Merry Christmas to all!

I do love this time of year! We have lived in a Winter Wonderland all month, since a heavy snowfall in November was closely followed by freezing rain that "glued" the snow to the tree branches. Every snowfall since just rests on top of this frozen base coat. Not so fun for the poor trees, with their heavy boughs weighted nearly to the ground, but ever so beautiful for us to enjoy!

I had an oncology check-up this past week and got the "all-clear," both for cancer and for pneumonia. My four fractured ribs are healing nicely--I feel only a few twinges now and then. (No exuberant hugs, please!) I am enjoying renewed energy and a heightened appreciation for good health. Yay!

Sorry for the silence on my blog! I am in the midst of intensive rewrites to my rewrites, and this time I believe the story is finally becoming what it is meant to be. Once I turn in the manuscript, I intend to explain my learning process in all its lumpy, ugly detail. Heh. And I have some fun blog posts in mind about research and inspiration.

But for the present, my writing time is dedicated to the book itself, and all the fun peripherals like blogs must wait another week or two. Much as I love writing this book, I look forward to having a bit more time for other creative endeavors!

Plus, when I am finished I get to read through the next Goldstone Wood novel. Yes indeed, I am soooo lucky!

Cover Reveal: Until That Distant Day

I can hardly believe this day is here! I'm so excited to share with you the cover of my upcoming novel. I've had several of my old stories repackaged in recent years, but it's been a long time since I've had a new book published. And I've never before taken part in a cover reveal!

So without further delay, may I present the cover of Until That Distant Day:

Paris, France

1792

Colette DeMer and her brother Pascoe are two sides of the same coin, dependent upon one another in the tumultuous world of the new Republic. Together they labor with other leaders of the sans-culottes to ensure freedom for all the downtrodden men and women of France.

But then the popular uprisings turn bloody and the rhetoric proves false. Suddenly, Colette finds herself at odds with Pascoe and struggling to unite her fractured family against the lure of violence. Charged with protecting an innocent young woman and desperately afraid of losing one of her beloved brothers, Colette doesn’t know where to turn or whom to trust as the bloodshed creeps ever closer to home.

Until that distant day when peace returns to France, can she find the strength to defend her loved ones . . . even from one another?

Coming April 25, 2014

_____________________

This is easily the prettiest book cover I've ever had! I just love it.

And here is an excerpt from the story . . .

Opening of Chapter 1

I was born believing that the world was unfair and that I was the person to make it right.

One of my earliest memories is of Papa setting me atop a nail keg in the forge; I could not have been older than two at the time.

“Colette, give Papa a kiss,” he said, tapping his cheek.

“Why?”

“Come and sit on my knee.”

“Why?”

My response to every order was the same, asked with genuine curiosity. I did not understand why his watching friends chuckled. Why should I press my lips to Papa’s sweaty, prickly cheek? Why should I hop down from the keg, where he had just placed me, and run to sit on his knee, a most uncomfortable perch? I felt justified in requesting a reason for each abrupt order, yet he never bothered to give me one.

Mama, when thus questioned, provided an answer in the form of a sharp swat. This I could respect as definitive authority, although the reasoning behind it remained dubious.

My little brother Pascoe was born believing that the world was his to command. As soon as he acquired his first vocabulary word, “No,” he and I joined ranks in defiance of established authority.

Many impediments cluttered the path of destiny in those early years: parents, thirteen other siblings, physical ailments, and educational difficulties. And as we grew into adulthood, more serious matters intervened, even parting us for a time. But I will speak more of that later. For now, let me assure you that, no matter the obstacles thrown in our way, our sibling bond seemed indissoluble; the love between us remained unaffected by any outside relationship.

Pascoe and I were young adults when revolutionaries in Paris threw aside the tyranny of centuries and established a new government based on the Rights of Man. From the seclusion of our little village in Normandy we rejoiced over each battle fought and won; and when our local physician, Doctor Hilliard, who had first mentored then employed Pascoe for several years, was elected as deputy to the National Assembly from our district, a whole new world opened at our feet.

My story truly begins on a certain day in the spring of 1792, in the little domain I had made for myself in the kitchen at the back of Doctor Hilliard’s Paris house. Perhaps it wasn’t truly my domain, for it did not belong to me. I was merely the doctor’s housekeeper and could lay no real claim. Nevertheless, the kitchen was more mine than anything had ever been, and I loved that small, dark room; especially during the hours when sunlight slanted through the bubbled-glass kitchen windows, making bright, swirling shapes on the whitewashed walls, or each evening when I arranged my latest culinary creation on a platter and left it in the warming oven for the doctor to discover whenever he arrived home. That kitchen was my home. Not the home I had grown up in, but the home I had always craved.

