Richelle E. Goodrich's Blog, page 4

    Losing a loved one is painful.  I am certain that those who have experienced this kind of loss feel a pang in their hearts at the mere mention of it. Grief — that aching bruise — never heals. It may improve over time, or perhaps, one just grows numb to it. 

 Hey! Did you know that Secrets of a Noble Key Keeper is available in its kindle format for FREE on Amazon from February 7th to February 10th, 2023? No kidding! Go get your FREE COPY today!!!

Book Summary: Meet a curious, young man whose calling it is to guard the gates of his homeland. As key keeper of Dreamland, Gavin comes across many outsiders referred to by his people as dreamers. Through a variety of bizarre and creative antics, Gavin steers these roaming trespassers away from the borders of his magical world—a world where ogres bowl for their dinner, and pirates sail the clouds to plunder diamonds from the night’s sky, and bubbleberries make a person burp out loud. It is a place where anything imaginable is commonplace.
All the while, the young key keeper finds himself increasingly intrigued by stories of the outside world. Snooping about, he is captivated by a dreamer who piques his interest in the ordinary.

This book is supplemental to Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher

     My family and I are dealing with the recent hospitalization of my father that turned into a search for long term care. He is a Vietnam Veteran with a purple heart, but finding a place for his care is turning out to be extraordinarily difficult. My father suffers from dementia as well as a number of physical health problems that keep him bedridden. The doctors recently suggested we consider hospice.

      It is crazy how through all of this I have found my emotions fluctuating like a yo-yo, shattering at some bit of painful news and then swelling with love and appreciation in the same hour. Such has been the case for a few weeks now. It seems to me that the human heart was made both to break and to mend in order for humanity to effectively experience a vast range of emotions. We feel both pains and pleasures, developing in the process a true capacity for empathy.  I love my dad while at the same time I feel deep sadness for his present circumstances.  Life gives us joy, and it gives us misery. It does so for everyone. And thank heaven, for it is what makes us human.

        This Halloween, look forward to werewolves, witches, warlocks, and other Hallows Eve creatures in my new book, The Tarishe Curse. This thrilling tale is set to be released on October 31st, 2022 only on Amazon.com. Learn about the Tarishe curse from the Queen of Werefolk's point of view. Follow her as she desperately seeks any means to undo the curse contrived by an old, malevolent witch. But before you get your hands on the book, be one of the first to enjoy this cover reveal!

       Did you know that the beginning chapter in The Tarishe Curse was originally written in 2012 as a short story? I wrote it for my friend, Cathie (Duvall) Hunt, who possesses a seriously spooky love for Halloween. I thought it would be fun to incorporate some Hallows Eve creatures into a haunting story as a treat for her. Fact: the first chapter of The Tarishe Curse is still that original short story in its completion. When Cathie asked me "What happens next?" I was stunned at first. No additional storyline existed in my mind; it wasn't meant to be a longer tale. But after some thought, I determined to write a new chapter every Halloween and post it online for readers to enjoy. Over the next few years posting annual chapters, the original eventually developed into something substantial. And now, eleven years later on this very Halloween 2022, The Tarishe Curse comes to an end in the form of a 300+ pages book available in paperback, hardcover, and e-book for kindle. 

Now... what about the cover? Glad you asked.

A little about the creation of this cover: Yes, I do my own artwork, and though I am certainly not a professional artist, I enjoy creating my book covers. As far as I'm concerned, writing books trumps cover art, but I do keep full control over the entire book this way. For The Tarishe Curse cover, I wanted specific details to be included. First and foremost, a full Tarishe moon. This red moon is a bewitching natural phenomenon in my fictional world mentioned early on in the book.  Surrounding the village of Tarishe is a forest of thin aspen trees; this I also wanted on the cover, including an aura of dreary darkness. I think I nailed the ambiance.

For me, it didn't seem quite enough to have atmosphere only depicted on the cover, though it did an effective job of setting the mood for my book. But it felt... empty. What I wanted was to introduce the main character here with her ominous silver sword. I kept her features hidden on purpose, leaving her face as mysterious as her conflicting identity. Yes, you'll have to read the book to understand that reference. 

After adding her as a focus under the light of the Tarishe moon, I was pleased.  So, without further delay... here is the final cover of The Tarishe Curse. Look for it on Amazon.com

Kindle Cover Art

Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2022

     Over the years I've learned many things from my father. He has been there for me and my boys throughout our lives. I am grateful for his hard work, his generosity, and some lessons learned. Here are probably the top ten things I learned from him, last to first:

   I was standing in line at the post office a few days ago with a package I had procrastinated mailing. It was filled with candy bars and board games for my son who now lives a couple states away. Six people were ahead of me in the line that passed through the open side of a set of glass doors. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw more individuals joining the line at my back.

   Only two postal employees stood behind the counter that afternoon, so I knew the wait would be a bit long. A trip to the post office is always a gamble: sometimes it’s a quick in-and-out visit, other times you pay your dues in tendered time.

   Not in a real hurry, I began observing those around me. People-watching has always been my fascination; I find human nature intriguing. As I stood there waiting for the line to move forward, it occurred to me that everyone kept quietly to themselves. The only real conversations were those between the two postal workers and the individuals being helped. I had to smile at the realization that despite the long line, calm and patience set the tone.

   One woman who had taken up five minutes at the counter turned and apologized to everyone, aware of so many of us waiting. It was a courteous thing to do, and I again observed no show of annoyance in anyone’s demeanor. No grumbles, groans, or toe tapping. Such kindness made me smile.

   My attention then jumped to an elderly lady, also at the front counter, who was picking up a package. Her expression was one of surprise when she discovered the size of the box—about half her height in length and width—yet she refused every offer of assistance from the attendant.

   “Oh thank you, but I think I can manage. My car is right outside.”

   When she turned to leave, hefting that big box, it was evident she would not be able to squeeze through the one open double-door, so I stepped out of line to hold the second door open for her. The dear lady took about three steps forward before she put the package down, apparently reconsidering her need for assistance. Just then, a young man stepped out of line and asked to carry the box for her, giving the elderly lady a reason to sigh a sound of relief.

   We all watched the young man lift the box with ease and carry it through the double doors. Someone else further down the line held the main door open for him so he could step outside. We stared out the picture window as he crossed the street to reach the woman’s car where he carefully fit the box into her trunk. It was a sweet scene when she gave him an earnest show of thanks.

   I returned to my place in line. The young man also returned to his place in line—no objections from anyone.

   Why do I mention these simple acts of service that took place during a few minutes at the local post office? Because they happen every day all around us. The patience. The smiles. The acknowledgements. The opened doors. The helping hands. The gratitude. These humble services are the most precious treasures we give to one another, and they are daily occurrences among us. I fear, though, we have learned to overlook these quiet blessings, instead taking note of things loud, obnoxious, and harsh. Why concentrate on the negative when there is so much positive at work everywhere? Open your eyes and notice it. Then pay the kindness forward.

   No matter how bleak or negative the media paints the world, there is still an abundance of good—good days, good people, and good deeds. Choose to see these simple acts of kindness. Be part of what still defines us as humanity.

    

This year, I survived.

Next year, I will thrive! 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy… no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path,
they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of
the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.


Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes