Kitty Bucholtz, March Featured Author
March 1, 2023 by Kitty Bucholtz in category Featured Author of the Month tagged as Featured author, Kitty Bucholtz, romantic comedy, Superheros, Write Now Workshop Podcast
March featured author, Kitty Bucholtz is a writer, podcaster, and a book coach. She has combined her undergraduate degree in business, her years of experience in accounting and finance, and her graduate degree in creative writing to become a writer-turned-independent-publisher turned coach.
She writes romantic comedy and superhero urban fantasy, often with an inspirational element woven in. She loves to teach and offer advice to writers through her WRITE NOW! Workshop Podcast.
Kitty has also created the Finish Your Books Coaching Program. Find out more about either 1:1 Coaching or Group Coaching on Kitty’s website. http://kittybucholtz.com/
Besides Kitty’s Coaching Program and WRITE NOW! Workshop Podcast, you will find her here at A Slice of Orange on the 9th of each month writing It’s Worth It.
Books by Kitty Bucholtz
Featuring Kidd Wadsworth, Author of the Month
February 28, 2023 by marianne h donley in category Featured Author of the Month, Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as Featured Author of the Month, kidd wadsworth
Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
You can read Kidd’s monthly column, Infused with Meaning, here on the 25th of every month. More information about Kidd is found on her website, make sure you take the time to read her “about me” section.
A selection of books that include Kidd’s short stories.
The Gifts by Kidd Wadsworth
February 27, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as fiction, kidd wadsworth, Seasons Readings, short story, Short Story Award, short story contest
She placed the three gifts on the mantle, each beautifully wrapped: one in gold foil paper with a white ribbon it’s bow a dove, the second in green and white striped paper like a mint candy cane was topped with a green paper pine tree, the third in classic red and white Merry Christmas paper was adorned with three large red bows. Otherwise, the room and house were undecorated. She couldn’t bring herself to carry all the boxes of ornaments and lights down from the attic. Mike used to that. He would shout, “Ho, ho, ho and where’s my hot toddy!” Christmas decorating had always begun the same way with Mike carrying box after box down the stairs and her in the kitchen juicing lemons and then screaming, “I forgot to buy bourbon!”
By the time she returned from the store, he’d have the tree up, Christmas music playing, and strings of lights spread out on the floor. “Did you buy replacement bulbs?”
She turned on the gas fireplace. It was cozy room—a lonely room. She pushed down the yearning inside of her soul. “Don’t go there,” she whispered.
She bulwarked heart with memories of other Christmases. Presents and more presents, how rich her parents had been. And each Christmas morning ended the same way, with wrapping paper strown about and delicious smells of ham wafting from the kitchen, and presents, so many presents and not a single gift she liked: clothes, all in shades of navy and mauve, clothes she would never wear, high-heeled shoes that hurt her feet, make-up—didn’t her mother ever look at her face? She didn’t use makeup. At her church they had a Christmas tree with tags on it: stuffed animal, girl’s coat size 8, mittens, boy’s backpack, etc. Surely her Christmases were like the Christmases of those children. All the gifts bought by people who didn’t know them, who didn’t really understand them. Year after year, she slowly learned. Don’t get your hopes up. No one knows you. You are their daughter, but they don’t see you.
Now twenty-eight years old she understood. She had reconciled her expectations to the reality of the world. It was impossible to really know another human being. So, every Christmas she bought herself presents. All sorts of wonderful things like copper cookie cutters and an antique bookshelf. She cooked what she loved including pumpkin pie with extra cloves. She never offered anyone a slice of her pumpkin pie. That would have been cruel—too, too cruel.
And every Christmas she put Mike’s gifts back up on the mantle and dreamed of what could be inside. Their first Christmas together he had stormed out when she refused to open his present. “Please understand, I just can’t be disappointed anymore. What we have is so special, I don’t want to damage it. I can’t bear knowing that you’re the same as my parents. That you don’t really get me.”
