Thought of the Day

Thought of the Day: September 10th: Happy Launch Day to the Smell of Lilacs!

Thought of the Day: August 2nd: Quote of the Day: "Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value." -Albert Einstein

Thought of the Day: November 23rd: "Great things never come from comfort zones."

Thought of the Day: August 20th: So grateful for such amazing reviews.

Reviewed By Peggy Jo Wipf for Readers’ Favorite

Katie M Marshall’s romantic comedy, The Other Half of the Moon, will amuse and delight the reader with the friends and family that push men at Aphrodite Miller. Named after the goddess of love, Aphrodite lacks the qualities of her namesake. Her lack of luck with men could be funny, but there is one man who just adores her, though he has the “personality of dishpan water.” Her lack of luster and sleep involves a plethora of remedies that allow her to sleep but at the price of weird dreams. Who is this man that continually shows up in her dreams? Are her thoughts playing out while she sleeps?

The Other Half of the Moon by Katie M Marshall is just one of the different genres this author has penned. As a short romantic comedy, this novella takes on folklore treatments for sleeplessness and romance. Everyone in Aphrodite’s life feels she is missing out on love, but her resolve to wait for love is admirable. I love how the author shows the strength of Aphrodite’s personality and her realization that she doesn’t have to have a boyfriend to prove her worth to the world. Her first date with Auggie will leave you laughing as he envisions their date playing out like a Disney movie. The author’s desire to make readers feel emotion is obvious as Aphrodite faces the reality of her dreams. At one point she must decide between a real man, who is boring, and the man in her dreams, Jake.

An Amazon Reviewer:

"Katie Marshall’s, A System of the Chaotic Mind: A Collection of Short Stories, is a page-turner and it is a book that makes the reader think. The compilation of her short stories entails characters that are complex. In Marshall’s back cover, she describes her characters as everyday people. I beg to differ. These are not your everyday folks. These characters go through severe stress in their lives, where many take years to look back and finally understand what they went through. They live on the edge, where seemingly life has chosen them to go through obstacles in order for them to climb out of the hellhole they went through. The book was very well written. The style is simple and very readable. I give A System of the Chaotic Mind 5 stars. Read it for yourself and see why that is the case. "

Thought of the Day: March 24th: So happy to announce the release of The Other Half of the Moon. Now available on Amazon and Kindle.

Thought of the Day: December 30th: “Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.” -Franz Kafka

Thought of the Day: November 12th: Excerpt from Blood is Thicker than Water

Letitia had a hard time narrowing down the perfect cat to take home. She picked each one up individually examining their little faces to find imperfections. She picked up an orange fluff ball, belly as white as porcelain and eyes as green as peridots. It hissed at Letitia and she smiled petting her head. To Letitia’s surprise, the cat purred and snuggled closer to her.

“That’s Prudence. She’s not very friendly most of the time but can be very loveable when she wants to be,” the young woman told her.

“Well I’d be grumpy if I had that name too.” Letitia snuggled her against her face and the cat rubbed her face back. “I’ll take her.”

Letitia didn’t bother getting a carrier. She just plopped her into the passenger seat and hoped for the best. Again, to her surprise, the cat laid in the seat while she drove out of the parking lot onto the highway.

“Don’t worry,” Letitia told her. The cat lifted her head. “I’ve already thought of a better name for you. Helwa. My beautiful one.”

She waited to see if the cat would hiss but she lay her head back down on the seat and curled into a tighter ball. Letitia didn’t understand why the little creature made her feel so much warmth but she instantly felt less alone. She drove around for a while, going nowhere in particular, until Helwa whined grumpily.

“We’re here.” She scooped the cat into her arms carrying her to the elevator. When they reached her hallway she released the cat to the floor.

Helwa raced off in the opposite direction as Letitia fumbled with the key to her main suite. She put it into the lock and felt something warm and fuzzy at her feet. Helwa had followed her back to the doorway stepping into the next room the instant Letitia turned the handle.

“Make yourself at home,” she told Helwa. The cat jumped into one of the plush chairs stretching and yawning before lying in the middle. “I guess we’re both pretty happy.”

Thought of the Day: Happy Halloween! Here's an excerpt from one of the novels I'm working on currently. (Untitled)

Letitia poured herself a cup of Hardy and Sons lemon tea and added a spoonful of honey. She inhaled the aroma, allowing the steam to glide from her nose deep into her chest, releasing a relaxed and healing breath. Her mother had always enjoyed her tea in this way. She said it was used for medicinal purposes for centuries. Letitia sipped her tea, the heat soothing her vocal cords. She rubbed at her temples, trying to rub the memories of Isabella Porter from her brain. “You little bit of nothing” played on repeat in her thoughts. She tried to think of her accomplishments thus far but for twenty eight years old she couldn’t seem to think of many.

