Brita Addams's Blog

As a writer of historical fiction, I tend to spend part of my time living in the past. One of my greatest joys is to pull out my collection of old photographs and spend some leisurely time soaked in the memories they bring to mind.When my mother died, I, as the keeper of the family history, inherited boxes and albums of photos, a combination that tells the history of generations of my family. Tangible proof that those people existed. My favorites are the ones that connect one generation with another. My grandmother holding me when I was a year old. My parents posing with my children.In my mother’s repository of pictures are the faces of people who died before I was born. But, those faces have names because years ago, I spent a couple of days with my folks going through the boxes. I asked who they were and wrote the names and relationships on the backs of the yellowed paper. Great aunts and uncles, friends, cousins. They all mattered to someone and shouldn’t be forgotten.The days I spent on this project came replete with stories—the mortar that holds family histories together. There were some laughs and some tragedies, but mostly a joy in harkening back to times long gone. I listened with interest, as at the time, I was heavily into genealogy—stitching together family connections with sometimes nothing more than a thread of information.I learned things about my parents I never knew. For instance, my father made a film based on a story he wrote about a murder mystery. I have a photo of him, in a sinister mustache, tying his sister to a kitchen chair. Can you imagine running across this picture and NOT knowing the circumstances?There are many photos of my mother wearing smart suits and hats. Believe me, she was no social maven, but I asked her about the clothes and what she told me opened up a new admiration for her. Her grandfather died when my mother was nine. My mother adored her grandparents and she didn’t want her grandmother to be alone, so at nine, she went to stay with her grandmother (in the same yard, a vegetable garden away from her parents and siblings.)What she’d intended to be a short term stay lasted fourteen years and by time her grandmother died, the household included my father, my brother, and me. My mother’s grandmother made all my mother’s clothes, including the suits. But all the rest of the information would have been lost had I not asked about her suits, something she rarely wore around me.My father’s Merchant Marine photos engendered questions about his life before he met my mother. He traveled back and forth across the ocean bringing supplies to soldiers and then, after the World War II ended, his final trip was to bring back war brides to their American husbands. He told me a funny story about a French bride who had “the hots” for him and he couldn’t hide enough from her. Every time she saw him, she shouted, “Eddieeee, my Eddieeeee.” I’ve often wondered about the woman’s marriage. LOL He commemorated that final voyage with a photo of his ship pulling into the New York harbor, with the Statue of Liberty in the background. I’m fortunate to have pictures of my great-great-great grandparents on my mother’s side, and every generation between them and me. Those are interspersed, on corridors walls, with pics of my children as well as my husband and myself in the obligatory graduation, wedding, and the yearly school photos.Pictures mean so much more than dusty boxes that take up room in the hall closet. They, in themselves are stories of lives lived. Of triumphs, of victories and defeats. Of silliness and personality. Some embarrass the subject, but that in itself is a story, isn’t it?In today’s world, where people are uber- focused on their phones, I wonder how many of the photos they take truly mean something after the moment. Do people preserve them? Will generations to come have access to them, to see the silly and the serious of their ancestor’s lives.Photos preserve the memories. I love my dusty boxes of pictures. Hours spent poking through them remind me that the kid in the pirate costume on his eighth Halloween turned out pretty damn good, with a beautiful daughter to call his own. Or that barely teenage daughter in a red-checkered western skirt, caught in mid-song (in the play Oklahoma) in her high school cavalcade, is now the mother of our grandson and a spectacular one at that. She’s still full of fun and bursts into song now and again.There are photos of our third child in leg braces and a walker, doing her duty as the New Orleans-are March of Dimes Youth Ambassador from age two to eight. We also have her high school, college graduation, wedding photos, and more recently, pics of her fur baby who is our third grandchild.Lives lived, some finished, some ongoing. Picnics, vacations, honeymoons, and parties, holidays and family meals. All chronicled for posterity. As proof that we existed.I make a point of taking first pics-first time each of us held the grandchildren, etc.I have the last photo taken of my mother, just days before she suffered a massive stroke, her second. She’s petting her favorite cat, Midnight. She had such a soft spot for animals.My grandmother died just before I graduated from high school. She had gone to California to visit her youngest daughter, but intended to come back in time to attend my graduation. I had my senior pictures taken the month she left, but she told me to hold onto hers and she’d get them when she returned. Sadly, she had a heart attack at the age of fifty-six, anddied the month before she was to return. I placed her 8x10 in her coffin. I have a photo of her taken a month before she died, as well as the last letter she wrote to me, telling me to “stay away from that boy and concentrate on your schoolwork.” So Gram! I love the feel of old crinkled photos, touched by those who are no longer with us to repeat the stories behind the shot. Somehow, I’m closer to my grandmother, knowing that we both touched the photo of her and I together, and that she treasured her copy as much as I do mine.What’s your take on photographs? Are they important to you or do you think they’re a bother?

From the time I was a young teen, New Year’s Day meant starting a new journal, a staple gift at Christmas, and looking back at the year that just ended. At that age, looking ahead was difficult, but looking back – well, seems that became my stock-in-trade.As with every New Year’s Eve, yesterday I waxed nostalgic, ruminating on all those who have passed through my life and what they meant to me. Two people stood out, an odd duo to say the least, but each for their own reasons.Uranie Madere Berthelot was my husband’s grandmother and the inspiration for my book, Cedar Grove. When I met her, she’d already taken up residence in a nursing home, was 86 years old and sharp as a tack. Her caustic humor knew no bounds and no one was safe. Her playfulness usually resulted in everyone’s embarrassment, but Grandma didn’t care about that. She had fun, loved her family, and most endearing to me, she thought the sun rose and set on my husband, a sentiment I share.Grandma was Cajun by birth, with a thick accent and a way of pronouncing words that gave this New York girl pause. The eaves of the house was the ease, a sink was zinc, boil was berl, shrimp was always shrimps, and my one syllable name (Tina) was always stretched to two – Ti-na. Oh, how I loved to hear her say my name.Her hands were rarely without her rosary, her devotion to God so profound, she was an inspiration, but her gentle touch as she told a story was everything.I lost my Grandmother eleven years before I met Gramaw (pronounced Gra (short A) –maw). My own grandmother was more precious to me than I can properly say, and her loss when I was seventeen was undeniably painful. I think of her and Gramaw every day. Uranie Berthelot helped fill the gap in my life that had always been my grandmother. We sat for hours in her nursing home room, talking about the past. She loved that. A talker, she filled the time with stories of her childhood and the pain she’d suffered at the loss of five of her ten children—three at birth and one at the age of twenty-six and the other at four.Four of her sons and a daughter, my mother-in-law, lived to adulthood. She lost four daughters in childbirth. Her four-year-old son woke up one Sunday playful and silly, and by nightfall, lay dead in his bed. His name was Lucien, after Gramaw’s father. Twenty-six year old Ernest died in a truck accident. I didn’t know Gramaw then, but she spoke of his and Lucien’s deaths as though they had happened recently. That was the only time I ever saw her weep.She married her husband at the age of sixteen, in 1908. He passed away in 1948, and she mourned him every day until her death on December 31, 1984, three months after our daughter was born. She spoke of him as a young woman would, how handsome he was, how good he was to her and the family. I understand, because I feel the same about her grandson, my husband. No better man has ever walked the earth.Gramaw inspired my character Ranie, in Cedar Grove and After Dark Rag. So much of Ranie is Gramaw, including the name. Gramaw was often an irreverent scamp, and that was the part of her I loved the most. She didn’t mind playing a joke on people, always prefaced by a wink.The second person who stands out in my memory is one I never met. His name was Eric Hilliard Nelson, but he was better known in my youth as Ricky Nelson. He was a singer and actor, and was the person who introduced me to Rock and Roll music.Now you might ask why he, of all people, would have such an impact, when there are so many other people. Well, I can’t answer that question completely. All I can say is, I loved his music. I escaped into his songs at a time that was chaotic for me. Not the usual teenage angst, but something deeper, more insidious, that I won’t go into. “Hello, Mary Lou, Good-bye Heart” and “Travelin’ Man” were some of the first songs I listened to on the radio before I was a teenager. I still remember lying on my parents’ bed, listening to the Top 40 on their turquoise clock radio.Perhaps I think of Rick Nelson as I do not only because of his musical influence, but because of his death. I’m not sure. He died at the age of 45 in a plane crash, on December 31, 1985, one year to the day after we lost Gramaw. I heard the announcement on the early morning news, and then listened to the day of tributes on every channel. The news people played his music from every phase of his career, but many they painted him a disgruntled has been, because of his radical song, “Garden Party”.Briefly, the song is a rant. He’d been invited to play at a revival Rock and Roll concert at Madison Square Garden in October 1971. He came out on stage with stylish shoulder-length hair and dressed in a purple velvet shirt and bell-bottom pants, all the fashion at the time, but not what his fans were used to seeing. He sang a couple of songs and then struck up a version of the Rolling Stones song “Country Honk.” The audience booed him off the stage.“Garden Party” was in many ways, his declaration of his break with the past. He’d moved on from teen idol and wanted to play his new songs. The crowd wanted none of it. As “Garden Party” says, “If memories were all I sang, I’d rather drive a truck.”There’s another line that helped shape my adult life. “Ya can’t please everyone, so ya gotta please yourself.” Those words resonate with me in every facet of my life. I, too, spent a great many years pleasing others. I came to conclude that a happier me makes for a happier family. My loved ones appreciate that insight.So, there you have it. Two very different people, connected in more ways than sharing a death date. They pleased themselves, they influenced others, and both loved the past, though they preferred not to dwell in it. There’s a lesson there.Happy New Year, all. Here’s to health and happiness. Thank you for reading the stories that please me, thank you for your interactions on social media, and most of all, thank you for considering me a friend. May 2019 be a year to remember, in all good ways. I got a new journal for Christmas, and I’ll record all the momentous events.

Here’s a sneak at Cedar Grove. This Civil War-era novel traces a young woman’s life during and immediately after the War of the Rebellion. Only through determination, sheer guts, and instinct does Ranie survive.Meet Ranie Delacroix, and enjoy the first chapter of Cedar Grove.November 11, 1860Cedar Grove PlantationLouisianaSecreted in the belvedere atop the manor house at Cedar Grove, Uranie Delacroix enjoyed an enduring view of the sugar plantation with its miles of verdant fields, but more, she had a direct view of the village of cabins where her mama lived, along with her brother, Daniel and his pregnant wife, Maddie. After a day’s work in the cane fields, the exhausted men and women gathered around the old sugar kettle in the middle of the Quarters, and listened to Cubby and George sing their beloved plantation songs. The crisp autumn air carried the sweet twang of the juice harp through the open windows in the belvedere.She adjusted Colonel Jared’s old field glasses to get a better view of Daniel stomping the ground as he played his homemade banjo for the dancers.Ranie’s beloved mother, Rebecca, or Mama Blue, as everyone called her for her love of the color, puffed on her corncob pipe, even as she hooked arms with young Jacob from the tanning house. She threw her head back and twirled, teeth clenched, her mouth split by a smile. She let out a howl as her next partner grabbed her arm and spun her.Fitzgerald, the main house’s butler, stood beneath an ancient pecan tree, and clapped his white gloved hands. Well-spoken when he needed to be, and some said well-read, at a time when such was against local law, he’d treated Ranie kindly when other slaves begrudged her mixed parentage and privileged position in the house.She huffed in frustration. There’d been times when she wished the Colonel had left her with Mama Blue, considering his wife, Elnora, had hated her from the moment Ranie drew her first breath in the weaver’s cabin almost nineteen years before.Fitzgerald had been with the Colonel since before the Colonel went into the army, he said, and would’ve followed him, if the old master, Charles, Jared’s pa, had allowed it. He’d promised to watch over her in the house when the Colonel took her away from her mama.“He got plans for ya, chile. You’ll see. Master Jared, he a good man. He’ll do right by ya.”Jared’s frequent absences had afforded Elnora ample opportunity to express her scorn, not only toward Mama Blue, who’d given birth to Jared’s first child, but she’d never missed an opportunity to compare Ranie to Elyse by pointing up Ranie’s shortcomings. Blessed was the day when he hung up his sword and gold epaulets, one of which he’d given to her and the other to Elyse.Through her endless spying, she’d learned that the Colonel and Mama Blue had been childhood friends and that they’d experimented with each other. Through their girlish giggles, Ranie and Elyse had spied on many a Madeira-sodden conversation, with Elnora dressing the Colonel down for his unseemly behavior with a “slave woman” and the resulting “beige brat.” Even Elyse knew about their father’s dalliance, and spoke not a word in favor of her irascible mother. Born a day apart, Ranie, the older by less than twelve hours, the girls had glommed onto each other from their early days in Louisiana’s kitchen. When Elnora thought it time to instill “the proper manners and refinements” in Elyse, the Colonel insisted she include Ranie.The music changed to a Pattin’ Juba, and damn if Mama Blue didn’t keep up with the others. She held her blue skirt up to circle and stomp with the best of her friends. The laughter chased the birds from the trees, save Ol’ Chester, the hooty owl that lived in the pecan grove.Ranie laughed, just as the door opened behind her and Elyse burst in. “What you doin up here? Gimme them glasses. Yep, I knew it. Papa’s comin’ down the drive.”“About time. S’pposed to be back three days ago.” She rose and dusted off her flowered cotton dress. “Do I look all right?”Elyse set the glasses down, licked her finger, and smoothed a wisp of Ranie’s hair. “I never saw such unruly hair.” Elyse giggled. “There, you look as good as you can. Be careful around Mother. She’s had a few glasses of wine and she’d been thinkin’ about England again.”They stepped onto the staircase leading from the belvedere. “When doesn’t she lately? That letter from her brother didn’t set well.”“I should say not. Stodgy ol’ Grandpapa died right at the dinner table. That had to have been unsettlin’ for everyone.”“His haughty Patrician nose right in his Yorkshire puddin’.” Ranie loosed an uncharitable laugh, but sobered at Elyse’s scowl. “I’m sorry, but you gotta admit, that musta been a sight.”“I’m sure it was.” Elyse chuckled.Downstairs, they pulled up short before running into Elnora, her half-full wine glass aloft. “Where are you two going in such a hurry?”“Papa’s home from New Orleans!” Elyse clapped her hands several times. “I hope he found the books I wanted.”Elnora glared over the top of her spectacles. “Young ladies don’t romp about like Uranie’s relations. I sent Fitzgerald down to the Quarters to put a stop to that savage music.”Ranie bit her tongue, but glanced at Elyse to see if she was going to say anything. She didn’t.“May we greet Papa, Mother?”Elnora sighed with a generous dose of her inbred English vexation. “Don’t run. Bad enough you do when I’m not watching.”“Never would.” Elyse raised a scampy brow and tugged Ranie away.They burst onto the wraparound gallery at the front of the house, and into Fitzgerald’s stiff back, as Jared Delacroix, the Colonel to those who knew and respected him, alighted the carriage. He grabbed his walking stick from inside and turned with a smile.“There’s my girls. Those smiles make that bumpy journey worth the effort.”Each girl pecked a cheek and danced before him. “What did you bring us?”“You must guess. What do you two think I have?”“Books, and…” Elyse presented prayer-like hands. “My sheet music.”Jared jigged between unbalanced steps. “What about you, Uranie? What do you think I brought you?”Ranie shrugged, never sure if he’d remember the items she’d requested. “The hair pins we saw in Mendenhall’s window?” She glanced at Elyse. “I promise to share. Please say you got them.”Elnora’s footfalls on the sweeping gallery sobered the enthusiasm.“How is she, girls?”“Started tipping at four.”Jared slipped his pocket watch out of his vest. “She’s had plenty of time to build her arguments.” His smile disappeared. “My dear. Good to see you.”Elnora’s gaze hardened. “Did you take receipt of the goods my family sent over?”As though summoned from the netherworld, a wagon rumbled down the winding drive, shadowed by the vast arch of ancient oak boughs. “Three crates full.”Elnora inclined her head once. “Have them brought into the house.”Jared opened his mouth as though to answer, but Elnora turned her back and disappeared through the open double door. He sighed, but again turned his attention to his girls.“So tell us, Papa. What’s the news from New Orleans? How did the election go?”Jared hung his head. “Lincoln won, despite our best efforts. His party opposes everything we believe in. Here.” He handed Elyse a brown paper package tied with twine. “Read slower this time. There’s only two books there, and I’m not due back in New Orleans for a month. And Uranie, here are those hair pins you admired in Mendenhall’s window. I expect you to wear them at your birthday dance.”Ranie tore through the small vellum package and gasped as she turned the twin tanzanite hairpins over in her hands. “Look, Elyse, our birthstone. We can each wear one at the dance.”“I have plenty hairpins. You wear them.” Elyse leafed through her new copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. “Thank you, Papa. I’m dying to read this.”“I love these, Papa. Thank you.”He bowed on hobbled legs. “I am your humble servant.”Elyse skimmed Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. “You’ll help fix the political situation. I’m sure of it.”Jared shook his head. “There’s strenuous talk of secession. I’m inclined to lean in that direction myself. States should have the right to conduct their affairs without the interference of the Federal government.”Elyse patted her father’s shoulder. “You mustn’t get your dander up, Papa. Everything will work out as it should.”He nodded. “Has everything gone well in my absence?”“About the same. Mother has me practicing my music for hours at a time. She’s all but ignored Ranie, except to yell at her for sneaking off to Mama Blue’s cabin or for not working hard enough at…”“Shh.” Ranie slapped Elyse’s arm.Elyse’s face reddened. “I’m sorry. It kinda slipped out.”