OLD IS COOL AND SO IS WRITING!

by Jackie King

I’m a writer, so I write. Sometimes I have to write what’s foremost on my mind. Today that happens to be writing as I grow older.  If you’re a writer, everything is connected with your writing. And no matter what your age is today, one day you too, will be old. So this morning, instead of trudging ahead on my latest Work-in-Progress, I’m talking about my Life-in-Progress.

Arranging your life successfully as you age isn’t as easy as it looks. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I have two daughters in the area who are both willing to help. The problem is, I don’t want to be a pain in their backside. I must say that hard as I’ve tried, I have complicated both of their lives. But I make a discernable effort to minimize their problems.

Years ago I vowed that I wouldn’t unnecessarily cause my children pain. I won’t go into the history of why, just that this was my goal for dealing with adult children. Did I always accomplish this? Of course not. But with all honesty, I can honestly say that I’ve tried.

Here was my game plan when I hit about 75: Since I’m single, I sold my four-bedroom house and downsized to fit into a three-room apartment in a complex for seniors. My daughters helped me, but the decision was mine. Here are my self-imposed ground-rules:

The “treasures” that I spent a lifetime collecting are just “stuff.” Look at the need to shed them as a relief, not a tragedy.

No “meltdowns” allowed. (I had one rather serve collapse right after I moved. Luckily my youngest daughter was with me, and she was wise enough to just let me boohoo in her arms until I recovered my equilibrium.)

I had to try two senior complexes before I found the right fit for me.

I made up my mind that I’d be happy.

I adopted the motto: OLD IS COOL! Because it is. (imo)

I chose a drop-dead date when I would stop driving, and then sold my car to my youngest granddaughter. Her delight at having a bright red, sporty-looking car, sweetened the bitterness of this pill.

As with all of my decisions, I made up my mind not to grieve over what laws of nature governor.

My rule as a writer: NEVER GIVE UP WRITING.

Write something each day that it’s humanly possible. (Did I break this vow? Of course. But as soon as possible, I went right back to writing. And I’m not talking about my grocery list.)

Growing old is sometimes a challenge. One must reject bitterness, regret and loss, and then press forward with hope, courage and faith.

Now back to my new cozy with the working title of Corpse Under a Sagebrush. Which more than likely will change.

Cheers,

Jackie

INDIE PUBLISHING: My New Venture in 2017

by Jackie King

Technology in printing and the popularity of ebooks have changed the publishing world in ways that have transformed the book industry.

I’ve always been something of a late bloomer, and my entrance into publishing my own books is no different. When I started writing seriously, that was back in the late 1980s, self-publishing was considered to be something that only hobbyists indulged in to bolster their egos. Twenty-first century publishing is a whole new ballgame.

The once shabby title of “self-publishing,” is now called “Indie publishing," and has a shine all its own. Now everyone and his favorite author seems to be considering some type of Indie publishing. Including yours truly.

At the close of 2016, I asked for the copyrights to all of my books and novellas to be returned to me, and the regional publisher I worked with for many years graciously agreed. So with the help of local writer/editor, Joshua Danker-Dake, and local graphic designer/artist, Mark Combs, I am in the process of printing Blue Cameo Books.

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Josh Daker-Dake, Writer and Editor

“Self-publishing was time-consuming, but straightforward—it’s nothing any reasonably computer-savvy person can’t do with a little bit of diligence." Josh Daker-Dake—interview with Publisher’s Weekly 2015

Mark Combs, Graphic Designer/Artist

This imprint will soon republish all of my Grace Cassidy Mysteries, and my stand alone contemporary mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, which is set in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Later in the year I’ll issue a collection of my historical novellas that are set in 1889 Guthrie, Oklahoma Territory, at the time of the Land Run.

I’m very excited with this new venture, and am enjoying learning more and more about the craft of self-publishing each day. The illustrious SistersInCrime organization plans on sponsoring a ListServ for its members sometime this year.

Very soon I’ll show the new covers of my “Corpse,” series, featuring Grace Cassidy, an independent B&B inn-sitter who offers her services to overworked innkeepers who desperately need a vacation.

Chasing the Blues by Writing

November 9, 2016

I have a bad case of the Blues today. Better than last night around midnight, but still feeling sad. In my struggle to avoid a gloomy day, I searched my memory for a happier time.

A conversation held at a Malice Domestic Conference sprang to mind. A guy who happened to be another cozy mystery writer said, “My whole day goes better if I write.”

“Really?” I said, “So does mine.” The other authors gathered with us agreed.

