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Interview with Bernie DiPasquale

Interview with Bernie DiPasquale  @AuthorBernieD @iReadBookTours #WhatDoesGodSoundLike


What genre do you write and why?  
Children’s Books I have written 2 so far, My Special Gifts & What Does God Sound Like

Tell us about your latest book. 
My Special Gifts is my latest book.  My Special gifts is available on Amazon Life gives us all many gifts, we only need to pause, look around, and appreciate. Bryn, my 3 year old Grandson, tells his story about his gifts. Gifts given by family, friends, and everyday life. We need to teach our children at a young age the tools for happiness and contentment.

Interview with Bernie DiPasquale  @AuthorBernieD @iReadBookTours #WhatDoesGodSoundLike
https://amzn.to/2Kmnxus
What marketing methods are you using to promote your book?  
I have an author website, and a book publicist that does my marketing and helps me get interviews like these.
What formats is the book available in? 
My Special Gifts is available in paperback , kindle coming soon & What Does God Sound Like Paperback and Kindle
What advice do you have for other writers? 
No advice except if you have an idea you want to share, take each step at a time…you’ll get there.  And, make it yours, don’t doubt what you have to say.
Who is you favorite character in your book and why? 
Bryndon from My Special Gifts…if you met him you would understand why.  Words can not express his character (for lack of a better word)                     

Where can a reader purchase your book? 
All my books are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Books A Million

Interview with Bernie DiPasquale  @AuthorBernieD @iReadBookTours #WhatDoesGodSoundLikeWhat are you doing to market the book?  
We use social media, my website, blog tours and author interviews to market and promote my books.

Who inspires you? 
My family, especially my Grandkids.  Two of them are the inspiration and focus of my 2 books

How do you research your books? 
No research was needed and not really a plot, just ideas…straight from the grandchildren

Who or what inspired you to become a writer? 
I never really wanted to be a writer, I just wanted to write these books.  There’s a difference.

When you’re not writing, how do you spend your time? 
Spend time with family


Connect with the author: 


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Book Showcase: When They Came by Kody Boye

Book Showcase: When They Came by Kody Boye


Title: When They Came
Author: Kody Boye
Genre: YA SciFi, Horror

Book Showcase: When They Came by Kody Boye
About the book:


I was never afraid of monsters—at least, not until They came: the visitors from outer space.

Now They're in our skies, on our streets, always watching, forever waiting.

At seventeen, I'm just about to graduate from the Juvenile Education System and declare my career of choice. The Midnight Guard—who protect our community from the vicious things that lie outside our walls—calls to me. 

It’s hard, dangerous work, with grueling hours that offer little sleep, but it’s the one thing I know will help make a difference in our ever-changing world.


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Book Showcase: When They Came by Kody Boye
About the Author
Born and raised in Southeastern Idaho, Kody Boye began his writing career with the publication of his story [A] Prom Queen’s Revenge at the age of fourteen. Published nearly three-dozen times before going independent at eighteen, Boye has authored numerous works—including the short story collection Amorous Things, the novella The Diary of Dakota Hammell, the zombie novel Sunrise and the epic fantasy series The Brotherhood Saga.

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$10 Amazon Gift Card
Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!


Excerpt: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu

Excerpt: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu


Title: Faking Lucky
Author: Q. D. Purdu
Genre: Contemporary Romance

Excerpt: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu
About the book:
Desdemona, a pianist in the Austin life-music scene, is channel-surfing when she stumbles upon the program Marriage Exposure. The trashy television show gets people to spill all the secrets of their sex lives, and Desdemona’s ex-boyfriend just happens to be a guest. To her shock and horror, Desdemona’s ex announces on national television that he dumped her because she never got the big O. “She faked…,” he says. Every single time.
Her life is wrecked! If her friends, family and colleagues haven’t seen the interview yet, they will.
How do you survive a scandal like this? How did he know she faked? And why is it that in the bedroom, Desdemona never, ever gets lucky?
The lovable, creative and quirky heroine tackles these challenges. As Desdemona tries to run damage control on her reputation, she begins to explore her sexuality. Along the way, she will get a second chance at genuine love.
Q. D. Purdu’s Finding Lucky won first place in the romance category of the Texas Writers’ League. Desdemona’s quest for the Big O is full of hilarious moments, handsome men, and heartfelt memories.


