I am especially pleased to introduce you to an author you may not know. I love her books, have read most of them and they not only tell a great story but have substance and depth. No way could you describe them as frothy and fluffy! My favourite is “The Seven Year Dress,” – once I picked it up I could not stop reading. Welcome Paulette, let’s start with a short bit about you.

paulette head shot

Paulette Mahurin lives with her husband Terry and two dogs, Max and Bella, in Ventura County, California. She grew up in West Los Angeles and attended UCLA, where she received a Master’s Degree in Science.

While in college, she won awards and was published for her short-story writing. One of these stories, Something Wonderful, was based on the couple presented in His Name Was Ben, which she expanded into this fictionalized novel in 2014. Her first novel, The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap, made it to Amazon bestseller lists and won awards, including best historical fiction of the year 2012 in Turning the Pages Magazine.

Semi-retired, she continues to work part-time as a Nurse Practitioner in Ventura County. When she’s not writing, she does pro-bono consultation work with women with cancer, works in the Westminster Free Clinic as a volunteer provider, volunteers as a mediator in the Ventura County Courthouse for small claims cases, and involves herself, along with her husband, in dog rescue.

Profits from her books go to help rescue dogs.

THE SEVEN YEAR DRESS FRONT COVER The Seven Year Dress KINDLE(1) copy 2 One of the darkest times in human history was the insane design and execution to rid the world of Jews and “undesirables.” At the hands of the powerful evil madman Adolf Hitler, families were ripped apart and millions were slaughtered. Persecution, torture, devastation, and enduring the unthinkable remained for those who lived. This is the story of one woman who lived to tell her story. This is a narrative of how a young beautiful teenager, Helen Stein, and her family were torn asunder, ultimately bringing her to Auschwitz. It was there she suffered heinous indignity at the hands of the SS. It was also there, in that death camp, she encountered compassion, selfless acts of kindness, and friendship. Written by the award-winning, best-selling author of His Name Was Ben, comes a story of the resilience of the human spirit that will leave you thinking about Helen Stein and The Seven Year Dress for years to come after the last page is shut.


A women’s Brokeback Mountain. The year 1895 was filled with memorable historical events: the Dreyfus Affair divided France; Booker T. Washington gave his Atlanta address; the United States expanded the effects of the Monroe Doctrine to cover South America; and Oscar Wilde was tried and convicted for gross indecency under Britain’s recently passed law that made sex between males a criminal offense. When news of Wilde’s conviction went out over telegraphs worldwide, it threw a small Nevada town into chaos. This is the story of what happened when the lives of its citizens were impacted by the news of Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment. It is a chronicle of hatred and prejudice with all its unintended and devastating consequences, and how love and friendship bring strength and healing.

To Live Out Loud FRONT PROMO copy 2

An innocent Jewish military officer, Alfred Dreyfus, was unjustly sentenced to life imprisonment on a desolate island. The news that could exonerate him was leaked to the press, but was suppressed by the military. Anyone who sought to reopen the Dreyfus court-martial became victimized and persecuted and was considered an enemy of the state.

Emile Zola, a popular journalist determined to bring the truth to light, undertook the challenge to publicly expose the facts surrounding the military cover-up. This is the story of Zola’s battle to help Alfred Dreyfus reclaim his freedom and clear his name. Up against anti-Semitism, military resistance, and opposition from the Church in France, Zola committed his life to fighting for justice. But was it worth all the costs to him, to those around him, and to France?

his name was Ben

Hearing the words “it’s cancer,” threw Sara Phillips’ life into chaos, until an unexpected turn of events and a chance encounter with a stranger changed everything—his name was Ben. Based on real events, Ben and Sara discover that when all else fails, healing can come in the most unexpected ways. Chilling and heart-wrenching, His Name Was Ben is a triumph over the devastating circumstances and fear experienced when faced with a terminal illness. In this narrative, the power of love conquers shadows and transforms the very nature and meaning of what it is to be fully alive. From the award winning, best-selling author of, The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap, comes a story filled with soul and passion that will leave the reader thinking about it for days after the last page is closed.
“Paulette Mahurin compassionately renders an insightful tale about love and life in the moment, when a moment is all there is. Both ordinary and extraordinary, Sara and Ben kept me up at night rooting for them, as did Mahurin of course, a writer of exceptional heart, for her tender and wise depiction of love against all odds. A rare pleasure, His Name Was Ben is not to be missed.”—Lee Fullbright, author of The Angry Woman Suite.

You can find all Paulette’s books here.

As you can see, Paulette’s books have done incredibly well, rising high in the Amazon charts. She included these few words of advice:-


You’ve never heard of me. Or my books. So how successful could she possibly be, you ask? I’ve never made it to The New York Times best seller lists nor been picked up by a well-known publisher. But, I have had several books on Amazon best-seller lists. My last, The Seven Year Dress, made it to Amazon Australia #1 best-seller Literary Fiction, Historical Fiction, and Teen Young Adult. And to date, a year after publication it’s #5 best-seller in Literary Fiction on Amazon U.K. It’s also ranked up in the top twenty in the U.S. and is continuing to sell on multiple other Amazon worldwide sites. So what’s my big secret?

I don’t try to write stories or contrive plots. I don’t try to design sentences that read grammatically correct. I don’t try to design scenes to entice readers. No, none of that. I just tell the story as if I’m sitting down with a friend and telling them about something that has happened. I vomit out the story, starting with concepts, then sentences, then characters who enter scenes and beef it up to give it richness. I communicate with my protagonist like I would any other new person I meet and ask them to describe themselves—as it fits with the context and then I ask why is your story unique? If it’s not unique then why is it special and of interest for someone to hear about it? Once I have an idea about the story I spew it out: vomit.

There’s no mystery to being a “writer.” What defines a writer is someone who sits down and tells a story. And I don’t know anyone alive who doesn’t have a story to tell. It’s how we communicate daily, in little vignettes. It’s how we relay interesting happenings to family and friends. Time spent at a computer doesn’t define a writer nor does the number of words on a page.

paulette book signing

The simple mystery to my success is I tell stories. I vomit them out onto the page and don’t worry about grammar, creative content, formatting, etc. I don’t rely on my internal critic, which is never accurate anyway. I leave the critiquing, editing, polishing up the story, etc. to my publisher/editor.

Everyone has a story to tell. Tap into yours and vomit it out. No great secret or formula. Like the Nike commercial says, Just do it! I wish ya’ll much success and good luck with your storytelling.

Thank you, Paulette, for being my guest today.



OK, OK I know I shouldn’t have favourites here but Margaret Eleanor Leigh is one of them. We’ve spent many hours chatting via pm and I felt for her every step of the way before and after hospital. I think we met through the Facebook group We Love Memoirs.

But, that is not the reason I just love her – I adore her books. Why? Because there is a smile in every sentence. I’m not sure how she does it, she spends a lot of time correcting doctrinal dissertations for students, but for me, her books are an absolute delight. I get a thrill every time I download one, the pure anticipation!  Researching her Amazon page I’ve discovered the only one I’ve not read and as soon as I’ve typed this up I’m off to download it. Time to meet Margaret.

m e l

You’ve probably never heard of me, and that’s partly because I’ve been quiet for a long time, and partly because I am one of those obscure writers no-one has ever heard of. (Obscure does not necessarily equal bad, mind you, although it certainly can ….)

I’ve been quiet for a long time because I’m not long back from the most horrendous journey of my life. It was the kind of journey everyone hopes they’ll never have to make. I’ve been on quite a few journeys in my time, and some of them were quite entertaining (see Memoirs One and Two, which are all about journeys of one sort or another). But there was nothing remotely entertaining about this latest journey, and not for nothing does it warrant the provisional title: Is There Life After Butchery?


Basically, I had a near-death experience at the hands of a talentless scalpel-wielding butcher, followed by a year of hell. Hell consisted of an abdominal wound the size and shape of the Grand Canyon that refused to heal, and not one, but two stomas. (If you don’t know what a stoma is, and are even remotely squeamish, don’t go looking it up, particularly just before dinner.)