On that particular day, however, it did not feel the safe haven I had always believed it to be. Loud voices drifted down from the upper floor where the doctor and Pascoe were in conference, disturbing my calm. When I closed the connecting door to the dining room, the angry voices drifted in through the open kitchen windows. I couldn’t close the windows; I might smother of heat. Yet I needed to block out the sound, to make it stop.

So I slipped a filet of sole into a greased skillet and let it brown until golden on both sides. The hiss and sizzle did not quite cover the shouting, but it helped. Then I slid the fish onto a waiting plate lined with sautéed vegetables fresh from my kitchen garden; and I topped all with an herbed wine-and-butter sauce. A grind of fresh pepper finished off my creation.

But my hands were still trembling, and I felt as if something inside me might fall to pieces.

Pascoe often shouted. Shouting was part of his fiery nature, a normal event. He shouted when he gave speeches at section meetings. He shouted about overcooked meals or inferior wines. He shouted when his lace jabot refused to fall into perfect folds.

But never before had I heard Doctor Hilliard raise his voice in anger.

Doctor Hilliard was never angry. Doctor Hilliard never displayed emotion. At most, he might indicate approval by the glance of a benevolent eye or disapprobation by the merest lift of a brow. Yet there could be no mistaking the two furious voices overhead. I well knew Pascoe’s sharp tenor with its sarcastic edge; but now I also heard the doctor’s resonant voice crackling with fury.

I managed to slide the hot plate into the warmer alongside a crusty loaf of bread and closed the door, using a doubled towel to protect my shaking hands.

Behind me the connecting door was flung open, and Pascoe burst in as I spun to face him. “Gather your things; we are leaving,” he growled. His eyes blazed in his pale face, and the jut of his jaw allowed for no questions. He clapped his tall hat on his head as he passed through the room.

I donned my bonnet and sabots and picked up my parasol. “What has happened?” I asked just above a whisper.

“I’ll tell you once we are away from this house.” His lips snapped tight. His chest heaved with emotion, and he grasped a portfolio so tightly that his fingers looked white.

I could not recall the last time I had seen my brother in such a rage.

___________________________________

BLOG BUTTON:

Anne Elisabeth, my daughter and publicist, has created a blog button for my novel. Please feel free to share it on your blog and help me spread the word!

Blog Button Link

BOOK PAGE

And this book has its very own blog page! Here is its address, where you can learn more about 

Until That Distant Day and my other books: http://untilthatdistantdaynovel.blogspot.com/

GIVEAWAY!!

I am also delighted to offer a bundle prize of ten print novels and novellas, including my award-winning Faithful Traitor, several novella collections, and my three-book Longtree series. These will all be autographed! (US and Canada only, please.)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If you would like to visit other hosts of this cover reveal, Anne Elisabeth is posting a list of them on her blog at: anneelisabethstengl.blogspot.com 

Thank you so much for joining me today and sharing in the fun! 

GODDESS TITHE Release Day

I can hardly believe this day is finally here!! For the next three days Goddess Tithe will be available for .99 on Kindle and Smashwords! What a deal. :0)

A beautiful tale of high adventure, courage, honor, and sacrifice, Goddess Tithe will keep you riveted until the last page is turned. I am particularly fond of the illustrations--they add extra life and amusement to the tale of Munny, Leonard the Jester, Captain Sunan, Tu Pich, and the dreadful monster Risafeth.

I'm sorry I've been so quiet here on my blog lately. I came down with pneumonia/pleurisy one month ago today, and I do believe I lost October and half of November somewhere. But although I am still coughing and still sound pretty hoarse, I am feeling better by the day. Yay!

Sunnyside

I hereby present chilling evidence of an overactive imagination. For those curious, I grew up in Long Beach, CA.

Sunnyside Mortuary was the scariest place in the world.

And Joanie knew that her mom would drive through it on their way home from the school Halloween party that night. The road home passed directly through the City of the Dead, as Joanie’s dad said it was often called when he was a boy. Acres of graves, many dating from the 1800's, spread nearly to the horizon on either side of the road; and at the end, O! At the end was . . . the Haunted Tower.

“Mom, could we take a different way home tonight?” Joanie asked as she climbed into her family’s ancient station wagon. A gust of wind caught her headdress and flipped her fabric ears into her eyes just as the door closed.

“Why would we do that?” Mom asked, turning the key. The engine started with a screech of complaint but settled into its usual ratchety rumble.

“I don’t like driving through the cemetery on Halloween,” Joanie admitted. “It’s creepy.”

Mom rolled her eyes, pulled out of the parking lot, and entered the flow of traffic. “After herding wild children all evening, I’m taking the shortest way home. No more of your silliness tonight.”

Joanie slumped into her seat, wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to think like a grown-up.

Dad said Sunnyside Mortuary was an architectural work of art in the Spanish style. It had been built long ago out of genuine marble and granite, and it boasted magnificent stained-glass windows, a pipe organ, and a huge pendulum that ticked away the time. A three-tiered tower topped this glorious edifice, a landmark of the city.

And it had dead people buried in its walls.

To Joanie, the dark windows high in that ornate tower seemed to leer down at passersby, as if attempting to lure them inside to be swallowed up in its walls. When she was little she used to hide her eyes whenever the road led past Sunnyside, but more recently she had decided to keep both eyes on it. That way, nothing it did could take her unawares.

Mom stopped at a light and sighed, pushing hair back from her forehead. “Did you enjoy the party?” she asked.

“It was fine,” Joanie said mechanically. One more signal, and then . . . But Mom would drive fast, and soon the horror would be behind them, lost in the windy darkness.

Some of Dad’s relatives were buried at Sunnyside. Almost exactly a year ago, Joanie had attended her great aunt’s funeral. To her profound relief, the service had been held in a church, not at the Haunted Mausoleum, yet to this day Joanie could not forget how Aunt Agnes had looked, lying there in the coffin.

Aunt Agnes had scared Joanie when she was alive. The old lady wore dresses that hung like sacks on her bulgy frame, her thinning hair was dyed orange, and she teetered around on high-heeled pumps. When it came to her thick red lipstick, Aunt Agnes didn’t care about coloring inside the lines; and her eyes were wide and staring, like windows. She would grab Joanie by the arm, haul her close so she couldn’t escape, and talk right in her face.

When she was dead, the lipstick hadn’t made her look any better.

On the next block, Joanie saw groups of trick-or-treaters walking along the sidewalk, carrying pillowcases to catch the candy. The wind blew their costumes around and picked up discarded candy wrappers. One tall skeleton glowed faintly greenish beneath the streetlamps. It turned to watch the station wagon pass, and Joanie shivered at sight of those empty eye holes.

The car turned onto The Street. Soon the mortuary would appear. At night, lights shone up at the Haunted Tower from the outside, making its windows appear blacker than ever against the livid stucco. 

On the sidewalk outside the fence Joanie saw a thick figure tottering along on high heels. It looked like an old woman from behind, but it could have been a trick-or-treater. Except, why would she be alone?

Joanie hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes peeled for that tower. The black iron fence around the cemetery flickered past. Then against the black night appeared the tower’s face, ghastly white above treetops tossing in the wind. Joanie gulped but set her jaw. Only a minute more and the City of the Dead would shrink away in the rearview mirrors.

The station wagon made a groaning noise, and steam starting pouring from beneath its hood. “Oh no!” Joanie’s mother cried. “Not again! Stupid, worthless car.”

The engine sputtered out, and Mom had to steer the gasping car to the side of the road. A long black hearse purred past, ran a yellow light, and vanished into the night.

No other living soul was in sight.

Joanie slowly leaned forward and looked up. Those dark windows peered down with avid interest. “It is watching us, Mom,” she said. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her mouth was too dry to swallow.

“Joanie, I said that’s enough! What do you want to do, scare me silly?” Mom buttoned her coat and gave her daughter a warning look. “You stay here. I’ll be right back. We’ll probably have to walk to a gas station.”

Even though she wouldn’t begin to know how to fix anything wrong with the engine, Joanie’s mother climbed out and opened the car’s hood. Steam poured out on either side, whipped into swirls by the gusting wind. Joanie took another look at the tower, now wreathed in glowing mist. It looked larger, closer.

With the hood up, Joanie couldn’t see her mother through the windshield. The Haunted Tower was her only companion. Panic gripped her throat, and she breathed in short gasps. More than willing to risk Mom’s anger, she fumbled for the door handle and scrambled out, her costume whipping in the wind. The door squealed when she slammed it shut. Knees trembling, she walked around to the front of the car. Her mother wasn’t there.

