Fiona McGier’s Maine

First of all, I've never been to Maine.  It's one of the states I want to camp in.  I've read about the Acadia National Park, because I gave my husband a book that has pictures and information about all of the National Parks.  Someday we may be able to retire, and I want us to visit as many of them as we can.  The pictures of Acadia are stunning.

Northern forests are my jam, as my kids say, even though I was born, raised, and live in the Midwest.  My husband likes to head out west, to where it's hot and dry.  He likes deserts and dry heat--says it makes his bones feel good.  Not me.  I want pine forests, along with deciduous trees of all kinds.  That's why looking at the pictures of Acadia made me research more about Maine.  And while I was doing that, the idea for a book featuring werewolves kept creeping into my mind.

I just read an article in The Guardian, about how so many of us authors say that we hear voices in our minds, when we're writing.  Yup, that's me.  I get the germ of an idea, and the next thing I know, I'm listening to the characters tell me their stories, and I'm watching scenes from their lives play out, like on a screen,

So when the characters in my newest book started talking to me about their lives and loves, I wanted to know where they live.  Maine, I was told.  So I kept researching areas in Maine.  I used the names of real places, but imagined that a compound was built many years ago, by someone who inherited a mansion, and expanded it.  It's a couple of hours away from any town.  Its remoteness contributes to its beauty.  The mansion's now an academy for teenagers whose parents want them in a controlled environment.  If a wolf begins to talk in their minds during adolescence, then forces a change on them, they will have to learn quickly how to co-exist with their animal twin.  In this academy, many of the teachers are weres also.  And there is a whole community of support staff who also live in the compound, along small streets with houses for all of them.  Many adults are werewolves, but some are not--they're married to a shifter.  And they have children together.  But there's no way to tell which ones will become shifters, and which will not.

Obviously, they don't often invite strangers to live in their compound.  There's too much at stake, when werewolves aren't even supposed to exist.  But when their old biology teacher leaves to travel the world, they need to find a replacement during the summer, before the school year starts.  The principal is Diego, a shifter who is so trusted by the pack leader, that the rumor is when the old one dies, which is imminent, he might name Diego as his successor.  And this starts my story.

When a Wolf Howls, by Fiona McGier

Blurb: She's an unemployed scientist, applying to be a teacher at a small, private Academy in rural Maine. He's the principal...and a werewolf. Students are sent here so if a wolf is living inside of them, it will present itself in a safe environment. It doesn't take long for her to realize something's different about the sexy boss she's trying to keep her hands off of; but his wolf has decided she's their mate.  Now what?

Please note that though the cover looks like a sweet romance, this is a very steamy paranormal romance.  I don't write closed door romantic encounters.  You're in everyone's head, experiencing what they do.  My books are for adult readers only.

Find out more about me and my books at: http://www.fionamcgier.com

The first page is my blog.

The buy link for this book is:

 https://www.extasybooks.com/978-1-4874-2676-7-when-a-wolf-howls/

And when I'm writing this blog, the book is on sale for $3.49.

Question for readers--Is there any place that you really want to travel to? Where is it, and why do you want to go there?

Alternate question for other authors--Do you hear voices when you write?

Stay healthy

Fiona McGier

Blog and Website: http://www.fionamcgier.com
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/fionamcgier--Download 1st 20% of my books free!
Free Download: Prescription For Love: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/18367

Amazon Profile: http://www.amazon.com/Fiona-McGier/e/B003J8QJGE

On a personal note:  Head on over to Fiona McGier’s website and check out the page on PIES!  Holy crap!  Make me one!  Yummy!  Happy Mother’s Day and stay well, Annette

(all info provided and released by author)

A Sweet-Looking Indi-Bookstore in Maine

Nonesuch Books & Cards is locally owned and operated. We support local children’s hospitals, charities, schools, and select non-profits.

I’m a deal lover and Nonesuch Books & Cards is offering this deal for Mother’s Day, Sunday May 12, 2019. So if you’re looking for something fun to do for your mom, and I’m always looking for something for my mom that she doesn’t already have, and you’re in the area of to Millcreek Plaza, 50 Market Street, South Portland, Maine, this sounds like an nice relaxing thing to do with your mom.  Free gift wrapping and free parking is always a plus! 

They’ve got a location at Biddeford Crossing, 403 Mariner Way, Biddeford, Maine as well. 

Maybe stop at this cute store then take mom for lunch someplace intimate and share a day.

The link to Nonesuch Books & Cards http://site.booksite.com/6033 also gets you there online.

(all info downloaded from http://site.booksite.com/6033)

Maine Encounter by Kenneth Weene

We set out early that morning. Leaving Boston on Route 1 along the coast to Newburyport, into New Hampshire, and across the border to Portland. Then, turning north-northeast and heading inland to Lewiston and Auburn. Stopping along the way at a stand outside of Gray for the best burgers I’d ever eaten. Crossing the Androscoggin River, redolent of the sulfur fumes of the paper plant that was the major employer of the twin cities. Another 20 miles or so—stopping for another treat of burgers and pie—and then a left on 219, a road that soon turned to gravel. Up a great hill that strained the luggage-laden, old car’s overheating engine. Finally, after six hours, we arrived.

Where? I had no idea. Only five years old, everything that was happening was beyond my

comprehension.

“We’re here,” my father announced.

“Are you sure?” my mother countered.

My older brother hit me in the arm to mark the occasion.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Dad replied checking the instructions once more before he walked over to the front door of the old farmhouse. Later, I came to know it as The Big House, and big it was. Five bedrooms, an attic, a living room complete with fireplace, kitchen, a root cellar, one bathroom, and a dining room capable of seating fifty or sixty campers and staff. This was the main building of the summer camp my parents had purchased, a camp at which I would spend the next twenty summers.

Of course, at the time I had no idea why we were there, and nobody was taking the time to explain. Too busy with brooms and mops and carrying clothes and god knows what else, my parents told me to go outside. “It’s a beautiful day,” Mom said.

Three years older, my brother was, I suppose, trying to be helpful. Clearly the best help I could give was to do just as Mom had said. Out I went.

The grass had been cut—not so fine as our downstairs neighbor in Massachusetts kept the yard, but still fine for lying on. There were flowers to smell and a big rock with a plaque to be climbed. Later, I learned that plaque commemorated the girls’ camp that had once operated on that site. It had been founded in the 1920s. Absent electricity, on dirt roads, bathing in cold spring water and hiking up and down the side of a small mountain, those girls must have been tough. On that day, I didn’t realize how tough. I hadn’t yet realized that we didn’t have normal electricity and that our refrigerator would be the ice house out back. I just knew that rock was made for climbing.

After a while, I tired of the rock. One thing about mastery for a kid of five, after some repetition, it’s time to find a new challenge. Mine was the path that led downhill from that rock. With no sidewalks or fences to remind me of limits and boundaries, down the hill I went.

At the bottom of the path, there was a field. Later, I realized it wasn’t very big, but for a kid who measured the world in comparison to his backyard, it was enormous. To one side there was another building, one that I would later know as the rec hall, but for the moment it held no interest. Just to be in the middle of that wilderness, in the middle of all that grass, to be out of my parents’ view: what bliss.

I lay on the grass and watched clouds tell stories.

From one side of the field, two small animals—cats I thought—made their waddling way towards me. They were cute, black with white stripes. Again, I would learn that they were skunks, but at the moment, that name meant nothing. I lay there and let them approach.

Skunks are curious and friendly creatures. Let alone and unthreatened, they are happy to snuffle a small human lying on the grass. Perhaps, they could have been rabid, but that wasn’t the way this story was to end. It ended with them waddling away and my calling after them. “I hope you guys want to talk again.”

The funny thing, I was getting rather lonely. I did want somebody with whom I could talk. I might even have gone to look for my brother. Being beaten up might have felt better than being alone and—oh, no, what am I going to do, lost.

Perhaps I would have cried. I certainly might have panicked. But, fate had something better in store for me. His name was Harold Bryant; although that day, he introduced himself only as Harold. Harold was to become for me the symbol of all that was best about Maine.

“So, Kenney, what are you doing?” he asked once we’d properly shaken hands and I had told him my name in return.

“I don’t know. My mom and dad are up the hill,” I replied not sure where up the hill was.

“Oh, so they’ve arrived.”

“Do you know them?”

“I work for your father.”

My eyes must have widened. My father was a school teacher back in Somerville, Massachusetts, wherever that too might be. How did he know this stranger and how could this man with his rough hands, blue-eyed smile, bib-overalls, and fascinating tool belt work for him?

“I’ve been working on the cabins.”

What cabins? Where? And more questions: Dare I ask them? 

He gestured me to the remnant of a rock wall and we sat on the cold Maine granite.

Harold told me about the place we were, more exactly about building it, particularly his part in the work. His first job years before had been carrying the rocks that composed the fireplace inside that nearby rec hall. Now, I’m your father’s carpenter,” he finished the tale. “I arranged for my son-in-law, Donald, to cut the grass. Not just up here, but down below.” He gestured in the direction of what I later learned was the lake, which lay at the base of that mountain. I’m not sure I had any notion of what a lake might be or what lake grass was. There was, I learned, another even larger field, large enough to play softball and football. But, for the moment, I didn’t need to know that or much more. God had gifted me with something far better, a grown man who would talk with me, pay me attention, actually answer my questions—if I dared to ask them.

Eventually, Harold announced, “I’d best be getting back to work, and you’d best get back to your parents.”

“Where are they?” I squeaked afraid that he would leave me perched on that wall and never able to find my way. Terrified to admit I didn’t know and risk the scorn of this new hero with his hammer and screwdrivers, and other tools I didn’t know.

Bless Harold Bryant for not laughing. Bless him for understanding. He showed me the nearby path. “I’m sure you’ll learn your way around real fast.”

I did. But, more importantly I learned that the kindness of this man, who was over the years to teach me many things, most importantly to have faith in myself because nature makes us to be who we are. That is one of the great lessons of Maine, to be true to oneself.

Now, years later, I live far from New England and Harold is long dead. Still, I think of him and recall his simple strength. When I wrote Broody New Englander, it in part was to honor Harold Bryant, not just by using his name for one of the characters, but by actually using his character.

When I got back to the top of what seemed a giant hill, my parents hadn’t missed me. Why would they? I was out of their hair. Had my brother not said something about my not getting in the way, they might have ignored my return altogether. Perhaps, they were hoping I had been eaten by the bears that didn’t frequent that part of Maine. Who knows. Still, when I started telling them about my adventure, my mother told me that I shouldn’t have wandered off, which brought my father’s shouts of, “Stop getting in the way; we have work to do.”

It was only when I mentioned meeting Harold that Dad stopped his yelling. Off he went, down the hill, shouting back to Mom, “Fran, you finish up. I have to talk with him.”

“Yeah,” I thought, “I have to talk more with him, too.”

*****

You can find more of Ken Weene’s writing at his website, http://www.kennethweene.com and you can win a copy of Broody New Englander by commenting on this post. And, of course, you can have a wonderful time by visiting the Pine Tree State.

Author Nancy Fraser’s Maine Squeeze

For me nothing says “kick back and relax” like the beautiful state of Maine. Whether it’s the open, luscious farm land or the seaside antique shops, my beautiful “adopted” state calls to me in words befitting a romantic novel ... preferably one of mine.

My go-to place in the summer is always Acadia National Park where an abundance of beautiful scenery, fresh water, and activities abound.

Also worth a visit all year round is the Farnsworth Art Museum and Victoria Mansion, both excellent examples of this wonderful state and its history.

Personally, I love traveling Route 1 along the coast for a bit of restorative antiquing. Known as the Maine Antique Trail, you’ll find shops specializing in rare objects and every kind of collectable you can imagine. One of my favorite finds was a beautifully carved box made, much to my surprise, in the woodworking shop at the local prison.

For those of you (like me) who love a good lobster dinner, you’ll find none better than along the Maine coast. If you’re an adventurist, you can also take an early morning fishing expedition to catch your own feed of tasty goodness!

Once fall rolls around the excitement of leaf-peeping near Bar Harbor draws not only the locals but also people from all along the eastern part of the U.S. Resplendent in shades of orange, yellow and red, the state takes on an entirely different look.

How’s a writer to get any work done when surrounded by so much to do and see? Well, for starters, you plot a book around an area near and dear to your heart. Then, you spend a good amount of time visiting and doing research (of course), and then when the weather starts to cool, you write the book.

Such was the case with my recently released novella, Kilty Pleasures. Set in the fictitious, coastline town of Glencoe, it even includes a mid-October snow storm not totally unheard of in this northern state.

Even though you could live forever in the state and never want for anything, another feature Maine has going for it is its close proximity to a foreign country ... although very few of us would call Canada foreign. Just a hop, skip and jump up I-95 to Houlton, or along Route 1 to Calais, and you find yourself at an international border. Crossing at Calais also gives you the opportunity to visit the Ganong Chocolate Museum. I mean, after all, who doesn’t want to know the history of chocolate!

My current work in progress is also set in the state and includes many references to the area, including a national park setting for my reunited hero and heroine. I look forward to sharing this book with my readers when it’s complete.

Whether you’re a summer person, winter person, or prefer the fringe seasons of spring and fall, I invite you to come to Maine, enjoy our sights, sounds and activities. But, most of all, enjoy the talent and commitment of our people.

I’m giving away Two prizes, actually. The first is a $5.00 Amazon gift card and the second is the winner's choice of any book from my back list. I'll choose from those who comment.

Author Bio:

Like most authors, Nancy Fraser began writing at an early age, usually on the walls and with crayons or, heaven forbid, permanent markers. Her love of writing often made her the English teacher’s pet, which, of course, resulted in a whole lot of teasing. Still, it was worth it.

Published in multiple genres, Nancy currently writes for four publishers. She has published twenty-two books in both full-length and novella format. In November 2016 Nancy celebrated twenty years as a published author and will release her 25th book in mid-2017.

When not writing (which is almost never), Nancy splits her free time between her five grandchildren. She’s also an avid traveler with Las Vegas being her favorite destination. Nancy lives on the east coast where she enjoys the relaxed pace and colorful people.

Media Links:

Website: www.nancyfraser.ca

Blog: http://nancyfraser.ca/wordpress/

Facebook: http://facebook.com/nancyfraserauthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/nfraserauthor  @nfraserauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7206382.Nancy_Fraser

Sh-Boom, Boom, Boom: A Maine Memory by Kenneth Weene

I was too young; no question, way too young. Only fourteen. I’m sure it was against the law — it certainly was against convention — but there we were in a strip club, and me with a whiskey sour to boot. How to make a teenager’s night perfect.

The stench of the Androscoggin River, which flowed though downtown Lewiston, wafted through the dimly lit room. Fighting against it was the artificial sweetness of cheap perfume and the smell of male anticipation.

A trio provided music: an upright piano, a drum, and a guitar. They were out of tune, but I’m sure no one cared. The hard, callused fingers of loggers, road workers, paper mill laborers tapped along with the shaky rhythm. Beer flowed, but hard drinks were the standard.

The group I was with stood out for its youth, the smoothness of our skin, and the city look of our clothes. Camp counselors on a night out before the kids were due. All of us college students or older except for me; as the camp owner’s son I was a tag-along. Why had they allowed it? Perhaps it was Al’s guilt from the summer before. He hadn’t listened to me, hadn’t understood the real antipathy my father directed towards me in bursts of rage. Al had insisted I deliver the message the old man had required, and I had been greeted by yet another paternal lambasting — one sufficiently vitriolic that a few parents took their kids home that visiting day.

Al had never said anything, but a year later when he was organizing that last before-the-kids-get-here night out, I’d been included. “What if they won’t let him in?” One of the others asked. Al laughed and said, “Hey, we’re talking Lewiston, Maine. Nobody will care.”

They didn’t. The bouncer—yes, there was one—asked if I was old enough. “Sure he is,” somebody answered; “he just looks young.” “Ayup, that cain happen.” And in I went.

And out she came. The first act of the night. Full-figured might be the right word for Miss Sue all the way from New Orleans. Fat-assed was the word from one of the counselors. No matter, there were whistles and applause as she ground her way around the stage to cacophony that was supposed to sound like Sh-Boom. 

My two heads reacted at once. One with adolescent lust and arousal; the other with empathic sorrow. I looked into Miss Sue’s lime-green eyes and saw the sorrow of her soul. I have no idea where she had come from and what life-slope she had slid down to arrive at this bottom, but the pain in her eyes stabbed at my heart.                         Bump, grind, grind bump — a top thrown here, a short skirt dropped there, a bra, panties: she danced on until only a g-string and pasties remained. Tucked in her g-string was a bill—an invitation and reminder to the audience. She moved to the edge of the stage and turned her large derriere to the small crowd. She shimmied and shook. Nobody responded. Not a single hand tucked another bill.

Funny what a guy will do when the situation is right. I had to. I nudged Ed on my left, held out my hand, and mouthed the words, “Can I borrow a buck.” He laughed and shook his head. I tried Pat on my right. He took out his wallet and pulled out a two-dollar bill. “Go ahead, kid” he said with a laugh in that baritone voice he used to call “Buddies 1-2-3” at general swim. 

Everyone heard him, and every pair of eyes turned towards us—every pair including the musicians and including Miss Sue all the way from New Orleans. 

I wanted to shrink into the chair, but there was no turning back. With another sip of that whiskey sour, I stood up, walked to the apron of the stage, and tucked that bill into her g-string. At that moment, Sue’s eyes changed from sadness to smile. Her mouth, lipsticked into a pout, rose at the corners. The transformation lasted only for seconds, but it was there, it was real, and it touched me.

Many years later, when I was writing “Times to Try the Soul of Man,” I remembered Miss Sue; I found her in the archives of my life and created a character. That’s what writers do; we archive life for later use.

As for that little strip joint in Lewiston, Maine. The block has been razed and a modern hotel built. The Androscoggin has been cleaned up and paper mill sulfur no longer permeates the town. Al died about a year ago. I have no idea about Ed or Pat. As for my father: well, I have to admit that I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without having weathered his rages.  

Ken Weene styles himself as a “Broody New Englander.” His novels, including “Times to Try the Soul of Man,” are available on Amazon. You can learn more about him at http://www.kennethweene.com

My giveaway will be two copies of Times to Try the Soul of Man. Comment leaving contact info to win. 

Good luck!

(info provided by author with permissions)

Winter 2015: The Season of the Indomitable Human-Beverly Breton Carroll

No Maine author stepped up this year, I know there are plenty of people involved in the writing and publishing industry in that awesome and beautiful state so, here’s a request for next year, use the contact info on this blog to claim the spot!  

Anyway, when I can’t fill a state spot, I find something of interest from that state and let everyone know.  Here’s a piece from a past contributor at Fifty Authors from Fifty States blog for Maine.  Just stop by Beverly’s site and blog to find out more and enjoy this reposted read from her blog! 

Reposted from March 1, 2015 by Beverly Breton Carroll  blog: http://www.everyotherminute.com/  or link to her work here: http://www.beverlybreton.com/index.html  

Once you browse her sites, you'll be so glad you stopped to learn more about Beverly's work, what her blog involves and her interesting life!

 

Roof raking, roof melt puck tossing, and icicle batting are the new winter sports taking New England by, um, storm. Or at least the first two are. Icicle batting—using a bat, broom handle, mallet, or my particular favorite for its strength and length yet lightness, shower curtain rod to knock icicles from the roof gutters—is more of a specialized sport, reserved for the elite who have stalactite icicles the length of Shaq decorating the roof line. Variations to the sport include an extra-long outdoor hose which is pulled through the house and up the stairs where the competitor then pops out the upper story window screens and leans out into the frigid air to spray-blast those suckers into obliteration. None of this is to discount the more traditional events taking place across the region, no less grueling or daunting, of snow blowing, snow shoveling, and taking out the trash and recycling. We’re doing it all.

New Englanders are known to be independent and strong-willed, yet some of the best game plans instituted this year for victory over the opponent—WINTER 2015—have been by non-natives, hardy competitors from distant states or other countries. This is Olympic-level competition, and every bit as multicultural. We’re Team New England, up against snow piles registered, not in inches or even feet, but yards. And single digit temperatures? Amateurville. We’ve reached pro status, weathering double digit negatives on a regular basis.

This is dangerous stuff, and we’ve got the badges of honor to prove it. We’re agonizing through tasks as simple as pouring a cup of coffee because we wrenched our shoulder hurling pucks onto the roof. We’re counting the minutes until we can take more analgesics and dreaming of heating pads because we fell while attacking the roof snow. We’re laid out flat in bed, trying not to move or even breathe wrong, because a strong twist-and-swing with the icicle bat threw our back into spasms.

And yet, we’re doing it. We’re okay up here. Snow weary, yes. Bruised and achy, yes. Cabin feverish, yes. And yet. Even this record-breaking horror-of-a-winter hasn’t broken us. Jumping into snow banks out of those screenless second-story windows may, but until it does, we’ve got this.

Move aside, Abominable Snowman, although our current terrain would certainly present as the ultimate Disney-dream fantasy for you. No, let’s all take a moment to reflect, after we take several to catch our breath, and commemorate a different species altogether: Indomitable Human.