Fortunately, for every scalpel-wielding butcher, somewhere else in the world there’s a scalpel-wielding genius. Six thousand miles from the site of the original carnage, I fell into the hands of one such miracle-worker. Against all the odds, and against all the negative prognoses, he reversed all the damage wrought by the butcher, including the stomas, and left me with just a neat little tapestry of scars and a well of gratitude as deep as the original wound. Oh, and a bad attack of writer’s block.

There’s no such thing as writer’s’ block. At least that’s what I used to say before I was felled by the wretched thing.  In this instance, the writer’s block can be explained by the self-evident fact that a close encounter with the Grim Reaper isn’t the most promising material for Memoir Number Three. You may even be making a mental note to avoid it when it finally appears, and that’s okay. Nevertheless, it is the job of the memoirist to take the raw material of life, whatever that may be, and turn it into something amusing for the enjoyment of others. I concede its going be a bit of a stretch to make this particular raw material amusing and I may have to settle for edifying.

I’ve written other stuff besides memoirs. Lots of stuff. Some of it is good, some of it is not so good.  And I hope to write lots more, because yes, there is life after butchery, and yes, miracles do still happen.

Now, Margaret didn’t mention her children’s books in her blurb, but I can promise you they are delightful too. And Margaret where is book 4? There’s got to be one for the last season!

You can find all Margaret Eleanor Leigh’s books on her Amazon author page – and please let us know when your ‘butchery’ book comes out – only you can make such a horrific event such fun to read.


Now, most of my blogs follow a formulae – a picture of the author, a brief (preferably witty) bio, the book covers and a bit of blurb on the storyline. Beth’s blog is going to be different as she sent me a story which is typical of the ones she writes on her blogs. I even had to nag her to give me book covers and links – but then Beth’s memoirs of going to live in France where they have integrated with the local people and set up what sounds like a miniature farm, speak for themselves. Enjoy!

The Unwanted Visitor


I’m one of those people who tends to be a little flimsy on a morning. No particular reason for this other than a touch of fatigue brought on by the family cat. Our morning routine is pretty consistent and begins at around 5 am. I am usually alerted from a lovely, deep sleep by the sound of throaty purrs. Brutus, our portly cat, has materialised on the bed and is making his way to my pillow for a session of face-time. Try as I might to resist his advances, I’m no match for his persuasive talents at that time of the morning.


Brutus steadfastly inveigles himself onto my nice, warm pillow and uses my head as a radiator. A cat with unnecessarily long limbs, he’ll extend an arm, using it to great effect by gently drawing my hand towards him. This is the signal that he wants to be stroked. Failure to comply on my part then involves the subtle use of claws, which he cleverly disguises as an act of affection. I imagine it’s rather like acupuncture. Mildly perforated and still enfeebled, I quickly give in and begin stroking his head, which causes him to turn into an inboard motor. The sensation of being in a ship’s engine room might be acceptable, soporific even, but the accompanying process of gradual suffocation, as Brutus gradually drapes himself over my nose, is eventually too much. I give in, turn over and fall off the pillow.


At this stage I’m semi-awake and then start dozing, desperately trying to return to my slumbers, but it’s no good – and why? Because Brutus has begun to clean his toes. The engine room transforms into a giant rasping workshop of activity as the lick-a-thon gets under way. As unmentionable detritus, including a goodly sprinkling of flowerbed, is carelessly flicked all over me I eventually surrender. Cussing about life with animals, I tumble out of bed and perform my required duty.

With slippers and dressing gown on, and Brutus doing his best to trip me up, I stumble downstairs to meet the next challenge. The dogs – Aby and Max. I sleepily fight off loving onslaughts from our over-affectionate Australian Shepherds, who behave as though they haven’t seen me for six months.


With wiggling bottoms, and toothy smiles that can light the dimness of any room, they pin me to the bottom step, moaning in delight, ready to plan the daily walk. Weakly I deliver a number of random pats, struggle free and shuffle into the utility room to prepare Brutus’ breakfast.



