Spreading the Word About Mac and Cheese in Outer Space
March 15, 2025 by Renae Wrich in category WritingSince publishing Mac and Cheese in Outer Space last November, I’ve been on an incredible journey sharing the whimsical world of intergalactic cheesy adventures with readers of all ages. One of the most rewarding highlights so far has been my recent visit to my children’s school for an in-house author event.
I had the absolute pleasure of reading my book to a room full of bright-eyed, curious second graders. Their energy was contagious and they were completely immersed in the story.
During the Q&A session, the students blew me away with their thoughtful questions and creative ideas. They told me which planet’s mac and cheese they’d want to try the most (most votes went to Flaming Hot Cheeto dust on Mars, while others were intrigued by Neptune’s blue). Then came their suggestions for where the Mac and Cheese Please, Please, Please crew should venture next. Let me tell you, their imaginations are out of this world! I couldn’t help but grab my phone to jot down their incredible ideas—they were simply too good to forget.
This visit reminded me why I wrote this book in the first place: to spark joy, creativity, and a sense of wonder. Seeing young readers engage with the story and contribute their own imaginative twists has been nothing short of magical.
As I continue to spread the word about Mac and Cheese in Outer Space, I’m more inspired than ever to reach more schools, libraries, and communities.
Let’s keep the creativity flowing, one cheesy idea at a time.
1 0 Read moreMy Wild Elevator Ride: Why I shouldn’t talk about what I write to strangers by Jina Bacarr
March 11, 2025 by Jina Bacarr in category Jina’s Book Chat, Writing tagged as author, elevator, romance, Writer, writingI’m in mad, crazy writer mode.
Which means I’m stuck in a riptide… writing, editing, writing… talking to my characters when I race out to the market and I’m grabbing fresh veggies, oatmeal cookies, and Amy’s frozen enchiladas. Talk to me! I beg my heroines, why did you do that? How am I going to get you out of this mess?
It’s like wrestling an alligator.
Yes, I have a book deadline, so in the interest of providing a fun blog for A Slice of Orange this month, I’m posting a short story I wrote a while ago about what happens when writers can’t help themselves and talk about what we do. So here goes… grab the coffee and oatmeal cookies and enjoy!
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Writers get lonely. We need to socialize, talk. Discover there is a world out there beyond our computers. So I came up with this fun author-character and what happens when she goes out into the world and goes on a wild elevator ride with a stranger…
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My Wild Elevator Ride
I work in a cubicle surrounded by books, computers, and ideas.
I get lonely.
Very lonely. Hey, a girl can only fantasize so much about meeting a sexy guy who’ll knock her bunny slippers off. (I don’t wear shoes when I’m writing.)
So when I go out, which isn’t often when you’re trying to promote your work online and get through the quagmire of finishing your latest novel, I get talkative.
Very talkative.
When my inner goddess gets her gab on, I can’t stop her. My therapist says it’s repressed speech syndrome ad finitum. Or something like that.
Anyway, I got in over my head at a recent gig when I walked into the elevator in my hotel. I was in town to speak at a writer’s group which always makes me a nervous wreck. I was going through my usual ritual to calm my nerves. A six-pack of diet soda and dark chocolate.
The only problem was, the soda was warm.
I like ice. Cold, numbing ice. Makes me forget I have to face a room of creative ladies who are way more talented than I am, but for some reason they think I’m cool. I just got lucky, I tell them, but the truth is, I earned my stripes. Writing, getting rejections for years, and working my butt off. I’m grateful to be where I am.
So what I didn’t need was a guy chatting me up about his hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year sales job and his black BMW. Nice enough, but I wasn’t looking for anything more than an ice machine that worked.
The one on my floor was broken.
Now I was stuck in an elevator with a sales guy who had obviously removed the wedding band from his left hand. His tan line blinked at me like a neon sign. Come on in, it seemed to say, the water’s fine.
I don’t swim with the sharks. [author note: just alligators…]
‘You don’t want to drink alone,’ he said, observing my ice bucket filled with chilled cubes.
‘I have my laptop for company.’ I smiled. “Besides, I have work to do.’
‘Are you here with the software convention?’ he asked warily.
‘Well…’ I wasn’t, but I decided to play along.
‘No way…a pretty girl like you can’t be a techie.’
‘Why not?’ I shot back, perturbed. I hated guys who put down a girl’s ambition. ‘Can’t women use their brains to get ahead?’
‘Not when they have natural attributes…’ He eyed my chest. Mind you, I was wearing navy blue sweats and my pink bunny slippers with floppy ears. This guy was either desperate or he’d been on the road too long.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said, ‘but I’m a writer.’
‘You’re kidding?’ He seemed genuinely surprised, which didn’t help my ego. ‘What do you write?’
Ooh...I couldn’t resist shooting him the punchline.
‘I write sexy novels.’
‘Well, you are full of surprises,’ he said, edging closer to me. ‘We should get to know each other better.’
The air in the elevator suddenly got stuffier and I prayed my deodorant didn’t work so he’d get the message. So far, no one else had gotten on the elevator and I had two more stops before we got to my floor.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” I wiggled the ears on my rabbit slippers, hoping to shoot down this guy’s sex-o-meter. That should have stopped him right there.
It didn’t.
‘How about a nightcap in my room? My bottle of bourbon and your—’ He paused, wetting his lips. ‘Ice cubes.’
‘You mean do research for my books?’
‘Oh, yeah…’
‘I bet,’ I said.
I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but sometimes we writers just ache to act like our heroines and throw back those snappy remarks. I tried to discourage him, but when he started breathing in my face, I knew I was in over my head. I did what any romance heroine would do.
I dumped the bucket of melting ice on his pinstripe suit.
‘Hey, what the—’ he called out and thank God, the elevator door opened. It wasn’t my floor, but I didn’t care. One more minute with Mr. BMW and I would have ended up served on a chilled platter.
Before he could brush the ice off his shoulders, out I ran. Down the long corridor and then I jammed down the stairway to the next floor to my room.
I never looked back.
I spent the rest of the night drinking warm soda and giggling as I wrote this guy into my story. I bet he won’t forget me either.
I imagine that was the last time he tried to pick up a girl in an elevator wearing pink bunny slippers.
==============
My latest 2 book series about PARIS WW2:
2 sisters at war with the Nazis… and each other
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from BoldwoodBooks
In my story Justine is the victim of sexual assault by the SS. ‘Sisters at War’ explores wartime sexual assault and how it affects the lives of Justine and Eve Beaufort in Wartime Paris.
——————–
I drew on my own experiences when I started a series of historical novels set in Wartime Paris about the brave women who fought in the French Resistance.
Sisters At War: Amazon
Who are the Beaufort Sisters?
They’re beautiful
They’re smart.
They’re dangerous.
They’re at war with the Nazis… and each other.
0 0 Read moreWhere do stories come from?
March 10, 2025 by Tari Jewett in category Writing tagged as Anne Rice, inspiration, story origin, writingDo you ever read a book or watch a movie and wonder, what made the writer write that story? Is it all imagination? Did the story just come to them? Did they ‘what if’ a plot? Or did they live the story?
So where do stories come from?
The only fiction Hunky Hubby reads is what I write, and he reads every word I write, which amazes me and makes me thankful. Anyway, years and YEARS ago, he’d been listening to the radio and the dj’s were talking about Anne Rice’s The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy, written under the name A.N. Roquelaure. The steamy on air conversation, led him to believe that buying the book for me, might be romantic. He said romantic, but I’m pretty sure he really thought it would ‘get me in the mood’.
Hahaha, well, I’m not sure that book is what I’d call romantic, nor is it a book that would ‘get me in the mood’ but it made me wonder about the author. At the time, I had no idea that it was actually written by Anne Rice, not that it would have made any difference, because I didn’t read vampire books anyway. I had a hard time with the book. Brilliantly written, but also shocking and even bizarre, I’d read a little, put it aside, wondering where these thoughts might come from, then, come back days later to read a little more.
Eventually, I went to the bookstore…because I didn’t have the internet back then, and tried to find other books by A.N. Roquelaure. I discovered who she was, and that she also wrote under the name Anne Rampling. I read Belinda, followed by A Cry to Heaven, and finally, Interview with a Vampire. None of this helped resolve my issue of where these thoughts came from. They were, however, compelling reading.
At that time, I wrote nonfiction. I wrote a cooking column for our local newspaper and Quick ‘N Easy Country Cooking magazine, as well as articles on parenting (I wouldn’t do that now!), consumer law, public speaking, and various other topics. I wrote fiction for fun, for myself.
But that changed.
I started writing fiction seriously. My published books are all romcoms. And if you’re looking for a romantic read for St. Patrick’s Day, I hope you’ll check out #SilverBracelets. But I’m also working on women’s fiction. Writing fiction, brought me back to that question. Where do stories come from?
The answer seems to be it depends on the writer. Some people plot out their stories, selecting characters, places, and carefully planning plotlines, you may already know that these writers are called plotters. Other people let the story unfold as they write it, aka pantsers. And I’d be willing to bet that for most writers, real life at least inspires scenes and characters in their stories.
I personally call myself a plotsy pantser, because I write my first draft as a pantser, letting the characters tell me their stories while I document them. Then, I use that first draft as my outline, and go back and flesh out the story, filling in gaps and hopefully, adding scenes, and hopefully, developing the story into something others might want to read. And yes, while my characters are fictional sometimes people that I’ve known influence their personalities, and real life events often end up in my stories.
Real life in my writing.
In #SilverBracelets, the hero, Benny’s grandmother is inspired by my Tia Tonia, in fact, I didn’t try to hide it, giving her the name Antonia. I didn’t plan this. The Antonia in the story is fictional, but her personality, is inspired by my beloved great Aunt.
In Love and Mud Puddles, one of my favorite scenes is at the beginning of the book. The main character is on a quest to learn to bake cookies for Christmas. She finds a recipe that calls for packed brown sugar. At the grocery store with her best friend they look for packed brown sugar. They find golden brown sugar, dark brown sugar…everything but packed brown sugar. This is of course where they meet the hero, who explains to them what packed brown sugar is. This scene was inspired by a real-life event. Years ago, a good friend, who didn’t bake, asked for a cookie recipe. I gave it to her. A couple of days later I got a frantic phone call from the grocery store, asking if she could substitute another kind of brown sugar for packed brown sugar because she couldn’t find any. I’ll leave her unnamed to protect her identity!
And while the real-life inspiration in my romcoms is from the lighter side of my life, there have been some darker situations that inspired situations in my women’s fiction.
So, the truth is that stories come from different places. They come from imagination, they come from experience, they come from plotting what ifs. And it doesn’t really matter where the story comes from if it engages the reader. If it makes us think or act. If it makes us wonder.
There have been many books over the years that have made me want to know more about the author. Books that have made me want another story to read. Books that have made me want to write. Books that have changed who I am. I’ll always be curious about the origins of a good book, but what really matters to me, is that there’s another book on the shelf to read.
4 0 Read moreWITH OUR BELLIES FULL AND THE FIRE DYING: A REVIEW BY VERONICA JORGE
February 22, 2025 by Veronica Jorge in category Writing tagged as Debra H Goldstein, new release, Reviewed by Veronica Jorge, Short story collection, With Our Bellies Full and the Fire Dying
WITH OUR BELLIES FULL AND THE FIRE DYING: TALES OF SINNING AND REDEMPTION
DEBRA H. GOLDSTEIN
White City Press, 2025
ISBN 978-1-963479-68-3
Don’t be fooled by the title. This is not a book about morality or religion. Far from it. It’s all about….MURDER.
In this collection of eighteen award-winning short mysteries, everyday people find themselves caught up in events and circumstances that challenge and test them, and reveal the thoughts and intentions of their hearts.
If you’ve read any of Debra H. Goldstein’s other works, and I hope you have, such as, One Taste Too Many, the first in her Sarah Blair Mystery novels, (all of which have been reviewed by me on this blog and which I highly recommend), you will know that Goldstein is masterful at creating interest and intrigue, building suspense, and adding her signature twist at the end of each tale.
As an added treat, her stories also often include delicious recipes you are encouraged to try and add to your own collections.
Debra’s years as a judge and litigator, combined with her skills as a storyteller, make for a perfect combination that, in these mysteries, introduce us to a diverse group of characters with a variety of motives for murder. Yet, where no one is above the law…unless you don’t get caught, or the law covers up for you.
Nothing is ever as it seems.
The murderer is never who you think it is.
And sometimes it might even be the kind little old lady.
A word of caution. While you’re reading, be leery of friends bearing gifts of food.
Happy Reading and eating!
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on March 22, 2025!
More of Debra H. Goldstein’s Books
My annual embarrassing high school Valentine’s Day short story by Jina Bacarr
February 11, 2025 by Jina Bacarr in category Jina’s Book Chat, Writing tagged as audio books, kissing, short story, Valentine's, Valentine's Day
Writers write what we know… even when it’s embarrassing.
Take my first kiss. High school. Drama class. Me, the shy new kid. And a snarky guy with a big ego.
Keep reading….it gets worse.
Valentine’s Day is a time for kissing.
But what if your first kiss was just plain awful?
Meet Riley Murphy. She’s a kissing virgin, waiting for the right guy to come along. Until she joins the Drama Club at Holywell High and has to kiss the class dweeb on stage in front of the whole school on Valentine’s Day.
==============================
VIRGIN KISS
Jina Bacarr
Introduction
What’s in a kiss? A kiss by any other name is—
—sweet, romantic, intimate, passionate, wet, sloppy, disgusting, probing, awful, nasty, sexy, tingly, and sometimes just plain wonderful.
But what if it’s your first kiss? And you have to pucker up in front of a live audience at your high school? What then?
Pass the Altoids, please.
The kiss-from-hell happened to me, Riley Murphy.
This is my story.
* * *
A few weeks before Valentine’s Day…
I’m the new kid at Holywell High School, a shy, skinny freshman with cinnamon-colored freckles sprinkled across my nose. Flat-chested. I’ll never be Miss Popularity with the bouncy boobs and flirty lashes.
I’m more like an olive stuck on the end of a toothpick.
Even with that dossier, I’m not a total dork. I’ve gotten pecks on the cheek and quick brushes on the lips, but I’ve yet to experience the soul-melting kisses you see in the flicks. The passionate lip-lock I’ve dreamed about, wrote about in my diary.
I’ve pined for that kiss, but it’s yet to happen to me. God knows, I’ll be in graduate school facing lifelong debt before the right pair of lips meet mine.
To overcome my shyness, my mom convinces me to try out for the Drama Club. Somehow I land the leading role in a one-act Chekhov play.Yes, Chekhov.
I play this mad, beautiful countess with passion and heart. I love it. I come alive on stage. I can do anything, be anybody, say anything, I can—
—kiss the male lead?
A gangly sophomore named Harold Brimwell with long, greasy hair and an upper lip curled in a perpetual snarl. He’s going to anoint my virgin lips with my first kiss?
Forget the Altoids. I need a stress pill.
I quit the play. They can find another dupe. Not me. I’m not going to let him use my lips for kissing practice.
Then I hear this little voice in my head telling me this is acting. Going through the motions at rehearsals and on stage don’t count on the kissing scale. I can pucker up with Harold on stage and still be a kissing virgin.
Right?
After my pep talk to myself, I sail through rehearsals, knowing my lines and ‘connecting to my character’ according to the director. He says I’m a natural, my emotions raw but real. This is amazing. Me, Riley Murphy, the kid who’s always the ‘new girl’ at school because we move around so much because of my dad’s job, found something she’s good at.
Then the trouble starts.
The director insists on method acting.We don’t rehearse the kiss. He wants a real kiss on stage, not a phony smooch.
Worse yet, we open on Valentine’s Day with a preview performance at the afternoon school assembly. Not only do I have to kiss this guy, I have to do it on the most romantic day of the year in front of the entire student body.
I dump the Altoids… along with my confidence down the toilet.
* * *
Valentine’s Day dawns rainy and cold. Perfect weather for a Russian play.
I arrive at the gym early, put on my makeup in the girls’ bathroom then, with my hands shaking, I hook up my long Victorian black lace dress borrowed from the costume department, the silk petticoats rustling around my feet. I’m way nervous, but something cool happens as I run my lines over and over, my fear slowly dissolving into a shaky confidence as I slip into my character’s skin. Humming ‘I will survive’, I check my props, my fingertips tingling as I pull on my snug dueling gloves, then twirl the dainty parasol over my head like a spinning top.
I grab the small pistol for my big dueling scene, then heave out a big breath, praying I don’t drop it and everybody laughs at me.
I save putting on my lipstick for last.
First, I gargle mint-flavored mouthwash until my lips turn green and my mouth goes numb. Next, I line my lips with Chekhovian, dark red lipstick and smack them together. Perfect. I’m ready for my lip close-up.
It’s showtime.
I’m so nervous when the lights come up, I garble my opening lines. Then I trip over my own feet and nearly crash into the backdrop. Hot tears form in my eyes, but I want this too bad to give up now. All my life, I’ve stayed in the shadows. If I fail now, I may never get the courage to try again. I ignore the smirks and catcalls and swish my long skirts around like a real countess to boost my confidence.
I can do this.
Somehow, I get my groove on and my theatre training takes over. I sail across the stage, chin up, shoulders back, my voice clear, my lines down to a T. I’m ‘in the moment’. Much to my relief, the dueling scene goes off without the pistols misfiring.
Then it’s time for…
… the kiss.
I’ll never forget the expression on Harold’s face when he takes two long strides toward me. A mixture of sadistic pleasure and baddass ‘tude comes over his face, as shiny and sweaty as his palms, freaking me out. Lower lip snarling, my co-star gives me that ‘I’ve got you now’ look all fired up in his eyes, pinning me to the wall.
My teeth chatter. My mouthwash stops working.
It’s so quiet in the high school gym you can hear the director chewing on the end of his pencil.
My heart pounds so hard I can’t get my breath on when Harold pulls me into his arms, yanking me around like I’m a dollar store rag doll and then—
—he slams his mouth onto mine.
Bile rises in my throat as he pushes my lips apart and thrusts his mushy, saliva-coated gum into my mouth, making me nauseous. I swear if my dress wasn’t hooked up so tight, I would have ralphed all over him. Before I can push him off me, he shoves his tongue down my throat, way down, nearly gagging me.
I start choking.
I can’t breathe. Oh, my God, I’m going to pass out.
No, I can’t, I won’t. I’m determined not to faint. I have to get him off me. No gum-chewing, phony-macho sophomore is going to get the best of me.
I’m an actress, I tell myself, so act!
With stars circling around in my pounding head, I pull up my strength and kick him in the shin. There.
Startled, he jerks backward, but not before he bites my lower lip.
What the—
I taste coppery blood. Fresh, oozing, smearing my perfectly-applied lipstick. I’m in shock, disbelieving. It can’t get any worse.
Can it?
It can.
Dabbing my bleeding lip with my silk sleeve, I struggle in his arms, but he holds me tight, slobbering all over me, licking my face, my throat, coating my skin with stringy gum. My ears won’t stop ringing. The audience is going crazy, yelling and shouting like they’re at a basketball game and I’m the bouncing ball.
No, no, he’s not going to take advantage of me. I worked hard to get this part, learn my lines. Practiced how to walk, how to find the core of my character. Gosh darn, this is the first time in my whole life I’ve come out of my shell and done something really special.
He’s not going to ruin it for me.
I have to do something. Fast.
The pistol.
Where is it? After the mock dueling scene, I threw the prop gun down on the round table. It has to be there, but where?
I reach out behind me, my nails catching on the lace doily… I twist my head just a little… yes, I see it. I edge the gun toward me, an inch at a time. Sweat oozes down my too-tight collar and my knees buckle, but I don’t give up.
Almost got it… there. My fingers wrap around the pearl-inlayed handle. I suck in a breath then, without losing my nerve, I jam the prop into his ribs. Hard. I yank my body with such fury, I rip the black silk sleeve right out of the armpit. It slides down my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop me.
‘Get your hands off me, you sloppy-kissing, gum-chewer!’ I yell, ignoring the script and re-writing Chekhov. ‘Or you’re getting an “F” in drama class.’
The director gasps. Loudly. But he doesn’t refute what I said.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Harold stutters, letting me go, raising up his hands and backing away. ‘Anything you say, Riley.’
‘That’s telling him!’ a girl yells from the audience.
Amy Zanderbar. His ex-girlfriend.
She’s not the only one. All the girls stand up and start chanting, ‘Go, Riley, go!’
Wow. I hit a nerve with the females sitting in the bleachers who had their share of bad kissers.
They love it.
The audience starts clapping wildly and stomping their feet and continue chanting my name. I break the fourth wall and give them a ‘V’ for Victory high sign until the chanting dies down, then my thespian instincts kick in and I get back into character, giving Chekhov his due and ending the play as he wrote it.
I’ll always remember this night when a shy freshman girl in a borrowed Victorian dress took on a snarky sophomore and became empowered to stand up for herself in front of the whole student body.
It changed my life.
* * *
Epilogue
We performed the one-act play for the next few nights without further incident, faking the kiss each time. Harold is cool, not attempting any more way-out kissing. For me, it’s strictly acting.
I’m still a virgin in lip-land.
But I’ll never forget V-Day and my experience with the gum-toting, kissing bandit. Not a bad guy, just a rotten kisser.
And in case you’re curious, next semester I do find the right pair of lips to land that first kiss.
A hottie junior. Jack Dwayne.
When Jack takes me in his arms and lowers his face to mine, I quiver with anticipation and soon discover a kiss isn’t just a kiss, it’s…
… magic.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
——————–
PS — yes, Riley is me, a shy freshman back in the day.
The Princess and the Stilettos video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ELRFw_B720&ab_channel=JinaBacarr
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