Indie Chicks Series with my Guest Suzanne Tyrpak

Suzanne Tyrpak is a talented writer and one of the amazing women featured in the Indie Chicks anthology. 

One thing that fascinates me about her novels is their historical aspect.  I'm a sucker for that stuff!  If you like that type of thing, I urge you to check them out :)  

Here's Suzanne's excerpt in the Indie Chicks Anthology:

Holes   

I used to think I had to be perfect. Of course, I fell short of perfection on a regular basis so I frequently felt like a failure.

The only way to prevent failure is to hide. If we don’t put ourselves out there, we can’t fail.

To prevent myself from failing, I hid in a fantasy world. As a young child, I longed to be a ballerina. I loved to dance, but more than that, I wanted to escape into the fantasy world of the ballet. I wanted to live inside a fairytale, and in my mind, I did. I invented worlds I could escape to, perfect worlds that seemed more real to me than life. Meanwhile, I ate, and ate, and ate. Not ideal, if you want to be a ballerina. My reality never matched my inner world.

I created this pattern, this external and internal disparity, throughout my life. I brought it into my marriage, convincing myself that my marriage was perfect, while in reality it was a mess. Instead of leaving, I found escape in writing. I lost myself other times: ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, ancient Rome—worlds as far away from my reality as possible. In my writing, I disappeared for hours, days, years. I got a job working at an airline so I could travel and do research. I got an agent. I felt sure I would be published.

Then my world fell apart. After nineteen years of marriage, my husband wanted a divorce. I fought it. Divorce didn’t fit my idea of perfection, my fairytale. I viewed this loss as a disaster, but in truth it was an opening, a hole leading me to greater understanding and compassion for myself and others.

I was broke, trying to live on what I made at the airline. I was lonely. I had no time to write. Worst of all, I had to admit my life wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect. Forced to accept myself with all my imperfections, I discovered that the more I could accept myself, the more I could accept others. Even my ex-husband. To this day, we remain friends.

Because I no longer had time to sit down and write for hours, the kind of time it takes to write a novel, I wrote short stories. I wrote about my experience, about my struggles as a woman of fifty going through divorce and entering the dating world. Initially, I wrote the stories for myself as therapy. Then I began to share the stories with my writing group. They encouraged me to submit the stories to magazines, and several were published. I read a couple of stories at our local library and people laughed. Then my good friend, Blake Crouch, convinced me to publish the stories on Kindle. A frightening prospect. What if my stories weren’t good enough? What if they weren’t perfect?

At first I resisted. I’d had two literary agents, and a longtime dream of being traditionally published. Self-publishing didn’t fit my idea of perfection. But, in reality, I no longer had an agent, and I hadn’t worked on a novel for several years. What did I have to lose? Nothing. So I published Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction).

My world changed, not because I was finally published, but because I changed. I finally found the confidence to pursue my dream despite my imperfections. I found the courage to stop hiding and put myself out into the world. This freed me.

I rewrote my novel, Vestal Virgin—suspense in ancient Rome. Originally, my characters were a bit flat. Why? Because they were too perfect! I hadn’t looked at the manuscript for two years, and a lot had changed for me in that time. I rewrote the book with a cold eye: cutting, digging deeper. My characters became multifaceted, real people with flaws.

I became busier and busier, caught in a whirlwind, trying to hold down a full-time job, write, promote my books and have a life. Trying, once again, to be perfect.

And then the universe stepped in.

I had an accident at work. While moving a jet stair (which weighed over 1,000 pounds) away from the aircraft, my right foot got crushed. I fell, screaming, onto the tarmac while passengers onboard the plane watched. A coworker rushed me to the hospital for the first of three emergency surgeries. I suffered intense pain due to nerve damage, broken and dislocated toes and, ultimately, amputation of a toe. As I write this, I’m still recovering.

I spent five weeks at a nursing home, a good place for me (even though most of the patients were over eighty years old), because it would have been close to impossible for me to take care of myself at home. While there, I had a chance to meet a lot of the patients and residents. All of us had obvious holes.