Fortunately this pattern, one that can only be endured by animal-lovers, is nothing that can’t be rectified by a nice strong cuppa, and also the product of my Christmas present – a juicer. This has been a true revelation to me and I adore it. With Max still grinning from ear to ear as he adoringly hangs onto the hem of my dressing gown, I drag us both to the sink, hoping not to unravel before I reach the chopping board. I reach for my random collection of fruits and vegetables and begin to hack them into juicer-friendly sizes.

Still half-asleep, I stuff the ingredients into my wonderful machine, which munches and grinds its way through the contents with consummate ease. It belches out ex-veggie bits into one container and a heady drinkable liquid into another. This can often be a strange colour but it is thrillingly packed with vitamins and minerals – I’m convinced it’s an act of magic.


Just enough for two glasses, I give one to my husband, Jack, who is decidedly less thrilled. His belief is that these bright green/orange/dark red concoctions containing more than six types of vegetable and at least three varieties of fruit appear much too similar to human waste, and should probably carry a gastro intestinal health warning. Disappointing though his attitude is, I shouldn’t be at all surprised given that he’s a die-hard carnivore. I’ve reminded him of the health benefits and, so far, all seems to be well down below. So, in spite of his continued scepticism, he manfully sips his way through most offerings.

The single downside to my magnificent machine is that it devours an inordinate quantity of produce. After my first few goes it quickly became clear that I would need a bigger vegetable rack to contain them. In the meantime, I made do by using three deep boxes which I left on the window ledge in the cool of the utility room.


A few days ago, following another nocturnal feline skirmish that I’d failed to repel, I was on my way to the utility room to collect my ingredients. Jack was already downstairs and commented, “I noticed a mouse in one of your veg boxes this morning. Huh, at least someone appreciates your devil’s brew mix.”

I took very little notice of him and shambled into the crowded utility room, which was occupied by both dogs and Brutus (on the worktop) all eating their breakfasts. I was about to collect a clump of celery when a head popped up between the sprouts. It was there again, but this wasn’t a mouse at all, it was a large rat. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m usually perfectly fine with rats, but they do need to be in their own place – and not mine.


I recoiled in horror and started shrieking at the animals to do something helpful. Aside from Max who raised an eyebrow, my appeals had absolutely no affect whatsoever. They were intent on eating their meal and a hysterical mum wasn’t going to get in their way.

Meanwhile, the rat, alerted to the possibility that it wasn’t welcome, calmly squeezed its bulk between my greens and started to waddle over the apples and lemons. My continued squawks brought Jack bounding in. “It’s a rat,” I ranted, “a huge one. Do something, Jack!”

“You’ve got a roomful of so-called shepherding and hunting animals in here, can’t they catch it? You feed them too much, that’s their problem. Anyway where is it?” he grumped with exasperation.

“Over there somewhere, behind the dogfood bins,” I replied, pointing nervously at two knee-high feed containers.

Jack fought his way through the furry mass and peered behind the bins.

“No, nothing here, it must have gone through the hole by the radiator. Useless bloody animals, catch a rat? That lot couldn’t even catch a cold. Now can you stop making such a noise please, I’m trying to watch the news.” With that he stalked off.

Feeling somewhat sheepish, I returned to the job in hand and studied my goods for signs of contamination. Our new visitor might be a carrier of several vile diseases for all I knew, a simple rinsing of my legumes might not be sufficient. Just as I was considering this important point the dogs, who had finished their breakfast, started to show a renewed interest in the food bins. At first I ignored this, assuming it was a late show of teaminess, when Aby started urgently whining and staring at me imploringly. Still under the impression that they were alerted by old scents I pulled back a bin and to my horror saw that the rat was still there and looking decidedly frisky.


In an instant both dogs exploded into a flurry of activity and started blundering around. Even Brutus looked up, mildly interested at all this canine activity.

Jaaack, it’s still here!” I yelled.

Jack thundered back in and surveyed the perpetrator, which was scampering around in circles behind the containers.

“Quite a fatty isn’t it?”

“Yes, can you do something please, I’m frightened it’s going to escape into the house.”

