joe. Let me show you where the section is.” She turned and simply pointed to the far left corner of the store.

Just when I thought she was through with me completely, she motioned for me to follow her.

As she led me to the back of the store, I tried to switch off my desire and concentrate on the task at hand. Focus, Joe! Decorum! The inner jokes weren’t helping. They just wanted to make me giggle like a schoolboy, and I doubted that would help matters much.

****

Sometimes breaking the rules is needed to tell a really great story. I hope you will see how weaving real life with fantasy makes for an irresistible book. More writers should rebel like me and add dashes of real life into their stories.

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October Contest

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Author Bio

N. N. Light was born in Minnesota, lived in Southern California only to move to chilly Ontario, Canada to marry her beloved husband MR N. She is blissfully happy and loves all things chocolate, books, music, movies, art, sports and baking. Most of the time you can find her on Twitter or getting new ideas on how to spread the Light on Pinterest.

Part of the proceeds of Princess of the Light will go directly to food banks in order to feed the hungry and help those in need. With only 7,500 books sold, N. N. Light will be able to set up a monthly endowment for the local food bank.

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I wanted to thank Lisabet for having me on her blog today. You are so gracious and I am forever thankful!

Happy Reading!