I learned a lot from the other patients. And I was forced to face my own mortality. Aging offers us the gift of acceptance. In order to age gracefully, we must the release the idea of perfection. We learn there are some things we can change, and some things we must accept. And, when we accept what is, we may find the good in even the most difficult situations. We learn to accept the holes in ourselves and others. We even welcome imperfection.

Since the accident, I’ve been thinking about holes a lot. I've been thinking about being whole, in relation to loss. How can loss make a person whole? I’ve learned that loss can make a person strong, more self-reliant. Loss can make us more compassionate to ourselves and others.

Where I had a toe, there’s now a hole, and that hole reminds me that I’m not perfect. But, despite my imperfection, I am whole. I am me. It would be ridiculous to think that I am any less of a person, because I’m missing a toe, because I have a hole. Just as it’s ridiculous for any of us to think we must be perfect.

Physical wounds can’t be hidden as easily as emotional and psychological wounds. And that’s a gift. Physical wounds make us confront our mortality, our humanity. Physical wounds can’t be denied. They are tangible and force us to accept ourselves, with all our imperfections.

It's impossible to get through life without being wounded. Some wounds are obvious. Others are internal, even spiritual: the loss of the ability to trust, to connect deeply, to hold a friend and know that you are loved.

We run away from wounds. Try not to look at them. We think they're signs of weakness, but our wounds—the holes in us—provide a doorway, a soft spot in our armor. We walk around armored, protecting ourselves with platitudes and false smiles, never touching our own vulnerabilities, afraid to share our tender rawness with another or even with ourselves.

If we can touch the tender spots, allow ourselves to feel fear, sorrow, loss, we become closer to wholeness. The more we accept our holes, the more compassion we can have for others. When we feel compassion we are able to connect. We are able to expose our soft underbelly to another human being and share the salt of our tears, the sweetness of our joy. That’s what I want to write about, that’s what I want to share, because salt makes all the difference between a bland, protected life, and a true life: pulsing, bloody, messy, passionate and truly whole.

Flaws, or holes, are what make a character seem real—in life and in fiction. Perfection is impermanent, an illusion. A person who seems too perfect is repulsive. We don’t trust him. We know that person can’t be real. Holes speak of truth. Holes allow us to connect, to ourselves and to each other. Our holes make us human, make us beautiful. Holes allow the light to shine through.

If someone had asked me last spring, “Would you give up a toe in order to learn, in order to have time to write your next novel?” I might have said, “Yes.”

Funny, how life works.

***

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Seeing Julia, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

Whispers of Murder: Chapter One Sneak Peek

Whispers of Murder is a Romantic Suspense Novella. 

Here's a sneak peek of the first chapter:

Isabelle Donnelly’s eyes darted around the room, first to her mother, then her sister before coming to rest on the man that stood as a barrier between herself and her betrothed.   

“We are gathered here today in the presence of God to offer up our bounteous thanks for the gift of marriage, and to witness the joining together of Isabelle and Leo,” the pastor said. 

Isabelle’s gaze returned to her mother who was perched on a pew in the front row.  Her mother’s eyes were riveted on a single piece of lace fabric in her lap that she picked at like she hoped it would unravel, just like she wished the wedding would.  She hadn’t made eye contact with her daughter since she entered the church, and Isabelle suspected she wouldn’t, not after the blow up she’d had with her father the night before.  He’d knocked on the door to Isabelle’s hotel room with a request to speak with her, but it hadn’t taken long to realize it was his last-ditch effort to dissuade her from the decision she’d made to marry.  When she refused to listen to what Dad liked to call “the Donnelly voice of reason,” he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  She hadn’t seen him since. 

The pastor continued.  “Today is a time for family and friends to share in their commitment to each other by offering Isabelle and Leo our continued support, love and best wishes in their lives together.”   

Isabelle’s sister, Melanie, slouched back in her seat, rolled her eyes in disgust and gave Isabelle a why-the-hell-are-you-doing-this glance.  Isabelle scrunched her eyes shut and wished they would all disappear, but when she opened them again, her family was still there.  Today was the day she would marry the man of her dreams, but everywhere she looked she was met with scowls of disapproval.  It made her question why they’d come at all and why they hadn’t forsaken her like her father, who had left her at the last moment to walk down the aisle alone.  Did he really think she wouldn’t go through with it just because he disapproved?  And where was Emmett?  He promised he’d be there, and yet as she studied the faces of everyone in attendance, his was absent.

Isabelle disregarded the tension saturating the room and stared into Leo’s eyes.  The room around them whirred to a stop, and in slow motion he slid the three-carat diamond ring into position on her finger. 

“I know we’ve only known each other for a few months,” he said, “but I’d feel the same even if it had been three years.  I never knew women like you existed.  From the first time we bumped into each another, I knew I had to have you.  Nothing else mattered to me anymore, only you.”

A faint gagging sound broke the silence.  Isabelle turned to her sister who clasped her hand to her throat like she had a piece of meat lodged inside that she was desperate to get out.

The pastor nudged Isabelle and placed his hand over hers.  “It’s your turn,” he said, nodding toward Leo. 

  She cleared her throat.  “Leo, I…”

The next two minutes passed by like a blur, and in the end Isabelle wasn’t sure if she’d said what she intended, nor if any of the vows she’d spent the past several days rehearsing had come out as planned.  All that mattered to her now was that the wedding was over and the two of them could get on with their lives somewhere far away from the scrutiny of her family.  

Leo rubbed his thumb over her hand and mouthed the words, “We’re almost there.”

The pastor surveyed the audience and spoke.  “If any of you can show just cause why these two fine people shouldn’t be married, speak now or else forever hold your peace.”

Isabelle gave Melanie a glare that said: Stop this wedding and I’ll never forgive you.   Her sister uncrossed her legs and crossed them together on the opposite side but remained silent.

The back doors to the church flung open like they’d been struck by an onslaught of insurgents and Isabelle’s father staggered inside.  Emmett followed close behind.  Neither spoke, but Isabelle’s father eyeballed her with a solemn look on his face.  A single tear traveled down his cheek and splashed down on the belt buckle that cinched to the waist of his Wrangler jeans.  She was stunned.  Her father had never cried in front of her before.  Emmett ushered him to a row at the back of the room and they lowered their bodies down into their seats. 

The preacher waited until the two men were settled in and continued.  “Now that Isabelle and Leo have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, before us and before God as witness, and have shown their affection and trust by the giving and receiving of rings and by joining hands, and by the power vested in me I pronounce…”

Isabelle’s knees buckled like they’d been stuffed with cotton, and she collapsed.  Her head smacked against the hardwood floor upon impact and she lay there motionless, her eyes closed.  

Within seconds her sister had scurried to her side and cradled Isabelle’s head in her lap.  Leo bent down to touch her but Melanie slapped his hand away.  “Don’t touch her!” she hissed.  “You did this!”  She turned toward the back of the room and yelled, “Emmett?”  But there was no need, he was already there.

What should have been one of the happiest moments in Isabelle’s life turned out to be the day her whole world unraveled.

I Have A Secret: Chapter One Sneak Peek

I Have a Secret
Sloane Monroe Series #3  

Chapter One Sneak Peek 

Doug Ward stood on the ship’s deck and gazed across the calm waves of an evening sea.  The cool ocean breeze brushed past his face and clung to it like little particles of mist, but he didn’t seem to notice.  The scotch in his hand was his fifth of the night, or the sixth or seventh—he couldn’t remember.  Most nights he drank until he passed out, and tonight would be no exception.  He’d drink himself into oblivion if it meant never hearing another one of his classmates sing the karaoke version of M.C. Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This.” 

Twenty years had passed since anyone called him “Douggie”, but tonight he’d heard it shouted from every corner of the stuffy room that contained him.  All he wanted was to get away from it, so he left the crowd at the costume party behind to sing their hearts out while he pondered the long list of life’s regrets in solitude.  Rounding out the top five was his decision to take the high school reunion cruise in the first place.  But there was little he could do about that now. 

 Two more days, he thought, and this trip will be all over.

Doug’s memories of high school had faded through the years until he hadn’t remembered much of anything.  It all seemed like the blur of someone else’s life, as if the experiences he recalled weren’t really his anymore.  He had flashes of memories here and there, but only one solid enough to stand the test of time.  And that was the one he’d tried his hardest to forget, but no amount of alcohol would ever drown it out.  Not completely. 

Often times Doug thought about what he’d change if he could go back in time and do it all over again.  He envisioned himself at the fork in the road and often thought about what it would have been like had he chosen to go in the other direction.  Maybe he wouldn’t have gone through life with all the nightmares that plagued him, or the secrets that gnawed at his insides like a thief in the darkness trying to find his way out of a dense, black fog surrounding him on all sides, 

“There you are,” a voice said behind him. 

Doug rotated his body around and faced Trista, his wife.  She looked exquisite in her black satin vampire gown that hugged every curve of her petite frame.  Her cocoa-colored hair fell in loose curls around her shoulders, and her lips were stained the perfect shade of red.  It didn’t matter how many years had come and gone since they’d married, she still remained the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

“I’m sorry, honey.  I just needed a moment alone,” he said. 

“Everyone is looking for you,” she said.  “They want to know what happened to the life of the party.”

He rattled the ice cubes in his glass around and shook his head.  “You know I haven’t been worthy of that title for a very long time.”

She shrugged. “You can’t help how people remember you, Mr. Prom King.  And I thought you should know your queen is getting lonely in there without you.”

Doug managed to crack a smile.  He hated to disappoint her.  “I need a few more minutes, okay?  And then I’ll come in.”

Trista wrapped her arms around him, stared into his eyes and whispered, “I’ll be waiting,” and then she brushed her lips across his and turned and went back inside. 

Doug winced when she touched him.  Not because her affections were unwanted, but because he knew how much he’d let her down over the years.  He hadn’t lived up to the man he should have been—not as a husband, a father, any of it.  And yet she stayed while he wasted away.  He knew he didn’t deserve her, and that made him feel even worse.

So many times Doug tried to pick himself up again, for his wife and their kids.  But no matter how many twelve-step programs he went to, it always ended the same way, with one eyeball staring down the bottom of a bottle until he’d finished every last drop.  Most nights he woke up in his bed not knowing how he got there, and he’d turn and gaze upon Trista who was snuggled up next to him.  In those moments of serenity he vowed the next day would be different.  But when the sun rose and brought a chance to start anew, he was too weak and couldn’t get out the door without at least one drink.     

Doug turned back and stared out to the sea again, but the night had bathed the sea in black, and he couldn’t see much of anything anymore besides the mirrored glow of the moon across still waters.  He sighed; it was time to go back inside.      

Beside the door a shadow emerged and gravitated in his direction.  Doug hunched over to get a better look, but his eyes played tricks on him, and everything was a haze.  “I’m coming in now, sweetie.”  

The figure halted.  Doug squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but the image in front of him was still a blur.  Several seconds went by and neither moved.  He shook his head back and forth at a rapid rate and tried to jolt back into reality.  And then it occurred to him—whoever lurked there seemed too tall to be his pint-sized wife.  

“Is that you, Candice?” he said.  “Because I’m still not interested.  I love my wife.  You have to stop this—right now.”

The figure shook its head but did not speak.

Candice was known in high school as the girl all the guys slept with, and being told no wasn’t part of her limited vocabulary.  Doug had resisted her for most of his senior year until one night when she showed up on his doorstep.  It was like she knew he’d been left all alone.  With his parents gone and Trista away at cheer camp, Candice pushed her way into his house.  Doug tried to say no, he wasn’t interested, but Candice tossed her head back and laughed while she unfastened the belt on her jacket, grabbed both sides and spread it all the way apart.  Doug gasped.  She was stark naked.  She let the jacket drop to the floor and took her pointer finger and curled it back toward her.  That was how she always got her man.  She had the best body of any girl at school—one that none of the boys could resist—and she knew it. 

Since the first day of the reunion cruise Candice had stalked him, showing up at the same excursions he was on with Trista and making obscene gestures whenever Trista glanced the other way.  The mere sight of her made Doug’s insides feel like they were on a continual roller coaster, and he just wanted to get off.  On the second night, Candice had even cornered him in the hallway and slammed him up

against one of the guest rooms.  Doug had more than his fair share of drinks that night, but he’d managed to shove her off him before he stumbled down the hall to his cabin where Trista was waiting. 

