UPDATE: CONTEST CLOSED! All commenters will receive the prize!
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I think it’s important to write about what you know. I’ve had a varied background, living in different locations, doing various jobs, and I’ve read many books where the author writes about something they know nothing about. It is disappointing, and draws the reader right out of the story. My best advice is—Do your homework or write what you know.

I was born in southern British Columbia and have lived most of my life here, but when I was eleven, my family moved to the North Peace River area to a place east of Fort St John, BC. We homesteaded, which means we claimed a piece of land and built a small log house on it.

The local school had two rooms, and went to grade 8, so by the time I was thirteen I was doing home schooling, but my older sister and I took turns walking our younger sister the two miles down the dirt road to the bus stop as she was attending the two-room school.

It snowed a lot. One day, I had walked my sister to the bus stop with our dog Captain as company. Captain liked to chase rabbits, and I could always tell because he yipped his way through the woods as he ran.

The road had been ploughed, so the snowbank was a good eight feet high. I got my sister onto the bus and turned to head home, calling for Captain who had disappeared partway down the road chasing rabbits. I could hear him yipping as he drew nearer and nearer, then he barreled out of the trees and up the snowbank. I called him, thinking he would come to me and accompany me on the road home, but he kept going, down the bank and across the road as fast as he could run, into the trees on the other side.

I soon realized why. Over the snowbank behind him came two timber wolves. They paused at the top of the bank, eying me on the road below.

I thought I was dead. So I raised my arms above my head and waved at them, yelling as loudly as I could as I ran toward them. They loped down the bank across the road into the trees after Captain.

What I noticed was Captain running flat out, but the timber wolves loped. They have much longer legs than a regular dog. I didn’t think I would ever see my dog again. I walked the two miles home, and Captain arrived about noon. Totally exhausted, he slept on the floor in front of the fire for the rest of the day.

This was not the first time I had seen wolves, there were lots of them up there, beautiful creatures. They hung around our house because we had animals, a cow and calf, chickens, pigs, geese and dogs. We knew they were there from the howling that could be heard most nights. But it was the closest I had been to them while alone.

I used this encounter in my book, False Confession. The rock band travels north to play for a friend’s wedding, and some of the band members encounter a wolf on their return journey.

False Confession

Did Glory fall for the wrong man, or is someone lying?

Music teacher Glory has given up on men, with good reason. Then she meets the handsome lead guitar player in the band she has just joined.

Alex, body builder and construction foreman, is determinedly single because he’s given up on women. But that’s before he meets the keyboard player who just joined his brother’s rock band. Suddenly his interest is revived and he goes on a crusade to gain Glory’s attention.

But when Alex disappears and the police claim they have a confession giving damning evidence against him, Glory must make a decision. Can she trust the man she’s fallen for, or has she been fooled into believing a lie?

Find False Confession on Amazon & Books2Read

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Author Profile

Sylvie Grayson loves to write about suspense, romance and attempted murder, in both contemporary and science fiction/fantasy. She has lived most of her life in British Columbia, Canada in spots ranging from Vancouver Island on the west coast to the North Peace River country and the Kootenays in the beautiful interior. She spent a one-year sojourn in Tokyo Japan.

She has been an English language instructor, a nightclub manager, an autoshop bookkeeper and a lawyer. Now she works part time as the owner of a small company and writes when she finds the time.

She is a wife and mother and still loves to travel, having recently completed a trip to Singapore, Thailand, Viet Nam and Hong Kong. She lives on the coast of the Pacific Ocean with her husband on a small patch of land near the sea that they call home.

Sylvie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her at her website – www.sylviegrayson.com, find her on Facebook and Twitter, or follow her on BookBub, Goodreads, and Amazon.

Excerpt – False Confession by Sylvie Grayson

“What’s she doing here?” Alex Vecchio glared around the dim upstairs storage room, which was theirs one night a week for band practice. The bar had cases of wine and hard liquor stacked against the far wall. Barrels of beer had been lugged in and placed near the elevator. A single light bulb illuminated the space, the walls dingy with age and the floor boards bare and unpainted.

He spotted his brother’s shaggy head. “Ryan? What’s going on?” His voice was low and fierce. “What’s she doing here?”

Ryan grinned as he pulled his drums from the case. “Hey, Alex. Have you met Glory?” His sandy bangs fell forward as he motioned toward the young woman on the other side of the room. She was bent over a keyboard, unfolding the legs and snapping the braces into place.

Alex lowered his brows and kept his face turned toward his younger brother, his voice a growl. “What’s going on? Why is she here?”

“Glory!” As she straightened, Ryan waved the young woman over. “This is my brother, Alex. He plays lead.”

Alex turned toward her. “Hi,” was all he managed, his body stiff with outrage. Her smile was sunny as she beamed up at him.

“Hi, Alex. Nice to meet you.” She thrust her hand out, and he was forced to give it a reluctant shake. “I didn’t know you were his brother. What a coincidence!” She was still smiling as she turned to Ryan. “Alex lives right next door at the townhouse complex. I’ve seen him a few times when I go off to work in the morning.”

Alex filed that comment away for further scrutiny. She’d been going off to work? In that getup? At five in the morning, her hair was up in a messy pony tail. She wore purple stretch shorts and a little pink tube top. He’d thought she was leaving fresh from the new neighbour’s bed. It was how her hair was kind of all every which way that had put that thought into his head. Well, and the time of day.

He was suddenly irritated by the idea that he’d rushed to judgement without much prompting. Grunting, he slung his guitar case to the floor and went down on one knee to unsnap the buckles.

“So,” Ryan continued blithely, “Glory is going to try out with the band tonight, she’s thinking of joining us.”

Alex’s head snapped up. “Joining us?” he barked, then felt his face flush. That sounded just a touch unfriendly, even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” said Ryan. “We need a keyboard. Pete plays sometimes but his strength is in the strings. This should round us out the way I’ve imagined the band sounding. I thought we’d give it a try tonight and find a few songs to work on that we can all play.” He waved at the other band members who were busy setting up. Pete nodded distractedly at their new member as he pulled his fiddle from the case and began to tune it.

Alex looked over at Glory. She was chatting with Eddie and laughing at something he’d said. That didn’t surprise him. Eddie loved women, all women. No wonder Corrie had left him. Again.

This woman was trouble. As she moved back to her keyboard, Eddie’s dark eyes followed, focused tightly on her ass clad in a snug pair of jeans.

She positioned her bench so she could see the other band members and settled down to play a few scales.

Alex noted the skinny legs on her pants and the high heels of her strappy shoes. Nothing but trouble. He shook his head and walked over to plug in. The air resounded with strings being tuned and keys pounded. He heard the thud of Ryan’s big drum as he snapped it into place in the harness.

His brother thumped a few drum rolls and silence fell. “Guys,” he said, “I thought we’d try a few suggestions from Glory. She’s got a sheet of numbers she likes to play, and we can just follow along to see how we sound.”

Glory nodded and immediately began the intro to one of Adelle’s old songs, “Rolling in the Deep.” Alex groaned silently. Not a bunch of chick songs! He so did not want to…

But as she played and the others joined in, the song began to hang together. They worked their way to the finale and she struck a chord to finish. Then she started the song again. This time she sang. Alex watched and listened, eyes narrowed as she got to the chorus. We could have had it all, she sang, then finished with— You played it, you played it to the beat.

When they stopped, the other guys clapped enthusiastically and he saw the pink flush on her cheeks as she laughed and waved them away.

Alex didn’t clap, but suddenly he felt like it. She was good, he’d give her that. He looked over at Ryan and saw him flash a smile. Little bugger, he was always trying to put something together, something bigger, something better. He just might have done it this time.

So, my dd and I are busy putting my mom’s house to rights, which means going through every closet, drawer, cupboard, etc. My mother was a bit of a hoarder, so it’s going to take time, especially when we come across family photos or documents that we need to save for my siblings. The house is going into probate, so we have time to weed out what we want to keep before my dd moves in. It’s hard work and tedious, but she’s up to the task. Thank goodness she has an organizational gene (I do not), because she’s really good at making swift decisions, while I tend to look at everything…slowly… Well, if I helped, she’d never get done, so she’s banished me from “helping”.

So, that’s what she’s up to. I’m back to work. I have a couple of editing projects at the moment and a short story to finish. However, I am looking at my workspace, and it needs some cleaning. I might work on neatening before I do the real work…

I wanted to express my  thanks to everyone out there for their condolences and well wishes. It’s a tough time, and it’s really nice knowing there are folks out there who care.

Some went above and beyond, and I’d like to thank them here, because I don’t have their mailing addresses (or even all their names!) to send them cards!

For the lovely flower arrangement, thank you to author-friends, Cynthia D’Alba, Becca Jameson, Kris Michaels, Cat Johnson, Parker Kincade, Maryann Jordan, Susan Stoker, and Teresa Reasor!

For the Cracker Barrel meals and the Honey Baked Ham with all the fixin’s you provided, thank you to the Brotherhood Protector authors! You really are a very special group of ladies!

