Writer. Editor. Mom. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Dog owner. Award-winning author and recipe creator. Conservative Catholic with an avid interest in the supernatural. Think all that doesn't go together? Then you have to get to know me better.

Let There Be Peace

We celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day today. You’re going to see “I Have a Dream” speeches all over the web. And I guess that’s okay. I mean, that’s a really powerful speech. There’s a reason people will be talking about it. It’s stood the test of time and inspired countless people. And will continue to do so for years to come.

But King said many other things, too. Things people either don’t know about, or have forgotten, or gloss over because “I Have a Dream” is more popular and memorable. One of the things he said that really resonates with me is this:

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends. (Like that? Tweet it.)

He delivered that line on November 7, 1957 at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in a sermon titled “Loving Your Enemies.” King was all about nonviolent resistance.

I have a niece in the US Navy. My father also served, as did members of my husband’s family. I’m proud of my family’s service to our country. I’m humbled at the sacrifice our military men and women make every single day to guarantee our freedom and safety. (Like that? Tweet it.)

How in the world can I possibly justify those two views?

I look to my grandmother for inspiration.

To know her is to love her. She has more friends than all of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren put together. If you need cheering up, she’s quick with a joke. If you need advice, she has a relevant life story for perspective. She has no enemies, and in the end (God willing, a long, long time from now), her friends will not be silent. There will be nothing but an outpouring of love and support from them.

King recognized that sometimes you needed to fight for what you believed in. Yet still, he was a peace-loving, God-fearing man. My grandmother had her own battles throughout her life, too. And now, at ninety-five, she lives each day believing it’s not the words of her enemies (she has none) or the silence of her friends that matters. It’s her own conscience that counts. And because she appreciates any sacrifice made on her behalf, she leads a peaceful life.

And isn’t peace all King really wanted for us, anyway?

Do You Know Where You Come From?

If you’ve browsed my blog, website, or Facebook page, you know I’m from Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, and you know what it’s famous for. If not (or if you’ve forgotten), I’ll tell you. Vandergrift is the first worker-owned, industrially-planned town in America. When founder George G. McMurtry acquired an iron and steel mill on 640 acres of land on the Kiskiminitas River, he had a vision: a town that was unique, attractive… “better than the best.” He contacted Central Park designer Frederick Law Olmsted, who promised there would be no better town in the world “for physical health and comfort.”

“The town would be a site of natural health, wealth, and beauty; drained; graded; flat but convenient; good road and walks; not in squares, but according to the lay of the land; such water as flows from mountain springs brought into houses; sewers; expanse of grass; trees; outlook; modern above and below ground; electric lights, telegraph, telephone… bathtub… . Every man to choose his part with the means at hand of supporting that part; the people to own their houses and control their pursuits. The means of health and enjoyment of life within reach of all inhabitants. Liquor not to be sold there.” (Something Better Than The Best, 1996, p 20.)

That’s the town my grandfather immigrated to. He came to America in 1920 when he was just six years old. Despite the glory of the Roaring Twenties (something he was too young to appreciate), the whole country was experiencing Prohibition, so Vandergrift wasn’t the only “dry” town. But it was a beautiful town.

Vandergrift was a town of curving streets, green parks, tidy homes with the latest amenities offering the mill and foundry workers all the comforts and health benefits the early 1900s had to offer. The town boasted churches in several denominations (St. Gertrude is now a National Landmark) and Rabbi Reubin Y. Rubinowitz sometimes led the town in holy days of worship. Citizens came out in droves to watch or participate in the many parades held throughout the year, and in the summer, families could always cool off at the community pool.

Naccarato home — The whole Naccarato clan in front of the family home

Yes, my grandfather immigrated to a wonderful town. His father died just eight years after they came here, leaving my grandfather as “the man of the house.” He quit school to get a job in the foundry, earning money for the household and helping raise his two sisters and four brothers. And he managed to do just that. They stayed in their home—a home that stayed in the family for generations. He only gave it over to his mother and younger siblings a year after he was married. My grandmother—my ninety-five year old grandmother—is still in the house he bought her. My grandfather’s original home was just sold from our family’s holdings last year.

There’s something about Vandergrift that gets in your blood and doesn’t let go.

Why am I telling you all this?