Hard, icy fingers grabbed hold of her arm and spun her around.

Avoiding Gimmicks

While working on rewrites of my upcoming novel, I've necessarily been thinking on a deeper level than usual. (If you smell something burning, it's probably my rusty brain gears.)

Why? Because this book is a historical, and my goals are: 1) to present historical events as they occurred through the viewpoint of one fictional character 2) to write characters that think and behave like real people, not like my idealized versions of real people. The French Revolution is not easily explained, and its events are anything but romantic.

My previous published books have all been genre romance. Is this necessarily a bad thing? No. But the romance genre is limited in its scope, and most of my 16 books and stories are quite simplistic. The extreme focus on romance can usually distract a reader from lack of actual plot and/or character development, and I often resorted to gimmicks to bring events about rather than building solid plots or characters. The fact that such gimmicks are widely accepted in the CBA-romance world doesn't make them good writing.

They make for trite, one-book-is-just-like-another writing. But what did it matter? I fulfilled my contracts and even won or placed in several major awards.

And I totally burned out on writing romance books. Any attempts to write a longer, more meaty novel crashed and burned--mainly because I did not actually know how to write a novel.

So who has been teaching me how to write? You guessed it: my daughter. Was it humbling for me, a multi-award-winning author, to be schooled by my daughter? You bet.

Was it good for me? Absolutely! I am a slow learner, but I think I did eventually catch on, and I am even starting to recognize and eliminate gimmicks from my own work. My editor can be counted to point out any I have overlooked, once she eventually gets her hands on the manuscript--and I sincerely hope she gets tough with me. Unlearning bad tricks gets harder with age, I think.

But the results are well worth it. :-)

Title Reveal!!!

I am so excited to reveal the title of my first new novel since 2007!! 

Are you a blogger? Any bloggers interested in joining the Cover Reveal blast scheduled for November 27, please contact my daughter, Anne Elisabeth Stengl, at aestengl@gmail.com .

And please feel free to borrow this banner and share it around! Thanks for sharing the fun with me.

Foggy Days

I look to my right out the window and see silvery fog draping the trees along our driveway, which are starting to turn some lovely colors. This time of year always brings me feelings of nostalgia, sometimes a little sad, but mostly happy.

Fog is lovely on autumn scenery, but not so lovely inside my brain. Need to do a bit of fog-dispersion, here.

Mimi-cat perches atop her cat tree, gazing out at the same scene--but she is focused on chipmunks, not memories. Heh.

I wonder if chipmunk-hunting might improve my focus?

Myles says feeding-the-cats would do the trick. But he suggests this solution for every dilemma I face. He is another focused cat, purposeful and determined toward his ultimate goal.

Monte is meatloafing on the back of the sofa with his stripy tail curled around his feet. He looks content and a bit foggy-brained, himself. But he meets my gaze and blinks at me sweetly.

His spotty coat is back to feeling silky-soft and shiny, and he is actually putting on some plumpness--this is my cat that resembles a white cheetah, so plumpness is a welcome anomaly!

I wonder if I can rewrite/edit a chapter of my book before the official Feed-the-Cats hour? Focus, like Mimi on a chipmunk or Myles on tuna-dinner-in-a-can--that is my goal.

Do any of you readers have secrets for regaining focus on your work, whatever it may be? Please share!

How Mimas and Myles share the cat tree

Featuring Author Kim Vogel Sawyer

I am so excited today to share with you an interview with one of my dearest author friends, Kim Vogel Sawyer. Kim and I go back a ways—we were critique partners years ago, when she was a talented, hard-working, aspiring writer.

And look at her now: multi-award-winning, best-selling author of, like, a bazillion books! And still as lovely, sweet, and humble as when we first met.

Jill: Thank you so much for visiting my blog today, Kim! I think my readers would love to know a little about you, your family, your home, your background.

Kim: I am a life-long Kansas girl--more than a half-century in the Heartland! The Hubs, who is retired from the military, and I are empty-nesters with three adult daughters and TEN adorable-beyond-compare grandkiddos. We live in a 1905 railroad hotel to which we welcome guests (you can see our home at www.TheKingsInnBnB.com). I spent lots of years with kids as an elementary school teacher and now spend my days with the imaginary friends in my head. Both occupations have given me much joy and excitement.

Jill: Yes, your grandchildren truly are beautiful; I must agree! Your publication story is very inspiring. When did you first know that you wanted to be a writer, and how long did you wait before this dream came true?

Kim: Honestly...I told my kindergarten teacher that someday people would check out my book in the library. The desire to write truly was something “born” with me. I began writing seriously in the early 1980s. In 1992 I began submitting manuscripts. In 2002 I joined ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers), connected with a critique group which was EXTREMELY helpful (Jill, you will always be my hero!), and attended their conferences. In 2004 I signed with an agent I met through conference, and in 2005 I signed my first contract. My first novel released in June of 2006, and I just celebrated my 30th release. It has been a lengthy but very rewarding journey.

Jill: God has blessed all that determination and hard work in amazing ways! Kim, I love the background story of What Once Was Lost, your new release. Will you please share that story too?

Kim: Every summer, a group of writer friends and I get together to fellowship, brainstorm, and just be “writerly” together. We always take a day trip, and in 2011 we visited the Cottonwood Falls area of Kansas. As we were driving in the country, we came upon a huge rock barn and had to stop and explore. I found out the barn was all that remained of what once had been the country poor farm. The house burned down in 1945 and the facility closed. This got my writer-brain wondering...where did the people go? What had brought them to the poor farm in the first place? How did they survive such a sad event? Writing the story let me answer those questions.

The Poor Farm barn in Kansas

Jill: One of my favorite characters in this book is blind. Was writing his character a challenge for you?

Kim: Very much so! I am a visual person, and I tend to write from a very visual POV. I literally closed my eyes whenever I wrote from Tommy’s viewpoint and was shocked at how my other sense were heightened by “closing down” my sight.

Jill: Would you like to share anything else that is unique about this book?

Kim: I think readers might be surprised by the thread of suspense--I don’t believe I’ve really included that in any of my stories before. Something that really surprised me when I researched poor farms was that the residents were referred to as “inmates.” I don’t think that word has the same connotation today!

Jill: When I think of you, Kim, I think of purple (her favorite color) and of kitties. I love the way cats have a way of sneaking into Kim’s books and stealing a scene or two!

Kim: Our lives would be much less exciting without Sam, Maizie, Frances, and Clyde. Sam is our big bruiser and official door greeter--everyone who comes is EXPECTED to pet him. It’s a rule. Maizie is our princess-kitty. The world revolves around her. Just ask her. *ahem* Then Frances is the “mommy” of the group. She makes sure everyone’s ears are always clean. Finally, there is Clyde, my official writing “mews.” He is quite bashful but makes an absolutely purr-fect lap-warmer.

Frances and Clyde

Maizie (Amazing Grace)

Sam the Greeter

Jill: Love them! And sweet little Clyde has his own Facebook following (with Maizie as his competition for “the lap.” LOL) What are your favorite pastimes when you’re not writing, Kim?

Kim: I’ve always been a voracious reader and still enjoy escaping into a good book. I also love quilting, acting in community theatre when I can carve out the time, and of course spoiling my grandchildren. When the schedule allows, The Hubs and I love to hop in the car and visit someplace new.

Jill: I didn’t know you were a quilter. How fun! Now, I’m sure the aspiring writers among my readers would appreciate a helpful hint from you. Any advice you’d like to share?

Kim: DON’T QUIT. If God has planted this desire in your heart, there is a reason for it, so write, write, write. When we do what we’ve been called to do, we find fulfillment beyond description. On the practical side, BE TEACHABLE. Study craft books, read good fiction, attend conferences or workshops as your finances allow. Never stop growing and improving your craft--and by being teachable you will be an editor’s favorite author. :o)

Jill: Thank you so much for joining us today, Kim!! You are a blessing to me in so many ways, my prayer partner and faithful friend. I am honored to host this interview with you on my blog. Blessings!

Here is my review of What Once Was Lost, Kim's latest release:

I thoroughly enjoyed this story, a sweet historical romance set in Brambleville, KS. The heroine, Christina, was left in charge of a Poor Farm upon her father's death, and she gains her security and self-worth through this ministry. When the house catches fire one night, and she and all its residents must scatter to various homes in the community, her first desire is to have the house repaired and return her charges to their familiar home.
But events to not transpire the way Christina wishes. The mission board decides that she is not a proper administrator for the home, and her various charges begin to find new places to live and work.
One of these charges is a blind little boy who finds shelter with a grouchy and reclusive mill owner who happens to be extremely handsome and single . . .
Add in a mystery, a person who seems set on framing Christina for a crime, and a host of interesting side characters, and you have a charming story of love and redemption written in Kim Vogel Sawyer's inimitable style.

5 stars

Pick up your copy today!

Find What Once was Lost at Amazon, CBD, Barnes & Noble, or your nearest bookstore.

Kitten Cam!

How can it be Saturday again already?

I believe that time is speeding up. It cannot be merely my perception of it. Oh no.

I'm deep in the midst of rewrites. Overall, I like what I'm seeing, but there is definitely room for improvement!

~~

On a happy note . . . Monte is doing very well. He has been on antibiotics for a week now, and oh! what a difference it is making! Who knows how long the poor guy was hurting with a UTI, and I didn't know it?

Now he is happy, purry, and cuddly. :-)

I am attempting to type this post with Myles curled up in my lap. I like a challenge. He is not so pleased by his moving pillow (my arm).

~~~~

Want to see how I amuse myself between writing scenes (aka: waste time)?

Kitten Cam!!

I got addicted to watching Foster Dad John's litters of kittens back in December, starting with the Spice Kittens. Since then, I have watched the Aliens, Cosmonauts, Mythbusters, and now the Looney Tunes litters. John names the mamas and the kittens according to themes, you see.

This current family includes:
Hazel--patchy calico mama, who was an abandoned stray
Sylvester--mostly gray with white
Marvin--mostly white with gray spots, including a soul patch and emo fringe
Penelope--mostly white with calico patches
Taz--solid gray

I tend to check in on the kittens about once a day to catch up on their progress and get seriously attached. It is a great way to enjoy kittens without the expense and work! In another few weeks, they will all be spayed or neutered, and then adopted out to good homes through a rescue organization in WA state.

There is also a Facebook page with photos and updates: The Critter Room
And many of the former kittens and mamas have their own Facebook pages.

Enjoy!

Completed Draft, Lit Class, and my Sick Kitty

"Oh frabjous day, Callooh, Callay!"

I chortled in my glee. Because . . .

I finished my rough draft!!!

It has been seven years since the last time I could truthfully say those words. Seven years!!

Now to make it less rough. Which will take some doing. But once upon a time I enjoyed rewrites, so I shall roll up my sleeves and commence.

Soon. Must first take time to savor the moment. And brew a cup of tea.
~~

Monday begins my third year of teaching literature for our local home school co-op. I have only one class this time around, which will make life much easier. It is high school American Literature. We are beginning the class with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Yay! One of my students memorized "Paul Revere's Ride" for a speech class and has agreed to present it for the class Monday. How is that for a dashing start to the year?

And our first reading assignment is The Song of Hiawatha. All of it. I have read the first five chapters so far, and I am in awe. I think my students will enoy it, especially since we live in the land of the Big-Sea-Water and all the flora and fauna described here in beautifully poetic terms.

I love teaching because I learn so much!

~~

In other news, Monte is sick. My poor baby has been feeling poorly for weeks, which (avoiding graphic detail) involves decidedly unpleasant clean-up chores for his mum (that would be me). Today I rushed a sample to our vet, who is a family friend, and learned that my kitty-boy has a urinary tract infection or UTI. So now he is on two antibiotic pills a day and one prednisone every other day. I count it a great blessing that Mr. Pinky Nose (his nickname) is angelic about swallowing pills.

Whitefang Spot DeFuhr Montgomery turned twelve in April--hard to believe--so he is no youngster by any means, but I really want to keep him around to snuggle and inspire me for a few more years!

Monte the lap-warmer

We Begin (and probably will end) with Cats

As I sit here contemplating a blank page with my equally blank stare, Monte puts his paws on my arm and asks for a lap to sit in.

Like magic, inspiration strikes! This is the Internet; therefore, if my blog is to be successful, it must include cats.

Voila!

No room here. Move along.

Above we view the standard appearance of "my writing chair." It is actually the cat chair, although they allow me to use it once in awhile if I am very good. And if I leave the foot rest (cat rest) up when I retire to bed for the night.

Meet, clockwise from left: Mimas the Egyptian mau, Monte the ocicat, and Myles the Siamese.

And here is a portrait of Myles with his human background support:

Myles & Jill: drama & comedy

If I am very good, I might occasionally be allowed to mention my writings or thoughts connected with but not necessarily focused on the cats. I am, like all writers, at the mercy of my Mews.