He had come back, of course he’d come back. He’d held her.
The next Christmas she’d put the green and white striped present on the mantle, and their third Christmas the present with the red and white Merry Christmas paper. By then Mike had adapted. He brought home hundreds of small things for her. A new mixer, he’d gotten her the red one to match the paint she’d picked out for the kitchen walls. A cup holder for her car that expanded to hold her giant coffee mug. Caffeine and cloves, yup! He was Santa all year long.
“Someday you’ll trust me,” he’d said. “Someday, you’ll open the gifts.”
But that someday didn’t come—no one is supposed to die at twenty-six. She looked up at the gifts on the mantle. “The last two probably just have rocks in them to make them rattle. I mean he wouldn’t keep wrapping up stuff knowing I wasn’t going to open the presents.”
She turned away and turned back again.
“My memories are all I have, Mike. I don’t want to find out that it wasn’t really as good as I thought it was. I don’t want to know that you were only human. You tried hard. I know you did. And this way, I can keep on pretending that you loved me, that you really understood.”
She sipped her hot toddy.
This is the beginning of a story I’m considering for the Bethlehem Writer’s Group new anthology. By the way, did I mention the Bethlehem Writer’s Group’s short story contest is now open for submissions? Click here for details: https://bwgwritersroundtable.com/
Kidd Wadsworths Stories
The Cobwebs
February 26, 2023 by Neetu Malik in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as cobwebs, make believe, Memories, Neetu Malik
The Cobwebs
I was leaning
by the window
standing outside
looking in—
a screen of cobwebs
in between
trapping memories
beaten thin
scantily clad
in make believe,
they shuddered fitfully;
shrouded transparencies
drenched in solemn tears,
entreating release.
©Neetu Malik
First published in The Poetic Bond VI Anthology, Willowdown Press, UK.
Some of Neetu’s Books
A Piece of the World
February 22, 2023 by Veronica Jorge in category Write From the Heart by Veronica Jorge tagged as books, Keeper Shelf, making memories, Veronica Jorge
A figurine, Delft blue. I remember that trip to Holland and laugh. As soon as our bus pulled into Delft, we piled out and made a beeline for the gift shop, searching for the souvenirs that would eternalize this journey. I turn the figurine over in my hand: a lady holding a basket, gazing out. What does she see? What memories is she holding on to? I dust the gracious lady and seat her back in the curio. As I reach for the next pieces and reminisce, I wonder what it is that makes me want to own a piece of everyplace I’ve been? To keep forever alive a moment, an experience, an emotion?
It’s the same with movies I’ve seen and loved. Gotta buy the VHS, then upgrade to the DVD in case the VHS goes bad. And even though I have both, I still watch the television film version when it airs and don’t mind enduring the intrusive commercials.
Then there are my books. Some with places of honor on shelves, the power of sentiment attached to each one. And designated piles: ‘To Read.’ ‘To Read Again.’ A wish list of books, ‘To Buy.’
When the news announced the banning of Harper Lee’s, To Kill A Mockingbird, I rushed to confirm I had a copy, which led to a thorough examination of which books might be brittle, yellowed and frayed. A new list formed: ‘Books to Replace.’
All of which leads me to conclude that maybe all of these actions explain my desire, my need, to write. A significant event, an emotion, an intense experience, compels me to want to immortalize it. I grit my 36 teeth and magically weave the 26 letters of the alphabet into some meaningful representation of the emotions exploding in my heart. A yearning to create stories that will last forever, that will be cherished by others and replaced over and over again because they’ve connected with a piece of my world and they too want to own it forever.
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on March 22nd!
Featured Books
A LADY’S POINT OF VIEW
Being nearsighted in Regency London isn’t a crime—but it feels like one to a lady in disgrace.
More info →
VOICES OF BLAZE
The Voices of Blaze speak their words of advice, but will they bring help or harm?
More info →