We were just home for Christmas. The town has changed. A lot. My parents were raised in a different town than the one my grandparents immigrated to. I was raised in a different town than the one my parents were raised in. My kids don’t recognize Vandergrift as the town my husband and I describe from when we were growing up. Times change. Progress? Maybe. I can’t say I see much that changed for the better in my beloved hometown.

But it’s home.

All of us need to remember that we are where we came from—at least to some extent.

And writers, this is especially true for our characters. They all have backstory. It might not all make it into our work, but it’s there. You should know it. And it should shape your characters. If I was a character in a novel, I’d be a girl living in the south who desperately misses the north. She misses her family, misses her friends. She has trouble shopping because she can’t find the right ingredients. She has trouble with colloquial phrases, and sometimes the locals laugh at her because of her confusion. Do I have to include any of that? No. If I choose to, I definitely shouldn’t say it explicitly. I’d just reveal it as the story progresses. She can be sad as she mails a birthday gift because she won’t be at the celebration. She can be confused when someone says, “Damn, Skippy,” and they laugh when she asks who Skippy is. She can be frustrated when she can’t find oil-cured olives and pancetta at the grocery story. The history should come forth in small snippets throughout the story, letting us learn about the character through her feelings about her home. Let it become a character itself.

Pay attention to your history. Embrace it. That’s where the enrichment is.

Where are you from? What makes it special? Share your story with us in the comments.

Grandma, Light Bulbs, and My Epiphany

It’s the new year. We’ve all been reflecting on 2013 and making resolutions for 2014.

I look back on 2013 as an eventful one. It was a year of making new friends, losing dear loved ones, publishing my first novel, securing an agent, earning several writing awards at a writing conference, winning first place in the main course category of the Atkins Low Carb Recipe contest, and managing to visit home not once, but twice (a rare treat, living 1,000 miles away). My son was inducted into NHS and got his driver’s license. My daughter graduated from middle school with a 4.0 for all three years and made conference on the high school tennis team her first year. Yes, it was an eventful year. And we have even higher hopes for 2014.

But January 6 is already almost a week into the new year. It’s officially Epiphany, the church feast uniting three events in Christ’s life when His divinity “shines” through His humanity: the adoration of the Magi, the baptism of Christ in the Jordan, and the first miracle at the wedding feast of Cana. See, that “shining” is important. During Advent, the world was in darkness, and we waited in expectation of the Coming Light. At Christmas, the Light shone forth, but dimly, seen only by a few around the crib—Mary and Joseph and the shepherds. But at Epiphany, the Light bursts forth to all nations and the prophecy is fulfilled: The Gentiles shall walk in Thy light, and kings in the brightness of Thy rising (Isaiah 60:3). The star of Epiphany, “flashing like a flame,” is still another facet of the light-motif.

We talk about “epiphanies” in our lives all the time. An epiphany (according to The American Heritage Dictionary) is “a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.”

My grandmother is ninety-five years old. I can guarantee she’s had an epiphany or two over the years. When she was a teenager, she was being courted by a wealthy young man from the neighboring town. His family owned several car dealerships and he would have made her quite a comfortable life.

Then she met my grandfather.

And she had an epiphany.

It didn’t matter how rich her suitor was or how easy he could have made her life. She had fallen in love with another man. The man she was going to marry and make a life with, raise a family with.

When we have an epiphany, people liken it to a light bulb going off in our heads. They say “we saw the light.” And it really is like that.

Just as my grandfather gave my grandmother an epiphany, he gave me one. The story of his ancestry clicked like a light bulb in my head one day and became the beginnings of the series that landed me my agent.

Pay attention to those family stories, folks. You never know when they might turn on a light in your head.

So, what about you? What epiphanies have you had? What are you working on in 2014? Share your stories with us below.

First Friday Fiction Feature – Laci and Del: Second Chance?

It’s the first Friday of the month. You know what that means… it’s time for another installment of short fiction. (You can, at any time, find this work or any of the First Friday Fiction Features, by going to the My Work tab, clicking on Freebies, and selecting the story you wish to read.)

This year I’m doing something different. Instead of twelve months of different stories, I’m trying out some serial work this year. So there will be twelve consecutive pieces released starting with this one: “Laci and Del: Second Chance?”

Laci and Del: Second Chance?

