Archive for the ‘My Kitchen Table’ Category
This morning on Amazon, I saw that BESIDE A DREAMSWEPT SEA was free on Kindle.
I didn’t know about this, so I have no idea how long it will be free.
Beside a Dreamswept Sea is the last book in the Seascape Trilogy. The books stand alone so it isn’t necessary for you to read Beyond the Misty Shore or Upon a Mystic Tide first.
In the US, download a free copy HERE.
Here are a few comments on BESIDE A DREAMSWEPT SEA:
“Readers seeking a little romantic magic in their lives need to book a room at the Seascape Inn series. All of these [Seascape] novels are incredible reading experiences. Beside a Dreamswept Sea enhances the deserved reputation of the series. This reviewer recommends the entire collection, which may turn into a collector’s item in the years to come.”
– Painted Rock
“Funny and touching. If this is your first Seascape, you’ll want to go back and read them all.
– Romance Forever
“One of the most gifted writers of contemporary romance (with a touch of otherworldly intervention) today. Like this book, all the author’s contributions to the brilliant Seascape series (the other two novels being Upon A Mystic Tide and Beyond the Misty Shore) enhance the entire sub-genre with its clever writing, interesting story lines, and great characters. This reviewer strongly recommends all…Seascape novels. The pentad makes up one of the best on-going series on the present market.”
– Affaire de Coeur
“Rich in characterization and description. It s easy to lose one’s self in the details and lush scenery. [The] author brings [her] own special flavor to these novels; layering and enriching the ancient [Seascape] inn until the patina shines deep and lustrous…”
– Under the Covers
“Magical! This one is a must…” — Bell, Book, and Candle
“A tender poignancy makes this chapter in the saga of the mystical Seascape Inn all the more special. Fans will be especially touched.” — Romantic Times
“Funny and touching. If this is your first Seascape, you’ll want to go back and read them all. This author’s writing is simply exquisite. For fans of Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.” — Susan Wiggs, best-selling author
Reader Comments:
“Gorgeous, lyrical writing makes this book extra special. I’ve been reading all of this series, and I think this is my most favorite of all. This author’s writing is simply exquisite. For fans of Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.” –Amazon Reader
“Hands down, Beside a Dreamswept Sea is the finest book in the Seascape Series, one of the most innovative on the market today. Each story is a unique healing journey for the characters and indeed for the reader too. With captivating main characters, this story will sweep you off your feet! And for all those who find Miss Hattie and Tony irresistible, order this book NOW! A real keeper, Beside a Dreamswept Sea deserves a place of honor on your “keeper” shelf.” –Amazon Reader
“Beside a Dreamswept Sea’, the last book in this series, spoke to me more than the others. I really felt that the author had a deep understanding of mental abuse and the effects it can have. Although this book has similar miscommunication between the main characters as in the previous books, I didn’t feel that it was detrimental to the story. There was enough of a plot to make this book really interesting and I had trouble putting it down. It has a perfect mix of drama, romance, humour, mystery and paranormal. I loved reading about the children’s antics! I enjoyed the trilogy and wish it was an ongoing series.” –Amazon Reader, Jo
Here’s a sample chapter:
© 1995-2011 Vicki Hinze
The child was going to drown.
The truth slammed into Tony Freeport with the force of a sledge. A stunning truth, considering she lay tucked safely in bed in the Shell Room of Seascape Inn and, in his fifty years as a ghost working with his beloved Hattie in assisting others here to heal, he’d never before seen anyone come to harm under the inn’s roof. But in Suzie Richards’s dream, all the signs of real-life drowning were evident: panic, an inability to breathe, and fear. So much fear. . .
Dream or reality, if Tony didn’t do something quickly, the nine-year-old daughter of Bryce Richards and the deceased photojournalist, Meriam, was going to drown.
What could Tony do? What should he do? Suzie taking on the burdens of family no child should ever have to carry had been the catalyst insisting he intercede this far. But to intercede into her dreams? Did he dare?
This had to be a near-miss warning. Had to be.
He looked through the closed bedroom door, out into the upstairs hallway. The paneled walls deepened the night’s shadows and the only light was that seeping through the bank of mullioned windows centered inside a small vaulted alcove at the far end of the hall.
Tall hand-carved mahogany bookshelves flanked those windows. Tony couldn’t clearly see the books in them, but he didn’t have to see them to know each book’s title, to know each spine stood straight. Nor did he need to see the pillows on the thick-cushions of the window seat nestled between those shelves to know they’d been fluffed. Hattie Stillman nurtured everything in her care, which included all of Seascape Inn, most of Sea Haven Village, and, at one time, him.
He scanned the polished plank-wood floor from the far end of the hallway back toward the end where he stood. On the left, facing the Atlantic Ocean, was the master bedroom, dubbed the Great White Room years ago, and the bath. On the right, the L-shaped staircase leading down to the first floor, and the Cove Room where Bryce Richards should have been sleeping but wasn’t. Instead, the man dozed slumped on the hallway floor, his head lolled back against the paneled wall, his slippered foot rumpling the edge of the white Berber rug that stretched from the stairway’s landing nearly all the way down to the Shell Room, about a yard from Tony’s feet.
Bryce was a man on a mission. Two sets of his friends from New Orleans, T.J. and Maggie MacGregor and John and Bess Mystic, had found “magic” at Seascape Inn, and Bryce had come here with doubts but hopes that enough magic remained to grant his daughter peace from the emotional demons haunting her sleep since her mother’s death two years ago. But even in sleep, Bryce was despairing; Tony sensed it. Despairing that, though armed with its angelic innkeeper, Miss Hattie, the charming old inn couldn’t hold that much magic and, without it–God knew Bryce had tried everything else–Suzie’s nightmares would be an endless source of her suffering.