And now, there they were.  Doug stared at the figure, sure it was Candice.  She stood, silent, like she was waiting for something.  What kind of game is she playing now…he thought?  “It is you, Candice, isn’t it?”

The figure shook its head and accelerated toward him, and for the first time in years, Doug wished he was in control of all his faculties.  The figure wore a long black robe with a mask that looked like they’d just attended a masquerade ball with Marie Antoinette.  Doug reached for the mask, but his hand swept the open air, not catching anything in its grasp. 

“Who are you?” he said.  “And what do you want?”

The masked person displayed a long, shiny object.  Doug panicked.  He tried to lunge to the side, but instead he stumbled backward, and the knife plunged into his chest.  Doug’s drink tipped from his hand and fell overboard into the icy depths below.  Before he had time to react, he felt another sharp pain to his abdomen, and then another.  He wanted to fight back, but he was drunk and helpless.  The third jab cut deep, slicing straight to the heart, and as the life drained from his body and the blood spilled out, staining the deck below, he

managed to utter one single word: “Why?”

The figure withdrew the knife from Doug’s body, pulled him in close and whispered a single word—the last one he’d ever hear: Revenge.  He pressed his hands into his gaping wounds and slumped over, trying to stand, but it was too late.  Within seconds, Doug Ward was dead.  

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Sinnerman: Chapter One Sneak Peek

Murder in Mind
Sloane Monroe Series Book 2

Chapter One Sneak Peek

Sam Reids reclined back into the seat of his black 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and examined the women that shuffled in and out of the supermarket like predictable herds of cattle. It had been three long years since he felt the steady churn of butterflies in his stomach, but the anticipation of the nights soon to be events made it all worthwhile. The wait hadn’t been easy, and whenever he felt he couldn’t control his urges any longer he walked down the steep series of steps that led to the basement and gazed at the trinkets he’d collected. They were all spaced two inches apart in single-file formation on a shelf. In total, there were fifteen glass bottles. Each container had a white label about the size of a post-it note affixed to the front with the date and a name written in thick black marker.

Over the past few years Sam visited them often and took special care to dust and polish their exteriors, but he never opened them once they’d been sealed. He didn’t want to take a chance that one of his precious mementos could get spoiled. Sometimes he took one to his room and deposited it on the stand next to him while he slept. When he woke during the night to the illuminated glow that shone through the glass from the lamp above, he felt a sensation of peace, like a child that watched the constant spin of the mobile over their crib. It wasn’t the same thrill he’d experienced when he secured the object within the bottle, but it helped him pass the time.

Through his binoculars, Sam observed two women walk out of the store together; one carried a brown paper sack in her hand and the other, a gallon of milk. The one with the sack showed promise. Her long espresso-colored hair flickered in the wind. It reminded him of flames from a forest fire fighting its way across acres of trees. He waited for her to say goodbye to her friend and then placed his binoculars on the seat next to him. His palms expelled an oily substance that spread until they were both drenched with sweat. The time had come.

Sam grabbed an unused diaper from the passenger seat and pushed his car door open. At the same time, the woman unlocked her passenger side door and bent down and placed the sack of groceries on the seat of her car. She was too preoccupied to hear him approach.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The woman retracted out of the car and turned and faced him.

“Do I know you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said with a crooked smile, “but do you know how to change a diaper?”

She looked at the diaper in his hand and then back at him.

“Who do you ask?”

“My sister asked me to watch my nephew for a few hours, and I can’t seem to get the darn thing on right.”

He angled the diaper in the direction of his car.

“My car’s right over there,” he said. “Do you think you could help me?”

The woman hesitated and studied the man’s car for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders.

“I really need to get home.”

The man smiled, but not just any smile. It was one he’d practiced in the mirror over and over again until it conveyed what he needed it to—trust me.

“It will only take a minute,” he said.

They walked over to Sam’s car, and he was careful to remain a few paces behind her. He glanced over his left shoulder and then his right. All was still, and since the store closed in five minutes, he was certain it would remain that way.

He watched the woman peek through the window of his car and relished the startled look on her face when she didn’t see a baby. With a perplexed look, she turned and faced him.

“Where’s the­–”

The man reached into the front pocket of his hoodie with all the calmness of a drug addict who’d just smoked a bag of weed and pulled out a needle and inserted it into her shoulder. In an instant her body went limp and she sagged into him.

Happy anniversary, he thought to himself.

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Black Diamond Death: Chapter One Sneak Peek

Black Diamond Death 
Sloane Monroe Series Book One

Chapter One Sneak Peek

The air was calm, but I was restless. I had a decision to make so I did what I always do when push comes to shove––I shoved back, but not in the way one might think. Skiing had always been my release. There was something about being surrounded by fresh powder in the clean, open air that reminded me what it felt like to be alive. I could stand on a mountaintop with a world of trouble on my mind, and it didn’t matter. Every care I had dissolved just like the snow soon would and the mountain would be reduced to tiny patches of white, mere remnants of a ski slope that once provided the town’s entertainment for the season.

In a few minutes I’d get together with Audrey for lunch and do something that didn’t come easy––tell her the truth. It wasn’t that I lied to her; I was a master in the fine art of keeping things to myself. I always thought it was better that way. But I was wrong to allow her limited access to my life, and I wanted to change that. So I’d explain it all to her, and once I finished I would reveal my plan and hope she’d understand. She just had to.

I rounded the last narrow pass on the slope and traveled downhill through the trees. My tongue had gone numb over the past couple hours and every time my teeth hit against it I felt nothing, like it wasn’t even there, and my throat felt like a strand of lit matches were pressed hard against it. I wondered if I was getting sick. That would explain the unrest in my stomach. The flu had made its way around town so it made sense that it would make it to me, but if it was the flu, why had I lost all the feeling in my face?

I ran my gloved hand across my goggles, but it didn’t help––even when I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again the trail in front of me was a blur. With what little force I had left, I jammed my poles into the snow and tried to stop, but the slope was too steep and I couldn’t bend my hands or even move them for that matter. My fingers felt like long shards of ice and in one simultaneous motion they launched a mass of frozen liquid throughout my body. What was happening to me?

In a panic I gasped for air, but there wasn’t any. I tried to cry out, but I was alone, and in my hysteria it hit me. I had felt a similar feeling before––like my body was giving out on me, and I knew what it meant.

I was dying.

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Blog Tour Wednesday with my Guest John Nuckel

Please welcome my guest John Nuckel to my blog today.  He is the author of The Vig, a new thriller that takes you into the heart of Wall Street, exposing a side of darkness and corruption rarely seen.

INTERVIEW

Tell me about yourself, how you became to be a writer, and why you are a writer. 

I’ve always written, but it wasn’t until recently that I attempted to become a writer. I was the go to guy for toasts, business presentations and speeches. I’ve always viewed my writing as a hobby, something just for me. I took a writing class at the New York Writers studio. In that class I intentionally joined a group whose members had all been published. As the weeks went by, I realized that my work was just as good as theirs, so I decided to go for it. Of course, this was five years ago.

Tell me about your novel—what inspired it?

My novel, The Vig, was inspired by true events and also recent events in the financial industry. I worked downtown for years and ran into a number of characters that were more animated than anything I could make up. I also grew up on what would be considered the wrong side of the tracks. The novel combines both of these worlds. After all, bookies and bankers are not that different, as the world has seen in the last few years. 

How did you choose the title of the novel?

The Vig was chosen to evoke the similarities between the world of finance and organized crime. Although most people have heard the word vig when it comes to illegal gambling, it is often used on the trading floors and trading desks around the world. The Vig could be a commission or a payoff, a management fee or a tribute, the price of a spread or a kick back. I’ve found that whether it’s a banker in Armani or a gangster in a track suit, they both make their money in the vig. 

What made you choose your particular genre?

I’ve worked on the trading floor of the American Stock Exchange for years and I’ve also grown up with some questionable characters. I’ve always seen the similarities between both worlds. When you break it down, most Wall Street scandals are the type of deal you would hear being done on the docks. A pay off to recommend a stock, inside information, none of it is very complicated. It’s about greed and weakness. As I say in the book “it’s a simple trade wrapped in a complicated package.” I also wanted to write about the decisions that people make and what motivates them. My lead character takes a bribe to look the other way when he discovers a simple scam that really isn’t hurting anyone. Of course there are consequences. In a novel the consequences are immediate but in life they take a little longer.