Laci glanced around the room, her gaze flitting from the people to the door and back. Panic clawed through her insides as desperately as she wanted to claw at each figure blocking her way. She had no means of escape. She’d waited too long. What fifteen minutes earlier had been a navigatable maze of clusters of party guests, standing like islands in a sea she could have traveled, somehow had morphed into one massive throng she had no hope of wading through. The door might as well be in another country. She’d never make it.

Sighing, she turned around and unlatched the patio door. Cracking it open just enough to squeeze through it, she slipped outside and closed the door behind her. Immediately she was hit in the face with the bracing cold of winter.

“Damn, it’s freezing out here!” She wrapped her arms around herself and watched as her breath dissipated into the night. She briefly entertained the idea of going back inside, but shook the idea off before even turning around. The countdown had begun. Even through the heavy door she could hear them all chanting, “Fifty-seven… Fifty-six… Fifty-five…”

Less than a minute, and she could put another horrid year behind her.

And start another one.

She rubbed her arms harder and tried to blink back the tears that were threatening to fall, tried not to imagine every single person in there sharing a warm kiss at midnight… while she stood on the patio. Alone. In the cold.

“Thirty-two… Thirty-one…”

The voices had grown louder, and Laci realized the door had opened. Wiping her eyes and clearing her throat, she mustered the last ounces of courage and dignity she possessed and turned toward her unwanted intruder. “I’m sorry. Would you mind terribly? I’d like to be alone.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

He was backlit by the lights from inside the house, but she didn’t need to see his face to know who he was. She’d know his voice, his body, anywhere.

“Delany?”

“Only you and my mother ever call me that.”

She cleared her throat. “Del. What are you doing here?”

“Something I didn’t think I’d ever do again.”

“Three… Two… One…”

As shouts of “Happy New Year” and the beginning notes of “Auld Lang Syne” rang out from inside the house, Del crossed to Laci and kissed her.

There was no forewarning. No preamble. He didn’t stroke her cheek first or brush her hair back from her face.

There was just Del. And the kiss.

And the disappearance of her whole miserable world for a blissful moment.

When he released her, the people inside were about done cheering. The strains of the song were fading away. The tears had dried on her cheeks.

And her heart rate was nowhere near normal.

“And what, might I ask, am I supposed to make of that?” she managed to get out in a steady voice.

“I’ve been watching you all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night? What are you, now? A stalker or something?” She clutched at where a collar should be, but all she found was a necklace. A beautiful diamond necklace he’d bought her, highlighted by her upswept hair and the low-cut bodice of her cocktail dress. She tried to cover it with her fingers, but she saw the look of recognition on his face. Why did she have to choose that piece—of all pieces—to wear that night? Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it.

“We’re both still friends with the same people. We’re bound to end up in the same place at the same time. But after how things ended…”

She lowered one of her arms and studied his face.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t know if you were ready to talk. So I stayed on the opposite side of the room all night. I was trying to be polite and give you space.”

She sniffed.

“Anyway, I figured you would leave before midnight. I know how you feel about not having anyone to kiss when the ball drops, especially given it’s not just the new year, but your birthday too, so when—”

“You remember my birthday?”

His eyebrows shot up. “What kind of person do you think I am? Of course I remember your birthday.”

She relaxed enough that she dropped her hand away from her throat and started rubbing her arms again. Since Del had walked onto the patio, she hadn’t felt anything but heat. The cold was starting to hit her again, though. As well as some old feelings she hadn’t buried as deep as she had thought.

“Come here,” he said.

Before she could object, she was nestled in his arms, tucked against his firm, warm chest.

“Laci, I know things got all messed up before. I don’t want to revisit the past. This is a new year. For you and for everyone.” He pulled back a little bit and looked down at her. “I’d like to give us another try.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze, so she tucked her head back against his chest and held on tightly to him. “I don’t know, Delany. It took me a long time to move on. I don’t want to go through something like that again.”

“That’s how you know it’s worth fighting for. Because we were so hard to walk away from. Come on, Laci. What have you got to lose?”

Laci thought about the year since they had broken up and the men she hadn’t been able to date. There had been something wrong with absolutely everyone who’d asked her out—too tall, too nerdy, too creepy, too involved with work, too interested in fantasy football—so she’d politely declined all her offers until the offers had stopped coming. Yes, she realized her reasons were ridiculous. Well, maybe not the creepy guy, but all the other ones. But obviously her social calendar was in need of some CPR.

But wasn’t Del the reason it flat-lined to begin with?

She had a lot to lose. He couldn’t possibly understand. Was he worth the risk?

Countdown to Christmas: Peace

This is the last week of the Advent Season. That means we light the last candle. We now have one rose and three purple candles lit; the circle is complete. Four candles representing the four thousand years from Adam and Eve to the birth of the Savior are all illuminated, and Christmas is almost upon us. We will be completing our last week of preparations.

The last candle we light is the Angel’s Candle, and it represents Peace.

As a matter of faith, I can think of no time of year more suited to peace than the Christmas season.

As a romance writer, Christmas is a wonderful time of year to incorporate peaceful elements into my writing.

Think about:

Soft music and candlelight
Softly falling snowflakes
Wine by the fire
Snuggling under a blanket
Soaking in a hot tub or bubble bath

What are you doing in this hectic season to add a little peace to your life? Why dont you share your secrets with us?

Christmas is just a few days away. For those of you who celebrate, have a very Merry Christmas. And for those of you who celebrating something else, I wish you the Happiest of Holidays. The rest of you are wished the most joyous of winter memories as this year draws to a close. I will be spending time with family and won’t be posting again until January. Until then, friends, be safe, and I’ll see you in the new year!

Here We Come A Caroling… Sort of. Won’t You Come With Me?

I have a real honor today. I’m guest posting/visiting on a friend and fellow Tribe Writer’s blog talking all about family Christmas traditions. Won’t you join me on Joan Hall’s site (Joan Hall Writes) as we discuss Christmas and family? Hope to see you there!

Countdown to Christmas: Joy

We’re entering the third week of Advent. This week is called Gaudete Sunday. “Gaudete” (pronounced gow / dey / tay) is the Latin word for “rejoice” and this is the week priests wear rose-colored vestments and we light the rose-colored candle, because we are rejoicing reaching the half-way point through this anticipatory season.

This third week, the pink or rose candle is the Shepherd’s Candle, and it represents Joy.

As a matter of faith, of course I approach Christmas with a sense of joy.

As a romance writer, this season is no different.

Think of the joy a couple shares on that first exhilarating date. Or when they first say “I love you.” Or when they get engaged. Married. When they first move in together. When they first learn they’re expecting. That first doctor’s visit when they hear that rapid heartbeat, maybe even see a blurry image on a screen. When they hear that first cry, hold that sweet bundle in their arms. Take that precious baby home for the first time.

There is joy all around. Every first, every milestone. Every moment people choose to savor instead of squandering.

What joyous occasion are you looking forward to this season? What milestone are you celebrating? What everyday activity are you experiencing with a new sense of wonder instead of that same old sense of acceptance or dread? Why don’t you share your story here?

Countdown to Christmas: Love and Faith

This is the second week of Advent in the church. Some modern conventions have a white candle in the middle of the wreath to be lit on Christmas Eve representing Christ’s birth, or even all white candles instead of the traditional purple and pink, but at our home, we use the traditional convention. That means we are lighting two purple candles.

This week is the Bethlehem Candle. Some say it represents faith, some say it represents love. It is indicative of the Holy Family’s belief in their mission and their trek to Bethlehem. I think a journey like that would require a lot of both.

As a romance writer, I could write forever on either subject: love or faith.

This is a beautiful time of year for love.

I know so many people who have winter weddings. There are many engagement stories at Christmas time. One in particular that sticks out is that of a friend of mine…Her boyfriend took her for a ride in a horse drawn carriage around the park (complete with sleigh bells), then stopped at one of their favorite places by the river where they had a spectacular view of the city, and while the snow fell, he got down on one knee and proposed. She said she always wanted an outdoor winter proposal because she grew up in Africa and didn’t have that kind of weather. She was enthralled by it and wanted a special memory in the snow. And despite that fact that he hated winter weather, he did it for her. That’s love for another. That’s faith in your relationship. That’s romance.

We could all use a relationship like that in our lives that demonstrates such commitment of love and faith.

How are you embracing love and faith as you prepare for this holiday season? Why don’t you share your story here?

First Friday Fiction Feature – Christmas Eve Perspective

In the spirit of Christmas, I’m taking some liberties with a famous work of Mr. Clement Clark Moore. I’m sure you’ll recognize it. Happy Holidays, everyone.

Christmas Eve Perspective

Twas the night before Christmas, I was the only one up.

The only thing keeping me going was the caffeine in my cup.

The last month had been spent in a blur of congestion.

And I sat wrapping gifts pondering one crucial question.

My kids had full bellies and had gone to bed sated.

And it was the time of night that I most hated.

My husband had had his fill of fine family dining.

And had done a little too much of “fine family wining.”

He’d just “rested his eyes” and was now snoring.

A trait I didn’t find very adoring.

So I was wrapping all the presents and guzzling my joe,

When I saw something moving outside in the snow.

I stepped onto the porch for a better view.

The starry sky was clear, but a blustery wind blew.

I turned from the chill, then I looked back.

I swear it was Santa, complete with sleigh and sack.

I counted eight reindeer hitched to his sleigh.

And wondered who would believe my story when I told it the next day.

Without my phone, I’d have no photographic proof,

I thought maybe I could show someone the prints of a hoof.

I stood there and watched them, I’m not sure how long.

Santa was singing his deer a beautiful song.

I thought it must be how he gets them to fly in the air;

It’s not quite a carol, not quite a prayer.

But he sang his song, and he shook the reins,

And off they went by the tune of his baritone strains.

The stars twinkled, the snowflakes swirled;

Santa was gone, bringing joy to the world.

I turned to go back inside, resigned to do my work;

I had been acting like a complete and total jerk.

So what if I was the only one doing the wrapping?

Who cares if I would rather be in my warm bed napping?

These moments are fleeting. They come and go fast.

There’s no way in the world we can make them last.

The kids won’t know, nor will they care,

Who baked or shopped or wrapped, I swear!

I needed to stop asking why I was always stuck.

I needed to stop asking why I had such rotten luck.

I opened the door and dropped my jaw, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

What I saw inside the room was a Christmas Eve surprise!

Every gift was wrapped and tagged and placed under the tree.

And all the paper, bows, and tags were put away for me.

My husband slept soundly again; I woke him with a kiss.

“Thanks,” I said, and gestured, “for handling all this.”

He said, “I wish I could take credit, but it wasn’t me.”

And we heard sleigh bells ringing outside beyond the holly tree.

“You don’t think…” I whispered, stunned. “I mean—”

“Why not?” he said. “It wouldn’t be the first magical thing we’ve seen.”

He wrapped me in his arms, I snuggled against him tight.

“Merry Christmas.” He pulled me toward the stairs. “It’s going to be a good night.”

Countdown to Christmas: Hope

So the Month of Thanks is over, and we’re entering the last month of the year, which is interesting, because in my faith, we are entering the new year of our church calendar. Advent has begun, which, for those of you who don’t know, is not only the start of a new liturgical calendar, but is a preparatory season leading up to Christmas.

Advent is noticeable by the violet vestments worn by the priests, the evergreen wreaths found in the church and in many homes, and the three purple and one rose candle on the wreaths. The evergreen branches are significant because they represent immortality, strength, healing, and victory over persecution. The wreath itself is a circle, a ring; a shape with no beginning and no end, and therefore represents the eternity of God, the immortality of the soul, and the everlasting life found in Christ. The lighting of the candles represent bringing light, or Christ, into the world.

Each candle has a different designation. This first week, we light a purple candle—the Prophecy Candle. It is in remembrance of the prophets, particularly Isaiah, who foretold the birth of Christ. This candle represents hope.

As a devout Catholic, I embrace these tenets of my faith.

As a romance writer, what does all this mean for me?

Actually, this season is a beautiful time for romance.

Sights: twinkling lights, roaring fires
Sounds: soft music, crackling logs
Smells: evergreen boughs, simmering spiced cider
Tastes: mulled wine, hot cocoa
Feelings: fur-lined gloves, hand-me-down quilts

Romance is all about hope.

Hope that someone will understand what you want, what you need.
Hope that your trust will be rewarded.
Hope that your love will be earned. And returned.

Advent is about anticipation. Week one is about hope.

And romance is about both.

How are you counting down the weeks until Christmas? I’d love to hear about your plans and preparations.