And Bryce despaired that she’d dream and, asleep in the Cove Room across the hallway, he’d not hear her cries, not know to come and comfort her. For reasons of his own, he had forsaken sleeping in the comfortable, stuffed chair in her room or in the luxury of a soft, king-size bed and had chosen to stand guard on the hallway’s oak floor outside her door, listening, waiting, and praying he wouldn’t be needed.
The agony of the situation had broken Tony’s heart, and he’d aided the quiet of the house in lulling the reluctant Bryce to sleep, agreeing with his darling Hattie’s assessment that Bryce was worn to a frazzle. But who wouldn’t be? Worried sick about his three children overall, Suzie and her nightmares in particular; fighting a constant battle of wills with that dour-faced Mrs. Wiggins, whom Bryce’s wife had hired to care for the children when Jeremy had been born four years ago; and then–right on the heels of the narrow-miss divorce between John and Bess Mystic–that blasted Tate divorce case. It was a wonder Bryce Richards was still upright!
In the days since their arrival at Seascape Inn, Hattie had mumbled repeatedly that no more a devoted father than Bryce ever had graced the earth, and Tony wholeheartedly agreed with his beloved on that appraisal, too. Bryce was a fine father, a fine man, and a fine attorney.
Yet that hadn’t spared him from challenges.
As if he hadn’t had enough on his plate already, he’d been tossed a moral dilemma on the Tate divorce case that would have brought even the most avid believer, the most confident man in the world, to his knees. A shame he had represented Gregory Tate. Not only disagreeable, the man had proven himself unscrupulous and coldly calculating.
Though the divorce had been granted and the case was behind Bryce now, it had left him weary, his opinion even more jaded about the odds for successful, happy marriages–and it’d left him admittedly curious about the mysterious Mrs. Tate.
So was Tony. He leaned against the doorjamb, propped the toe of his shoe against the floor, then rubbed at his neck. Why had the woman never once appeared in court? Never once attended the attorney/client meetings with Bryce, Gregory, and her own attorney?
Her behavior was curious.
Tony grimaced. Now, because he had given Bryce this brief but much-needed respite of sleep, Suzie fought the fiendish nightmare alone. Tony shouldn’t intercede further–dream intervention was expressly forbidden–but she was suffering uncomforted, and that was his fault. He couldn’t deny responsibility and condemn her to this. Hattie would never forgive him. Worse, he’d never forgive himself.
Protocol be damned. Tony shoved away from the wall. Rules and regulations, too. What more could be done to him? Already he lived in the house with his beloved Hattie and yet he couldn’t talk directly with her, couldn’t hold her, couldn’t love her as a man should love a woman–as he would have loved her had he been given the chance. What could be more challenging? And a child’s life hung in the balance. Likely her father’s, too–if anything should happen to her.
Theoretically, people didn’t actually die just because they died in their dreams. But what if Suzie did? In Tony’s experience, dreamers always had awakened prior to actual dream-state death. So why wasn’t Suzie awakening?
Soaring heart rate. Gasping something fierce. She might not drown, but she could have a heart attack. Drowning or a massive coronary, dead was dead.
He tried several tactics to nudge her into awakening.
Nothing worked.
Now what?
Having no idea, Tony scowled, feeling inept and agitated. The bottom line was Bryce Richards had little more left to lose. Tony had to intercede.
He stepped into Suzie’s nightmare, into a raging storm.
The wind stung, bitingly cold, whistling through crisp brown leaves that had fallen from the poplars and oaks near the shore. Familiar poplars and oaks. Familiar low stone wall running along the rocky ground to the pond. And familiar white wrought-iron bench, north of a familiar, freshly painted gazebo.
Criminey, Suzie was in the pond behind Seascape Inn!
Did she realize this yet? That her recurring dream actually took place here?
Odd. Before three days ago, Suzie never had seen Seascape Inn or its pond, and yet she’d suffered this same nightmare for the past two years.
Agitated by the blustery wind, Tony squinted against the darkness and glimpsed the shadow of a little rowboat–the very boat he himself with his lifelong friends, Hatch and Vic, had fished from as boys. Rocking on turbulent waves, the boat dipped low, took on water. And–sweet heaven, it was empty.
“Suzie?” Where was she? “Suzie?” The wind tossed Tony’s words back to him. Nearing the water’s edge, he called out again and stumbled over a giant oak’s gnarled roots. His foot stung.
Startled, he winced. Physical pain? How peculiar. It’d been half a century since he’d felt physical pain. . . .
He frantically scanned the dark water. Later, he’d think about the pain. He had to find Suzie now–before it was too late.
Midway across the pond, something flashed white. Her nightgown? No. No, it wasn’t. Just froth from a wave. Fear seeped deeper, into his soul. Where was she?
Straining harder, skimming, probing, he spotted her. Near the bow of the boat, floundering in the water, arms flailing, head bobbing between the waves.
Oh God, she really was going to drown. Unlike her other dreams, this one wasn’t a near-miss warning!
He cupped his hands at his mouth. “Suzie! Hold on to the boat. I’m coming. Just hold on to the boat!”
“I can’t!” she shouted back. Swallowing in a great gulp of water, she choked.
The sound grated at his ears, tore at his heart. Why in the name of everything holy did she feel it vital to hold on to the oars? Though wooden, they wouldn’t offer enough stability in the turbulent water to keep her afloat. Still, she held them in a death grip.
He had to find out why. Though dangerous–fear of him, in addition to the fear and panic she was suffering already, could worsen her situation dramatically–to help her, he needed to understand her rationale.
She screamed. A shattering scream that pierced his ears and reverberated in his mind. A chiseled hollow in his chest ached. Whatever the risks, damn it, he had to take them.
Focusing, he tapped into the child’s thoughts.
You have to get both oars in the water and keep them there, Suzie.
Not her voice. A memory. Something she’d been told by a woman. Someone older–twenties or thirties maybe. And that accent–definitely not anyone from Sea Haven Village, or from Maine. Southern. Distinctly southern.