What’s the next project for you?  Tell the readers about it.

I’ve written a short story, The Garden, It is being published by TLT publishing in early summer of 2012. The story is part of a collection entitled New Beginnings. Proceeds will go to various Japanese Tsunami relief funds. The Garden is a radical departure from The Vig. It’s a love story with a bit of fantasy.

What character from your book(s) are you like the most and why?

As with most authors, I think there is a little of me in each character. All of them do share a black and white view of the world. There are very few shades of grey. I can be a bit black and white myself. What interests me is that both main characters have similar back rounds but have chosen different paths.

Let’s put the novel aside and talk about YOU for a minute—what are your hobbies and what can’t you live without that’s non-book related?  What do you do when you are not writing?  If you could live anywhere in the world, where would that be?

I’m a full time financial advisor. I work with a select group of clients. I devote a lot of time to them. I think of myself as more of a coach than an investment advisor. I do love spending time with my family. I’m off to my daughter’s basketball game after this.

Where would I live??? Florence comes to mind or maybe Telluride. My wife and I would love to spend some time in various places around the world. It’s a big world with lots to discover.

If a reader asked you to recommend the three BEST books to read, aside from your own, what would they be? 

The Great Gatsby 

Lonesome Dove

Anything by Raymond Chandler

I love Fitzgerald for his prose, McMurtry for his characters, and Chandler for his efficiency of words.

If you could have dinner with one author, who would it be?

Hemmingway or Fitzgerald. Although I can’t drink like I used too.

Post where you can be found—website, blog, twitter, facebook, etc.

I have a The Vig facebook page. Johnnuckel@gmail.com or www.diversifiedassetmgmt.com

Thanks Cheryl.

Indie Chicks Series with my Guest Cheryl Shireman

Please welcome Author Cheryl Shireman to my blog today.  She is not only a part of the Indie Chicks Anthology, she is also the one who came up with the idea and made it all possible.  Aside from all that, she is also a great writer.  If you haven't checked out her Life Is But a Dream, Grace Adams Series, you should.

And here's her write-up in the Indie Chicks Anthology:

I Burned My Bra For This? One Woman's Fantasy

By Cheryl Shireman

I’m a Baby Boomer. Which means that I remember bell-bottoms, Happy Days, and having only three channels on the television. I played Donny Osmond albums on a record player. My parents watched Gunsmoke, and on Sunday nights we all watched The Wonderful World of Disney. In the living room. Together. On the only television we owned. Imagine that! I remember the first time I saw Bonanza in color. I remember the first time I heard about remote controls for televisions. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. With three channels, really, how often would it be needed? I remember the Watergate hearings playing on the television when I came home from school. 

I also remember watching feminists (does anyone use that word anymore?) burn their bras and march for equal rights. I grew up believing that a woman deserves equal pay for equal work and that a woman is not defined by the man she marries or by the children she gives birth to. In fact, we were told that both men and children were optional. The idea seemed revolutionary at the time. It still does. Women were mad as hell and they weren’t taking it anymore. We called it Women’s Liberation, and though it was never said, it was certainly implied (and believed in most circles) that a woman who did not work was a bit inferior to a career woman. That was when such women were called housewives and not “stay at home” moms. Women were divided into two groups – those who worked and those who didn’t. Back then, no one thought that staying home and taking care of a family and home was work. The women of my generation wanted more, demanded more, and believed we were entitled to just that – more. We sometimes looked at our own mothers, most of whom did not have real jobs, as women who simply did not understand that there was more to life than being a mother. If truth be told, we thought they were a bit simple-minded and we secretly vowed to do more with our lives.

And yet…as this Baby Boomer looks at her life, I realize nothing I have ever done, or will ever do, is as important as being a mother. Not career, volunteer work, graduate school, or any creative pursuit. Nothing else even comes close to being a mother. Period.

One of my children lives half an hour away, another is one state away, and the third is on the other side of the world in Denmark. Yesterday, my husband and I spent the entire day with our two-year-old granddaughter. She then spent the night. As I write this, I hear her gentle breathing in the baby monitor positioned atop the table close to where I sit.