Jack gave me a withering look and switched to operations mode. “Right, you take the empty bin and I’ll grab the full one, that’ll give the dogs or Brutus a chance to get it. It’s obviously too large to get through the hole in the corner, so there’s a tiny chance that one of them might have the intelligence to catch it.”

“Oh I daren’t go any closer,” I whined pathetically.

“Why not?”

“Well, I haven’t got any pants on.”

“Wha…what’s that got to do with anything?” he cried, totally nonplussed.

“You know what they say about rats running up drainpipes, anything could happen with me standing here with just my slippers and dressing gown on!”

With a look of complete frustration at my reticence, he snapped, “Ridiculous woman! For goodness’ sake, just get out of here then, I’ll sort it out with the dogs, although I dare say they’ll just continue knocking things over.”

With that I scurried out of the room and closed the door firmly behind me.


During the next couple of minutes the rooms bulged with the sounds of shouts, barks and scrambling noises, then the vacuum cleaner was switched on, which was strange. Next thing, the door was flung open and out shot Brutus looking like a mobile inflated toilet brush with the fluffiest tail I have ever seen. He galloped up the stairs, four at a time, and disappeared from view. Poor lad, he has always considered the vacuum cleaner to be a weapon of mass destruction.

One defender of the realm down, three to go. I felt sure one of them would manage to trap the perp.

Sounds of pandemonium continued, then Aby flew through the door with an enraged-looking rat in her mouth and Max in pursuit. As she dashed around the dining room table with it I attempted to do something useful by opening the kitchen door for her, but I was too late. Max-the-misguided had decided this was a great game and rugby tackled her just before she made the exit. Aby was floored, spat out the rat, which triumphantly scampered off to another corner of the kitchen.

“Bloody idiot dog!” raged Jack as he came into the kitchen with vacuum cleaner nozzle in hand. “Where has it gone now, and what are you doing up there?”

As a security measure, remembering my state of undress, I’d taken the sensible precaution of taking refuge halfway up the stairs. I ignored his insensitive question and pointed towards the area where our escapee was last seen.

“It’s over there. Can you shoo it out of the door before the dogs have another go?”

“I tried that last time. I got it nicely stuck on the end of my nozzle when Aby grabbed it and galloped off. Now she’s let it go again.”

“Actually it wasn’t her fault, it was Max and…”

“It doesn’t matter, they’re both idiots. Sort them out please, they’re causing havoc with the furniture!”

Jack went off to find his rodent-proof gloves while I attempted to control the dogs. When he returned they were both rigidly sitting to attention, on crimson alert, and whining in anticipation of the next fiasco.

“Ah, there it is,” he said, gently removing a chair with his giant red rubber gloves, “I reckon I can probably grab it now.” As he reached towards the defiant rodent Max somehow interpreted this to be a signal to advance. He sprang over Jack’s arm and pounced on the rat, which deftly swerved out of the way, scuttled through his legs and pelted out through the open door into the garden. This was Max’s second own-goal, but at least the intruder was outside.

“That sodding dog!” bawled Jack, from a seated position where he’d been felled, “If he were five times more intelligent, he still wouldn’t qualify as an ingredient for your vegetable juicer.”

“Never mind, darling,” I gaily replied, “at least the rat’s gone now. I call that a great result!”

Jack gave me a disdainful look and snarled, “I blame myself. None of this would be happening if I hadn’t bought you that damned juicer, which has resulted in the utility room turning into greengrocers. Now, fascinating though it may be, it’s too early to be on safari. Please don’t bother me again about helping out with invasions of anything smaller than a wild boar, I’m going to catch up on the news.” With that he tramped back to the TV.

I surveyed the scenes of gentle chaos. A couple of chairs had been knocked over in the kitchen, the utility room had fared less well. The empty dog bin was on its side, the other at a jaunty angle surrounded by red cabbage, sprouts and vacuum cleaner attachments. Well, I thought, at least nothing had been damaged in our early morning incident, not even the rat, which seemed to have been the calmest of us all.