The child took a wave full in the face, sputtered, then coughed.
He hurried toward her, resenting that in her dreams he obviously lacked his special gifts, his abilities and talents with the physical that would allow him to fish her out without getting so much as a toe wet. In dreams, it appeared he was as weak or as strong as a normal man. And while at times he’d love to again be a normal man, when Suzie was clinging to life by an oar wasn’t one of them.
What did it all mean?
He returned his cupped hands to his mouth. “Suzie, let go of that oar right now and grab hold of the boat. Do it! Do you hear me? Do it!”
Her wet hair swept over her face and clung to her tiny cheek in a clump, her eyes wild with fear. “I’ve got to keep both oars in the water! I’ve got to, or I’m not gonna get better.”
This was new ground, and Tony waffled on what to do. His heart told him to go get her. His logic warned if he touched her, with her body temperature as low as it surely was already from the frigid water, the cold could result in pneumonia and she’d die. But if he didn’t physically get her out of the pond quickly, she’d die, too. Simply put, he was in a lose/lose situation here. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
He had years of experience. He just had to not panic. Had to think about this. He cleared his mind, then weighed the pros and cons, mentally searching for alternatives less risky to Suzie.
There were none.
He hated any but win/win situations, yet the core in this one rested right where it had before he’d begun his search: She had a fighting chance with pneumonia. She didn’t with drowning.
Tony dove in. Hit the frigid water that sucked out his breath, then stroked furiously toward her.
The lack of true physical exercise for too many years had him winded and tiring quickly. Soon, his arms and legs felt like lead and he couldn’t seem to get enough air to feed his starving lungs. They throbbed and ached, and the physical sensations of weight and gravity and oxygen deprivation had him sluggish, tired, moving about as quickly as a hyperthyroid snail. Without his special gifts, could he get to her in time?
“Please, don’t let her die. Please, help me help her.” She was so close. So close. . . . “Please!”
He dug deep, scraped the remnants of his reserves and pulled a mighty stroke.
His fingers snagged the collar of her nightgown.
He tugged, grabbed her more securely with his left hand, the boat with his right, then curled her tiny body to his and hugged her to him. She latched her arms around his neck, squeezed so hard he sensed she was trying to crawl into him. And then she began to cry. Deep, heart wrenching sobs that jerked viciously at his heartstrings. “Shhh, it’s okay, little one. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you now.”
She breathed against his neck, her voice a rattled whimper of sound. “Promise?”
This crisis, she’d weathered. This time, she’d survived. Awash in gratitude and relief, he swallowed hard. “I promise.”
Water swirled, tugging at his clothes. Awareness stole into him and he recalled stubbing his toe on the gnarled oak’s root. His foot actually had stung. And now, more awareness of the physical dragged at him. Her moist, warm breath at his shoulder. Cold as she was from the frigid water, the warmth of her tiny body. The feel of her fingers digging into his neck. His own need for oxygen, for rest. The weight of his uniform. Sensations.
Lifelike . . . sensations.
His hands began to shake. Awed, humbled, he shook all over. He’d not felt any physical sensations since he’d returned home from the battlefield for burial back in World War II and, because he hadn’t, now he couldn’t be sure which of them, he or Suzie, groped with greater emotional turmoil.
She was alive.
And, for the first time in half a century, he was feeling the actual touch of another human being.
His eyes stung and a tear–a tear–slid onto his cheek.
An uneasy niggle nagged at him. He’d been in many situations in the past fifty years and had felt nothing physical. So why now? True, he’d never before entered anyone’s dreams–and he fully expected to pay a steep penalty for trespassing into Suzie’s now–but there had to be some deeper reason for this. His sixth sense screamed it. And it screamed that something about these particular “special guests” made this intercession, and their situation, different from the hundreds of other special guests he and Hattie had assisted at Seascape Inn.
Suzie wheezed. Feeling the rattle against his chest, he prayed Seascape would protect her from almost certain pneumonia. Over the years, many had called the inn “The Healing House,” and how fervently he hoped its reputation proved prophetic for Suzie.
These special guests are different. A woman’s voice echoed through his mind. This situation is different.
She sounded urgent, yet calm and dispassionate. Who was she?
Who I am doesn’t matter. My message is what is important, Tony.
Why?
You’ll have to find the answer to that yourself, I’m afraid.
I see.
No, you don’t. That’s part of the problem. But you will, Tony. I’m rather, er, persistent.
Just what he needed. Another stubborn woman to contend with. Well, I’ll have to figure it out later. Right now, I need to get Suzie out of this water and wind before she freezes to death.
Ah, I’m encouraged. The woman sighed.
Excuse me? Kicking his feet, he steered toward the shore, holding on to Suzie and the boat for fear his strength would fizzle.
You’re mired in a quandary yet still putting Suzie’s needs first. I’m encouraged by that. And, yes, I expect you will figure it out–eventually.
Terrific. Stubborn and snooty. A barrel of sunshine. I’m encouraged that you’re encouraged.
Save your sarcasm, Tony. The woman laughed, soft and melodious. You’re going to need your energy.
He wanted to kick something. Actually, he wanted to kick “Sunshine.” Wicked of him, but did she have to be right about the energy bit, too? His muscles were in distress; he didn’t have the energy for this verbal sparring–or the time for it. Not right now. Suzie had stopped crying, but she still clung to him as if she feared he’d forget and let go of her. He’d promised, but promises didn’t hold much value to Suzie Richards; that much was evident. At least not those aside from her father’s. In the chaos of what had been their family life, Bryce somehow had retained his children’s trust. That in itself, considering the circumstances, was a miracle.
To reassure her, Tony smoothed her frail back until her shudders eased. When they subsided, though vain, a sense of satisfaction joined those of relief and gratitude inside him. He’d catch hell for breaking protocol, but feeling Suzie inhaling and exhaling breath made whatever price he had to pay worth it. The last thing she needed was more tragedy in her life. It wouldn’t do Bryce any good, either. The man had suffered his share of challenges and then some.
Unfortunately, from all appearances, he was fated to suffer a few more, but at least those challenges wouldn’t include the death of his oldest daughter.
They might, Sunshine commented.
Tony’s skin crawled. Not if there’s any way in the world for me to stop it.
You might want to recant that statement, Anthony Freeport.
No way.
We’ll see.
A shiver rippled up his backbone. Images raced through his mind. Images of Suzie again in the little boat, trying to do something with the paddles and falling into the pond. Images of her in the water during a storm, gasping. Drowning. And images of Tony standing alone on the shore, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his shoulders slumped, watching and yet powerless to help her.
Powerless? Shock streaked through him. But he’d never before been powerless here. Never . . .
Until now.
Sunshine’s softly spoken warning thundered through his mind. His knees collapsed. He locked them, stumbling and shuddering hard. God help them all.
This wasn’t an ordinary dream.
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Blessings,
Vicki
Thank you for your service.
Dictionary.com defines a hero as “a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.”
Heroes aren’t just men . . . or women. Police dogs and service dogs, for example, are heroic. Actually, there are examples of heroism—courage, brave deeds, and/or noble qualities—in all walks of life.
My dad once told me of a man he greatly admired but refused to offer a book. The reason? The man couldn’t read. 
He was heroic and admirable and no one should insult him by offering him something that required a skill he had not acquired. I thought in that situation, there were two heroes: the man and my dad for considering the man’s dignity.
All around us are acts of heroism. A woman at the ballpark yesterday lifted a little one who couldn’t reach to get a drink from a water fountain. To the thirsty, one who assists in getting a drink is performing a noble, heroic act. Noticing that one needs help and helping without fanfare or even being asked—that’s heroic.
In one way or another, we’re all thirsty.
After a long illness, last night, the husband of a dear friend passed away. For two years I’ve watched her struggle with him, fight for him to get him the care he needed, to keep his spirits up, to do all that needed doing both for him and for her family. To me, her face is the face of a hero.
And as I focus on these things, I recall many who have been my heroes. The list was far longer than I expected it to be when I sat down to weigh the matter. There’s a hidden blessing in thinking about all your heroes. You feel grateful for them and to them, of course, but you’re also grateful that they saw something in you they felt was valuable enough to sacrifice something they didn’t have to sacrifice on your behalf. Their acts are proof of your worth in their eyes.
I wonder how many people miss that. It begs two questions:
1. In whose face do you look and see a hero?
2. When others look in your face, what do they see?
Weighty questions. But questions whose answers bear lasting treasures.
Blessings,
Vicki
© 2012, Vicki Hinze
Today would have been my mother’s birthday.
Memories crowd my mind, no doubt made more poignant due to a good friend’s loss of his mother last week. It makes fresh the ravages of grief that had mercifully become more distant.
Losing a mother is devastating, and there’s just no getting around that. Whether she was a wonderful mother, an indifferent one, or an awful one, she was still the mother. You mourn the loss of a wonderful mother. Mourn that your mother was indifferent and question yourself as to why, perhaps blame yourself because her indifference made you feel unlovable. Mourn the awful mother because she wasn’t a wonderful mother and wonder if the reason was her challenge or yours. Regardless of the type of mother, you still mourn. What was, what wasn’t, what could have been.
I was so incredibly lucky. My mother wasn’t just wonderful she was extraordinary. And while she passed away fifteen years ago, she is with me still. In ideas and attitudes. In standards and perspectives. In all I think and do.
It seems odd to say, considering she’s with me all the time, but I miss her. I miss her daily presence in my life. I miss her quick wit and her compassion, her amazing insights. I miss her smile and that twinkle in her eye. I even miss that penchant of hers for being blunt and totally honest even when it hurt—times when she also hung tight to sooth and comfort.
We’ve all heard that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. I’m not sure who first said it, but I know from life that it’s true. So if you haven’t called your mom lately, pick up the phone. If you are a mom, remember that you are your child’s hero or heroine. Be the best you can be for yourself but also for her or him.
Even if your child is going through one of those stages where s/he thinks Mom is stupid, too mean, too out of touch, too … well, choose your adjective, know that there will come a time when that child pauses, looks back, and realizes all Mom did, taught, and sacrificed to do what she did. How much effort it took for her to prepare her child as best she was able for the future. And one day that child will realize that when she said, “It hurts me more than it hurts you,” she was being totally honest.
What breaks my heart is that some kids realize this at about age twenty. Some at twenty-five. But there are some that realize Mom wasn’t so stupid after all only after Mom’s gone. I pity those kids. Because then it’s too late to gain the added wisdom that comes when a kid tells Mom s/he had been wrong, and that s/he now realizes all that being a mother encompassed.
But that’s a post for a different day. Today would have been my mother’s birthday and she did know she was beloved and admired and respected and appreciated. She knew before it was too late, and that she did fills me with such gratitude I could weep.
I could write for hours all I learned at my mother’s hand. I could sing her praises indefinitely. But I can summarize all that really needs say succinctly: She loved unconditionally.
When I hear mothers minimized or what they do marginalized, I find it absurd and shortsighted. I can’t say it makes me angry so much as it makes me pity the clueless. But I am comforted in know that there’ll come a time when they figure it out—the truth, I mean. And that is:
There is no more important position than motherhood.
And there is but one position as important: fatherhood.
A lesson learned from my mom.
Happy Birthday, Mom. You forever remain in my mind and heart.
I’m celebrating a new two-book contract! To thank readers for being so supportive—I couldn’t write the books I love if you didn’t support them—I’m giving away Kindle copies of GIRL TALK: LETTERS BETWEEN FRIENDS from midnight tonight, April 19th until April 23rd at 11:59 PM. So you’ve got five (5) days to claim your free copy. Here’s a link:
If you don’t have a Kindle, you can still get and read a copy. You can read books on your computer or other mobile devices with Amazon’s FREE Kindle Reading Apps.
You’re the best—and I’m very grateful to all of you.
Blessings,
Vicki
FREE ON KINDLE April 19-23
“With GIRL TALK, Vicki Hinze writing as Kali Kaye joins the ranks of Elizabeth Berg and Ann Tyler. Told in the letters of four friends, the story is fiercely honest, sassy, serious and wise. It’s a must-read for any woman who cherishes her friends.”
–Peggy Webb National Bestselling Author of Donovan’s Angel (Donovans of the Delta series)
Summary
In the early 1960s, four girls, as part of a 7th grade, nationwide school program, become pen pals. They have little in common but become lifelong friends who confront together the challenges girls confront in the world they confront them. Through their letters, we share their lives–their hopes and dreams, triumphs and defeats, joys and sorrows–and for all their differences, we discover that they are stronger and wiser for being friends.
Reader Reviews
“Who would’ve thought that you could so closely follow the lives of four young girls, all the way to adulthood, through something as simple as letters to each other? This book is very well written. By reading the letters they write to each other, you get to experience their lives, happiness, sadness, triumphs and failures, and truly come to care for them all.
This book shows what we are missing today, with letter writing becoming such a dying art. It truly makes me want to sit down with a pad of paper and pen and start writing to everyone I know. Absolutely wonderful story. ” –Lanae Tatman, Amazon
“What a great escape into the lives of 4 girls who evolve into women. This book has something for everyone. The author pulls you into the lives of these young girls and guides you throughout the ups and downs of their childhood into adulthood. Keeping points of important historical events and there timelines was just another way to keep you wanting more……Thanks for the good read! ” –Dawn, Amazon
“A lovely tribute to female friendships.” –Peggy Webb, Amazon
“A beautiful story of outstanding friendship. What a wonderful accounting of four young girls as they grow into dynamic women! Initially connected by a writing assignment they grudgingly completed, four young girls become friends and eventually pillars of support as only true girlfriends can be to each other. It takes a deft hand to reveal such depth of character and plot through just the exchange of letters as the girls face challenges and celebrate successes, but Vicki Hinze nailed it! This novella is beautifully written, humorous and heartbreaking in turns. Letter writing itself is a lost art but Girl Talk: Letters Between Friends is a lovely reminder of the inherent value of writing – and staying connected – to those who matter most.” –Regan Black
“Charming and engrossing. In this charming collection of letters between female pen pals, the reader is treated to the issues and lessons each of the four women face along their journey from adolescence to maturity. The story unfolds in epistolary style, hitting the highlights of each of the stages the women encounter in their lives. From issues such as teenagers believing the sometimes hilarious half-truths they are told, to adult moral choices, the book is fascinating and readers can’t help but grow to care for the four women.”– Kathy Carmichael, bestselling author of HOT FLASH
FIVE STAR DAYS
It’s all too easy to get caught up in all the things we have to do, or that we feel we have to do, that we neglect to take time to smell the roses. Now and then something happens to remind us to smell the roses—and their leaves and stems—and we become fully aware of what we’ve been missing.
Yesterday was such a day.
Chocolate Dipped Strawberries
It was the eldest of my angels’ birthday celebration. The “tribe” got together at a state park that was just lovely. A great pavilion, a separate grilling pavilion, lots of benches and tables. Grilled burgers and hot dogs, fresh fruit and yummy strawberry trifle and fresh veggies and dips. Check out the chocolate dipped strawberries my daughter made. (Too good for words!) Brownies and a carrot cake, angel eggs (some call them deviled eggs), and other goodies rounded out the feast.
The kids swam, went tubing behind the boat, filled water balloons and, from the littlest on up, took turns water-bombing others. We played volleyball, we talked, we laughed, we had fun. Lots and lots of fun.
And I noted a few things (there were many others) that made this a Five Star Day.
- Not one person answered his or her cell phone. Plenty of them rang, but not one person stopped what they were doing and answered. Everyone was pleasantly, otherwise occupied.
- No one checked his or her email. Lots of little bings went off, signaling new email. But no one checked it. In fact—quite an oddity for today (and more’s the pity)—cell phones stayed tucked away in handbags or lay atop tables. At least for this sunny and mild, beautiful afternoon, they were deemed less significant than whatever else was being done.
- Adults and kids played volleyball, from age two to sixty and holding. Sometimes we had two balls going—a small beach ball that wouldn’t hurt the wee ones, and a regular, regulation volleyball. There were lots of out-of-bounds hits, and intermittently, the game would go on pause while an adult lifted one of the wee ones so he or she could spike the ball over the net. Applause followed, whether the ball made it over or under the net. The great part? None of the other little ones objected—and the best part yet—not one of them (and there were a ton of kids there) seemed surprised to see such a pause occur. They considered it normal. Typical. Isn’t that terrific? No one lost patience. No one groaned or muttered. In fact, one far too small to lift a wee one did his best trying. It landed both on their backsides in the dirt, and the response? Laughter, them included.
- An infant went from one pair of arms to another being held and cooed to by women and men and older kids under supervision. The baby, who was as cute as a button dressed in a darling bumblebee ensemble, was content the entire day.
We stayed until late, and as we walked to the car to leave, it was satisfying to see we’d left nothing but footprints. The little ones picked up all the remnants of the balloon bombs, all that was recyclable had been put in the container for that purpose, and the trash had been bagged and put in its container.
The pavilion looked barren without loved ones and all the decorations in it. Still and silent, but not empty. Nope, far from empty. It held the echoes of laughter and shared secrets; the joy of children and adults playing, happy to be together, and then it hit me. It was true a Five Star Day.
Now some would see this as a kid’s birthday party, picnicking with family and friends and that’s all they’d see. But it was far more than that. Slow down a moment and think about it.
It was a day celebrating a very special angel’s very special birthday. A day to treasure, gathering with loved ones and friends and the friends and families of friends. Those are times to be valued and cherished, but this day… well, that’s not all this day was.
It was also a day of building memories that will last the lifetimes of those who lived it.
And those memories make it a Five Star Day.
Blessings,
Vicki
P.S. Just to keep me really appreciating these memorable days, this morning the washer burned up. I’m grateful it didn’t set the house on fire—and glad I had the serenity wash-over from yesterday before having to deal with it. Events, do keep us humble and grateful, don’t they?
P.S.S. Share your favorite Five Star Day in a comment. I’d love to hear them.
______________________________________________
WHO ARE YOU BECOMING?
© 2012, Vicki Hinze
You are not the person you were. You are the person you’ve become.
There’s comfort in that. Because that simple quote holds promise and opportunity. If you don’t like who you are, change. If you don’t like your life, change it.
People make simple things complex. But every complex equation breaks down, bit by bit, and every individual’s traits do, too.
Too often we look at ourselves and see so much we want to change that we feel overwhelmed, and when overwhelmed, we tend to shun. It’s too hard. Too much. We can’t deal with all that, and so we end up doing nothing.
But the truth is that we have great capacity to do what we want most. That’s the key—that most. When something is significant to us, we focus on it. We study it, dissect it, we break it down until its complexities are revealed and it becomes a simple equation. Every journey begins with one step. Every thing we want most can be attained if we take that first step, and then follow with another and another and another until we address each of the revelations in the simple equation.
We can eat a bear… one bite at a time.
The difference in winning and losing is a simple equation, too. And where most err is in not getting specific. Not getting a clear vision in their own mind of what they want and then following up with the homework of analysis so that the person can develop a plan for making that “dream” a reality in life.
A few days ago, a man told me, “I want to earn more money.” I asked, “How do you intend to do it?” I got a blank look.
The point is that he wishes he could earn more money but he isn’t doing anything to make it happen. He isn’t actively pursuing the tangible things he can do to help himself. No increasing his skills, no risktaking, no broadening his prospects, no … well, anything.
When we really want something, we invest in it. We devote our time, energy and resources to it. We look hard at those who have done what we want to do for clues on what worked, what didn’t, and how they did what we want to do. If what we want to do hasn’t yet been done, then we look for others who have accomplished similar things. We try to pinpoint their steps to success, and we don’t just look at their physical steps but at the individual in all three dimensions: physical, emotional and spiritual. Because they work together in tandem and if any of the three aspects is weak . . . well, think of it as a three-legged stool. What happens to a three-legged stool when one leg is weak? When two are weak? You try to sit on it and end up with your backside flat on the floor.
So here’s the simple formula:
1. Identify what you want. “Know thyself” got to be an old saying because it is key to contentment and fulfillment. If you don’t know what makes you tick and pops your bubble, you’re not going to be content until and unless you stumble into it. Knowing yourself and what most matters to you, you can actively seek ways to attain it. Maybe it’s tangible, maybe it’s emotional balance, maybe it’s spiritual wisdom. Whatever it is that most matters, you have to identify it and keep it firmly in mind to make judgments and decisions working toward it. This is a journey… a series of steps, not one big leap. To consistently make the right steps, you have to know clearly what you’re stepping toward. The leaps of faith come in between but the goal line is firmly fixed in your mind.
2. Analyze what you want most. Look at those who’ve done it or something similar. Look at their steps, their traits, their philosophies. Look at their mistakes, learn from their wisdom, their successes and failures. Look at what you want most. Those who have it hold common traits. What are they? Which of those traits do you have? What in you needs to change to better your odds of success? Need more skills? More dedication? More intestinal fortitude for the tough times?
3. Develop a plan. Think of this journey as a road trip. It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon—coast to coast. Remember the bear. On a road trip, there are pitstops. You stop to refuel, to grab a bite to eat, to see the World’s largest Whatever at a tourist trap, to view the scenery. In other words, you take a series of steps toward the goal—the far coast—getting what you need physically, emotionally, and spiritually along the way—but you don’t lose sight of where you’re going. That far coast is planted in mind and while you might take a few detours and you might take a few scenic routes, you’re headed for that far coast.
4. Enact the plan. Lots of us do the first three things but when it comes to this one, we procrastinate or avoid because we look at how far the journey is, look at where we are, and there’s just too much road in between. To travel it, we must step outside our existing comfort zone and into the unknown. As a rule, we hate that. So we look at all our plans and get lazy or scared and talk ourselves right out of our dream. Or others, typically those closest to us, do that for us and we let them. I wish I could say that was rare. It’s not. It’s so common it’s heartbreaking. But here’s the thing: if your dream matters most to you, you will seek it. You’ll have the drive, dedication, discipline and devotion and you won’t be detered.
Over time, dreams change. Experiences change dreams, too. So you might start out thinking you’re headed for the far coast, but at a pitstop or a tourist trap something happens and it changes everything. Your vision is refined. Your dream morphs into dreams of something else. Something that puts fire in your belly and ignites your soul. Something you love.
And you know that you are no longer the person you were, you’re the person you’ve become. And so the series of morphing begins, and the process of tempering you, the human being, takes on the attributes of tempering steel. It’s said it takes a lot of heat to temper steel. It takes a lot of heat to temper people, too.
And so, as the Apostle Paul said, we die daily. Because tomorrow we become a new person. Every choice we make in each day we live changes us from the person we were into the person we’ve become.