So today, in pursuit of a lighter heart, I sat my fine broad butt in the chair in front of my computer and continued working on my newest project. This cozy mystery has the working title of CORPSE IN THE SAGEBRUSH. It’s set in the Oklahoma Panhandle a little farther west than my just published suspense novel MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE.

Sunset on the Plains

Photo by Rhonda Smith Hodges

These two books are very different, but my therapy will be the same: Telling a story from my heart.

Here’s wishing all my readers and fellow authors that their day be filled with joy.

Cheers,

Jackie King

Characters That Form Our Lives

and Later Come Alive in Our Stories

by Jackie King

One of my earliest memories is sitting in a circle with my brother, sister and various neighbor kids as my mother told us stories. Delia Hodges Sprague could spin a yarn about any character or characters we might name. Let’s say that I wanted a story about Cinderella, my sister Joan wanted the heroine to be Wonder Woman and my brother J.D., chose Tarzan of the Apes.

No problem to Mother. She’d create one tale using each of these characters. The story would be exciting and it would make sense. At least to kids.

Delia Hodges Sprague was a storyteller, an actress, a teacher and a sometimes writer. This redheaded dynamo was smart, fun and very temperamental. My childhood was sometimes difficult, sometimes frightening and always challenging. But life was never boring.

Mother taught me to read, and when there was nothing to read, to make up stories inside my head and entertain myself with imaginary friends and foes.

Delia Hodges Sprague is often found in my books. Sometimes she’s in the guise of a father, a mother or a best friend. In my latest mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE set in the land of her childhood, the Oklahoma Panhandle, she’s walks and breathes in the character of Winnie Doolittle.

$3.99 at Amazon Kindle

Delia faced real danger with lionhearted courage: she rode boxcars from Oklahoma to New York state at the age of 20, challenged rattlesnakes in my grandparents pasture and tarantulas in the outhouse of a country school. But small things shattered her: imagined slights, walking into her bank to ask for a loan or having a conversation with her own father.

When I was a child she often awoke screaming bloody murder from recurrent nightmares; battled depression her entire life and fought breast cancer until her death. She was an extraordinary woman of courage. I loved her with all my heart. But she wasn’t an easy mother to have.

To see the best side of Delia Hodges Sprague, read MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, and observe Winnie Doolittle. To see the more complicated side of my mother, notice Emily Ashcroft.

Most everyone loved my mother—especially me. I hope you’ll enjoy her as Winnie Doolittle in MURDER ON THE EDGE OF NOWHERE

Below is a clipping from the end of chapter two after Liz O’Brien and Winnie Doolittle find cousin Christabel in Liz’s garage:

“Help!” Liz screamed. “Oh, my God. Someone. Anyone. Please help.” They stretched Christabel on the grass.

“Won’t do no good to yell.” Winnie’s voice was cold, toneless. “You know how to do that resuscitation thing?”

Liz forced herself to press her mouth against Christabel’s cold lips. Her gut twisted. Why didn’t someone drive by? She alternated the breathing routine with chest compression for what seemed forever, but she knew it was useless. Christabel was unresponsive. Liz felt for a pulse. Nothing.

“You might as well quit.” Winnie pulled at Liz’s shoulder. “She’s dead. We’ll have to call the police and tell them she killed herself.”

“But that’s crazy. Christabel would never commit suicide. Nothing could make me think that.”

“Oh, hell, Liz. Don’t be stupid. I’m not telling you what to think. I’m telling you what to say.”

Galley Proofs for MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE

by Jackie King

Yesterday I received galley proofs of my latest mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE. The odd thing in up-to-date publishing trends, at least with my small regional publisher, is that the ebook came out a few weeks ago. I’ve been reading this version and have been appalled at some of the errors. Did I do that? I ask myself, or was it the publisher’s editor, the publisher himself?

It doesn’t really matter. It’s my book, and I accept all responsibility for any mistakes. Which is what Galley Proofs are all about. The last ditch chance to catch and correct mistakes. 

For those who don’t know, Galley Proofs are pages of the novel sent to me online. I print them out on paper, or do a final $3.99 at Amazonedit on a copy online. My choice. 

The good news is that this means the paper version will soon be available.

Jackie at Work on Galley Proofs

And that’s what I’m doing just now—or it will be as soon as I finish this post. And according to both my calendar and my watch, I’d better get at it. Now!

Cheers, 

Jackie

My Latest Mystery--Suspense, Not Cozy

MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, is now available on Amazon Kindle!

Embezzlement, Blackmail and Murder

On the Oklahoma Panhandle!

When Liz O’Brien returns home to make peace with her ailing mother, she expects boredom and monotony. Instead, she finds a morass of secrets that land her in the crosshairs of a killer. Who would have thought that Tumbleweed, an Oklahoma panhandle town so tiny it could disappear as a mirage, would be rift with embezzlement, blackmail and murder?

Plus: The romantic designs of handsome cowboy from her past, really throw Liz for a loop.

Here’s how the story begins:

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Prologue

“Everyone has something they want to hide, but you have more than most.” Christabel Steele flipped her hair backwards, a movement that she knew accentuated her beauty. She pictured her sleek, golden hair fanning in practiced perfection over her right shoulder. The gesture usually mesmerized men and annoyed women. But today her quarry’s eyes glazed with fear. Christabel licked her lips, savoring the moment. Like an antelope caught in underbrush. But instead of blood, I’ll taste money.

Emotional pain radiated from her dupe, and Christabel drew strength from the suffering. Her earliest memory was watching her father suck marrow from a steak bone while he skillfully tormented her pliable mother. Without so much as raising his voice, the man could cause his beautiful, gentle wife to turn pale as moonlight and cry like a baby. Christabel had watched and learned. Daddy had been dead five years now, but she still worshipped him. He had taught her well.

“I still have trouble understanding how you found out.”

“You mention that each time you come, and my answer never changes.” Christabel laughed. “Your tawdry little secret was clear to me from the beginning. I saw and recorded every detail in my journals.” Christabel swirled the half-filled champagne glass, never moving her gaze from her prey. “I’ve kept notes on what I’ve seen for a very long time. I started back in the second grade when I got in trouble for tellin     g people’s secrets.”

“You’ve been a monster since a child! A bad seed.”

“Oh, please.” Christabel licked her lips again, savoring her victim’s pain, which was stronger than she had expected.

“And you think people will continue paying forever?” The prey’s voice tightened and Christabel’s lips curved higher.

“Well you have, haven’t you?” Christabel moved her body sensuously against the sofa. “And not just in cash.” Her enjoyment intensified as the person’s misery grew. “I never tell my victims everything I know about their little indiscretions. A pinch of uncertainty adds excitement to the hunt. Then, the slightest hint of knowledge and you all get the same stricken look on your faces—like an antelope just before a mountain lion pounces. I watched that once on TV.”

The victim flinched and Christabel laughed.

“Growing up, I watched my parents carefully. I inherited Mother’s beauty, and Daddy’s brain. I learned how to get what I wanted by mirroring him.” Christabel smiled. “Knowing is power and power is even better than sex.”

“You’d do this even if cash wasn’t involved, wouldn’t you?”

Christabel arched an eyebrow. This one was smarter than she’d thought. “Perhaps. My family has run Tumbleweed since the late 1800s. We’ve always called the shots here—my father before me and his father before him. I like making people dance to my tune. And I like the money.”

Her life was perfect.

Then she remembered Liz. Why the hell hadn’t her cousin stayed in Tulsa where she belonged? Everyone claimed the bitch had been a huge success. Crashed through the glass ceiling and became VP of some company. Now she’d returned and wanted her house to herself.

She’d hated her cousin forever! It was Liz’s fault she’d gotten pregnant and had that embarrassing baby with his brown skin.

Christabel flicked her tongue across her scarlet lips remembering the night a heartbroken Liz had eloped on the rebound to marry that worthless Danny O’Brien. I thought she was gone forever. Oh, the hell with her.

Christabel took another swallow of the expensive wine. Her victim always brought the finest. She frowned and sniffed the glass. She had left the room for only a moment in order to carry that wretched cat upstairs and lock the beast in Liz’s room. Could there be something in the champagne? Christabel smiled. Impossible. Too much fear. “You brought the money?” She held out a small aristocratic hand. “All of it?”

“Yes.” Her victim sat quietly, and the quietness annoyed Christabel. She sipped the champagne again. Of course, it tasted the same; it was her fourth glass. She drained the flute, then smiled. She’d finish the whole bottle and offer none to her prey. Daddy had taught her how to hold her liquor and how to keep victims in their place.

“You promise not to tell?”

“If you pay, I never tell.” Christabel let contempt curl her lips upward, then enjoyed the resentment mirrored on the victim’s face. Christabel laughed. “At least, I haven’t yet.”

The room grew suddenly warm. The fragile stemmed glass weighed heavily in her hand and her head spun. What was happening to her?

A black pistol appeared from a pocket as if by magic, grasped by the visitor’s white-knuckled fingers. “Sit still.” The voice was hard and angry and not a bit frightened.

“What the hell...?” Christabel asked. It took her a minute to regroup. She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. You shoot me and your sins become public. My cousin Liz will give my journals to the police. You won’t be able to pay her to stay silent. Miss Perfect wouldn’t take a bribe to save her own life.”

“I’m here now, and I’ll find the books before she comes home.”

“Books? I quit writing on paper years ago.” Christabel’s words started to slur. “Even if you find my old journals and smash my iPad, there are tiny things called thumb drives you’ll never find.”

“I’ll take the chance.” Her visitor reached into the same pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, passing it to Christabel. “Put that over your head.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Christabel felt even dizzier. Her eyelids were heavy. If only she could close them for a minute, she’d be all right…back in control.

“If you don’t do what I say, I’m going to shoot off one side of your face.”

Not her face, her beautiful face! This couldn’t be happening. She was the hunter. She had never been prey.

“I won’t kill you. I’ll just take off one cheekbone. I’ll even call 911 before I leave. Only, no man will ever look at you again. Your outside will be as ugly as your inside. That’d be worth going to jail for.”

The image so terrified Christabel that she slipped the bag over her head, leaving the bottom open to breathe through. She’d stall. Keep talking. She’d think of a way to get the edge. She always did, just as Daddy always had.

Her visitor walked behind her and put the barrel of the pistol against her face. Christabel sat still, not daring to move. She felt fingers reach forward and tighten the bag around her neck. The gun seemed like ice against her skin.

Christabel drew in a sharp breath, and then the plastic shrink-wrapped her mouth. She couldn’t raise her hand, and she couldn’t breathe! She might really die! For the first time, she knew what fear meant, then blind terror.

The last sound Christabel heard was glass shattering when the champagne flute slipped from her fingers.

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Print copies will be available soon!

BRAINSTORMING AND WRITING TRUTHS

by Jackie King

 Brainstorming for plot points is another of those writing conundrums: I love plotting—I hate plotting.

Friends sometimes help.  In an email to a colleague, I mentioned I was struggling over which type of book to write next, suspense or cozy. This writer/lawyer called me that afternoon and said, “An idea for your next book just came to me, and it's about Grace.” (The protagonist in my cozy series.) My heart sank a bit, because I'd almost decided on writing a suspense novel. 

Then my writing-pal outlined his thoughts. I liked them, but still wasn't sure if that was the route I wanted to take. He added, “Don’t think I’ll feel bad if you don’t use this idea. It just came to me and I wanted to pass it on.”

 

Mark Darrah, Attorney and Author of Catalog of Common People

I don't write religious/inspirational books, but I do believe in prayer and in listening to guidance from God. For this reason, I carefully considered my friend’s suggestion. As he and I talked on the phone, the story began to grow arms and legs, and when I mentioned these. He agreed they were good.

The next morning, when I was my busiest, plot points began coming in a way that doesn’t usually happen to me. Most often I have to struggle, and with much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Great plot ideas, scenes, twists and turns, seem to come at the most inconvenient time for me. (I think this is because my body is busy, and my mind relaxed.) I had just showered and needed to dress, then tidy up my apartment for the cleaner who could come at any minute. If something is cluttered, i.e. the bathroom counter, the kitchen sink counter, areas that need dusting, etc., she won’t clean that spot. House rules.

I’d already spent more time writing than I had available, and the duties of daily living beckoned. So I had the following argument with myself:

“These ideas are so vivid, they’ll stay right here in my head until I tidy up. This apartment must be cleaned if I'm to stay on schedule!” Thus I lectured myself as I finished drying my feet. 

Then a still voice from somewhere deep inside said, "That won't happen. It never does for you." Whether this was my better self, or a higher power, I don't know. But I did know that it would be wise to follow the advice.

So, wearing only my towel, I went to the computer and began to type. (Luckily that was only six steps. I live in one of those apartment complexes for Independent Seniors, and have learned to love simplicity.) I keyed in all of the essentials necessary to capture on paper the ideas that flowed inside my head.

I'm so glad that I listened! I have enough plot points for at least three chapters, and a good start on the new novel.

I’m leaving you with two writing truths:

The law of creativity demands immediate obedience. When ideas come, write them down immediately, or you'll lose them.      

A blank page can only be fixed with words. 

·  When there’s no inspiration, sit down at your computer, put your fingers on the keys, and write anyway. No matter how bad your work seems to you at the time, any prose can be edited and improved.

 

My latest novel set in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Due out soon!

Cheers!

DIALOGUE AND CHARACTERIZATION FROM REAL LIFE

by Jackie King

Realistic dialogue with clear attributions makes the characters in your story come alive. Natural sounding dialogue helps distinguish one character from another. 

The death knell for a writer:

Have you ever been reading, and suddenly wondered which character is speaking? I have, and the experience frustrates me. I'm forced to stop reading and count quotation marks backward to the last attribution, then count forward to learn who’s talking. I’m annoyed right out of the story. I want to throw the book across the room. If I haven’t bonded with the characters in a special way, I might quit and move to another book in my TBR (to be read) stack.

Solution to the problem:

Dialogue confusion occurs when attributions aren’t given or when characters all sound alike. Realistic dialogue makes the people in a story come alive. Natural sounding dialogue can help distinguish one character from another even without names. If there's any doubt about the reader knowing who is speaking, use the simple attribution, said.  The word, "said," is almost invisible to American readers. Don't be afraid to use it .

 How do we keep the reader turning pages?

Try the following exercise to hone this skill:

Write a scene with three people without using names of characters.

I did this in a class once, and it was so much fun! I chose a high school principal’s office as the setting. The three characters were a teenage boy, his father and the principal. I worked all afternoon on this project, and finally achieved the goal to my satisfaction. I used body language and conversation only. No names.

My challenge:

The boy needed to sound young, and inexperienced. He's embarrassed, and intimidated  by the situation, but trying not to show his feelings to the grownups.

The father channeled a middle aged businessman, highly annoyed and embarrassed by his son’s bad behavior. He snapped at his son, was tersely polite with the principal, and he looked at his watch every couple of minutes.

The principal was professional, but obviously most interested in solving his problem and getting on with running the school. The premise of the scene was to portray a student getting little real guidance from either adult

A stealthy technique:

Good dialogue is not easy to write. Some people seem to have a natural flare for this, and others have to work hard and rewrite a number of times. Both writers create successful novels, and entertain readers.

Eavesdropping is a good tool for improving dialogue. When you’re at a restaurant, listen to the conversations nearby. This works even better, if you can’t see the people who are talking. Picture their appearance, age, color of hair, level of education, and apply that method to your own characters. Is one person from a different part of the country? How does his speech pattern and lingo differ from locals?

Moving on.

None of us, writers and readers alike, graduate from the school of life. We experience either joy or vexation, both through books and in life. We learn continually, and writers record this fine journey. 

Remember:

Everything that’s going on in our seemingly mundane lives, will one day be considered history.

BOOKS CHANGED MY LIFE

by Jackie King

People have asked if there's a specific book that changed my life, and that question always stumps me. Many books have influenced me but what transformed my life was discovering books in general.

I remember the first time that I fell into the pages of a book all by myself. I can still recall the awe of it all. Between my hands I held the promise of a lifetime filled with adventure and pleasure and comfort. I was overcome by the wonder of it all, and, much like Dorothy in The Wonderful   Wizard of Oz, my world turned Technicolor.

My mother had read books to me, and I had loved that. But hearing those stories was limited by Mother having time available, and she was a busy woman.

The ability to read my very own hardcover book was a thrill that I’ll never forget.

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I was seven years old and riding home on a school bus filled with high school kids who were Mother’s English students. Being a teacher's kid automatically made me a stationary target. All of the contempt these teens felt for being forced to write complete sentences without using double negatives found its way to me. The short ride to our small house in the country was usually an ordeal. But suddenly I had found a hiding place.

God smiled on me in the third grade when Miss Hinkle, an aging old maid whose life was teaching her students, put a book into my hands and encouraged me to read it as a way to entertain myself.

My earlier experience with reading books had featured the perfect world of Dick, Jane and Spot. While I admired these siblings and their pet, I didn’t have one thing in common with them.

Dick and Jane never got into trouble, and I did. Their parents agreed on most everything. Mine were divorced. Their mother stayed home with them, and mine had to work. While I admired such paragons of virtue, I couldn't identify with them.

In the book I read that day on the bus, the girl telling the story got into all kinds of trouble, and suddenly, magically, I was that girl!

The terrors of the bus didn’t disappear, but I had found a hiding place. Each time after that, when I opened the pages of a book, I found my life filled with excitement. That was the year I read my first mystery, one about the Bobbsey Twins. In another year or two came Nancy Drew. And when I was eighteen I discovered Agatha Christie and I was a goner.

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What I'm reading now:

If I’m able to give my readers even an ounce of the pleasure that I have received from other authors, then I will have made Miss Hinkle proud.

THAT TIME BETWEEN BOOKS

by Jackie King

I’ve come to that wonderful/dreadful time between books that every author must face. I use antonyms to describe how I feel, and both fit. I’m excited about brainstorming new story ideas. I’m fearful that I’ll never be able to pull together the plot for another complete novel . (I always have this angst before I find an idea I like.) I’m eager to send out my latest book to readers. I’m reluctant to send out my latest book. What if the world of readers find my “child” ugly and uninteresting?

Did I mention that writers are sometimes a bit neurotic? Insecure? Apprehensive? We’re also curious, eager, and interested. Who else would choose to earn money by sitting alone in front of a terrifyingly blank computer screen?

Okay. That’s enough angst for now. That emotion will reappear at three in the morning to haunt me. Now it's time to plan promotion for the finished product and brainstorm plot ideas for the upcoming project. I love this. I hate this. Grrrr…

The book I’ve just finished is titled MURDER ON THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, and it’s set in the Oklahoma Panhandle. The town is fictional, but near the real town of Beaver and seventy miles from Guymon. The land is flat and the horizons stretch on forever; to my eyes this view is lovely. A good many people don’t agree. My ex-husband called it bleak. And it is, but bleak has character—and beauty—and strength.

I was born on these plains and spent a large amount of my childhood at my grandparent’s farm. I love the natives who are strong and smart and resilient. My characters are fictional, but they came alive in my mind in this made-up story.

First paragraph from the prologue:

“Everyone has something they want to hide, but you have more than most.” Christabel Steele flipped her hair backwards, a thing that she knew mesmerized men and annoyed women. She pictured her sleek, golden hair fanning in practiced perfection over her right shoulder. Her quarry’s eyes glazed with fear, and Christabel licked her lips, savoring the moment. Like an antelope caught in underbrush, but instead of blood, I’ll taste money.

MURDER ON THE EDGE OF NOWHERE is a story of a small town where people harbor deadly secrets from their past: blackmail, child abuse, and murder.

Writing What You Know

“Write what you know,” said my first fiction instructor back in 1954. I was 17 and already a sophomore at the University of Oklahoma. Needless to say, I was in deep water and way over my head—at least socially. Due to this traditional writing advice, like most novelists, I drew from my personal life to write fiction.

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Book 1 
Grace Gets in Trouble

THE INCONVENIENT CORPSE, first book in my B&B mystery series, stars Grace Cassidy. She marries too young, loses her own identity trying to be perfect, and ends up broke and alone with a naked corpse in her room.

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Book 2Grace learns to spread her wings.

Book 3
Grace practices flying.

Through the series, Grace loses everything she owns, discovers her own personality, finds a new strength and her own autonomy.

            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Below is an article Grace has written for women on money, finances: 

MONEY TIPS FOR HAPPILY MARRIED WOMEN

(Or Who Think They Are)

by Grace Cassidy

Every woman should have money saved under her name alone. Married or not. Happy or not. In today’s world of changing mores and weakening family structure, a woman must always be able to support herself without help from anyone. Always have a bank account and a savings account under your own name and yours alone.

“Sounds selfish,” you say. “My husband loves me, and promises to always provide for me,” you say. “My husband takes care of all of our business,” you say.

That’s what I thought, too. Then suddenly the husband who adored me (or so I thought), ran off to the Cayman Islands with his secretary and took all of our resources with him. Most of it my family money. I was left with only the cash in my designer purse. (That purse, later sold on e-bay, was worth more than the money it held.)

“You would have credit cards!” you say.

Maybe so, but whatever you charge has to be repaid. By you. (This wasn’t a problem for me, since the girl friend called and reported each card as stolen.)

Be wise, and be safe. Here is what I suggest:

While still happily married start a savings account with some of your monthly household allowance. Be wise with the money under your control. Do you really need that $200 jar of night cream. After I was left penniless, I began using pig’s lard for night cream, and found that it worked as well as the fancy department store brand.

Jeans and T-shirts from Walmart or Target, that once I would never have even considered buying, looked great when I added an expensive scarf or brooch that I already owned.

You may never need this personal bankroll, but if your husband strays, or makes bad investments, or indulges in an unexpected midlife crisis, you are prepared to take care of yourself. And if necessary, care for an ill or injured husband who was smart enough to stick around. And with that advice, ladies, I leave to solve more mysteries. GC

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