Clearly I couldn’t blame any of this on my wonderful new juicer. It simply had to have its fuel. No, there was only one unwanted gift that day, and it was now happily sauntering around the garden no doubt plotting a return visit – one that none of us would look forward to.

If you’d like to chat with Beth here are the links to use:
Twitter:  @fatdogsfrance
Instagram:  fatdogsandfrenchestates



Lesley Hayes

My guest this week lives in Oxford, England and is a psychotherapist by profession and a prolific writer. I enjoy her books which I would describe as deep, leaving lots of room for thought long after you read the last page.  Again, Lesley is one of the earliest virtual friends I met on Facebook and we’re both in the Indie Authors Support and Discussion group. We re-tweet regularly and I do recommend her books they are truly inspiring.

My name is Lesley Hayes and I write… It feels like the opening to a confession at Writer’s Anonymous, and in a way that’s appropriate. Writing is a kind of addiction, a craving that can attack the soul with the sharp bite of a need demanding to be answered in the dead of night, at dawn, or at any unguarded point throughout the day. I began writing stories while I was at school, neglecting every other subject (apart from History, which intrigued me with its many lies and mysteries) and ducked university at the age of 17 to work on Honey magazine, where my first short story was published. It was the beginning of a long and fruitful love affair with writing for publication, which has weaved in and out of everything else I’ve done over the ensuing years.

Oh yes, I should probably mention that I got married and divorced twice, had two children by the time I was 23, moved to Oxford in my late thirties and re-invented myself, fell in and out of love with disregard to gender a number of times, trained and practised as a psychotherapist for twenty years, and adopted a cat. For the past five years I have shed most of my therapy clients and emerged all damp-winged from the chrysalis of one identity into the bright uncertain dawn of another. The muse never really went away all those years as a therapist; she simply bided her time, as muses tend to do. I am impatient when it comes to change, and got quickly bored with knocking on the door of agents this time around, so in 2013 I began self-publishing my newborn novels and their older sibling short stories, many of which had been previously broadcast on BBC Radio Oxford.

The first novel to erupt with genie-like eagerness from the unplugged bottle was The Drowned Phoenician Sailor, which begins with the death of a psychotherapist (go figure.) This was swiftly jostled aside by A Field Beyond Time, which I’d actually been in the process of writing for ten years during my years as a therapist before the awakened muse finally goaded me into completing it. Round Robin, Dangerous People, and The Other Twin soon followed, and I have another in the pipeline which is still so top secret I would have to kill Lucinda if I disclosed it.

A writer’s life is often a solitary one (not so different from that of many psychotherapists) and as an introvert I am protective of my personal space and dread it when I’m invited out to show my face in public. You won’t catch me at book signings and literary gigs, parading my authorship and touting my wares, and the best thing about writing this for Lucinda is that I’m invisible. However, I’m no recluse and have a number of close friends and a cherished partner and Oxford is the perfect place to live with mild to moderate invisibility among other writers, eccentrics and people of diverse religions, ethnicity, and sexual preference. If you come across any of my books, read carefully between the lines if you want to find me… I have written clues to my true self into the characters of every one.

If you want to risk that journey visit my website: where you can find links to all my books. If you want to take a faster track follow the links here:

The Drowned Phoenician Sailor

A Field Beyond Time

Round Robin

Dangerous People

The Other Twin

Oxford Marmalade

Thank you Lesley for being my guest.


My guest today is one of the very first I met on Facebook and he has been one of my most supportive friends. We have the same sense of humour and all Rick’s books are funny and off the wall. He’s written a wide range of quirky novels, including talking dogs who operate in gangs, the topsy-turvy world of black plantation owners employing white slaves, to a man who loves his vacuum cleaner. You never know quite what to expect when you open one of Rick’s books.

ricks dog

Instead of a photo of the author, here is the Dog – his owner is very shy. Over to you:

I decided to enter the world of writing a few years ago because I knew I couldn’t spend all of my time eating banana Moon Pies and waiting for Sandra Bullock to wake up one day and deciding that she was head over heels in love with me. Little did I know at the time that some days in the writing world can be as confusing as a vegetarian trying to find a bite of supper at an all meat barbeque.