It is this truth that says if you aren’t content, don’t claim depression or stress and reach for some pill. Instead know that the power to change lies within. And if you want it, that’s where you must begin. You must recognize change is possible. One bit at a time. Not with a pill but with a promise. Seize the opportunity. If you don’t like who you are, or what you’re doing, or your life, make different choices. Embrace change. You can do it. Because…
You are not the person you were. You are the person you’ve become.
Blessings,
Vicki
The contests have been posted for April. There are three. Two for a full set of the Seascape Trilogy (Beyond the Misty Shore, Upon a Mystic Tide, and Beside a Dreamswept Sea) at Fresh Fiction and Goodreads, and one at The Book Club Network for Not This Time.
Note: The sponsors activate the links to the entry forms. Fresh Fiction is active now. Goodreads and The Book Club Network will be active shortly. Just wanted to give you a heads up early!
I also want to thank you for your support of MIND READER. It was a US bestseller for weeks and is still on the Thrillers and Suspense and Romantic Suspense bestseller list in the UK. Wow! I so appreciate it, and I’m thrilled (no pun intended) that you’re liking the story as much as I do.
An extra hug to the UK for also putting NOT THIS TIME on the Thrillers and Suspense list there. It was a brief visit (thus far), but a very welcome one. You guys are awesome!
Blessings,
Vicki
Hearty congrats to the March winners for a copy of
NOT THIS TIME!
at The Book Club Network
and
and on Goodreads
and
Blessings,
Vicki
The past few weeks have passed in a flurry. Last week, in particular, was a real gem.
Now let me say up front that we all have up and down times, and it’s my personal belief that when we are being smacked down often it is then that something really good happens so that we stay balanced. Sometimes you really have to look for that good, and sometimes you really wish you had time to enjoy it.
Let me set the stage a little here. On the book front, Not This Time was just published. That’s the 3rd and final book in the Crossroads Crisis Center series (for now). I’m running a contest for a diamond necklace and a copy of the book on it that ends 3/31. I should be letting everyone know that they can enter it HERE, but I’ve been sidetracked and waylaid instead. There’s also a contest going on on Goodreads. Again, waylaid and sidetracked.
Then Girl Talk: Letters Between Friends, the first of my Sunday book releases, was published. You can read about that here. I should be letting others know about it, but…
Then there was a special promotion on Mind Reader, the reissue of the very first book I had published. It’s reduced to 99 cents at Amazon Kindle. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, but couldn’t pause to enjoy it because…
A) We, meaning my devoted agent, Chip MacGregor, and I have been in negotiations on my next project for weeks and…
B) I got in gallies for review on Lost, Inc. Book 1, Survive the Night, which comes out in October 2012, revisions on Book 2, Christmas Countdown, a December 2012 release, and the deadline is fast, fast approaching (two weeks) on the proposal for Book 3, Torn Loyaltiies. All at once, and all with short suspenses, and…
C) I have to change operating systems on my computer because if I don’t get it done, then I lose email and websites and other little goodies in short order. On receiving the third notice to move to the cloud, I figured there wasn’t going to be a good time—there’s always—tons of stuff going on, so I stopped to handle this.
And that’s when mayhem ensued.
You can’t make the move to the cloud without updating the operating software to the latest version, which translates to ditching Snow Leopard for Lion. I could have done it earlier, but didn’t want to stop progress on projects. (I also have two other projects waiting for final formatting and review before publication. Like I said, there’s never a good time.)
So, okay, I bite the bullet. Backup my hard drive to my external hard drive (oh, don’t skip this step EVER [and a very special thank you to my dear friend, Kathy Carmichael, for reminding me to do this even though I back up daily]) and then download Lion.
It takes hours but downloads. But it won’t install. My hard drive is damaged, it says, and can’t be repaired. (Picture my heart beating erratically, and my stomach dropping and sticking to my kneecaps and you’ll have a good picture of my response.) I hit my knees. Tech savvy, I am not.
That nixed progress in a huge way—and at one o’clock the next morning, progress remained nixed. I’d done all the recommended troubleshooting and tried all I could try. Nada luck on anything. My local computer guru closed shop. What to do, what to do? I started searching for another and found one not too far away but they weren’t, of course, open yet.
Along about 9 AM, Hubby reminded me that the computer was probably still under warranty. I didn’t think so but checked anyway. It was—I had gotten the Apple Care on it, it was still in effect. Oh, yay! Help! And I could call them right then. So I did.
A patient soul named Mike spent the next few hours walking me through reformatting my hard drive—(picture gooseflesh and cold sweats here, because even though I’d backed up, I’ve done that before only to discover the backup had been corrupted and I lost everything!)—so we get that done, reload the old operating system, restore via Time Machine and I’ve got my old system back. The last twenty-four hours of downloading the new system and trying to install and repair were erased! That’s a win. A big one. I lost NOTHING. (Picture a major celebration here, because I was all but doing the Snoopy dance, and that’s the truth. Hit my knees again in gratitude. A note: I have over 2,000,000 items on this puppy. That’s a lot to risk on losing.)
Then Mike gave me explicit instructions on what to do next. Three steps. It took until 11 that night, but I got them done. Lion was downloaded, installed, and running. I wanted to backup at that point, but didn’t dare. There were still a few glitches to be addressed and the move to the Cloud. (picture nerves again, because this was all uncharted waters for me). Apple called back to see how I was doing. I took comfort in their reassurance. I was on target for success. The only thing that stood between me and it was time—and those three Lost Inc. books (edits, revisions and writing) stood between us.
It took the day, but I got moved to the cloud. Got mail set up, got reconfigures done on some programs and updates done and I stopped late that night feeling victorious. Then I looked at Quicken, which did not work with Lion. (Have I mentioned that all my tax stuff and such is in-progress and there? No? Well, it is.)
Kathy looked on her computer for a fix. And there is one, but we failed to find where you actually get the download for it. (Picture significant panic but being tempered with hitting my knees, which are just a little bruised by this time because I’ve been on them so much.)
She’s also giving me good news on Mind Reader’s special promotion. It’s on the Movers and Shakers list, the Romantic suspense list, the Kindle romantic suspense list, the contemporary fiction and genre fiction and fiction lists in the US, three lists in the UK and two in Germany. (picture, me wishing I had the time to celebrate with more than a shouted Yay! Thank you! Thank you!) This is a huge win and I am going to celebrate it. So I drop the price of the book from $2.99 to $.99 to celebrate with those who make it happen, my readers. (Thanks, readers. You can see I really needed this one!)
It’s the wee hours again. I’ve slept four hours in two days. I’m tired. Really low on steam, but the thought occurs to me that I’ve been a Quicken customer for many years. Surely they wouldn’t not let me know that the program won’t run Lion. Surely not. I check email—nearly 4000 messages waiting because of being out of town a few days—and sure enough, there is an email from Quicken—actually, two of them! Hopeful, I read. One is from the new guy saying they’re going to do better. (I love anyone who admits they’ve not done well and they’re determined to fix it. So I shoot him a warm fuzzy and kudos for that and ask he be blessed, and move on to the second one. And there it is. A link to the download for the fix to run Lion. Yay! (Picture me viserally doing cartwheels in my office, celebrating.)
I click, download and hold my breath. Then I check the program—and there it is. And my data is all in place and my tax notes are on the desktop and it works! Yay! Not sure if the Quicken man feels blessed, but boy, I sure did. Another win—a huge, huge win—and I hit my bruised knees because I’m sure as certain for everything to go this well, divine intervention has to be front and center.
So all is restored, moved, up and running. I reconfigured some programs and after three days, return to my work: the galleys. I need to copy all the changes made. Problem. The printer doesn’t talk to Lion, the cartridge is low—and a certain someone “borrowed” the last new one without noting it and so, I’m out of ink. No problem, I’ll scan the manuscript. I load it into the scanner and . . . problem. Lion doesn’t talk to the scanner, either.
Okay, I update again and pause to backup the whole schmear. Then go into system preferences and hit print and scan and find instructions on getting these two to talk. It doesn’t work. But my printer has a backup system and I can hot wire it. I do that—these puppies really do need to be in the mail first thing tomorrow.
It’s cumbersome, it’s slow, but the angels that watch over writers took pity on me and, though it took all day, it got done. I saved as it went, and when it was done, I was elated.
Then I discovered from page 181 to the end was blank. It ate the content. I did have backups of the segments, so I put them all in a file and called it done. The win: the hard copy is ready to go!
Now I’ve got to address this printer and scanner issue. There is a fix. I’ll get there. In the meantime, the clock’s ticking on getting the time-sensitive revisions done and that third proposal written, the tax junk to the accountant and the other three pages of to-dos on my list.
Kathy’s kept tabs on the books for me and just before I dragged myself to bed—I can’t think anymore—she shares that Mind Reader is #7 on the Kindle popularity list. That made me smile. I’d jump for joy, but I’m too tired. It’s the night of day three on four hours sleep.
The next time someone says, “Oh, you’re a writer. You work at home. You have all kinds of free time,” I’m going to send them to read this post. Maybe not. I like the illusion of sitting on the beach writing at leisure. I’ve not experienced it, but I like the illusion. Maybe I need the fantasy more than they do!
Now during this, I can’t diminish the importance of hearing from Kathy. I needed those boosts she so cheerfully gave about the books. I needed the information she was kind enough to look up for me because I was stuck and couldn’t do it myself. She was a lifeline for me. You’ve heard me say, to have a friend you must be one. Well, Kathy is one—over and over and over again. (I hope you have a Kathy in your life. It’s essential to sanity and certainly to peace.)
I can’t diminish the importance of hearing from my agent, Chip, either. He’s always supportive, but he was just terrific. His notes came at just the right moments to keep me from jumping out the window—which would have resulted in, at most, a sprained ankle, since it’d be jumping onto a deck so the drop is about two feet and the only window-jumping I’d consider… well, outside of a fire or something. J
Where are the wins? (I heard you asking.)
Kathy was and is a win. Chip was and is a win. And in one of those communications, he gave me some outstanding news. The negotiations are over. I’m going to be writing a new series for Zondervan, an imprint of Harper Collins. Yay! (picture me doing those cartwheels, because I surely am). More on this new series to follow. This post is turning into a book, but I am very happy with this development and we’ll find a way to celebrate together after revisions and book three of Lost, Inc. are done.
Mike and Apple are a win. That my backup didn’t fail me, Time Machine working so elegantly, my hard drive not crashing and losing everything and corrupting everything even though it was damaged is a win.
There are tons of wins. I am not a techie. Yet all this worked out.
And now, my friends, you know why I’ve been such a scapegrace on my blog and all but absent from Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest and LinkedIn and gone from my favorite haunts: The Book Club Network and The Story Garden.
I hope things are easier in your neck of the woods. If not, know you’re not alone. If so, I’m thrilled for you.
I have to disclose that in the middle of all this, I had lunch with my daughter and the angels (my pet name for my grans). The youngest invited me to a movie, Lomax, so we went right then—all of us. I confess I dozed off, but the eldest angel nudged me (good thing or I’d have missed the show!) and that restored more balance than anything else I could have done. I treasure every second. So if you’re having a few trials, stop—the world will go on just fine and things are already worrisome, so….—and spend a few hours with your angels, whatever form they might take. You’ll be so much better for it. Refreshed. Think refreshed.
So it’s been a ride of woes and wins. It always is, isn’t it? Sometimes not as intense, but we’re always experiencing both.
I don’t know about you, but I could use a little more win time—when I can enjoy it. That would be good. It’d be great. But I’ll take those wins any time and I’m grateful for them.
Blessings,
Vicki
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