​One of the best gifts my parents passed on to me was a love of reading. I’ve enjoyed reading fiction, especially science fiction and fantasy, since I was a child. I started with the classics of Bradbury, Heinlein and McCaffrey – and the original Star Trek of course! I especially love the amazing variety of fantasy, and that’s usually what I write.

I was born in Pittsburgh and raised in Northeastern Ohio. (Now I live in Madison County with my family.) After college I worked as an office manager and operations analyst. Then I got my MBA during three frantic years when I was also working full-time (and obviously had no time to write fiction at all — or even time to sleep).

I belong to a critique group in central Ohio, and I’m working on another novel. I enjoy traveling when I can, and sometimes my travel experiences wind up inspiring one of my stories. A trip to the Outer Banks was the starting point for the worldbuilding for my Color Mage books, and a trip to the famous cemetery in Savannah inspired my short story “City of the Dead” which was published in Gathering Storm Magazine in 2018. 

I’m the author of two fantasy novels, Color Mage and Sword of Jashan. I’ve also had a few short stories published. 

I think the idea of a book fair at a brewery is a lovely idea, and I’m looking forward to sampling one of Mother Stewart’s beers while I’m here! I'm also looking forward to talking with other authors and readers, which is my favorite part of going to book events.

Color Mage and Sword of Jashan are fantasy novels set in a world where Collared Lords have unimaginable power in their own lands. ​

Registration is open for the Summer 2019 Springfield OH Book Fair 
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The idea of a list of things to do has been around as long as humanity has had lists. In the latter 20th century, folks began building lists of things they wanted to do before they died, activities to add meaning to the dash between the years of their birth and dead chiseled on their tombstones. I have no idea who called such lists "bucket lists." I do know that I don't have one and neither does my husband.

I find the idea amusing, but have had far too many instances of life kicking me in the teeth to write something like that down, much less schedule those activities. The furthest I go is to say, "We plan to travel when my husband retires" and "We want to visit Italy and Ireland." Anything more specific and more scheduled waits until we get very close to that date and I'm ready to book the airline tickets and inform clients that I'll be out of the office.

Bucket lists make for entertaining fodder when it comes to developing stories. I've read several romances in which the heroine (usually) dedicates herself to a love one's bucket list after that loved one dies. She either meet the hero in checking off the items on the list or he helps her fulfill that commitment. Or maybe a bit of both.

I'm not sure why it's always the heroine who gets sucked into working on someone else's bucket list, but that's how it goes down in the books I've read that feature such a trope. You'll probably never see such a plot catalyst in my stories.

So, no bucket list for me. I look forward to the day when I can act upon whimsy and no longer feel obligated to plan my spontaneity.

“Hello, Calista,” he said, making sure to keep his voice low and gentle. He pulled back his hand, not knowing whether she’d welcome his touch. She would, he promised himself. He would teach her. 

“Who?” those luscious lips pursed and exhaled. She licked them, pink tongue flicking out in a betrayal of nervousness

“Falco,” he answered. “Do you remember me? Our conversations?” 

She inhaled sharply, the breath catching in her lungs as she propped herself up on her elbows. One hand pressed against her ribcage. Her eyes opened wide, electric blue with narrow, slitted pupils. She panted and pressed her hand against her abdomen. Frowning, she moved her hand, palpating her own bare flesh. 

“No pain,” she hissed in incredulous wonder. She tilted her head back and squinted against the bright sky overhead. She gasped again. “I am dead.” 

“No, Calista, you live,” Falco contradicted her. “I vowed to free you from that place and I have.” 

“I … but I … I was broken,” she stammered. “Every bone. I was dying.” 

“You have been healed,” he said. 

She gazed down at her body. Her chin trembled, then stilled. T he muscle at the base of her jaw pulsed as she clenched her teeth in a physical effort to control her emotions. It seemed as though she took no notice of her nude state, except to whisper in a dull voice, “I have been remade.” She raised her eyes again, meeting his gaze. “I have been remade to your preference.” 

“You are beautiful,” Falco said, not denying the accusation. “I would have you take pleasure in your new form.” 

She turned her head away and struggled to sit up. He offered her his hand, but she disdained it. 

“You did not think me good enough,” she accused. “Now you have remade me into what pleases you for your own vile purposes.” 

She met his eyes again, hers practically spitting blue sparks. Her voice, already bitter, turned sour. “You freed me from prison only to capture me for your own use.” 

Falco rose to his feet and walked several steps away. Although he’d acknowledged the possibility of her resentment, it hurt him. With an effort to resist anger, he said in a controlled voice, “Your limbs were misshapen from having been broken and poorly healed. Your breath rattled in your lungs from where your broken ribs pierced them. Your left eye socket and cheek had been crushed. You could not draw breath without pain. You could not move without pain. You could no longer walk, nor hardly crawl, I think.” 

Her hands moved over each body part as he named them, lingering on the smooth, unbroken expanse of her reformed face. 

“I would not have allowed any creature to continue its existence in such a poor state,” he added. 

“I begged you to let me die,” she reminded him. 

“You lived all your life in servitude to human masters, Calista. I said before and I tell you again: the fae do not serve humans. I sought to give you freedom.” 

“The freedom to serve you?” she shot back. “In death I would have found freedom, true freedom.” 

He leveled a pained look at her. “Aye, death would have released you from all obligation, all servitude. It would also deny you pleasure and happiness and joy.” 

“And I am not fae.” 

“You are more fae now than ever before,” Falco retorted, fingers brushing over the dark scab over his heart where the midnight swift pierced him and extracted the blood needed to resurrect, restore, and reform his unwilling mate. 

“They called me witchbreed, not fae.” 

Registration is open for the Summer 2019 Springfield OH Book Fair 
​
Sign Up Today Before It's Too Late! 

#SpringfieldOHBookFair #Summer #Books #Authors #HenHousePublishing