Excerpt:

Faking Lucky
Chapter 1
So I’m home alone on Saturday night in my flannel PJs, relaxed on my denim sofa, eating fudge and brazil nuts, and channel surfing. Jewelry channel—maybe a flashy gem would jazz up my life. Gag—tonight it’s cameos. Sex in the City—I bet they all faked it, even Samantha. Marriage Exposure—where do they find people who will go on television and argue about their sex lives?
Wait.
I don’t believe my eyes. It looks like Burt on Marriage Exposure. I raise the volume and edge closer to the screen. It is him, the same reddish-brown hair and sharp features. He’s even wearing his favorite green-striped polo shirt. I haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s wearing that same shirt. The short-haired woman sitting next to him has her hands covering her face. She’s wailing something like, “You never loved me! You never loved me!”
It can’t be. Burt’s in an L-word relationship? I edge closer to the screen, hardly breathing.
Burt pulls at the back of his neck with one hand, the way he always does when he’s stressed, and looks down toward his feet. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t love you.” Unbelievable. He’s married to her.
She uncovers her red, puffy face and leans close to him. “You never loved me.” Spit flies out with her words. “You’ve always loved…” She gives a big, gasping sob and then slowly, distinctly blurts out my name. “…Desdemona. With…with…her beautiful dark eyes. Her perfect body. Her incredible piano playing.” More spit with the p’s. “Her long, thick raven hair.” She raises both hands to her head and pulls at her brownish spikes.
No. I must have misheard.
But she repeats my name, dragging out each syllable as if it causes her physical pain. “Des…de…mon…a.”
Could Burt have dated another Desdemona?
Something mushes between my toes. Fudge under my foot oozes out onto my creamy-white lamb’s-wool throw, which is now on the floor. I must have stood when she wailed my name. Brazil nuts are all over the floor.
Burt takes her by the shoulders. “Jenny, no.” He always was considerate of everyone’s feelings. “I could never love Desdemona. She…she’s a freak. She fakes orgasms.”
A crazy giggle snakes its way up from my chest. Is this really happening? How could he have known? Guys can’t really tell, can they? The giggle morphs into a nauseated groan. Am I dreaming? Drugged? In a parallel universe? Has Burt just announced my unspeakable flaw to the world?
And so what if I don’t get the big O every, single time? Well, I guess I hardly ever get it…OK—I got it three times, and it would have been four if my vibrator had not quit working. But I’m not even twenty-seven yet—far from the sexual peak of forty.
At some point during the last minute my phone has started buzzing. My autopilot eyes glance at it. Friends are texting me about Burt being on TV. So there is something worse than being a nonorgasmic faker. It’s being a nonorgasmic faker and having the whole world know it.
A loud animallike howl shocks the breath out of me. What is that? I freeze and listen for a split second before I realize the roar is coming from me.
I muffle my howls, hoping I haven’t alarmed my landlady, who lives in the attached duplex. With foot in fudge and phone facedown, I’m transfixed.
Burt embraces his sobbing wife and mutters endearments. The MC hoofs it into the audience, whose members are clamoring to speak into the microphone.
A long-haired, leather-vested guy gets the first shot. “Hey, Burt.” He’s got an oily, smooth voice—could be a talk-show host himself. “Ah, maybe you just ain’t man enough for Mona.”
Mona. I hate when people call me Mona. But this could be good. Maybe the world will forget my real name. Yes! Mona.
Next a clean-cut, older guy steps up and glares at the leather vest. “Des. De. Mon. A. Not Mona.” Crap. “You should be respectful enough to pronounce her complete name.”
The audience interrupts with hoots that could be boos or cheers or random insanity. The MC swings the mic toward an elderly lady, but the clean-cut guy jerks him back. “I’m not finished. The first gentleman—” He rolls his eyes toward the leather vest. “—was correct about one thing.”
The impatient grandma reaches for the mic, and the MC blocks her hand and tries to hurry the clean-cut guy, who looks like he’s gearing up for a long lecture. “If Desdemona is not satisfied, it’s clearly a sign of the male’s lack of technique. Research shows…”
Grandma’s hand darts between the two men and snatches the mic. She runs down an aisle with the MC in pursuit. “Burt!” Her voice is surprisingly loud and shrill. “Did you ask Desdemona what’s a matter?” She screams out questions as the MC chases, grabbing futilely for the mic. “Did you ask her why?” This elderly woman sprints like a teenager. “How do you know she faked? Did you go down?” The audience is out of control now.
In a shuffle of arms, a tall, skinny guy commandeers the mic. “Hey, Desdemona.” It’s as if he’s looking straight at me—in the room with me—seeing me. “Come to me.” Hairs skitter across the back of my neck. “I’ll get you there, baby.”
Somehow the MC has produced a second mic that overrides the other one and muffles the noise of the audience. “Thanks for being with us for another shocking episode of Marriage Exposure. Tune in tomorrow for an unbelievable brother-in-law who sneaks into bed with his own brother’s wife—” He pauses, moves close to the camera, and raises both eyebrows several times. “—without her knowing it. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
The camera pans over the audience that is now chanting, “Desdemona, Desdemona, Desdemona…”
A diet-pill commercial is halfway over before I shake off the shock enough to silence the TV. Eleanor, my cat, is batting a Brazil nut across the floor. My phone rings. Ugh. It’s Mom. I grab the phone and the ruined lamb’s wool, scoop up the nuts, and hop toward the kitchen to stick my foot in the sink. I would ignore my mother, but if I don’t answer, she’ll call my landlady to come over and make sure I’m not bound and gagged, unconscious, or murdered.
How will I deal with my mother’s shock about Burt’s revelation?
“Mija, where are you?”
“Home.”
“Alone?” She’d like me to be married and have several kids by now. Alone is never a word she welcomes.
“Yes.”
“On Saturday night—home alone? With all there is to do in Austin?”
“Yes.”
She lets a long silence hang. I would normally fill it with disclaimers about being too tired to go out or the last-minute cancellation of my gig tonight. Instead of chatting her up, I wait her out and run water over my foot. Eleanor, maybe sensing my misery, rubs against my other leg. Nothing I could say will divert Mother from Burt’s blast. I take deep breaths, steadying myself for the onslaught.
She finally seems to realize she’s not getting an explanation about my solitary Saturday night. “How do I say this?” She sighs loudly. “It’s one thing to know people privately, but to see them as a nationally known personality…it’s…it’s…”
“Mom, just say it.” Tears well in my eyes. The reality of an insane TV show barging into my life stabs in places I didn’t know I could hurt.
“OK, OK. Well, it happened while I was with my book-club group at the bookstore.” It’s really just a book corner in the general store on Main Street.
“You’re at the store?” This makes no sense. It’s too late for the store to be open.
“No—I’m not there now. We were there from six to eight tonight for our weekly meeting, and then we went to ladies’ night at the margarita bar and had two-for-ones, and I just now got home. You know that new bar that opened where the bakery used to be?”
There are only a dozen stores in my hometown of Garcia. How could I forget? “Yeah.”
“The antique store is also adding a coffee shop—oh, I’m rambling. Want me to just get to the point?”
I force out a whisper and blot my tear-slicked face with a paper towel. “Yes.”
She takes a deep breath again. No question that she’s unnerved by the conversation we’re about to have. My stomach knots. It will be worse to hear my mother talking about Burt and fake orgasms than it was to hear strangers on national television. I lower my wet but clean foot from the sink so I’m standing solidly. I pick up Eleanor, who allows one of her rare cuddles. She must know I need it.
“Hunter Johns.”
I gasp. His name triggers the same pow in my chest that happens every time I think of him, or see a stranger tilt his head that certain way, or hear a laugh that mimics Hunter’s deep ring, or dream of kissing him only to wake and remember it will never happen again. Pow.
            “Desdemona, are you there? Did you hear me?”
            I should answer Mom—say something. It’s been over nine years since Hunter and I were seniors in high school and he left the campus in handcuffs. Nine years since we swore our love to each other. Nine years since I ruined our chances of ever being together. But still the regret and loss slice razor sharp.
            “Desdemona?”
            “What about Hunter?” My voice scrapes.
            “Oh, good, I thought we’d been cut off. Well, we were about to discuss our new novel when all these people flooded in. Not locals, but people from San Antonio, Austin, Houston. It was just amazing. Our quiet little Saturday-night book talk was turning into…”
            “What about Hunter?” I can’t fathom where this is going. I’m so caught off guard that for a full two seconds I forget Marriage Exposure.
            “I’m getting to him. So Alma went up to the manager and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ And he said a national best-selling mystery writer was here for a book signing. Have you read Des Amone’s books?”
            “Yes. Sure I have.”
            “Did you read the one that was made into a movie?”
            “Mom. Where is this going? What does it have to do with Hunter?”
            “Des Amone is Hunter’s pen name. And Hunter came to Garcia to do a hometown launch of his new book tour. It’s all over the Internet, but none of us noticed. You know we mainly stick to romances.”
“Des Amone…” I repeat her words to make sense of them. “…is Hunter’s pen name.”
“Isn’t that a hoot? And ya’ll were in school together.” Mom is oblivious to the relationship I had with Hunter. She lives in her own little world that revolves around her tiny, barely-break-even flower shop with her upstairs living quarters—my home until I moved to Austin. “So we each bought his book, and when he signed mine, he asked about you. Can you believe it—a famous, rich author still remembering a classmate from all those years ago? Isn’t it funny how his pen name kind of sounds like Desdemona?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So for our next meeting we’re all reading Hunter’s book. You know it’s just so much fun to read a book with a group…”
“What did he say about me? What did you tell him?”
“He just asked how you are, and I told him you were playing all over Austin and giving lessons. I showed him that picture of you in your long, red dress, playing that red baby grand. I think it was taken in some bar on Sixth Street. He said, ‘Still beautiful as ever.’” I shut my eyes and make myself breathe. “We could have talked and talked, but there was a line behind me, so I moved on. I told him to look you up when he goes to Austin on his book tour. And I gave him your number.”
The pow that hit me when she said his name evolves into a melody that fills my chest while she drones on. The melody, not one that I could ever put to music no matter how hard I try, is always there—inside—below the surface. But at times like this it expands, presses, and hurts in the middle of my chest.


Excerpt: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu
About the Author
Q. D. Purdu’s debut romance FAKING LUCKY, under the title of DESDEMONA FINDS THE BIG O IN LOVE, won first place in the Texas Writers’ League Romance category, 2014. Her novella THE LIGHT WE FOUND, first published in MOTHER'S DAY MAGIC anthology, is now available as a stand-alone short read. 


Q. D. loves her rescued puppy, red wine, running through sprinklers, dark chocolate with sugared ginger, and anything wrapped in a corn tortilla. Her prized possessions include a hot pink Christmas tree and a garden full of okra and basil. 

She hasn’t decided what she’ll be when she grows up, but whatever it is will be filled with romantic impossibilities.



Excerpt: Faking Lucky by Q. D. Purdu

Giveaway
$10 Amazon gift card,  hard copy of Polarity in Motion by Brenda Vicars

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

Book Showcase: Moms With Secrets by Bena Roberts

Book Showcase: Moms With Secrets by Bena Roberts


Title: Moms With Secrets (Tammy & Lisa Mom Detectives Book 1)
Author: Bena Roberts
Genre: Chick Lit , Cozy Mystery, Parenting Drama

About the book:

Move over Thelma and Louise! Enter Tammy and Lisa two moms of troubled teenage boys. Not convinced of the school's ability to deal with serious issues, the two mothers become mom detectives. 


Meet Tammy Lewis - the local politician's wife. She is a dutiful wife and adores her family. Her life in her cozy village and Victorian home is perfect. 

Enter Lisa Evans - an enigmatic yoga teacher and single mother. Lisa has worked hard to succeed in her life, and when she discovers her teenage son might be dealing drugs, she comes up with a crafty plan. Lisa sets out to frame innocent mom Tammy Lewis for her son's misdemeanors. Lisa's son and Tammy's son are best friends so; the set-up could work. 

Is Tammy the pushover that Lisa believes? 

More importantly? Has the village school got the accusations right? Are Mark and Ethan, Tammy & Lisa's children really the local village school drug lords? 

Author Bena Roberts has delivered a warm and witty short read ideals for mums with troubled teenage boys who understand the pull of motherhood. How far would you go to protect your teenage son?


  
About the Author:
Bena Roberts was a journalist and analyst. Now she prefers the title novelist and romance adventurist. She graduated in England 1994 and then with a Masters in 1997. 


Born in 1973, Bena lived in West London until she was 24. Then she lived and worked in Budapest, Bruges, Prague, Amsterdam, Vienna, Hamburg and Munich. She currently resides in Germany, between Heidelberg and Frankfurt. Although she still refers to London as 'home.'

Bena successfully created a technology blog which gained funding, had lunch with Steve Ballmer and was 'top 50 most influential woman in mobile.' Her blog also won several awards including Metro Best Blog. 

Bena has two children, loves small dogs and always writes books with a cup of Earl Grey. 

Bena's favorite literary style is black humor, and she hopes to offer a unique voice in this area. Her books aim to confront the darkest of life experiences, with levity. Most of her writing is heavy hitting yet also entertaining. The second novel out in 2018 offers thought-provoking fiction which embraces the absurd with reality. 






Giveaway
$15 Amazon and 3 ebooks

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!


Research Trips

Research Trips, Guest post by David Burnsworth

There’s only so much research an author can do surfing the net. Don’t get me wrong, I have learned so much more about obscure topics because I needed a detail to complete a scene. The internet makes this so convenient. But sometimes it isn’t enough.
Research Trips, Guest post by David Burnsworth
Amazon - Goodreads
All but one of my books are set in Charleston, South Carolina. It’s only a few hours east from where we live now so travel is easy. Charleston is a beautiful city with so much charm and history. The beaches are great. To be honest, it still feels like home to me because I lived there from 2000 to 2005 and look back on that time with wonder. Did I really wake up on Saturday mornings and walk fifty yards to put my feet in the Atlantic Ocean? Yes I did.
We go back to Charleston now so I can account for the many changes the city is going through due to growth. The old beach apartment I called home for five years is still there. So are quite a few of my old downtown haunts, although many of the names of the bars have changed. What hasn’t changed is the underlying draw the city has on me. So going there isn’t vacation, it’s more of a pilgrimage.
The one book I wrote not set in Charleston took some of my characters to Atlanta, a city I had lived in during the 80’s. I did not pass up the opportunity to head back to see what had changed and visit with old friends. Not surprisingly, the city has changed much in the decades since I moved away.
While I enjoy learning new things about Charleston, my latest book, BAD TIME TO BE IN IT, heads back to the time when I lived there for part of the story. That was a lot of fun because I had all the details in my head. I’d been writing about the city since I moved away so I had not forgotten what it was like. But I also know that it has changed, a lot for the better.
I recommend visiting the places you write about. My current work-in-progress will also be based in Charleston, but other cities play a part. It will again be time to take my wife’s hand and head to the coast along with a few other cities. The writing life is not easy, but it can be a lot of fun!

Research Trips, Guest post by David Burnsworth
David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. Bad Time To Be In It (July 2018, Henery Press) will be his sixth. Having lived on Charleston’s Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife call South Carolina home.

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Becoming a Writer

Becoming a Writer, guest post by Sandi Smith @sandi_author @iReadBookTours


Somewhere, in the darkness of the night, I became a writer.  With my heart pounding, and words flying willy-nilly through my head, waking me from a sound sleep, I wrote the first few precious words down on paper, only to go back to sleep, finding myself constantly being harassed by these “precious words” while I was, once again, trying to sleep.  God knows I definitely need my nine hours of sleep, or I am stronger than a tornado, disrupting any living thing that is in my path…growling like a bear, the next day.  But it was what it was, and I entered into the make-believe world of fantasy and imagination, and smiled as I placed by mind and body on the conveyer belt of writing that would transport me through the next nine years of disappointments, smiles, tears, and the never-ending support of my wonderful husband and family.

Becoming a Writer, guest post by Sandi Smith @sandi_author @iReadBookTours
Amazon - Goodreads
Writing a book or a story.  Sounds so serene and peaceful, doesn’t it?  When it all started, it seemed so basic.  So easy.  But it really was not any of these.  It was hard work, trying to reflect my deepest thoughts into a document on my computer.  Spending hours just staring at words that had been written.  Words that never made any sense.   Just staring back at me as if to say, “Well, we’re waiting”.  Taunting me to make a move, and to set the words into any kind of action.  Daring me to take those same words that had entered my thoughts, without my permission, and make a story.

Then, without ever seeing it hit you, the editing makes its ugly appearance.  It approaches you, like a soft summer storm passing by, and you say, “this is not so bad”, but watch out.  The clouds darken, and they release their load.  Editing is unbelievably difficult.  When the book is ready, you smile, holding the large pile of papers to your chest in a fond embrace, and then you hand it over for someone to review, believing that you are a great writer.  Don’t believe that for a second.  You’re not quite prepared for how stupid you can be.  It is an eye opener, for sure, and the storm can drown you.  But you make it through with a little swearing and crying, and lots and lots of cookies, but gratitude must be shown for editors. Their job is difficult, and they do make the story better. 

After gaining thirty pounds, I believed that I was on my way to sharing what I thought were very nice stories, and I was so proud and excited.  Here they were.  They were real.  I could hold them.  I remember lifting the covers of each book.  Slowly, I turned pages, one at a time, deeply breathing in the smell of the ink that I had always enjoyed so much when I read all of the other books that other authors had written, and I smiled.  I was an author.  The time had come to set my creations free.  They were crying out to me, encouraging my heart and mind, begging me to set them free for everyone to share and enjoy.  But, after it was all said and done, there they sat at #999,950 out of 1,000,000 books.   It broke my heart.

What is so personal to you is not as important to someone else.  So, I had to decide, at some point, that the work I was doing was something I really loved doing.  Something I believed in.  Maybe I needed to believe that God wanted me to share my story so one person, somewhere, would read my words and be inspired.  There must have been a reason why my fingers couldn’t stop typing the words that spilled from my brain.  A reason to continue with hope and faith that something, some day and some how, would bring my stories to light, and, hopefully, make their entrance onto a bookshelf or a table.  Not a bookshelf or table that was hidden way in the back of the store so that no one could see the beautiful picture cover that dressed my books, but one day, like magic, would appear when you first walked through the front door of that wonderful, large bookstore. 

My soul.  My deepest inner thoughts.   I can visualize them sitting and  waiting on that table, exposed for everyone to see, piled on top of each other, proud and glorious, smiling at me, silently yelling out that someone did take the time to understand what I had to say, and that all of the lonely days and nights, the nine years of no sleep, were all worth the tears and the heartbreak that I had endured.

If that doesn’t happen, which is a true reality because of the competition that is part of this business, you sit back and look at what you have accomplished. Not everyone can do what you have done.  Maybe you won’t sell 5,000 books.  Maybe you will only sell ten.  Maybe you spent almost all of your retirement money, because self-publishing is so expensive, but you did it.  You made a mark; albeit, maybe a very small mark, but it took guts.  Guts to expose your thoughts, and to leave yourself wide open for criticism.  That is not the work of a loser.  That is the work of an adventurer who took a deep breath, reached deep down inside their soul, and, slowly, took small steps, which quickened with hope and excitement, taking them into the world of dreaming.  A world that is very difficult to hold on to, but also very difficult to set free.

Somewhere in the night, I became a writer.  The words have stopped, and the money is dwindling, so I am getting my nine hours of sleep once again.  My husband is happy, but deep inside I am feeling a gnawing presence, and the old familiar words have started to make their existence known while I am asleep.  Should I open the door once again, or do I turn onto my other side and just go back to sleep?  Am I prepared for the hard work and heartbreak that accompanies writing a book?  Time will tell, but what is moving around inside my brain may not let me rest much longer.   I am hooked to writing, and I am sure that, eventually, I will open the door to let the words into my world once again.  Hope and belief are forever waiting at my door.

Becoming a Writer, guest post by Sandi Smith @sandi_author @iReadBookTours
Sandi Smith spent her time as a young girl combing the shelves of the public library. She has always enjoyed the magic that books have to offer and was inspired by her high school English teacher, Mr. Coolidge to embrace the arts. The author found her calling as a writer early one morning as her first story came to her in the form of a poem. Since then she has written more than 15 children’s books, with her most popular series about the adventures of an adorable spider in the A.R. Achnid series.

Sandi is happily married to her inspiration and husband of 40 years, John. She continues to write for her two precious grandchildren. When she’s not penning a new story, Sandi and John like to camp, kayak and to enjoy the simple life in their home in Pembroke, NH.

Connect with the author: Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook ~ Pinterest



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Ends July 28, 2018




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