“Does she have you working, Uranie, instead of learning like I instructed?”“Only sometimes. I like to work.” You shoulda seen Mother, Papa, the night Ranie dropped a plate on the dining room floor.Her eyes were big as dinner plates. She caterwauled so loud, I thought she’d peel the paper off the walls. She scared the house servants something awful.”“We’ll see about that.”“Now, my young misses. You tellin’ tales ain’t gettin’ the Colonel in the house any faster. Leave the man alone.”Jared winked at the girls, their backs to Fitzgerald. “That’s all right, Fitz. I missed these faces while I was gone. Did the new carpenter arrive?”Fitzgerald nodded. “He did, sir. He’s set up nice.”“I never saw a man so handsome.” Ranie hugged herself. “He’s got muscles for days.”Jared’s steely-eyed expression threw Ranie out of her dreamy state. “Girl, understand your place, and his. They aren’t the same. I have plans for you, and you won’t spoil that, you hear?”“What plans? You’ve never mentioned plans.”“Never mind for now. That boy is on loan from the DeVille’s plantation. He’s here to build some new tables and chairs for the cottages, not to visit.” Ranie glanced in the direction of the carpentry shop. “I can talk to him?”“No. No matter you being born in the Quarters, you’re as gentle born as your sister. You have a bright future ahead of you.” He tapped Ranie’s nose with a gloved finger. “You must let me guide you.”“Why should Ranie listen to you? You didn’t do too well for yourself.”“Elyse Marie Delacroix! Mind your tongue. Your mother has done right by you both. Taught you all the fine English fussiness she learned. More than I had a right to expect from her.”Elyse huffed and crossed her arms. “Papa, the things you choose not to see, I swear.”“Perhaps you’re right, but I’m exhausted from the journey, and I still have letters to write. What are you two supposed to be doing?”“’Scuse me, sir. Where you want these crates?”Jared raised his hand. “Give me a moment and you can follow me.” Jared doffed his hat and scrubbed his matted silver hair. “So what does your mother want you doin’?”“I want to go night giggin’ with Daniel, but Mother has had her eye on me all evenin’.”“And I’ve been in the belvedere listening to the music in the village. Much as I wanted to go the Quarters, I didn’t. That ought to be worth somethin.”Jared rubbed his chin. “I see. So, you Elyse, are wanting to sneak off, and Uranie, you know Miss Elnora doesn’t want you listening to that music.” He chuckled. “The notions that woman gets. E, you go on with my blessing. Uranie, you and I should break the rule and go listen together, so you can visit with Rebecca?”Elyse squealed and clapped her hands. “See you later, Ranie. Thank you, Papa.”Elyse disappeared in a flash of gingham, her brown hair swinging as she chased the night.“You mean you’ll take me to see Mama?”“I do. Been awhile since I’ve been down there, and I don’t suppose either one of us will be missed in the house.”Fitzgerald came off the gallery. “Sir, if that’s what you’re doin’, I’ll take your cape and hat, and after I stow ’em, I’ll go with you.”“That’d be nice.” He handed the garments to Fitzgerald and put his arm around Ranie. “New Orleans is bustlin’ with activity. Talk of secession is on everyone’s lips.”She skipped alongside her father on the path to the Quarters. “What’s that mean? Secession?”“Excellent question. Shows me you still want to learn. Now, some of us want to pull out of the United States, so we can keep Mr. Lincoln out of our business. We want to preserve our way of life.”“Does that include keepin’ slaves?”Jared cleared his throat, his face mottled. “Daughter, our way of life depends upon slave labor. Simple economics. We treat our people here good, and that won’t change. Slavery is a nasty business, but without it, the South would perish.”Fitzgerald joined them under the sprawling tree. “I suspect Loo-si-ana’s gonna give ol’ Mr. Lincoln what for, don’t you, Colonel?”They set out for the village. “If we are to believe the talk, yes. But we’ll see.”As they walked, Uranie turned her new hairpins over in her hands. “You ever thought of freein’ Mama Blue an’ them?”“Darlin’, where would they go? How would they get on? They only know Cedar Grove.”Ranie shrugged. “What about me? Don’t you own me too?”“You sure are full of questions, aren’t you? That’s a question for another day. Come on. Daniel’s got some snappy music goin’ tonight.”Ranie tucked the hairpins in her pocket. “You gonna dance tonight, Papa?”He lifted his silver-topped cane. “I can barely stand, child. But I like to watch.”Old Dover Jack rocked outside a well-kept cabin. “Evenin’, Colonel. I’d get up, but the rheumatiz has me hobbled some ter’ble.”“That’s all right, Jack. You sit. I brought ya back some of that sweet tobacco you like so well.” Jared tugged two pouches out of his frock coat pocket. “Don’t know how long we’ll be able to get it, so I got you two.”Jack flashed a toothless grin, holding the cloth bags aloft. “’Preciate it, Colonel. ’Bout the only pleasure I got these days.”Jared gave the old man a mock salute and guided Ranie toward Mama Blue’s place, three doors down.As they pulled the door open, Elyse burst through the creaky wooden door wearing a pair of Daniel’s breeches and an old homespun shirt. “Land sakes, you scared the bejesus outta me.”“Is that how you talk when you’re out of our hearing?”Elyse bowed her head, even as Ranie choked down a laugh. “Sorry Papa. We’re headin’ out to the pond.”“I should hope you wouldn’t dress like that for any other reason. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t know certain things about you and your carryin’ on.”“We’re just catchin’ frogs. You appreciate that frog stew Louisiana makes you.”“That I do. Go on, then. Don’t make noise comin’ in the house, in case your mother hasn’t had enough wine.”Daniel burst through the door. “You ready? Oh, sorry. Evenin’ Colonel. Mr. Fitzgeral’. We bes’ git to da pon’. I hear the bullies croakin’ from here.”Elyse grabbed a gig from the nail under the roof. “I’m ready. We’ll be about an hour.”“Make sure it’s no longer. We’re treadin’ dangerous ground as it is.”Breathless from a dance, Mama Blue tugged Uranie close for a hug. “Oh, my girl. I don’t get to do this of’en enough.”“How you been, Mama?”The older woman held up her bandaged hands and shrugged. “Getting’ the woik done. Colonel, good to see you too.”Ever the gentlemen, Jared inclined his head. “I got any number of compliments on my new striped shirt. Several acquaintances wanted to know if you’d weave them the cloth so they could have similar shirts made.”“I got all the woik I can handle tending to you and the res’.” Mama Blue waved a dismissive hand.Jared laughed. “That’s what I told them. I brought you back that loom oil you wanted.”The casual politeness between her two parents had always confused Ranie, compared to the tense air in any room with Elnora and the Colonel in it. Ranie melted into the music as Jared and Mama Blue chatted. Their voices blended into the crickets chirping and squirrels scampering in the trees.She inched toward the fire in the middle of the conclave of cabins and leaned against one of the many trees. Children, their hands interlocked, danced in a circle, to a dreary song about cradles and trees. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down” brought them crashing to the earth amidst carefree giggles.She’d never been one of those children. Her clothes had never smelled of wood smoke. Unless she snuck about, she’d never listened to Cubby’s and George’s deep voices singing the praises of their Lord. Ranie closed her eyes and prayed. For what, she wasn’t sure. Please Lord was as far as she ever got in her dreams for the future. ****While the lady of the manor was supposed to look after the slaves’ needs, Elnora’s fear of contracting an illness led to her single concession to Elyse and Ranie’s desire to learn about herbs and cures from Mama Blue. The girls had helped bring many a baby into the world through Mama’s straightforward instruction. Even the horses had benefitted during foal season.Just before Christmas, Young Joe rushed into the kitchen and asked that the girls come to Mama Blue’s place. “Miss Maddie’s gonna pop out that baby any minute.”In a wine-driven haze, Elnora motioned them out the room with an indifferent flail of her hand. “Don’t run. Babies wait.”They bounded out the front door and left the closing to Fitzgerald.Flickering candlelight beckoned them to the one room cabin along the avenue, some distance from the manor house. A shadow crossed behind the oil paper window covering as they stepped up onto the porch. A loud moan pulled them inside.