rick pic 1

Luckily, I had the support of friends as I decided to venture into this world. When I told a few that I was going to write a book and title it Trailer Trash the emotional outpouring support I received was overwhelming. One friend informed me that perhaps just possibly I might make it all the way up to chapter two. Another friend mentioned that I couldn’t name a book Trailer Trash because it sounded too much like a stereotype. I kept asking my dog what he thought, but he never would say anything one way or the other. Despite the misgivings of my supportive friends, I decided to go ahead and write the book. 107 chapters and 108,000 words later, I typed The End. My dog never really said much about my achievement on that day, but he did give me a high five. In the end, I think a fairly entertaining story popped out of my head.

rick pic 2

After all the effort and time invested in the first book, I decided to write a second book, mainly for my entertainment. I decided to title it Love in the Box because the story revolved around the antics of employees who work at a fuel center. I was told by some friends who grudgingly admitted that they liked Trailer Trash that I couldn’t publish Love in the Box because the idea of a white transvestite with a black girlfriend would offend someone. Doing what I do best, which is doing the opposite of what people tell me to do, I published it. A few people finally admitted that they got some chuckles out of the book.


By this time, my dog was taking some interest in the writing world, and one afternoon over burgers and milkshakes he suggested that we write a book together. Basically, the book was about some of our adventures, and all the posts the dog kept posting on Facebook. I let him decide the title of our book, and he came up with A Dog’s Best Goober.

By now, my creative juices were flowing, and Sandra Bullock still hadn’t discovered that she was head over heels in love with me, so I came up with an idea for another book. When I pitched the idea to my dog, he just rolled his eyes and walked away.

ric pic 4

Living in the southern part of the United States this idea almost caused a riot when I informed some people what I was going to write. I was told that I absolutely could not write this book and have it published. One person even asked if I was trying to get killed. No, not really. I wanted to write a story based on the time period of the United States Civil War. However, I wanted to turn history upside down, inside out, and every which way but loose. I wrote the book based on that time period, but the plantation owners were blacks whose ancestors emigrated from Africa to settle a new country and the slaves just happened to be white. It seems some people were uncomfortable with the idea of unpigmented slaves picking cotton out in the fields while singing gospel and rap music. I never could see what the big deal was all about because I knew that I was going to free those white cotton pickers at the end of the book, and Heirloom Plantation was born.

rick pic 5

I wasn’t ready to give up this writing thing just yet, and when I told my dog about the next book, I was planning he got so excited that he started doing back flips in the backyard and throwing banana Moon Pies at the neighbors. I wanted to write a book where all the main characters were dogs, so The Ruffians was born. It was fun to develop Butch, Empty, Jim, Dandy, and Mixer into the local neighborhood watch group. Though the humor might have been crude at times I’m really proud of it. It most definitely isn’t a child’s book. The dog would be reading over my shoulder as I typed, and in parts he would go absolutely nuts!

ric pic 6

Next came my first co-authored book with Natalie Alder. I really don’t think she knew what she was doing when she suggested we write a series. The first book, The Vacuum Chronicles, basically is about a lonely accountant who lost his virginity to a vacuum cleaner. That’s probably enough said about that. We’re currently writing our second book The Ice Cream Man Chronicles.

Currently, The Being is in the capable hands of my editor, and I’m working on The Angelic Rabble-Rousers which is turning out to be a whole lot of fun to write. I’m also still eating banana Moon Pies and waiting on Sandra Bullock to fall in love with me.

In the end, don’t let anyone dissuade you from your dreams. You can do whatever you set your mind on. It’s your dreams and your destiny. Walk that path you envision, dream big, and reach for the stars!

P.S. I’ll let you know if Sandra Bullock ever falls in love with me.

Thank you for being my guest Rick and if Sandra Bullock phones I’ll send her right over.

You can find all Rick’s books here:



CeeCee was one of the first people I ever met through social media and the accounts of her early life are quite harrowing – she had a really hard time. I can relate to that, but her story makes you want to cry. After writing two books, on her childhood she has now broadened out into the ‘cozy mystery’ genre and doing really well.  I am so thrilled that her life changed around and she is not only successful, but enjoying her writing and well-deserved success. This is what CeeCee sent me.

I’m one of those weird people who’ve always wanted to be a writer. When I was in elementary school, I’d beg the teacher to let me read the stories that I’d written to my classmates in place of the classics she liked to soothe us with after we ran in sweaty and energized from recess. I’ll never know if the students preferred my stories to Robinson Crusoe, as I was so caught up in sharing my world of a soldier returning from war. But the students were silent and the teacher was pleased, and so I had many chances.

As I grew older, I filled notebook after notebook with vignettes and poems. In junior high, I once submitted a few poems to a contest that our local newspaper held. Imagine my surprise when, a week later, my friend thrust the newspaper into my hands on the school bus and I saw my poems won first, second and third place.

CeeCee pic

Life wasn’t easy growing up, as it isn’t for many of us. Through foster care and many moves, my notebooks became a safer world, one where I could both spread my wings, and have roots with a pretend family.  Sadly, it was during one of those moves where I lost my notebooks.



Cee books

But I never lost the stories. As an adult, the first book I published was my memoir, Ghost No More—my personal story of beauty culled from the ashes of my childhood. It was always my hope that I could validate my readers in their stories of what they’ve overcome, as well as encourage anyone who needed to hear that there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Ghost no more is a #1 best seller

The rest of my childhood imaginary worlds trickled out in several of my fiction series. Now I’ve settled down in my favorite genre, cozy mystery. And I’m incredibly thankful I still get to make up stories to entertain anyone who wants to listen.

Thank you CeeCee, a very brave and talented lady.


Now I’m thrilled to welcome Julie as I have actually met her! Yes really! We hooked up at the Readers’ Favorite Awards in Miami last November and she’s a really special person. One amazing coincidence was we’d both taught at schools in Libya, and it’s not often you meet people who’ve done that! I was also introduced to her husband John and her daughter who works with her mother on the marketing side. Julie not only writes books, she gives talks to schools and is really, really busy and very knowledgeable about the publishing world – I bombarded her with questions and she was sooo patient with me 🙂 . Sadly my plans to hijack her daughter to Spain and help me sell my books didn’t work, and they all returned to Sweden. In Julie’s own words ….

julie pic 2

Since the early 80s, I have travelled around the world, mostly with my husband dragging me along on engineering projects (willingly I might add).
I started writing poetry and short stories at the age of 9, nice way to switch off I guess. Then it just escalated from there. My English teacher at my secondary school Mrs Love was an inspiration to me. As all teachers should be! In 1985 I moved to Tripoli in Libya, and as the schools did not have any books, I started writing for the children of the local British schools. It’s amazing that when there are no books, you crave anything to read. So we all got together and made something out of nothing.
I have continued writing for newspapers, and magazines  ever since, The Times in Kuwait, Libya, Sweden, UK and lots of other countries. Although I do prefer to write books. And so the stories could go on and on…
I now live in Sweden I have had many books published in the past and have joined a traditional publisher Opera Omnia, and they published the first bilingual book back in November 2012. My aim is to hit the Swedish market this year via traditional Swedish publishers.


One of my favourite series at the moment is Jodie and the Library Card, I am now penning book 3! You can never have too many books! Any bibliophile will tell you that.
I feel books are important and that children should have carefree, happy, well-adjusted lives. Sadly in this world, it is not always the case. But one can hope.

My motto in life is, “Always be the very best you can be”

I had no idea that Julie had written so many books, I counted 40 on her Amazon page.

Julie pic 1

And, while I was writing this up she casually mentioned yet another award, a Bronze in the Wishing Shelf Awards 2016 for Jodie and the Library Card. And then she dropped that her books are going into extra large print for partially sighted children AND a theatre production wants to perform two of her books.

I’m always amazed at her innovative ideas. (comedy YA book)


You can find out more about Julie and her books on these links.

Web page:  (Jodie 2)

Thank you for being my guest today Julie Hodgeson.