She wasn’t a career woman. The money her father had given her in her trust fund had gotten her this far. It was slowly lowering itself but she would worry about that later. She didn’t have a family but she didn’t want that. She had seen what that had did for her mother, what it had done for her, and wanted no part of it. There were times when she were walking somewhere she would see a mother carrying an infant and something within her would twinge but the feeling would fade at the thought of her own mother.

She felt herself slipping into a frown so she went to her vanity. She pulled on her face to see if wrinkles were starting to form. She grabbed a marker, tracing the lines on her face. She looked over every mark, every imperfection and she wanted them gone. She could go to a doctor, rearrange her face until she looked like a model, but that was expensive. She grabbed one of the knives from her kit. The glint of the knife reflected back from the mirror. She raised it to the side of her cheek, lightly grazing it then put it back down, thinking better of the idea. She took a wet cloth from her drawer and scrubbed at her face to get the marker off. Her face reddened and she worried she might dry the skin out.

“I guess it’s overdue for some deep cleansing,” she told herself, pulling at the skin on her arm.

She went into her bathroom, stripping off all her clothes. She hesitated at the sight of the blood in the tub. She couldn’t seem to get used to the copper smell. She dipped her toes in. The blood was sticky but it would dry soon if she didn’t use it. She slipped all the way in, scooping some of the blood onto her hands and wiping it into her skin. She considered wiping it on her face but couldn’t get past the smell. She leaned against the tub, closing her eyes. She thought of the blonde girl who gave her this blood. She had been eighteen with a healthy body and soft features. She imagined soaking in the girl’s beauty and youth, washing it over her. She picked up one of her many handheld mirrors.

“A little better,” she thought. She turned the water on to a medium temperature, letting it rinse off her body as it washed everything down the drain. She considered washing her hair but her tar coal shampoo smelled like burnt hair and the color hadn’t faded yet. Instead she slipped into a towel and went back to her vanity. She grabbed a bottle of olive oil and rubbed it on the skin. She then took out her bottle of olive oil and honey to apply to her face.

“Just like a Greek goddess,” she said to her mirror. She waited ten minutes then wiped the excess away so it wouldn’t stick to her foundation. She applied that next then a soft pink rouge for some coloring. She also went for a soft pink for her eyeshadow and lips. She grabbed her curling iron and waved the bottom into soft ringlets. She slipped into her kelly green silk dress. She gave herself one more look as she headed out the door, relieved that this dress didn’t allow for her to wear her corset. Instead it accentuated the natural points of her waist and breasts. “Maybe I’ll have a little fun tonight.”

Thought of the Day: October 13th: Book Review

Murder in the One Percent

In Saralyn Richards Murder in the One Percent, a wealthy group of friends gather together for a lavish birthday party and get caught up as suspects in a murder investigation. Ex-Secretary of the Treasury, Preston Phillips is the group’s least favorite person. When Preston is murdered, Detective Oliver Parrott has a hard time narrowing the suspect pool as it appears that everyone had motives for killing Preston.

Richards is masterful at switching perspectives from the point of view of several guests to the point of view of Detective Parrott without making the reader feel jolted out of the story. I found the various views to be insightful, clear, and distinct making each character stand out with their own personalities. Richards does a great job of giving the reader time to get to know the characters without getting too lost into one, giving us tiny windows into each of their lives. “The state-of-the-art, rhinestone-encrusted iPhone rang from where it rested on the side of the marble bathtub, a whirlpool the size of Rhode Island. Vicki Spiller breast-stroked to answer it, careful not to spill a drop from the flute of crisp, cold Veuvre Cliquot on the ledge next to the phone.” Every detail is handled precisely, making every moment crisp in my mind.

The thing that attracted me the most to this book is the intriguing mystery. I have read and watched numerous mysteries, almost mountains of work blending together and I have found the ones that stand out the most are the ones that I can’t solve. Richards did an incredible job of swaying me in the wrong direction so that the ending was a pleasant surprise. She had me so engrossed that the one person I thought couldn’t be the killer was indeed the one (no spoilers here, I promise). This was a rare and wonderful treat for me. She also makes it clear enough that I think all readers can enjoy not just mystery lovers. Saralyn Richard’s story will grab first time mystery readers, please current mystery lovers, and has made a fan out of this author.

Thought of the Day: September 11th: Writing Prompt to get the ideas flowing:

You hear a knock on your door. It is the police. They know what you did. What happened?

Thought of the Day: August 24th: Excerpt from The Blackbird's Song

Chapter 1

Brian

September 1999:

Brian raced down the soccer field. Behind him, his opponent was a mere seven years old, while Brian was a proud nine. Brian had the ball in front of him. He saw his mom on the sidelines waving her arms from side to side, lips moving but the words unclear. Brian looked up at his target, as he got close to the goal, only to see his best friend, Adam, waving him away. He ran in the wrong direction. As Brian tried to shift directions, his opponent gained on him, stealing the ball and propelling it into the goal. The opposing team rushed to their comrade as half the little boys began to cheer.

Reluctantly, he got in line behind Adam to give his good sportsmanship high fives. In the crowd, Brian’s mother was directing him to smile with her fingers while his little sister, Michelle rolled on the bench with laughter. She wrapped her purple-sleeved arms around her stomach and threw her head back in exaggerated peals. When she was finished, she adjusted her pink tutu, straightening it before it wrinkled. His mother was always late because of her dance practices.

Brian sulked over to his mother and she tried to give him a hug. “Mom, quit it!”

“It’s okay, honey. I thought you did really good.” She smiled again, trying to make him feel better while she hustled him to the car.

“Yeah, Bub, you were the best player out there,” Michelle said, but the smile she gave him traced an evil glint around her eyes. She started to laugh again before she managed to add, “for the other team.”

“Shut up. You’re too stupid to even know what a ball is.”

“I’m seven not two, you butthead.”

“Okay, you two. Let’s try to be nice to each other,” Mom said.

“I call driver’s side.”

His sister hopped into the seat behind her mother before he had time to object. His mother gave him the “You’re older,” look and he got into the other seat next to his sister. The seat had crumbs from the Saltines Michelle had been eating, so he brushed them to the floor and tugged his juice box from his backpack as his mother pulled into the downtown traffic.

Traffic was backed up on the main street, as it always was at four in the afternoon. While they were caught in the jam, Brian stared out the window at the buildings. They weren’t as tall as the one his father worked in, in the heart of the city, skyscrapers, each one a million miles into the sky. He wondered what it would be like to work in a place like that, just like his dad.

His father worked long nights in the office and, some nights, Brian would wait up to see him. His father would stagger through the doorway at ten, stumbling with exhaustion. His nose was always tomato red, and his mouth curled into a half smile when he saw his son perched in his chair, trying to prevent his eyes from shutting by blinking rapidly. He would thump Brian hard on the head, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol, blowing into his face.

“You run along to bed, kiddo,” he’d say, pulling Brian out of the chair and plopping into it, his body collapsing like a scarecrow.

Some nights, when he was younger, Brian would sneak back out to watch his father dance around the kitchen with his mother. Brian sat at the top of the stairs, peeking between the wooden pegs of the banister railing at the kitchen’s cream colored walls with borders of little blue flowers. His mother hated to dance and tried to brace herself against the kitchen chairs. One night he saw his father scoop her up under her armpits, her legs and arms hanging down trying to make contact with a surface, and spun her in circles while she pleaded with him to be reasonable. Then he stopped and cornered her against the wall, breathing his filth into her ears and calling her “whore.” Brian didn’t know what that meant, but his mother never seemed happy to hear it.

“Hey, Mom, can Dad watch the birds fly by from his window?” Brian turned to see that she hadn’t heard him over the incessant talking of Michelle.

“So Hannah has this brand new Rockstar Barbie that I really want for Christmas. See, Mom, it’s right in this flyer. Mom? Mom!”

“Sweetheart, Mom is trying to watch the road.” She inched the car forward to the intersection lights.

“But, Mom, just look at it for a second. It’s Rockstar Barbie, Mom. She even has a guitar.”

His mother quickly twisted around and gave Michelle a nod followed by a brief sigh. The light turned green and the car moved forward.

Instantly, he heard the clang of metal on metal. It shook the car, spinning it horizontally. The sound of the glass shattering and the honking of the horn rattled in his brain. His ears rang with a high-pitched squeal, echoing through him until he expected his body to explode. He felt the opening of his mouth as his jaw muscles worked against him and realized that part of the noise came from his own muffled scream that caught in his throat. It stunned him for a moment, but when he recovered he could hear nothing but his sister’s screams.

“Oh, my arm! My arm really hurts. Mommy, my arm hurts!” Her tutu was dotted with shards of glass.

The front left side of the car was crumpled into itself. His mother sat silent in the seat. Brian scooted toward his sister and climbed across the center console. “Mom? Mom, are you okay? Mom, please wake up.”

His mother’s eyes were open, sparkling blue like the earrings in her ears. Surrounding her detached beauty were pools of scarlet running from and around her face. It trickled from her ear canal, coating the earring as her neck tilted sideways in the seat. It dripped from her nose and mouth, creating a puddle on the gearshift. Her eyes stared up at him blankly as he tried to find the soul that once was there. For a second, he thought he saw the twinkle reappear in her eyes, a slight indication that she was still there, that she still loved him, but then it vanished again.

Beside him, his sister’s cries turned into incomprehensible screeches. He shook his mother’s shoulder, but she felt so far away. He felt her arm, wondering if it was cold. He had heard that you’re always cold when you die, but she still felt warm and all he wanted to do was crawl into her arms for comfort. Then someone was opening the door and pulling him from the car. He thrashed, screamed, and cried to be put back, but they wouldn’t let him.

Thought of the Day: August 18th:

How to Write the Perfect Story

Many authors have written how-to books with their neat, little tricks as to how to create the perfect scene or write the perfect poem. Each one is slightly different from the other, but all of them seem to think that their process is the correct process for getting that creative energy to spark. I'm not writing this to give you my magic formula. The reason each of these books are different from each other is because there is no magic formula, no perfect way of execution to create the ultimate in all that is wonderful in a book. What I can offer you is a glimpse into that fantastical, creative energy in my own brain and my own process of discovery. So here's a glimpse into some of my dos and don'ts of the story process. Some of you may find this similar or helpful to your process. Others may decide I don't have a clue what I'm talking about and stop reading before the list even ends. Regardless, this is how my brain works and this is what I deem to be the best way for me to work.

Number One: Don't Stress About Environment

Now for some people this might be a complete surprise, but it's one of the best suggestions I can make. There is no perfect place to write a story. Sure, we all have that cheesy, cliche image of hanging out in a coffee shop with our laptops open (or notebooks if you prefer old school like myself) with some exotic flavored latte and a danish, but not everyone wants to waste time driving anywhere just to write. Those who do prefer to stay at home, don't worry about the things around you. Is my space clean? Do I have a desk to sit at? Is there enough fluffy pillows on my bed? (for those of us who get inspiration at two in the morning, but lack the energy to get up out of our comfy place) All I can say is that the best thing to improve writing is to actually write and it's harder to do that when you're thinking about everything else around you. For me, I try to write whenever an idea pops into my head, regardless of my location, which leads me to number two.

Number Two: Inspiration Can Come From Anything

Inspiration is all around us. We don't have to witness extraordinary things for ideas to come. I have heard so many people say that they don't know what to write about. Relax, go about your day, and things will come in place naturally. It may be that you're reading a book. It could happen when you're walking in a park. And yes, it could even happen when you're singing in the shower 'cause a little music never hurt the creative energy any. One of the things I have noticed in my every day life is that inspiration appears when I least expect it. I could be sitting down to lunch eating an orange and the next thing I know I'm thinking about flying monkeys invading an orange factory. Okay, I know that monkeys would be more likely in a banana factory, but hey, it's my imagination and I'll put my monkeys wherever I like to have them.

Number Three: Let the Characters Come to You

Often I see people outlining characters before the story has come and that can work in ones favor, but sometimes the story twists down a different road, leaving the character irrelevant. It's often a chicken or the egg scenario- who should come first? Some people are like me and go for the yummy, scrumptious chicken with all its savory plot twists and heroics and some go for the ooey, gooey egg center where the main characters live. Either way, just make sure your character is true to its self. Each time you write about a new character, you breathe life into this being and you need to make up the elements that make this character whole. The key is to take your time with these characters, get to know them, let them surprise you, and don't try to plot their every move without figuring out if that is something they would do. And yes, there are those that would argue that being your characters, you can make them do whatever you want, but I can tell you that I would it find it hard to believe that a sensible businessman who lived in a suburb and liked to golf every weekend would suddenly decide to wear a fluffy, pink tutu all over his neighborhood. Let the character tell you what they would do and you'll win every time,

Now that you think I'm a fruit loop that spends her time talking to her characters, I can conclude with my final piece of my story puzzle. Number Four: Passion

Write about what you love and don't be afraid to feel something when you do. Write about the things that matter, things that make you happy, things that make you cry, things that make you wonder about the inconsistencies of life. And don't stop until you feel it's completed. Take a bit of yourself and inject it into the words. Don't be afraid to hate it, to crumple it up and shred it to bits. To start over and over again until everything you need to say is said. Hate it one minute and love it the next. Because a writer never leaves a piece the same way they started. Let the writing change you. Take chances, be bold, and don't stop until you find what you're looking for.

Thought of the Day August 6th: "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans." -John Lennon

Thought of the Day July 17th: "They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night." - Edgar Allan Poe