The hardest part is past. Now, it’s back to work and planning for a changed but lovely future with my dd and her family to keep me company. 🙂

The new year is a time of renewal, of new beginnings. We all feel it. Packing away after the holiday is a great time to start fresh.

Most people make resolutions that usually fall away within a few weeks. I know I’ve done it. The problem isn’t the resolutions but trying to make huge changes. Face it, we all love routines, me more than most. Change is not my friend. So trying to make a big one right in the middle of the cold, dark winter is not going to work. To get past that, I started making small changes, nothing that would upset my routine too much, but over the long year makes a difference.

This year, my big challenge is my health and that starts with sugar. I do love my sweets. Surprisingly enough, I have more of a sugar craving now than I did when I was younger. I blame menopause. I’ve taken to eating 95% dark chocolate. (My family gave me a lot for Christmas, so I’m stocked up for a while.) I love it and it fills the craving with hardly any sugar. Plus, it has antioxidants, which are good for me. At least, that’s my story.

It’s a small change, but one I’m hoping will yield results over the course of a year. I’m trying to work little bits of exercise into my routine as well. It all helps.

What are your resolutions this year?

Naughty Heroes: In and Out of Uniform

If you’re looking for something to heat up the cold winter nights, be sure to check out NAUGHTY HEROES: In and Out of Uniform—A collection of UNFORGETTABLE HEROES!

MARINE ON A MISSION
N.J. Walters

When Mitch McCoy left rural Kentucky to join the U.S. Marines he never thought he’d return. Now he’s undercover with a state drug task force. He’s not only facing his past, but also Sara Hawkins, the woman who broke his heart. This investigation will risk their lives and their hearts.

SEX BOMB
Nicole Austin

From first sight I knew Marine Lieutenant Harlie Savage wasn’t fragile like a flower—she was fragile like a bomb. Definitely not some princess who needed to be saved, either. She was a queen who only lacked a sword, and I vowed to be her weapon.

HER SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Belle Scarlett

Leia has no idea who ex-Marine Major Tate McIntyre is when he saves her life in a dark alley. Yet Tate’s certain Leia is his to have, hold, and protect. He vows to keep her safe at any cost. His only price is her heart. Semper Fi!

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN
Katherine Kingston

A disabled vet rescues a woman on a mission to collect evidence, saving her from the men chasing her. As Jace and Shannon race to survive and outwit a traitor, a deep connection grows between them. But staying alive long enough to explore the attraction will take everything they’ve got.

MILITARY BLUES
Elizabeth Lapthorne

Luke is struggling to recover from a career shattering IED blast that sees him permanently discharged. Milly’s career self-destructed and she’s moved cities in the hopes of starting again. Can this new life and new relationship be a second chance for them both?

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Z29RCY1/
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/1134068523
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/naughty-heroes
iBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1483388473
Universal: https://books2read.com/u/b5QgqA

About the Author

N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.

Visit me at:
Website: https://www.njwalters.com
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April 4, 1939 — January 10, 2020

She passed last Friday. The wonderful thing was that so many family members were already on their way to see her one last time or prepared to come at a moment’s notice from all over. We asked the funeral home if they could manage to bury her on Monday so that those who had traveled and had to return could stay for her funeral. They did it.

Likely it was easy because mom, unlike my dad, didn’t want a viewing or any sort of formal farewell in a church or at the funeral home. She preferred the idea of the family meeting at her gravesite and saying our goodbyes there. I don’t think it took twenty minutes—not that anything was rushed. We spent longer greeting each other and giving hugs.

All her children were there. Most of her grandchildren, too, as well as many of the great-grands. We placed roses on her casket.

And yes, there were tears, but there was also laughter. Because you can’t remember a character like my mom without smiles. She was flawed—sometimes petty and had a long memory for a grudge—but she was also generous, clever, and very loving. Everyone had their favorite funny memory—her hanging up a mean rooster on the side of the barn with a fishnet or using that same fishnet to kill a snake, the unique, sort of grating quality of her voice when she shouted for the kids to come to dinner or for dad to take his insulin shot. Mine was the way she occasionally cursed under her breath but managed a “sugar” or “fudge” when little ones were around.

After the ceremony, everyone headed back to the house for a meal, which was provided by my sister’s Brotherhood Protectors author group. By Monday night, some were on the road again. By Tuesday afternoon, only those who will continue to live here were left. With so many possessions gone, and without my mother’s presence, the house sounds hollow. But my pragmatic daughter is already at work, sorting through photos to be shared, clearing out decades of “stuff” my mother held onto that she really didn’t need. It keeps her busy. Helps her prepare for the move from the house across the street to this house. Soon, it will be a vibrant, noisy home again.

When I began writing toward publication over ten years ago, I had no idea I would have enough stories to sustain me through over a dozen books, let alone one. But once the switch was turned on there was no stopping that pesky and persistent muse. Initially, I struggled to find my footing in the rapidly changing publishing world, and dabbled with writing contemporary romance, romantic suspense, fantasy, and paranormal stories while I read everything on novel-writing, took online courses, and worked with writing groups and critique partners to hone my craft. Basically, I spent four years working on my 500,000 words of practice. But once I found my voice (that magical quality that makes every writer unique) and decided to focus on young adult literature, I was amazed at how the stories poured out of me. Apparently, my teen-self had a lot to say!

Even though I was in my forties at the time, those early novels reflected some difficult issues I faced myself as a teenager and young adult, including the loss of my mother to cancer when I was sixteen, an eating disorder, a teenage pregnancy, date rape (ON THIN ICE), a brother in the military who committed suicide (HEAVEN IS FOR HEROES), and drug and alcohol addiction (PIECES OF LOVE), to mention a few. Although these traumatic experiences shaped me in ways I never could have imagined, sharing those experiences with teen readers from a place of authenticity and insight allowed for a deep healing in me that changed my life.

Writing can be cathartic for the writer, but it can also be incredibly powerful by touching the hearts and minds of readers as well. The feedback I received from readers of those earlier novels is what has kept me writing despite the many challenges of earning a living at the craft. I’m fortunate enough to have a supportive husband and meaningful work to supplement my writing career/habit, but even if I didn’t, I’m not sure I could shut off the part of me that is compelled to share my inner thoughts and perhaps my Pollyanic vision of hope with the world—a compulsion that has served me well in my struggle to maintain my sanity and peace of mind through difficult times.

I kept journals for years as I grew up, putting to pen and paper my deepest darkest fears, as well as my hopes for a brighter tomorrow. In spite of my dysfunctional family life and the chaos of my youth as the youngest of seven children, I somehow managed to keep my eyes looking to the future and wanting to carve out a purpose and place for myself in the world, a common theme in YA Lit. I am driven by the notion that we all have a choice in life…to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. Our challenge is to allow the trials of life to make us better rather than making us bitter. To that end, my writing comes from the strong sense of social justice that informs my daily life. When we can turn tragedy into triumph and evolve from being a victim to being victorious, it offers us the opportunity to inspire others to do the same.

My Savage Cinderella Novella series chronicles the survival, recovery, and transformation of a girl who was kidnapped as a child and left for dead in the high country of North Georgia. She not only survives her ordeal and overcomes her captor, but she goes on to thrive in the world and becomes a crime-fighter and purveyor of good.

The original novel, Holt-Medallion winner, SAVAGE CINDERELLA, introduces Brinn in her element, surviving in the mountains, walled off from the world and struggling to overcome her past. But when she is discovered by a young nature photographer who convinces her to come back to the world, Brinn must face her worst fears and take a chance on living the life she always dreamed of. Despite her feral nature, she is a kind, compassionate, and insightful young woman whose moral compass leads her to want to protect the innocent and right the wrongs in the world. Through leaning on friends, family, and her inherent strength of character, Brinn is reintegrated into society and determines her fate lies in helping others. Each subsequent novella tackles a social justice issue plaguing us today (human trafficking in FINDING HOPE and LOST BOYS, the plight of Native Americans in SACRED GROUND, drug trafficking and addiction in BROKEN ANGEL, and stalking behavior, corruption, and immigration in LIBERTY’S PROMISE) and brings to light the need for compassion, resilience, and integrity in a world gone mad.

If I have inspired even one reader to become a force for good, I will have fulfilled my purpose in writing my stories. Here’s to hoping 2020 will bring about change for the better in all of us.

Do you have a favorite book that has inspired you, caused you to change your mind, or helped you heal from something in your own life?

About the Author

In addition to her day job as a Massage Therapist, PJ Sharon is an award-winning author of young adult books, including the contemporary novels PIECES of LOVE, HEAVEN is for HEROES, ON THIN ICE, and Holt Medallion winner SAVAGE CINDERELLA. Follow the Savage Cinderella Novella Series with FINDING HOPE, LOST BOYS, SACRED GROUND, BROKEN ANGEL, and her latest release, LIBERTY’S PROMISE.

WANING MOON, WESTERN DESERT, and HEALING WATERS completes her YA dystopian trilogy, The Chronicles of Lily Carmichael, which RT Book Reviews calls “An action-packed read with a strong female lead.”

Her debut non-fiction title Overcome Your Sedentary Lifestyle (A Practical Guide to Improving Health, Fitness, and Well-being for Desk Dwellers and Couch Potatoes) is a holistic living, self-help guide packed with easy to implement tips sure to motivate today’s sedentary masses toward a more balanced and active lifestyle. For more info on PJ’s books and updates on new releases, sign up for her newsletter or visit her website.

In her “real life” job as a Massage Therapist, Personal Trainer, and Yogi, PJ has been called “a powerhouse of positivity and productivity.” Her mantra is “find balance in all things and live every day to the fullest.” A black belt in the art of Shaolin Kempo Karate, avid kayaker, and singer of Italian art songs, PJ has two grown sons and a growing brood of grandchildren, and lives with her brilliant engineer of a husband in the Berkshire Hills of Western MA where she writes YA…because every teen deserves a hopefully ever after.

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It’s taken me a little time to process. I spent the remainder of January 10th, after 1:30 PM, walking in a fog, making calls, meeting with hospice. The 11th, family descended. All my brothers, my sister, my son, nephew, nieces, daughter and her family. All inside one house. Most staying here overnight.

It was a strange day because my sis and I knew that while we had everyone here, we had to go through mom’s things to see what everyone wanted. Of course, her artwork flew of the walls. Everyone wanted a memory. I was left with a watercolor of a sunflower she’d done for me. We sorted through her clothing, bagging up what wasn’t wanted to give away. We parceled out her jewelry—so may mementos from my father’s deployments during the Vietnam War, later gifts, usually with diamonds when they had more money, because my mom loved bling. Treasures we’ll wear while we think of her.

The day she passed, my daughter was vacuuming the house after checking her to see if she was comfortable. Mom was beyond speech by that time, only half here. She no longer responded to our voices. I brought in a bright yellow washcloth to wash her face and began to do so, when I finally noticed she no longer breathed.

My sister, who had driven down from northern Arkansas walked into the house a minute later.

Two elderly men from the local funeral home came to collect her some time later. My son-in-law and I helped move her from the bed to the gurney. It seemed fitting that I should help lift her one last time. My SIL helped wheel her out to the hearse. One last gesture of respect.

Over the last couple of years, we’ve lost so much—my beautiful grandmother, my strong & kind father, my lovely mother. I stayed to care for them. My daughter followed me to care for me and them. I’m surrounded by loving family, and I know that was by my mother’s design. I can shed tears, not many, because that’s just not me, but once we lay her to rest, the work begins, because my daughter and her family will fill this quiet house, moving in to this sturdy home my father built.

In mama’s last days, she talked to my dad a lot. Long conversations that I only understood in snippets. He was waiting for her.

Let’s frame this, just so you see where I’m at in this “process”.

In 2018, after many months, off and on, of personal care by myself and my daughter, my grandmother passed away.

In 2019, after months of in-home care, my father passed away.

Now, my mother’s life is leaving her body. She’s at home where she wanted to be. We’re caring for her with the help of hospice staff that provides baths, checkups, and the supplies and meds we need.

I’m not a depressed person. I don’t cry. I do. But when there’s something I can’t fix, I get quiet. I look for outlets to provide me peace.

While she was in the hospital over the holidays, before they released her to come home to die, I cut and folded pieces of watercolor paper and banded them together with a rubber band. Then I sat down over several days and applied blotches of paint to the paper. When she came home, I began doodling in the times between I had to rise and give her food or water or meds. She was very demanding—not that I minded, because she and I knew what was coming. When she griped too much, I soothed or prodded her into laughter.

Now, she’s not eating. She’s barely drinking. I give her meds for her anxiety and the pain as her organs slowly give up.

And when it’s quiet, I sit and doodle.

I do this for her, because, guess what? She was a true artist. Her paintings and sketches are all over the house. I can barely draw, but putting color and scratches on a piece of paper is soothing for me. And I know she would have loved what I’m producing.

Here’s the cover…

And some of the pages. I’m not finished, yet. I hope there’s still some time…

I don’t mean for this post to be a downer. I’m generally a happy person. I laugh a lot. Still do. Even standing in my mother’s room with family, listening to her labored breathing, we find funny stories to tell about her. It’s at night, after I’ve checked on her, given her comfort, that I walk across the hall to her office and begin doodling, because I’m not ready for sleep.