“How far apart are the pains?”Daniel shrugged. “Close enough to keep her busy. Her back’s hurtin’ real bad, but I keep tellin’ her she got so much in front, it pullin’ on the back.”Elyse passed Daniel a slap. “She’s havin’ a baby, you fool man. Of course, she hurts. Where’s Mama Blue?”“Went to get water.”“He teases me terrible, Miss Elyse.” Maddie squinched up her face. “Ohh, Lord. Here’s another one.”Ranie lifted Maddie’s head and squeezed in behind her on the narrow cot. “Mama B says this helps.”Daniel loosed a gritty laugh. “She done run me off when I tried dat.”“I’ma run you off now. Go sit outside, and don’t come back till I call ya.”I tease her somethin’ awful, but I can’t wait to meet my son.”“What if she has a girl?”Daniel puffed out his chest. “I good fa boys.”“The good Lord’ll give ya what he sees fit. You haven’t got any choice in the matter.”Daniel headed for the door. “I seen the Colonel pokin’ aroun’ the Quarters a few nights ago. What’d he want?”Elyse glared, while Ranie threw him a narrow-eyed stare. “He came to listen to the music.”“He sniffin’ around Mama agin after all these years?”“I’ll have none of that talk in my house.” Mama Blue slammed the rough hewn door. “What you talkin’ ’bout boy? You speakin’ ill of the Colonel again? You gon’ get yerself inta trouble wit’ me, you keep talkin’ like that. He good to us. Nuttin’ like over by da Whitney Plantation, so I hear from the new workers the Colonel brought over here.” “Just axed a question, is all.”“None your business. Now here, take this clot’ and mop your wife’s forehead. Men ain’t no good in times like this. Flappin’ their jaws and not sayin’ nuttin’ but nonsense.”“Daniel, you’re my brother, but sometimes I could slap you silly. Why you worryin’ about what the Colonel’s doin’? You should be worryin’ about your wife and baby.”Daniel pressed the cool cloth to Maddie’s forehead. “I’m plen’y worried. The Colonel bringin’ more people in. What’s if he sells some of us? What if he sells the baby, or me, or Maddie.Can’t tell wit’ dese white folk. Sorry, Miss Elyse, but dat’s what we all think, not jus’ me.”“Papa’s sworn he’d never separate families and he hasn’t. Why would he start now?”Daniel shrugged. “Firs’ time for ever’thin’, dat’s what the old folk say.”Mama Blue slapped his shoulder. “Get up and get on outta here. Mose and Louis are makin’ chairs down the row. You go help ’em. We’ll call ya when dis is done.”Daniel glanced at his wife. “You want me to go, Maddie?”“You ain’t no help ta me. Go. Ya gimme the jitters.”He huffed. “Me? I ain’t done nuttin’ but help.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know how you gonna get that big ole boy of mine outta ya.”Elyse pushed him out the door. “Go. We’ll take care of her.”Mama Blue flitted around the shack as they waited for the pains to get closer. “Now with the baby comin’, Daniel worries about him and Maddie bein’ sold off, separated, and the baby bein’ left behin’.”Ranie turned her around with a determined hand. “The Colonel wouldn’t do such a thing. You know that.”Elyse shook her head, hoping all the words would fall into place and make sense. “What has he ever done to make you think he’d sell any of you?”Mama Blue demurred, staring at the hay-covered dirt floor. “The driver of dat supply wagon tol’ Wilf they’s talk of war. Says planters up and down the river’s talkin’ ’bout needin’ money if the Yankees come on down here. Says a lot of ’em plan to sell off some dere slaves.”Elyse put her hands on her hips. “I hope you’re not listenin’ to gossip over what you know. Papa’s never gonna sell off family, and that’s what y’all are.”Maddie curled into a ball and cried. “Oh, Jesus in heaven. Kill me now.”Mama Blue sat down beside her. “There’ll be more comin’ ’fore dat baby comes. Yer his family, chil’. I axed the Colonel the other night ’bout da rumors, and he said no, he’d never. Kin’ as he ever was.”Ranie held Maddie and studied the wrinkles in Mama Blue’s face. She’d earned every one. Their skin color matched the pretty English bisque porcelain vase up in the manor house, the one Elnora kept full of wildflowers. Mama, a Creole as much as Ranie, had spoken little about her people, except to say her mother died when she was young. Given the lightness of Mama’s skin, one didn’t need an education to surmise a white man had fathered her. All Ranie knew was that Charles, Jared’s father, was feeble after he come back from the army, but there’d been a succession of overseers through the years.“Mama, tell us how you and the Colonel met. Maybe that’ll take Maddie’s mind off her pains.”“You know dat story already.”Ranie winked over Maddie’s shoulder. “I do, but maybe Maddie doesn’t. I like to hear it every time you tell it.”“Well, see, I was borned here, on the plantation. ’Bout the time I come along, Miss Leontine sprouted Massa Jared, but I never called him dat, not between us. He was Jared an’ I was Rebecca. Anyways, we growed up together here. We played when we was youngins, and then he went off to school, and I kep’ woikin’.”Ranie fell back on the wood lathe wall in a swoon. “Tell us how he looked when he came back from West Point.”“Oh, bein’ silly now.”Maddie squeezed Ranie’s hand, harder as her labor pain increased. “Tell me ’fore I scream to the heavens.”“Ya see, he said we was friends, and because of that, he tol’ me things, ya know, about how he was feelin’ an’ all. He didn’t wanna go to that school, but his father said he hadda. Massa Charles was an Army man and thought your pa should do that too.”“Tell us about how he looked in his uniform.”Mama grinned. “He was the best lookin’ man I ever did see. But by the time he came back home, seemed like he forgot where he came from. He didn’t wanna run this place. Said he had better things to do.”“Ohh, Lord, help me.”Maddie’s scream brought Daniel to the door. “She dyin’ or what?”Mama Blue marched over and pushed Daniel out. “I said I’d call ya.”“Breathe, Maddie. Go on with the story, Mama.”“In those days, he fretted about runnin’ the plantation. He didn’t like the way his father ran things, but the old man didn’t listen to anything Jared said. When he went off to that military school, I thought I’d never seen him again, but then one day, he come back, so handsome in his uniform. I guess I knew that day he was different.” She rinsed out a rag in clean water. “He’d seen some of the worl’ by then. All I ever thought about was… Oh, you don’t need to hear this.” She dabbed Maddie’s forehead.“So you loved him?”“What I know about that nonsense? I was a girl growin’ to a woman. I didn’t have time for such foolishness. How could I?” She spread her arms wide, indicating the hovel she lived in.“You musta felt somethin’, because you had me.” Ranie giggled.“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. He came back from a long trip and brought his wife wit’ him. Shortly after dat, he shows up on my do’step, takes me by the han’ and we goes off inta the woods. Next thing I know, I got you inside me. We was never alone after dat night. You see him nah. Dat’s the way we been ever since. He can tip his hat all he wants. He and me ain’t never been friends again.”“You didn’t want me?”Mama poured water from a jug into a metal pan. “Dat ain’t the point. I go no right to feelin’s.”So many questions remained, like why had Elnora chosen Mama Blue to nurse her through the losses of six children after Elyse was born. Ranie guessed to torment her, but if Mama knew, she never said.Maddie panted and Ranie mopped up the rivulets of sweat that poured off her brow. “Mama B., I can’t go no mo’.”Ranie, her hand on Maddie’s belly, held her as the pain hardened every muscle.“Miss Elyse, go outside and set some water to boilin’ special. She gonna need it.”Elyse nodded and struck out with a dented, blackened pot from the table.“She looks more worried than you, Maddie.”Maddie gritted her teeth, her eyes closed tight. “I ain’t worried. Just want dis baby outta me.”After six painful hours, Ranie held a squalling baby girl, aptly named Lil E, after Elyse.~~~I hope you’ve enjoyed the first chapter of Cedar Grove. Ranie is a character that has stayed with me long after the writing of Cedar Grove and After Dark Rag. I wrote Cedar Grove to flesh out the memorable character I wrote in After Dark Rag. Yes, I wrote the second book first.To finish the book, purchase Cedar Grove in ebook or print. Amazon buy link.

As I enter my tenth year as a published author, I’ve thought a lot about the things I’ve learned and the growing pains of being a newbie. And yes, I was president of the club.We all feed from the same trough in the beginning, until we learn to eat from the table of knowledge.The first draft we thought was epic is, ten years in, trash. I shudder when I recently read back those unpublished writings from the early days. I couldn’t write for beans, but I had ideas, stories, and the will to sit down and pound them out, no matter how many technical errors. I also had the will to learn.Prior to writing for publication, I gorged on 1980s and ’90s romance novels. In attempting to emulate the craft of those authors, I embraced head-hopping with all the fervor of a new romance. Yep, it used to be in style. How enlightening when I met an editor who showed me a better way.Passive voice, filters, adverbs where there is no need, weak verbs, and the ever present quickly, suddenly, immediately, whiplashy wordy sentences, like this one. The “I started to run,” instead of “I ran,” the endless descriptions of dresses and rooms. Yes, all new writers make the same mistakes. It’s in the DNA of a writer.Clunky dialogue with the characters names and ridiculous dialogue tags. “That’s right, Joseph. I am fine today, what about you?” Frank inquired. Rinse and repeat with boomed, whispered, demanded, ordered, etc. Despite a recent campaign to the contrary, said is not dead. It suffices. If his voice boomed, find a way to describe that.Everyone had a POV, including the dog, though I’m pretty sure I never had a dog in any story. The maids, butler, and every town’s person, because we can’t tell a story with less than a dozen or more POVs.Part of the Newbie Blues is the idea that we have invented a new way of writing that is so unique, that if we can only get it out there, it will catch on and become all the rage. A little research shows that isn’t so and that what might appear new and unique, is unrefined at best.Now, bad writing has been around forever. If you have a DNF (did not finish) folder on your Kindle, you know what I’m talking about. Why use ten words to say the same thing in fifty? My bike was stolen by the neighbor’s son who hid it in his garage and painted it black because he was going through a Goth phase, or so said his mother when my mother confronted her about the stolen bike.Or – The neighbor’s boy stole my bike.Passive voice eats brains, of both the reader and the writer. It’s a proven, scientific fact. Take my word for it.The sin isn’t in committing the crimes against the English language. No, it is in doing it repeatedly without a thought to correcting what editor after editor tells us. Sometimes we hold onto our phrasing because we’ve fallen in love with our words. That is the worst thing an author can do.A word about editing and its importance. Self-publishing has made “getting your story out there” super easy, but many self-published authors tend to cut corners, for financial reasons, and eliminate professional editing. This is a mistake. You want your book to be its best, but you don’t have the ability to see the mistakes. If you start out your writing career in self-publishing, you have entered the writing/author bubble, where all you hear is your own voice, which always says you are right. While you write, save for an editor. Your author reputation depends upon it. Bad reviews have brought death to many a writers’ career.And then, those dreaded edits. The reckoning, if a publisher accepts the book and it gets as far as edits. This will happen if the pub sees something in the story.There are stages of editing acceptance, but as there is in the grieving process, for editing is a grieving process, if we’ve invested ourselves in every word, or if we can’t accept criticism, a necessary evil if we want to become an author.How many of these steps do you recognize?1. I had this story in my head and only I know how to tell it.2. They can edit all they want, but I’m going to reject all. No one is going to tell me how to write.3. No way. They aren’t going to screw around with my baby.4. The editor is trying to edit out my author voice and then the story will be hers.5. I concede on commas. Accept all.6. WHAT!!!!!?????? No exaggerated punctuation??? How in the world am I going to tell the reader that my hero is screaming!!!??? Or that the heroine is screaming and asking a question at the same time????!!!!7. Why are there a hundred and fifty comment bubbles with passive voice written in them?8. Dangling modifier. Wow. Dear editor, you must have written that, because I wouldn’t have. Here, let me look. Oh, wow. Forgive the ring. Well, okay, that is a valid point, but the other eight hundred, no way.9. TAKE OUT A WHOLE SCENE????!!!!!! No way! I’ll never do it. That means I’d have to rearrange things and, wait, that scene is pivotal to the story. What do you mean it doesn’t relate to the story at all? Sure it does. Well maybe it isn’t important that he bought a new suit, but the reader should know that, because that makes the character more real. Doesn’t it?10. What does the editor mean by episodic chapters? Are they all supposed to be about one story? But each character is so unique, never has anyone written more unique characters, and I need to tell all their stories. I don’t know how to weave their stories with the core story and this episode thing is easier.11. Present tense, past tense. Tomato, tomatoe. I concede I might not be up on tenses. Accept all.12. Eliminate a chapter? Why? No way. I refuse. It does to relate to the story? I promise. You’ll see. What do you mean you read the whole book and you don’t see where a weekend at the beach had anything to do with the hero’s vision quest? I beg to differ. Really, I’m begging. Don’t make me take that out. That brings my word count down by twenty-five hundred words. That’s a whole day’s work.13. Write this chapter from the other main character’s POV? Yeah, I guess that would work.14. Now here’s something new. Filter words. You’re picking on me. Never heard of them. What do you mean I’ve heard of ALL of them? Look here. He felt his heart beat wildly. Isn’t that a nice sentence? Emotional. Heartfelt. Okay, bad joke. It isn’t a big duh! Don’t say that. Okay, smarty pants, how else should I say it? His heart beat wildly? Oh, well, yeah, that is more concise. Yes, it does say what I intended.15. What do you mean don’t start a sentence with it? Define “it”? *Editor note* Don’t be lazy. What is it? Okay. Instead of “It was a stormy day,” I can say, “Thunder rumbled in the distance as droplets of rain plopped on my hat.” *Editor note* Excellent recovery.16. Oh, damn, that reader hated that I didn’t change that scene, like the editor suggested. Oops. Maybe six POVs wasn’t such a unique idea. What does she mean I shouldn’t give this character a POV? She’s the maid. She has to see things the heroine or hero can’t, so she can bloviate about it to the rest of the staff, out of earshot of the main characters. That’ll take up at least two chapters all told. Yay. Up to 40k.17. Oh, that reader liked how the editor had me change that scene. Cool.18. This reviewer likes my author voice. Even after all the editor’s changes.19. Okay, editor. But you didn’t catch this misspelled word. Gotcha!!!!!Writing isn’t for the faint of heart. Criticism is frequent and sometimes harsh. No place for fragile egos or hard headedness – defined as the belief that you know all there is to know about writing and will not bend to convention – after all, you have a writing style so unique, no one has ever thought of it before.There are rules and the wise writer learns them, employs them, and eventually, knows how to break them.Respect the reader – they are savvy creatures. They recognize a fraud a mile away. They give chances to struggling writers, but they know the difference between a writer and an author. They don’t care about your life experiences and struggles, they’ve got them too. Just give them a good book, for which they are willing to pay. Their criticism is, however, swift and harsh, but their praise, oh, their praise is divine. Get on the good side of readers, and they will aid you in your career. Give them schlock, and you’ll wish you were never born.We all are newbies, and remain so, to some extent, our entire writing lives. The wiser of us cast aside ego and learn our craft. We read our favored genres, study our craft, rinse and repeat. We take our lumps and learn from our mistakes. We don’t take our readers for granted, for they are the reason we write. Any writer who thinks otherwise doesn’t see the big picture.A word about promotion – don’t go on social media and shout the equivalent of “Buy my book.” There are many ways free or cheap ways to promote – guest posts on blogs that review your genre, interviews on those same blogs. Do the research.Make your website interactive and dynamic. Promote within groups on Facebook, providing a link to your book on Amazon. Be active in groups that discuss your genre. Do blog tours – five to ten blogs where you might write a short post about what inspired you to write your book, or you can offer a sneak peek, with a giveaway. I advise that you don’t give away a copy of the book you are promoting – simply because people won’t buy it while they are waiting for the winner to be announced. Even afterward, they might forget. Offer winner’s choice of your backlist. If you have no backlist, offer a $10 Amazon gift card. No need to suffer the Newbie Blues. Recognize them, work through them, and know that you aren’t alone.Until next time,Brita

AmazonAfter three years of researching and writing, the Delacroix Saga is available. Starting with book one - Cedar Grove, the story spans almost fifty years. The first book has Ranie Delacroix on her own during the Civil War, navigating the difficulties of life as a Creole woman on a sugar plantation as well as in the big city of New Orleans. Nothing prepares her for the strife war brings, as the differences between her and her white sister become stark. Ranie is a character that lives on in the second book, After Dark Rag, the story of her Creole grandson and his passion for ragtime music. Ranie has tremendous influence on Fitzgerald, and he lives to please her--to a point. I hope you enjoy this tale of a family that circumstances and time can't defeat.

After nearly three years researching and writing the Delacroix Saga, book one is now available on Amazon. Cedar Grove, my Civil War-era novel is the first book in a two book series that delves into the lives of two people in the same family and spans the years 1861 to the early 1920s in New Orleans.Cedar Grove is the story of Uranie Delacroix, a Creole beauty who discovers that, though she was raised a Southern Belle alongside her half-sister, Elyse, when the girls came of age, their father had to make a painful decision concerning Ranie. That decision shapes everything she does from the age of nineteen, as well as the lives of the generations that followed. Through hardships and great disappointment, Ranie stiffens her resolve and pushes through, with little help and little experience in the harshness that life had to offer. I hope you enjoy Ranie’s story.The second book, After Dark Rag, will be out in September, 2018, when you’ll meet Ranie’s grandson, Fitzgerald Delacroix, a ragtime musician and songwriter. In his way, his life parallels Ranie’s, with hardship and disappointments, but his upbringing prepared him well, and Ranie’s influence is felt well into the twentieth century.Cedar Grove is only available on Amazon.In keeping with a promise made by her father to her mother, Uranie Delacroix has lived the life of a Southern Belle, with all the refinements afforded members of the Louisiana planter society. But she’s never belonged in either her father’s world or her mother’s, and that will come to set her apart from everything she knows.When the War Between the States threatens the stability of the South, nothing is as it was, nor will it ever be again. Her determination drives her to do things she’d thought herself incapable. But her strength is also her weakness and her weakness is her weapon. As the Yankees pillage and plunder the countryside, and Cedar Grove, Ranie’s actions come with a price.When is enough too much?

Time has certainly passed since I've had a new book out, but the time has been well spent. I filled every minute of the time with research and writing, and now, I have two new books, both historical fiction, coming out in the next couple of months. The first, Cedar Grove, is a Civil War-era novel, that tells the story of Uranie Delacroix, a young woman caught between two worlds. While raised with her half-sister, Elyse, when they reach a turning point in their young lives, when young women were considered old enough for marriage, Ranie, and her sister are destined to take quite separate paths.This book has taken several different paths itself, before I settled on the story I’ve wanted to tell since I started writing for publication in 2009. The scope is expansive, so I consider this book a saga, with twists and turns that point Ranie in the direction her life must take.Prior to writing Cedar Grove in this incarnation, I wrote After Dark Rag, the story of a young man who rose to prominence in the New Orleans world of jazz and ragtime. The story had a wonderful character in it, one I couldn’t easily let go of, so I wrote her story, which took me back to the Civil War.The research for these two books steeped me in the history of New Orleans, a city I lived in for nearly forty years before I moved deeper into Cajun Country. I have used that knowledge to form the characters of Uranie Delacroix, and others. Ranie particularly, is a composite, but has many of the traits of a woman I dearly loved, Uranie Madere Berthelot, my husband’s grandmother. I only knew her as an aged resident of a nursing home, but my husband has told me stories. Upon his reading of Cedar Grove, he says I’ve captured her spunk and sass. She made us laugh, embarrassed us, and could play a prank better than anyone I’ve ever known.I can still see her on her death bed, awake and full of sass. I walked around her bed in her hospital room and she asked me, “Ti-na, where’s Hil-da?” (her daughter, hypenated to illustrate her thick Cajun accent.)I told her, “She’s on the other side of the bed, Gramaw.” (pronounced Graw-maw, short a)Again she asked, “Where’s Hil-da?”I gave her the same answer. She asked a third time. This time she gave me a big wink. “Where’s Hil-da? Ain’t seen her all day.”LOL My mother-in-law jumped out of the chair. “Damn it, Mama. I’m right here!”Gramaw rolled her head toward her daughter and laughed. “Oh, there you are. Thought you was los’.”Lord, I never saw Hilda madder. Those two went at it constantly, Hilda wanting to mother too much, and Gramaw unwilling to forego her sense of humor, even if it came at Hilda’s expense, as it often did.Gramaw died less than two days later at the age of ninety-two. She never became senile, which made for some wonderful conversations. Oh, the stories that lady told.I hope you enjoy Cedar Grove as much as I did writing it. After Dark Rag will follow, probably around September or October. That’ll give you time to take in all that is Cedar Grove.Here’s the blurb:Creole beauty Uranie Delacroix has lived the life of a Southern Belle, with all the refinements afforded members of Louisiana's planter society. While educated in music, polite conversation, and embroidery, she has never truly belonged in the genteel manor house at Cedar Grove.When the War Between the States threatens the stability of the South, nothing is as it was, nor will it ever be again. Ranie must dig deep to overcome her weaknesses and discover her strengths.Caught between a fervent desire to see the Yankees defeat the Confederate war effort, and her need to keep her family safe, Ranie is at odds with everything she's ever known. As the Yankees ravage the countryside and march ever closer to Cedar Grove, Ranie must make choices that could affect her family for generations. Does she have the courage to do what she must?until next time. Britauntil next time. BritaBig hugs until next time.BritaAfter

Get swept away to times past in this gay romance historical fiction blowout!Thirteen authors share the history and setting of their books with insightful blog posts or fascinating book excerpts.Simply follow the links to the authors’ websites toread all the authors’ posts to perhaps meet a new-to-you author, and then go treat yourself to a great readat half-price or less, only from December 12 - 24!Happy Reading and Merry Christmas!I lived in the New Orleans area for many years before moving deeper into Cajun country. Not a native of Louisiana, I was born in Upstate New York, I didn’t know much about the history of the state, or more specifically, New Orleans.In creating Beloved Unmasked, I wanted to show the grittier side of New Orleans, not the “year-round parade, party-city” that everyone assumes New Orleans to be. Aside from the politics, there isn’t anything grittier in New Orleans history than the years of 1897 through 1917, when the social experiment known as Storyville came to life. To curb the ever-growing popularity of prostitution, the city council, in a push headed by Assemblyman Sidney Story, passed an ordinance that made prostitution legal in New Orleans, within a nineteen square block area. Anything went. The newspapers of the time dubbed the area Storyville, a dubious honor for the revered politician. And so, the famed red light district was born.My character, Picayune, is the unwanted son of a Storyville prosty. I read many accounts of children born to these wayward women. Pic is a compilation of dozens of children, with one glaring exception. He sees the pitfalls of “the life” and from an early age, yearns to change his luck.I’m pleased to say that the book has garnered some very nice reviews and won Best GayHistorical.Historical and Best Gay Book in the 2016 Rainbow Awards. I hope you’ll find Pic’s storyinteresting. He was a man of his times, hard times, in the rough and tumble world of turn of the century New Orleans.Here’s an excerpt, to give you a taste of Pic’s young life:“H-hey, Picayune!”He stopped in front of Madame Rotie’s place and cast his gaze to the upper balcony. “Hey, Spence.”A staple in the District, Spencer Webb sat in the window, his pants hiked up to his knees, naked legs pale against the blue clapboards. “Pass back after your shift. Might have somethin’ special for ya.”Pic shivered. “What is it?”Spence held on to the sash and leaned out farther. “Tall, handsome, just your type. I expect him about one.”“Will you shut up?” Pic glanced around for anyone paying attention to Spence’s blather. “What do you know about my type?”Spence flicked his hand. “Oh, honey. I might not have a type, but you do, and I think I’ve found him.”Everyone around went about their business as though Spence hadn’t said a word. “I’m not sure.”Spence brushed the weak protest aside. “I say it’s time. You’re nearly seventeen, aren’t ya? What are you holding on to it for?”Pic shrugged. “I’ll be eighteen in July. We’ll talk later. About two. I’ll be here. Gotta go. Don’t want to be late.”He took off at a run but glanced back at the sound of Spence’s voice. “Hey, Daddy. Come on in. I got somethin’ real special for ya.”The District’s pat come on. Pic chuckled and shook his head. Spence was already onto fresh meat.While he and Spence had played around and sucked each other off plenty of times, that was the extent of Pic’s sexual experience. He often watched Spence with guys, even sketched some of the more incredible-looking, but no matter how much Spence offered, Pic hadn’t succumbed to his body’s sexual taunt.He skidded to a stop before the multicolumned headquarters of the District’s mayor, Tom Anderson. Sweaty and out of breath but with a grin on his face, he stumbled through the open door of Arlington’s Annex.“Hey, Pic. Place is jumpin’ tonight.”“Hey, Homer.” He cased the packed bar area. “Looks like it.”He cooled off beneath the whirring fan above before he took his place behind the block-long bar.“Here, you look like you could use this.” Homer handed him an ice-cold drink, which Pic downed in one swallow.“Keep ’em coming.”Pic took the customers’ money according to the services they wished and gave them tokens. Many wanted all night, while others satisfied themselves with a bath and a screw, getting them home before the wife missed them.The doves pulled well-dressed tricks to their feet for a sway and a rub while King Oliver beat out a heart-stopping rendition of “Frog Legs Rag” on the piano. Part of the girls’ job was to keep the customers feeding the professor. He’d play, the men and their whores danced, and then thegirls begged for drinks. The Bar Girls made out—they got paid for sex and a skim of every drink sold. They didn’t call ’em B-Girls for nothin’.In a slow moment, Pic clapped the professor on the shoulder. “How’s it goin’, King?”“Ain’t half bad, Pic. Say, you remember this one?”Pic grinned as Oliver skittered his fingers across the keys. “‘The Maple Leaf Rag.’ That’s one of the first songs you taught me.”“Come on, then, help me out.”Oliver slid over on the bench, and Pic took a seat. Before long, the room filled, everyone on their feet, either clapping or dancing. As the money filled Oliver’s overturned hat, he and Pic played the song again. Bent over the keys, Pic crossed over Oliver’s hands, and King did the same to him. They laughed and sweated, and finished with a flourish.Embarrassment heated Pic’s face as the parlor erupted in applause. He stood and extended his hand to his musical mentor. “Isn’t he great?”Another round of applause gave Pic time to get back to the bar and accept the iced Coca-Cola Homer had waiting.Things calmed enough for him to sketch King Oliver, his back hunched as he thumped the keys. A big man, Oliver sweated through the layers of his shirt and suit, no matter the weather.Pic leaned against the bar, fascinated by the special dance the girls put their customers through. They drank, danced, and chatted, until the doves had them primed with drinks and tips for the professor. They’d climb off the guys’ laps and sashay upstairs, their diaphanous peignoirs fluttering beneath the whirring fans. “Never let them walk out with what they came in with.” Every sporting palace’s cardinal rule.Judges, lawyers, councilmen, doctors, and the occasional state senator held court with a whore on each knee and a tit in each hand. Singers and actors gave the whore who bagged them bragging rights for weeks on end. Card games—euchre and poker—grew loud in a smaller parlor. Gambling helped pad thepockets of the house and the B-Girls worked their asses off to stoke the players’ fires.A thick cloud of smoke hung over the well-heeled heads, seeped into their clothes, stung their eyes. Accusations of cheating were commonplace, but the overperfumed girls kept their men buying the booze, with promises of paradise upstairs. Beloved Unmasked is available on the Dreamspinner Press and Amazon for $3.00 through December 26. Pick up your copy and take a trip back in time. Now discover a new author. Find a new book to read. Below you'll find information on all the other authors participating in the 12 Days Before Christmas MM Historical Fiction Blowout. Click on the “website” links to read the authors’ posts. I know what I'm getting for Christmas! This is a stellar list. DECEMBER 12Alex BeecroftThe Reluctant BerserkerEra: Early Medieval/Dark Ages SaxonAmazonAll Other Formats $0.99c/99pWebsite | Amazon author page | Facebook | TwitterDECEMBER 13JP KenwoodFebruary and December (Dominus Calendar Series I)Era: Imperial RomeAmazon Worldwide $0.99/.99pWebsite | Facebook | Twitter | Archive of our OwnDECEMBER 14Summer Devon and Bonnie DeeSimon and the Christmas Spirit (Victorian Holiday Hearts series)Era: VictorianAmazon | Smashwords | Kobo | B&N | iTunes $0.99Website | BD Facebook | SD Facebook | BD Twitter | SD TwitterDECEMBER 15Christina E. PilzFagin’s Boy: The Further Particulars of a Parish Boy’s ProgressEra: VictorianAmazon | Kobo | Apple | Smashwords $0.99Website | Twitter | Tumblr | Pinterest | FacebookDECEMBER 16Anne BarwellOn Wings of SongEra: WWI – 1920Dreamspinner $2.50Website | Twitter | Queeromance Ink | Newsletter | FacebookDECEMBER 17Brita AddamsBeloved UnmaskedEra: Early 20th Century New OrleansDreamspinner | Amazon $3.00Website | Newsletter | Facebook | TwitterDECEMBER 18Silvia VioletRevolutionary TemptationEra: American RevolutionAmazon Global | iBooks | Kobo | BN $0.99Website | Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest | InstagramDECEMBER 19Deanna WadsworthWreckedEra: pre-Civil War Key West, FloridaDreamspinner $.89c Dec.19 onlyAmazon | Google| Google Play | Nook | Kobo | iTunes $2.99Website | Twitter | Pinterest | Goodreads | FacebookDECEMBER 20Joanna ChambersUnnaturalEra: RegencyAmazonAmazon (UK)NookiBooksKoboGPlay $1.99Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodreadsDECEMBER 21Michael JensenMan & MonsterEra: 1799, AmericaAmazon $1.99Website | Twitter | Instagram | FacebookDECEMBER 22Wendy RathboneGanymede: Abducted by the GodsEra: Bronze Age, fantasy, alternate mythAmazon $1.99Website |Facebook | Newsletter (get a free copy of “Letters to an Android”)DECEMBER 23Charlene NewcombMen of the Cross (Battle Scars I)Medieval - 12th centuryAmazon $0.99c/99pWebsite | Twitter | FacebookRuby MooneMemoriesEra: RegencyAmazon | JMS BooksWebsite| Twitter| Facebook

I don't often review books, but on occasion, an author's work moves me to action. This book is one.Lickety Split by Damon Suede is, at its simplest, a feel good revelation. While Patch Hastle returns to Hixville after a seven-year absence, amid unfortunate circumstances, hostility propels him through uncomfortable situations that only someone who has lived through them can truly understand.Every moment brings us a closer understanding of Patch, a kid who left home at sixteen and never fully recovered from the rejection he faced. He goes back as a man with a chip on his shoulder, prepared to confront demons that no longer exist for anyone but him.His nemesis, Tucker, is a memorable character. One I’ve thought of often since I finished the book. He keeps everything close to his vest, but the raw pain is palpable even to the most casual reader. There’s a reality to Tucker that gives the reader moments to ponder and question the same characteristics in themselves.We all want to be better people. Patch and Tucker, in Suede’s capable hands, are no different. They suffer realistic, well-crafted stumbles, moments of bone-crushing self-doubt, difficult realizations born of sincere and heart-wrenching reflection. Who am I? What should I do? What will people think?We see growth and maturity, regret and pure joy, resignation and acceptance. Revelation after revelation embroils us in Patch’s struggle – with himself and his preconceived notions. We feel Tucker’s patience and heart-wrenching regret for bad decisions and moments lost, as he comes to a self-awareness that rocks him to the core and changes who he thinks he is.Hear this world! Damon Suede has eclipsed Hot Head. With the right amount of angst and indecision, this is a tale of two men who not only find each other, but more importantly, themselves. You will cheer and curse, grin and marvel at Damon’s clever turn of phrase. But more, you will think about all you should have done in your life. All you could have done. What decisions changed your life for better or worse? What should you have done? What opportunities didn’t you take? What doubts kept you from realizing the life you should have had?Quick-quick. Slow, Slow.

Welcome to my blog tour for Waiting for Patrick. I’m offering giveaways of one signed copy, one electronic copy, and a choice of one title from my backlist. Comment below and at any of my other blog stops (posted below) to be entered to win. One comment, one entry.Dreamspinner is offering my other paranormal titles (Haunted,Lifeline, andWhat No One Else Can Hear) for $0.99 during “Weekend Reads” on September 2, 3, and 4, in honor of Waiting for Patrick being my ninth published book.Waiting for Patrickwill be available at a discounted price throughout the tour (September 1 through 15). Winners of the raffle will be announced on September 16th.Writing M/M in the Bible BeltI have struggled over the last three years with how much of myself to reveal in social media, etc. Up until last June I worked at a private school for children with emotional disabilities. This was not a church run school, and as such, religion should not have been a concern. But I live in the Bible Belt, near a major Fundamentalist college. Needless to say, most of the staff were dead set against homosexuality in general and would have had little Baptist kittens if they knew what I wrote.If it had been just a concern of whether or not they'd liked the idea, I wouldn't have been cared. I tend to be me, and let the chips fall where they may. However, our principal made it well known that he did not like anything that he considered sacrilegious, and on at least two occasions looked around until he found 'valid' reasons to fire people who did not agree with his every religious stance. A coworker in my classroom was also ultra-right-wing and fanatical, even for religious fanatics. (To the point where he laid his hand on a tantruming child's head and tried to exorcise demons.) He was the principal's eyes and ears and often reported activities or statements from this staff or that, even if they took place off school property.So, when I started writing m/m and actually got it published, I took a pen name, thinking that would be all I'd need. Two months after my first book was published, a teacher in another school in our district was fired for writing romance novels (not m/m mind you, heterosexual romance novels, that weren't even all that heated in the sex scene department). So I took better care to keep my teacher identity separated from my author one. It was not a fun way to live.Fortunately, I found another job (outside the school system) with much more enlightened people and don't fear for my job anymore. I still do not advertise my pen name to people who live around here, because some of them do really nutty things when they don't agree with someone’s "morals". But I have been able to breathe a sigh of relief. I think that has translated to my writing too. Many of my books before this one have had homophobic characters in it (with varying degrees of effect on the main two characters).Waiting for Patrickdoesn't have that. Largely, I think, because I don't feel that threat looming over me anymore (or at least not as much), so my characters don't either.Commenters: What about you? Writers, do you fear for job or safety if your pen name was found out? Or do you have support from the locals? Readers, are you okay with an author keeping personal data secret when they fear that their immediate environment would be hostile?BlurbArchitect Elliot Graham has bought and restored dozens of historic homes to their original splendor. As in his personal life, he loves them and leaves them, selling them off without looking back. But there’s something about the old plantation house he finds in South Carolina—a connection he can’t explain. He feels as though he recognizes the house, as if within its crumbling walls he might find something he doesn’t even realize he’s lost.Ben Myers had promised his lover and soul mate, Patrick, that he would wait for his return. Ben has kept his word ever since Patrick left him to wait at the plantation house—during the Civil War. For the first time in many long years, Ben is no longer alone, and he reaches out to Elliot in dreams. Elliot tries to convince Ben that Patrick isn’t coming back, but Ben’s devotion is about to change not only his lonely existence, but Elliot’s life as well.Buy Link for Waiting for PatrickAbout the AuthorBrynn has always loved to write about strong male characters and their close friendships. When she found the world of m/m fiction, she fell in love. Finally, a way to bring those strong male characters together and let those emotional connections spill over into deeper relationships. Sometimes her characters go through the emotional wringer, but they always have each other.Brynn lives in Virginia near her two grown daughters who support her writing and sometimes act as proof readers. Both of her daughters are also aspiring writers and hopefully it'll just be a matter of time before they have their own author's biography.Brynn was a teacher by profession for thirty years. She worked in special education with children with emotional disabilities. She has recently changed careers and is now working as a mental health counselor to this same population and their families. When she is not working or writing, she loves to draw and paint. She also gets outside as often as she can, reads anything that doesn't move out of the way, and is always looking for her next story.Contact Brynn:TwitterWebsite/BlogFacebookOther Blog StopsSeptember 1stBike Book ReviewsSeptember 2ndDrops of Ink  Anne BarwellSeptember 2ndSnow's Untangled Threads and MusingsSnow TigraSeptember 3rdAntonia AquilanteSeptember 3rdThe Story Struggle and Beyond  Ki BrightlySeptember 4thThianna DurstonSeptember 4thUnconventional Love Stories  Charley DescoteauxSeptember 4thMisadventures of the Heart  Heloise WestSeptember 5thSandra BardSeptember 5thTempest O'RileySeptember 6thJackie KeswickSeptember 7thChaos in the Moonlight  K-lee KleinSeptember 8thGrace R. DuncanSeptember 8thBrita AddamsSeptember 8thCryselle's BookshelfSeptember 9thEmotion in Motion  Elizabeth NobleSeptember 9thMM Good Books ReviewSeptember 10thJacob Z FloresSeptember 11thAndrew's Blog  Andrew GreySeptember 12thNicki J MarcusSeptember 12thRainbow Gold ReviewsSeptember 13thPD SingerPD SingerSeptember 14thOur Story LGBTQ Historical Fiction  Christopher  MossSeptember 15thRenee StevensSeptember 15thPurple Rose Tea House  Charlie CochetSeptember 15thOpen Skye Book ReviewsSeptember 15thThe Novel Approach Reviews