Samhain Publishing

A couple of weeks ago I attended my stepdaughter’s high school graduation and during the valedictorian’s speech she said those words, “It’s Not the Juice, It’s the Squeeze.” She was talking about the journey she and her classmates had taken over the last four years and I loved it!

The writer in me immediately grabbed my trusty notebook and pen (two things I am never without) and quickly scribbled down her words knowing I would use them someday in a book.

But her words have taken on a personal note to me over the last week. And what a week it’s been! The last seven days have included:

• My daughter having finals before her junior year of high school was over
• My husband making a major career shift that has him walking away from the same job he’s had for twenty one years
• My local RWA (Romance Writers of America) monthly meeting, that as the chapter President (going on four years now), has me spending my time jugging the roles of leader, diplomat, and cheerleader
• A three day attack of killer migraines that resulted in a new eye glass prescription (have you seen the prices of eye glasses lately? Yowza!)
• A blog posting over at the Shades of Suspense blog about my current hero
• An intense online class that has me dealing with inciting incidents, character flaws, turning points, black moments, and realizations for my current work-in-progress
• A full time job (okay, I did take a sick day on Monday —- the migraines won that day!)

And let’s not forget actually writing that current work-in-progress. I’ll freely admit I didn’t get anywhere near my normal page count, but I did find a way write every day.

And that’s the squeeze.

(My current juice, REILLY’S PROMISE, is available now in print! Ask for it at your local bookstore or click here!)

Christyne
Visit My Website – christynebutler.com

When I look into the mirror, I see my father’s nose and when I look down at my keyboard I see my mother’s hands. I am messy like my Aunt, my mother’s sister. My daughter is neat as a pin like her Aunt, my sister. I can get myself anywhere with least amount of directions like my grandfather and my sister can’t drive her way out of paper bag without getting lost like my father.

Inherited gifts? If so, where did I get my love of writing?

Thanks to my Aunt’s love of genealogy (yes, the messy one) I found out that Louisa May Alcott and Harriet Beecher Stowe are distant members of my family tree on my mother’s side. Hmmm, perhaps my love of storytelling came from them. I had always figured it was this same Aunt who handed down, not only her untidy genes, but also her ability to be creative to me. Be it drawing, painting, crafts, poetry, crocheting, cross-stitch…if it one of the ‘arts’ she could do it and so can I (with a lot of practice, of course!). I also figured my knack of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) came from my grandfather (my mom’s father). He worked at the local newspaper for years and could type close to sixty words per minute, in the old “hunt-and-peck” method (with two index fingers only), and that was on a pre World War II typewriter.

It wasn’t until I was in high school that I found out my gift came from someone a little closer to me. While looking through some old boxes, I found a pressboard folder, with a rusty two-prong fastener, that held fifty or so yellowed, dog-eared, double-spaced typed pages. Even more surprising was the name, faded to a dull gray, on the cover. My mother! And the last name was her maiden name so I knew this was something pre-1962.

I remember reading the story about a group of young girls in their early 20’s and the boys in their lives. I immediately recognized my mother in one of the fictional girls and other life long friends of her that I grew up with (who are like family), could be found in several of the other characters. I was so tickled with my discovery and so disappointed to find it unfinished! Hey, my mom did something else beside clean the house, work full time, clean the house, fix dinner, clean the house, raise a family, clean the…well, you get the idea.

It was many years later when I started to think that my scribbling might actually be something I’d want to take a little more seriously. While home on a visit, I snuck that aged, unfinished manuscript into a suitcase and took it home with me. I told her what I had done when I finally finished my own story. I said I wanted it for inspiration and as a reminder that while, it was up to me to make my dreams come true, it was from her I received this very special gift.

I can’t wait to return the favor and place my first book in her hands.

Christyne
christynebutler.com

Ghosts and Christmas? Do they mix? Well, I can’t say these were two things I ever put together before, but now they do for me because of the gift my father gave me one Christmas morning.

Eight years ago my father passed away just after Thanksgiving while in the hospital waiting for bypass surgery. It was a shock to us all and that holiday season was more subdue that normal.

My mother and younger sister were planning to come down to my house (about an hour away) on Christmas Day, but called around dinnertime on the 24th asking if they could come that night. It was just too hard to be in at my parent’s house.

Of course, my husband and I said yes and when it was time for bed, he and I got comfortable on the pull out couch and gave our bedroom to my sister and mom.

As the sun rose Christmas morning, I woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows and the sound of someone singing. It was coming from the bathroom, which was just off the living room.

I knew that voice.

As a child going to church on Sundays was extra special because I loved listening to my father sing the hymns. To me, he always sounded like Elvis. That was my father’s voice I now heard coming from the bathroom.

Shocked, I reached over to shake my husband awake, but then the bathroom door opened. My father, dressed in his usual outfit of jeans, sneakers, sweatshirt and ball cap came strolling out.

He looked wonderful. He looked the same.

I couldn’t speak as he walked into the living room, and past the end of the bed. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched him walk by. I slowly turned over, unable to take my eyes off him.

He sat down in the rocker recliner next the Christmas tree, and looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. This couldn’t be happening. My father was gone and had been for close to a month now. The rational side of me knew that, but how did that explain what I was seeing right before my eyes?

“Dad, what are you doing here?” (Not the best thing to say, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.)

His response?

“Where else would I be on Christmas morning?”

His words, clear and strong, brought tears to my eyes. He sat there, in full color and solid form, looking happy and healthy like he did just a few months ago. Both joy and fear filled me. I wanted this to be true . . . I wanted it with every ounce of my being.

I reached back to again wake my husband. When he didn’t respond, I rolled toward him and pushed on his shoulders This was important! He had to wake up!

Suddenly, my body jerked and my eyes flew open.

I was dreaming?

No. It couldn’t be a dream! It couldn’t! I clenched my hands into tight fists and choked back to tears that burned my eyes and squeezed my throat.

My husband murmured a raspy “what?”, then rolled over and went back to sleep. I was afraid to turn around, afraid of what I would find . . . or not find. But I had to know.

I turned back and this time I couldn’t hold back the tears. The rocker now sat empty, but it slowly rocked back and forth in a steady measured movement. I lay back down on my pillows, unable to look away.

Had I been dreaming? Was I still?

It didn’t matter.

I don’t remember falling back asleep, I can’t say I really remember much of the rest of the day. In fact, I didn’t share what happened that morning with my family until a few years later, but I’ll always remember how my dad had found a way to let me know he was there with us that Christmas.

And I know he’s been around for all the Christmases since then, as well as other special and ordinary days in my life. It’s a memory I cherish and when I woke yesterday morning, I took a few moments to say thank you to him for all the years we shared and for all those special moments when he finds a way to let me know he’s still a part of my life.

And that’s my best present, Christmas or otherwise, ever.

Christyne Butler
www.christynebutler.com
Embrace romance . . . happily ever after guaranteed!

A writer should write.

No, wait…that’s the trusty US Postal Service creed, but the same could be said of writers. Add, of course, nor day job, nor needy spouses or sick children, nor broken bones, nor the lure of American Idol or Days of our Lives, nor…

Well, you get the picture.

I’ve been a writer all my life, from childhood scribbles to high school, angst-filled poems, but it wasn’t until I felt the joy of typing THE END (at the conclusion of a fan fiction for Days of our Lives that ran 375,000 words and took a year to write) did I get serious about being a published author. And that was only on a dare from my husband to write something I could actually sell.

“But I have a full time job,” I said.
“I’ve got you and our child to take care of,” I added.
“I belong to Committee This and serve as President of That,” I whined.
“I don’t have time,” I caved.

He gently pointed out the many nights I stayed up long after my bedtime typing furiously about characters that belonged to someone else (NBC), how I would wake up early to check the internet for responses to my latest postings, and that I would talk about these television-based characters as if they were real people.

“Don’t you have any other voices running around in my head?” he asked.

You have no idea.

So I got serious. I wrote, I took online classes, I wrote, I joined the Romance Writers of America, I wrote, I bought books on craft, books on technique and romance novels by the truckload. (research, you know!) I fought the battle (still ongoing) with my worst fault, laziness, and I did it. I typed THE END on my own story and reading the email telling me Samhain Publishing wanted REILLY’S PROMISE was a dream come true.

And I continue to write. I also mix in marketing, maintaining my website, networking and working with my editor because those are all part of being a published author.

I still battle the pull of guilty pleasures like curling up with a romance novel, a classic love story movie (Pride & Prejudice anyone?) or my favorite daytime drama. And everyday life has a way of jumping up in your face too. Whether it’s my day job extending long past the usual eight hours, my teenager playing catch with my car keys as a way of expressing her need to practice her driving skills or the news a most beloved aunt who was told last month she is facing the battle of a lifetime against cancer…I still write.

Oh, and that first picture is my office. As you can tell from all the stuff laying around I don’t get much done there.

Below is my ‘real’ office…

When Christyne told me I could say a few words here today, I asked her if she was sure. After all, the woman’s been putting words in my mouth, literally, for a while now. She gently reminded me that she’s just the storyteller who was compelled to get my story told and since my name is on the cover on her first release, REILLY’S PROMISE, I should be able to pop in and introduce myself.

The name’s Reilly Murdock and I believe love of country is unconditional, right is right and wrong is wrong, and there are two things a man—hell, for that matter a woman too—should both keep and give away…his word.

My word is my bond. If I say I’m going to do something you can be damn sure I’m going to do it. So when an old friend, a man I’d trust my life with and have on more than one occasion in the past, asked me to do a favor for an old friend of his, I promised him I would.

Then he told me about Cassandra Van Winter.

You know the type. The name says it all. I figured she’s rich, snobbish and a few beers short a six-pack because she’s become an ‘accident’ magnet lately, and she doesn’t see a problem with that.

Then we met. Let me say the fact she’s gorgeous with red hair and killer green eyes means nothing. All I’m interested in is finding out who’s messing with her and why.

So, okay she actually works for a living and is loyal to her mom, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to start liking her. Lust, maybe. Hey, I’m only human, but like I said, a promise is a promise. I’m not walking away from this job and I’m not touching—

Ah, thanks Reilly . . . I appreciate you stopping by, but I’ll take over from here.

Hi all! I’m really excited about my first release from Samhain Publishing, REILLY’S PROMISE. As you can see, Reilly is quite a interesting guy and before Cassandra finds out I let him post here instead of her, let me share with you a bit about my—ah, their—story:

She stands for everything he despises. Only, the minute they meet, she becomes everything he desires.

Former US Marine turned private investigator, Reilly Murdock is no stranger to high society. Thanks to his malevolent millionaire stepfather, he turned his back on that elite world years ago. But when a friend calls in a favor he’s honor bound to repay, Reilly finds himself stuck as glorified babysitter to a spoiled heiress with secrets of her own.

Now, she takes one look at the six feet of muscle her mother’s hired to protect her, and curses her body for coming back to life. As the “accidents” increase and danger comes closer, Reilly gets closer too. Before long it’s not just her life in danger, but her heart.

Click here to read an excerpt!

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