To say that my children, and now my granddaughter, have filled my life with love and joy is an understatement. As children, they expanded my heart in ways I could never have imagined. For the first time in my life, I not only understood, but received unconditional love. As adults, they are three people that I know I can always count on. They will always be there for me. Just as I will always be there for them. Can you say the same about your career?

There used to be a television show called Fantasy Island. People visited the island and lived out their fantasies – no matter how wild (okay, not that wild – this was primetime family tv in the seventies). Not too long ago, my husband and I had a discussion about that old tv show and asked each other – What would your fantasy be? Mine was easy. If I could have a Fantasy Island day, I would relive one day with my children. My son would be 10, which would make my daughters 4 and 2. We would spend the day doing whatever they wanted. Going to the park, going to the movies, playing games, baking cookies, or just sitting on the floor playing with Legos and Barbies. I would hug them a lot. And kiss the tops of their heads. And take tons of pictures. I wouldn’t cook. I wouldn’t clean. And I wouldn’t worry about my career.

I would watch my son show his younger sisters how to do things, like he always did in his older brother sort of way. I would watch my 2 year-old daughter follow her older 4 year-old sister around the room, shadowing her every move. Just as she did, even through their college years when they shared an apartment near Indiana University. I would watch the older sister taking care of her younger sister, as if she were her baby. Which is what she called her when she was born – my baby.

Bedtime would be later than usual on that fantasy night. I would tuck them into their beds, fresh from baths and smelling of shampoo. The girls smelling like baby lotion. My son would hug me goodnight with his long skinny arms and tell me he loves me. And I would feel the truth in that. I would tuck in my girls and tell them it is time to go to sleep. I would take extra care in covering the older girl’s feet, because she always kicked her blankets off during the night. I would kiss the baby and hold her a little longer, because I would know that, as I type this she is in Denmark which makes visiting tough.

And, as I walk down the hall and turn out the lights, I would call out to all of them, as I always did… “Goodnight. Love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.”

And that would be my fantasy day. Oddly enough, it has nothing to do with my career as a writer. Even though being a writer has always been my dream. My first novel, Life is But a Dream: On the Lake, was published earlier this year. The main character, Grace Adams, is a woman facing an empty nest and the possible demise of her marriage. Grace withdraws to a secluded lake cabin to redefine her life and try to find a reason to continue living. While at the lake, Grace not only finds renewed purpose and hope, but when things take a turn for the worse at the lake, she finds a strength she never knew she possessed. The novel is thought-provoking, sometimes frightening, and often funny (just like life). It is also, very definitely, fiction.

I'm not Grace. Even though my “nest” is empty, I am enjoying this time and this new focus on my career. I am not suicidal or lacking in purpose. My husband and I both work from home (he designs websites), we live on a lake, and our schedule is our own. It is truly a wonderful time in our lives. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. Enough said.

But, would my current life be as wonderful if I had not pursued career and graduate school and developed the skills I am using now? Probably not. I managed to combine work and school and motherhood. I believed I could have it all, and do it all, but to be honest – the kids always came first. And being a mother is the strongest and best part of my identity. It is the thing I am most proud of. My greatest achievement. And, once in a while, I miss those days when toys where scattered across the floor, the washer was always running, and we bought eight gallons of milk a week.

If you have children at home, cherish those simple every-day moments with them. They really will be gone in the blink of an eye – sooner than you can possibly imagine. Put this book down. Now. Go sit on the floor and play a game. Pop some popcorn, put on one of their favorite movies, and cuddle up on the couch. Live that “fantasy” right now. You will never be able to recapture these moments. Enjoy them now. There is no greater gift than the love of your children. Spend the rest of your day letting it pour over you. And pour your love right back over them. You can come back to this book tonight, after they are asleep.

As I type this, I can hear my granddaughter waking up. I am shutting my computer off. Right now, I am going to go upstairs and scoop her up from her crib. She will probably wrap her little arms around my neck and ask, “Play blocks, Bomb Bomb?”

And we will play blocks.

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Life Is But a Dream: On The Lake, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble