Guess what today is?????

Hello, my lovelies!

Can you guess what today is?

Need a hint? I'm thinking of a number between 4 and 6 . . .

That's right! Today is a BEWITCHINGly good day!

{despite the fact that I had to get a root canal this morning... ;> }

It's out, it's out, it's out, it's out, it's out!!

WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, book #5 in The Bewitching Mysteries, is out today on bookstore shelves and center kiosks nationwide!

So go forth, dear ones! Buy, read, recommend, and multiply, and you will have my undying, everlasting, never-failing gratitude. Mwah! {and if you've already found it, feel free to post below!}

Love always,

Mad {madly!}

P.S. Congrats and kudos to Faith, Goddess of Purple, who won the ARC and gift card in the Bewitching contest, and many, many, many thanks to everyone who participated. Love you all!

P.P.S. Coming next: Stay tuned for a post on a very special upcoming event -- Putting Normal Back in the Paranormal, Traverse City Style! Traverse City is one of my very favorite places, and I want to show you why. July 25th is the date, right before the Traverse City Film Festival, so if you need a mini-break, why not head on up to see me, Kristy, and maybe even do a little stargazing on the beautiful shores of Lake Michigan? Until the next blog, you can find more details at www.tangledwishes.com (click on Events!)...

CONTEST! -- Three weeks only!!

So, as a way of celebrating the upcoming release of WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, I thought I'd run a little contest. This contest is for my truly dedicated readers, who faithfully read my blogs and scan the web for new news on The Bewitching Mysteries. I wouldn't be here without you. Thank you, love you, owe you all!.

The Prize: An Advanced Reading Copy of WHERE THERE'S A WITCH . . . plus a $50 gift card to Barnes & Noble.

What do you have to do to enter? This is the easy part. All you have to do is blog about why you follow The Bewitching Mysteries. On MySpace (and if you're really feeling the love, you could post a Bulletin there as well), on Facebook, on Blogger, on LiveJournal, whatever. Wherever it is that you like to network with friends and family, or even complete strangers. If you don't blog, but you belong to a group of readers online who post together on a forum or message board, yes, that counts, too. Write about why you love the series, then either post a comment here with a link and a valid email address, or email the link to me at MadelynAlt@yahoo.com.

That's it! As Maggie would say: Easy peasy, right?

The winner will be selected by the extremely scientific method of throwing all the names in a hat, stirring them around a bit, shuffling them once or twice for good measure . . . and then my ten-year-old will draw the name. Don't worry, I'll make sure he's blindfolded.

Deadline: You have until 11:59 p.m. June 15th to make your post.

Sneak Preview of WHERE THERE'S A WITCH

That's right, my lovelies. It's preview time for my July release, WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, #5 in The Bewitching Mysteries. Which means, of course, that I am in deep deadline mode . . . hence my absence. I did have a terrific time at Paranormacon in Fort Wayne the weekend of the 15th--the In Nomine group did a fantastic job at organizing the event, and I got to spend the entire weekend sitting next to one of my most favoritest people in the whole world: my best friend, Kristy Robinett. We gabbed, giggled, took silly pictures, and of course, went ghost hunting with a really cool group of people. Fun!

Heads up: Kristy and I are planning another of our fun "Putting the Normal Back in Paranormal" events, this time in Traverse City, Michigan on July 25th. This will be a ticketed event. For more information, please see www.tangledwishes.com.

Without further adieu . . . the preview. Enjoy!

*********************************************

Chapter One

When a person has spent her entire life in the same small town, she starts to think she knows everything there is to know about it. That she has seen and heard and done it all, and no matter what happens, it is nothing that hasn’t been seen or heard or done before.

I believed that about my Indiana hometown. I did . . . right up until the day I met my witchy boss, Felicity Dow, and began to discover the truth about Stony Mill’s not-so-hidden dark side. Along the way, I also unearthed a few truths about myself.

My name is Maggie—Margaret Mary-Catherine O’Neill, actually, but I’m not a formal kind of girl—and one of my personal truths recently discovered is that I am an empath. A bona fide, natural-born intuitive capable of sensing emotion, both past and present, in the air around me. This means that I have a tendency to pick up strong emotional memories that linger near people, places, and things, whether those feelings are in the physical world or the world of spirit. Memories perhaps better ignored, or even forgotten. Too bad I didn’t understand all of this sooner. It would have saved me from internalizing a lot of emotional heartache growing up that wasn’t even my own.

And that was only the beginning, as I had been discovering. When I looked back over the last several months, I realized my abilities had been expanding. Whether I liked it or not—which also appeared to be a moot point. And the spirits who were making themselves known to me? I used to think ghosts and hauntings were no more than the products of an overly imaginative mind. Now, I’m not saying I’m psychic. But I will acknowledge that there is something more going on with me. No more sleepwalking through life, blissfully ignorant of the truth about the world around me.

I didn’t have that luxury anymore. Things were changing. I was changing.

And I wasn’t the only one experiencing oddities in my hometown. There were the other N.I.G.H.T.S., of course, a motley crew of ghost-hunting sensitives/intuitives I counted among my closest friends. But pay no attention to all the old stereotypes. You’ll find no scarf-wearing, crystal ball–gazing pseudo-mystics here, only normal people living somewhat extraordinary lives. To me, that juxtaposition was part of my friends’ charm. It proved one thing—that if none of us were quite “normal,” at least we weren’t alone in the experience. I, for one, couldn’t have done it without them.

My name is Maggie O’Neill—empath, sensitive, and ordinary girl, and this is my story.

# # #

Dragon’s breath. Well, that’s what it felt like, anyway. The air, I mean. The month of June had baked us straight on into July with little respite in the way of rain, and my temper was slowly beginning to fray. Make that fry. Maybe that’s why I was in such a black mood as I awoke that Sunday well before the alarm clock’s bleeping beeps, the damp sheet wrapped like bindweed around my ankles. The remnants of a dream were still clinging to my cobwebby brain. A stone building, water surrounding it . . . sunlight streaming down, warm and golden in the crisp air . . . the sky so blue above, as vivid as I could remember seeing it . . . and the eyes . . . oh God, the eyes, paler blue with just a hint of green . . .I knew them well. Whose were they?

It was that dream again, the one I had been receiving in tantalizing snippets. Bits and pieces, flotsam and jetsam drifting through my consciousness time and again. Sometimes months separated the fragments, and sometimes they would be close enough together to actually almost, kinda, sorta make sense. “Almost” being the operative word. The bits and pieces seemed to connect, without being consecutive in any way. More like variations on a theme. It was only after years of having the same recurring dreams that I’d started to put it all together, the narrative of the story my mind was telling. Even then, I didn’t believe what it was telling me. Couldn’t believe. They were just dreams—what our minds liked to do for entertainment when the rest of the body was shut down for the night. SnoozeTube. They didn’t really . . . mean . . . anything.

Of course, that didn’t keep me from trying my darnedest to catch a glimpse of the face those eyes belonged to. It also didn’t keep me from feeling desperately disappointed every time that I failed in my quest.

But that didn’t matter. Because . . . “Dreams are nothing to worry about. Dreams are just dreams. Right?”

I posed that very question to my witch of a boss, Felicity Dow, the moment I set my things down and slid into my usual place at the gourmet tea and coffee bar I haunted at my place of employ. For several reasons: one, because as the proprietor of Enchantments, Stony Mill’s best darned gift shop and secret witchy emporium, Liss had the best grasp of all matters that lay beyond the realm of normalcy of anyone in town; two, she had voluntarily served as my mentor in all things metaphysical since the moment I walked—er, fell—through the store’s front door; three, because a part of me worried I was making too much of things; four, because another part of me worried that I wasn’t making enough; and last but not least, five: because if Liss didn’t know, who would? A rhetorical question, surely. Especially in this town.

I mean, what was the sense of working for a real, honest-to-goodness witch if you couldn’t get the inside scoop on matters otherworldly—or not—when they presented themselves to you?

Lucky for me, Liss didn’t seem to mind answering a never-ending stream of semi-intelligent questions from a struggling would-be sensitive. Liss personified grace under pressure. She was the kind of woman who never failed to take life in stride, even when she wasn’t wearing the right shoes for the job. This morning she took one look at my pale, washed-out face, dark circles, and the wavy light brown hair that sprang out in all directions no matter what I did to tame it, and immediately set to work pouring out a demitasse of her favorite medicinal potion for sleepwalkers and talkers: Espresso, steaming hot, ultracharged, and guaranteed to vaporize any remaining vestiges of cobwebs still clinging to overtired brains.

“There you are, ducks. This should do you some good.” There was something about her British accent that made me feel all cozy inside. It was like an instant shot of the warm-and-fuzzies.
Unlike her espresso. One sip of the stuff was more likely to give me a case of the nervy-and-janglies. I eyed it warily, took a deep breath, and wished it would magickally turn into a cup of Earl Grey on the spot. Still, I took it in hand and lifted it to my lips, determined to give it a try.

“Thanks,” I muttered around stiff lips—the stiffer, the better with this stuff.

Liss waited politely and made sure that I downed every last, bitter drop. “Now, then. What dreams are we talking about here?”

“Weird ones,” I confessed. “Dreams where I’m not me—I mean, not the me that I am now, here, today, but another me. And yet it’s still me. Only that doesn’t make sense, does it.” A statement, not a question. I knew it didn’t.

“That depends. Have you been having these dreams often?”

She poured herself a cup of tea. Simple, neutral, nontraumatic tea that soothed one’s system more than jolted. I gazed at it longingly as I shook my head in the negative. “Not often. Every once in a while, I guess.”

“Is it a recurring dream? One that you have over and over again?”

“Well . . . I have had it—I mean, them—more than once. It seems to be part of a string of dreams that somehow feel as though they belong together if I can figure out how to put them in the right order.”

That faint, neutral smile still hadn’t left her lips. “And are you always the same you in them, this string of dreams?”

I bit my lip, remembering. “Always. A young woman. Blond, I think, with my hair in a long braid. Only it doesn’t seem to take place in the here and now. And that’s the crazy part.”

“Not crazy. Not if you’re remembering yourself from before this life.”

That brought my chin up sharply. Not a good idea, when one was nursing a migraine and fighting sleep deprivation. “You mean . . .”

“You suspected it yourself, didn’t you? Another lifetime? Another existence? Unless we’re speaking of spirit contact through dreams here,” she amended, her brow charmingly furrowed in deep thought. “It can at times be tricky to tell the difference.”

Another surprise gift from the Great Beyond. Was I ready for this? I didn’t even have a handle on the first ones yet. Wasn’t being empathic and occasionally telepathic and newly aware of the spirit world enough? “Hm. I’m not sure I like either option. Do I get a choice?”

Liss laughed softly and reached out to cover my hand with her own. Her rings flashed in the focused beams of light from the recessed lighting, tastefully hidden in the rafters over our heads, which made the coffee bar glow like an oasis in the middle of the overflowing aisles. “I rather think we are the chosen ones,” she told me, “not the other way around.”

I’m afraid the face I made swung a bit toward the wry side of the spectrum. “So that’s a no, then.”

“Take heart, pet. Perhaps it is nothing more than dreams after all. Maybe there is no hidden meaning. Go with what your instinct is telling you.”

That was just it. There was something different about these dreams, something very vivid and compelling that made me remember the details. Enough to recognize the fact that I’d had them before, more than once, and enough to fit them together like so many puzzle pieces. Something about them felt . . . important.

From the floor beside my bar stool came an insistent, chirruping Merch! that made me jump. “Minnie!” I leaned down to reach for the soft-sided pet carrier that was my constant companion these days. “I’m sorry, sweet pea. I wasn’t thinking. I should have let you out first thing.”

“I was wondering when you were going to let our dear girl out of there.”

“Our dear girl” would be my beautiful kitten, Minnie, who had found her way into my life mere weeks ago and had instantly taken over. It wasn’t just me, though—Liss seemed just as charmed by the little fireball of black fuzz, and had insisted that, as she was too young to spend her days alone in my apartment, Minnie should be the store cat while I was working. She didn’t have to ask me twice. Minnie had accompanied me every morning since then and really seemed to be settling into her role. She spent her days learning how to walk on shelves without bumping things out of the way, which windows were best for viewing the birds and passing pedestrians, and, most important, where I hid her litter box. All the vital things in life.

I unzipped the carrier. With another funny meow Minnie scolded me for my forgetfulness as she climbed out onto my lap, all righteous indignation as she arched her back in a long stretch. I ran my hand down her back by way of apology, smoothing the gleaming fur and then scratching behind her ears. My reward was a motorboat purr, larger than life, as she lifted her face toward me. Her bicolored eyes, one blue, one green, sparkled like gems beneath the lights before she took a flying leap from my lap to the middle of the aisle and walked nonchalantly toward the back office.

One blue, one green . . . “Maybe that’s what it meant,” I mused, half to myself. Maybe Minnie’s spirit or energy was coming through in the dream as the mystery individual. Maybe the dreams were simply an entertainingly symbolic confirmation that the two of us belonged together, she and I.

“What’s that, dear?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Nothing important, that is.”

I was saved from having to answer any more questions when Evie Carpenter and Tara Murphy, our two young protégés and both sensitives in their own right, strolled through the front door.

“Hi, Liss! Hi, Maggie! What do we have on the plate for the day?” That was Evie, an angelic blond ray of sunshine with a lightness of being that could rival any daisy blowing in the summer breezes.

“Cool it with the sweetness and light, wouldja, E-Vil?” Tara groused, shuffling around the corner of the bar and snatching at the first cup she could find. “I mean, jeez, it gets a little hard to take at the ass crack of dawn.”

Evie just smiled and started to hum as she reached down to pet Minnie, who had reversed course the moment she heard the girls’ voices and was now circling around Evie’s ankles and gazing up at her intently.

The longer I knew the two of them, the funnier I found their differences. Tara was the yang to Evie’s yin. It showed in her every aspect. Where Evie’s hair was blond, Tara’s was dark; Evie’s long and free-flowing, with a sweep of bangs over one eye, Tara’s shorter and chunky, almost as though she’d taken the scissors to it herself, and actually, I wouldn’t put that past her. Evie was a morning person; Tara would sleep ’til two if no one woke her—and would still bite heads off until she got her shot of caffeine. Evie always looked on the bright side of things; Tara viewed the world-at-large as an adversary, ready to be squashed. Evie was all things Light; Tara, her polar opposite, right down to her quasi-emo makeup and predilection for Screamo Rock. But don’t get the wrong idea. Tara also had a softer side to her that she hid behind all the hard-edged bluster. She just didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

Tara plunked herself down on the nearest stool and rested her head on her hand and her elbow on the scarred wooden surface as she blankly stirred her iced mocha, heavy on the whipped cream. “Late night, sweetie?” I asked her soothingly. She barely lifted her glance in my direction and continued stirring.

“She had an argument with Charlie last night,” Evie filled us in as she scooped Minnie up into her hands and settled on the stool to my right. “Because he’s not spending enough time with her. I keep telling her that he’s just got a lot on his mind right now, what with signing up for college classes next month and work and everything.”

Teenage dramas. Boy, was I glad I had grown past all of that.

Tara glared at her. “Thanks for the spill, Evil. Jeez. Like they want to know about my man trouble.”

Man trouble. Hee. Oh, if she only knew . . .

Evie pretended to be wounded. “I just thought maybe they could help. Give you some input. A shoulder to cry on. You know.”

“Like I need advice from older ladies.”

Older? Well, for heaven’s sake, I was only twenty-nine. At least for a little while longer. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying not to be insulted. “It’s not like I don’t remember what it’s like to be seventeen. It wasn’t that long ago, you know.”

Tara gave me a sidelong glance that wasn’t so much annoyed as it was completely and utterly dismissive. Which somehow made it worse. “No offense, Maggie, but, um, well, you aren’t exactly a shining example in the relationship department, ya know.”

Evie had just taken a sip from her cup of tea and spluttered into it. Liss turned away toward the cash register, but not before I caught the twitch of her lips that she was trying so valiantly to hide.

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?” I bristled, really insulted now.

Tara had the decency to at least appear apologetic. “I’m sorry, but . . . well . . . you know.”

And that’s all she had to say. That was the trouble. I did know. It wasn’t a secret that my most recent foray into the dating world with Tom—Fielding, that is, duly appointed officer of the law and recently named Special Task Force Investigator for the local boys in blue—hadn’t exactly been the raging hot success that I had so hoped for. It wasn’t even lukewarm. There just hadn’t been time. He was busy. I was busy. We both had busy, busy, busy lives . . .

And I was making excuses. And what’s more, I knew it. Because every girl in the world knows that a relationship needed to be made a priority in its early days if it was ever going to get off the ground.

And then there was Marcus. Marcus, who had become such a close friend, and whom I had been struggling so valiantly to keep at arm’s length. Well, my efforts had been valiant, if not particularly successful. It had been easier when I’d thought him Liss’s romantic property. Now, though . . . hm. I guess it was fair to say I was feeling more conflicted than ever. Why had I been struggling so, you might ask? I was beginning to wonder that myself. What was it about Marcus that made him the Kryptonite to my Superwoman attempts to resist my own weakening resolve? Was there something special about him? Or was it more that he represented everything that Tom did not?

Was I being played by my own mixed-up sensibilities?

I turned away so that I couldn’t see the sympathy—not pity, never that—in their eyes. Give me liberty or give me death, but for heaven’s sake, don’t give me pity. I’m much too proud for that. “So, what’s on the calendar for today?” I said, changing the subject and making my voice light and carefree.

“Before or after work?”

“After, obviously. Since we’re all already here, for actual work, mind you, and Liss is such a slave driver.”

“So sorry, ducks,” Liss sang out good-naturedly without a shred of contrition as she sailed toward the front door to turn the sign over to Open.

“Well”—Evie climbed down from her bar stool and grabbed Tara’s now empty cup for a refill before the wannabe-Goth cutie could even register the need—“here’s the thing. Tara’s all up in arms about Charlie not having time for her—”

“With good reason,” Tara interjected in her own defense.

“He’s working construction this summer, you know,” Evie continued without missing a beat. “So, what we thought we’d do is head on over to the Baptist church out on Wayne Road for the fundraising carnival.”

I was following along word for word, but obviously I had missed something somewhere. A fundraiser instead of face time with the boyfriend didn’t seem like an acceptable trade-off to me. Because I couldn’t stand being the only one who didn’t have a clue, I let my bewilderment get the better of me. “Wait, why the church?”

Tara sighed and gave me a look. You know the kind. One that said, Do we have to spell everything out for you? “The fundraiser is for the new wing they’re adding on to the church,” she said, as though I should already have known that.

Still missing something in translation. “Oookay.”

Evie leaned over the counter and looked into my empty demitasse, grabbed it, then slick as a whistle turned to the espresso machine, refilled it, and had it back under my nose before I could say Timbuktu. Or even, no thank you. Urg.

“Charlie’s working as a dirt laborer for the construction firm that’s doing the job for the church,” Evie supplied, helpful as always. “They’re all supposed to show up there for the cook-off, and then there’ll be a groundbreaking ceremony while everyone else is invited to watch. Most people there will be parishioners, but the fundraiser’s open to the public, so it’s okay if we show up, too.”

Church fundraiser, huh? That hardly seemed like Tara’s first choice for a fun Saturday afternoon’s hijinks. “So, you’re going to check up on Charlie, then? Make sure he’s doing what he said he’s doing?”

Liss coughed discreetly. “I’m sure the girls wouldn’t dream of spying on Tara’s boyfriend, ducks.”

No, of course they wouldn’t. Our strong, hard-as-nails Tara would never stoop to that kind of weakness. Our Tara would kick ’em to the curb at the first sign of anything untoward. Go, girlpower.

“We’re going,” Tara said tartly, with an angry toss of her head, “to make an appearance. To show Charlie that he’s not the only one with a life.”

A life that still managed to revolve around someone else’s schedule didn’t quite qualify . . . but hey, who was I to judge? I made my tone neutral as I said, “Sounds like fun.”

I soon forgot all about the girls’ plans as I served a few early customers and Liss and I set about changing the window display at the front of the store. Liss had cooked up a fab idea for something fresh and different that involved switching out the antique furniture and adding in new, wrestling it into place between the two of us, draping and swathing and polishing it to perfection, and sprinkling it with clear white Christmas lights. Tiny fairies, diminutive masterpieces crafted by an English High Priestess of the Fey (known to us only by her Craft name of “Titania of the Woodland Green”), were strung from above, not so much elements to be viewed as discovered. Pretty little treasures. What we were left with was an enchanting Victorian fairyland, more than enough to bewitch anyone whose head was still filled with sugarplum daydreams. And really, what was wrong with that? A little fairy tale never hurt anyone.

We stood back, each gazing in satisfaction at the fruits of our labors. “Well. That turned out even better than expected,” Liss said with only a hint of smugness as she wiped her dusty hands on a damp bar towel.

“I most heartily concur, Ms. Dow,” I said, finishing off the round of back patting. “How do you do it?”

“I was, shall we say”—Liss cast her gaze playfully heavenward—“inspired.”

“What do you think, girls?” I asked as Evie and Tara came up behind us.

“I like it,” Evie offered.

“You like everything,” Tara complained.

“Well, I do. I can’t help it.”

“It needs more sparkle. Another strand of lights or some glitter or something,” Tara assessed casually. “Want me to put the sign on the door?”

“Sign?” I was tilting my head and squinting at the display, trying to see it through Tara’s eyes. Did it really need more?

“The Closed sign. The noon siren went off ages ago. Didn’t you hear it?”

I hadn’t. I had been otherwise engaged, blissfully immersed in the artistic process. I glanced at wall of antique and restoration clocks. Twelve fifty. Goodness. “Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t you have places to go? People to see? A boyfriend to put in his place?”

Tara didn’t need to be told twice. She was already grabbing her bag and heading for the door. Evie hesitated, torn between following her friend and her devotion to duty. “Don’t you need our help shutting down and closing up the shop later?” she asked.

I waved away her concern. “We’ve got it covered. You two go on and enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

The smile that spread over her face was as sudden as a ray of sun breaking through the clouds, and just as brilliant. “Thanks, Maggie. We owe you one.” With a last scratch under the chin for Minnie, who was once again hovering underfoot, Evie waved at us and headed off to emulate her friend’s disappearing act.

Liss removed the cash drawer from the register for counting. I headed toward the front door to turn the lock with Minnie scampering along at my heels, bat-bat-batting at me all the way. Little minx. I locked the door and scooped her up for a good ear rubbing as I carried her up the aisle . . . or, I would have returned up the aisle if a harsh rapping at the glass door behind me hadn’t stopped me in my tracks. I turned to look, only to find Evie and Tara with noses pressed against the glass and hopeful and even, dare I say it, ingratiating smiles on their faces.

“Uh-oh.”

I unlocked the door. “What’s up?”

Evie and Tara rushed across the threshold. Evie turned me around and inserted herself under one arm, wrapping her arms around my waist, best-girlfriend style. Tara looked as if she might be thinking of doing the same thing, though in the end she decided to play it cool and let Evie handle all the sweet stuff while she fended off Minnie’s relentless barrage of attention-grabbing tricks.

“Maggie? Do you think . . . oh, I know you’re busy,” Evie fussed, “but maybe do you think you could . . . oh, gosh, it just doesn’t seem fair to ask, and if we had any other option at all, of course we wouldn’t bother you, but . . .”

“For cryin’ out loud, Evie, spill it, wouldja? It’s not like Maggie’s gonna bite our heads off or anything.” That was straight-up Tara, proponent for the fast and dirty approach toward most things in life.

“Oh, I know. Maggie would never do that.”

“Right. I try to reserve that for bats and old bosses. And old bosses who are bats,” I quipped, laughing.

Liss scurried past us toward the coffeemakers. “What bats are those, dear?”

“Present company most definitely excluded!” I sang out, grinning at her.

“Can we get back to the really important things?” Tara interrupted. “Like whether or not Maggie can give us a ride over to the Baptist church.”

Evie sent Tara a reproachful glance for her lack of tact. “What Tara is trying to say is that her scooter ignition is messing up. Again.”

“What can I say? Big Lou said it was fixed.”

“Which means that we don’t have a way to get there today. I don’t suppose you’d want to tag along with us, would you? It might be fun . . . Just think. Brats. Elephant ears. Hot fudge sundaes. Frozen lemonade. Cotton candy. All the good stuff.”

What did it say about me that all of Evie’s offered inducements were food related? Probably not as much as the fact that they were actually working.

Hot fudge. Hmmmmm. Talk about food for thought.

“First sundae is on me . . .” Tara just had to up the ante.

“Well . . . I do have Minnie here with me,” I hedged, glancing down to where Minnie was playing with the ties on Tara’s backpack.

“If you’d like to go with them, I’d be happy to keep the little dear here with me,” Liss offered as she wiped down the outside of an oversized coffee vessel.

“Well . . . all right. I’ll take you. But no complaints from whoever has to sit in Christine’s barely existent backseat.”

Evie and Tara looked at each other. “Shotgun!” came the simultaneous cry.

Evie grinned. “I called it first.”

“Like hell, Evie. I called it before you did.”

Before World War III broke out at my feet, I held up my hand. “One of you gets the passenger seat on the way there, and the other gets it on the way back. Easy peasy.”

Tara raised her brows. “Easy peasy? News alert: No one says that anymore, ya know, Magster.”

“Stuff it, Tara!” I said cheerily. Then to Liss, “You’re sure you don’t mind kitty-sitting?”

Liss scoffed. “Would I ever mind having the little sweetheart around? Go on and have fun. I have a million things to catch up on here. How does that sound, little one?” she asked, scooping Minnie off her feet. Minnie just gazed up at her with trusting eyes, seemingly entranced by Liss’s face.

“Good. Great! Thanks, Liss!” Tara grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the office and the back door that lead to the alley parking before I could even give Minnie a departing chin scratch, with Evie bringing up the rear. I pulled my arm free with just enough time to snag my purse and car keys, and within moments the motor of my old VW Bug (long ago endearingly, if not originally, christened Christine) puttered into action and we were on our way. Evie and Tara had played an amazingly speedy game of rock-paper-scissors, a test Evie won to much grumbling on Tara’s part. Evie took the front seat without further ado, leaving Tara to crowd into the diminutive backseat with her knees drawn up to her chin. I avoided looking in the mirror, because I could feel the thundercloud emanations rolling from her and I was afraid I would laugh. It’s not that I couldn’t sympathize, but . . . well, Tara on a rant could be very entertaining.

As we drew closer to the destination du jour, Tara forgot her annoyance with the heat and the tight quarters, even with the jarring ride over bumpy country roads. Her whole demeanor changed with every corn or soybean field we passed, becoming sharper, more focused, more intent as the sky-stabbing heights of an old church steeple loomed between distant treetops on the horizon. The sighting was soon followed by a series of handmade signs along the roadside that heralded the fundraiser one tantalizing word at a time:

You’re . . .
Almost . . .
There! . . .
Who, Me? . . .
Yes, You! . . .
Ice Cream! . . .
Games! . . .
Godly Fun . . .
For The . . .
Entire . . .
Family!

The fallow field next door had been roped off to provide parking, since the majority of the church’s regular lot had been taken over by construction crews and heavy equipment. The makeshift lot was filled to overflowing with old-fashioned sedans, a few SUVs, and an extraordinary number of pickup trucks parked willy-nilly in the choppily mown field grass, almost all of them displaying the ultra popular “In God We Trust” specialty license plates to the world at large. Dodging jutting bumpers, I drove slowly through the chaotic disarray of vehicles, searching for a place to berth Christine for the afternoon that would still allow me a way out later, when the girls were ready to make a departure. Behind the roped-off area I could see a number of open-sided tents and tables, even a raised platform with bales of straw set around it in radiating half-circles for a makeshift open-air sermon hall. Fancy.

The old Baptist church that was hosting the afternoon’s event was your stereotypical small country church that stood at one edge of what had once been a Depression-era crossroads community that grew up on the fringes of Stony Mill. Time had not been kind to the once-upon-a-time village—homes had fallen into disrepair, the corner store was gone, and the defunct gas pumps looked like something out of Pleasantville—but the need for the church had not dissipated in the same way. Instead, the pocket of Stony Mill Baptists had grown by leaps and bounds over the years. Some had stayed faithful to the old-style Baptist preachings of a vengeful God fond of fire and brimstone, and some had split off into other, more lenient factions, but the overall size of the congregation had grown incrementally, thanks in part to the charismatic tent gatherings spreading The Word back in the day. It was a universal truth that people might move from home to home around the county, but few felt comfortable in leaving their church behind and would travel miles, despite the price of gas, to attend with their old tried-and-trues. And there was nothing more tried and true than a country church of stark white clapboard, double doors spread wide in welcome at the front, while the bell loomed, little more than a shadow in the towering steeple high above.

“I guess we’ll park . . . here,” I said, looping into a spot at the very end, which seemed easiest to manage. I had barely shifted the car into park before Tara was pushing against the back of Evie’s seat.

“Come on, Evie!” She nudged the seat forward the teensiest bit again.

“Hold on and let me get out of the way. Sheesh!” Evie waited, standing dutifully aside as Tara climbed out. “Wait, don’t you want your purse?”

Tara shook her head. “Nah, it’ll just get in the way. I’ve got my cell and some cash in my pocket.”

The two headed off like a shot toward where all the action was without even a wave or a backward glance, leaving me to shake my head after them. Ah, youth.

Left by the wayside, I dislodged my purse from the floor behind the passenger seat, dropping my keys into its depths before reaching across the car to roll up the window to within four inches of the top to keep the heat outside from baking the interior and lock the door. More from habit than because I honestly thought there was a chance anyone might be inspired to steal my beloved, if slightly ragtag, VW Bug. Outside I spritzed myself liberally with aerosol sunblock, then slung my bag over my shoulder and set off idly toward all of the activity myself.

It was hotter than hot out. Hotter than Hades is what my Grandma Cora would have said with one of her trademark grim glances at the sky. The sun was beating down, the few clouds doing little to dispense it. I hurried over to where the tents were set up, not caring what entertainments would be found there so long as they were under cover. First things first: I found a frozen lemonade at a stand right by the edge of the parking lot and handed my money over with gratitude. It tasted a little too much like the kind of powdered lemonade you get out of a can, but the extra-large cup of smoothly ground ice was worth it. I sipped it slowly as I moved around the widespread gathering, indulging my favorite pastime of late: people watching.
And there was plenty of it to be had. One thing about church functions that I always found intriguing was the fact that people remained their usual, stressed-out, over-the-top, unlovable selves, despite the churchy goings-on, which one would think would ensure everyone’s best behavior. Good, church-going families, all; and yet everywhere I turned, I saw more than one meltdown in progress. Some of them were even by the kiddos.

Was it the heat that was fraying tempers all over town? Because it definitely seemed to be a trend on the upswing. Just yesterday morning on my way into work, two men at the gas station I’d stopped by had nearly come to blows in front of me. Not over the astronomically rising prices at the pump, but because one didn’t move his pickup out of the way fast enough to suit the other waiting his turn. And then there was the flustered call from my mom the day before. Seems she had gone to the grocery store only to witness a woman she knew from her own church group roughly handling her oldest daughter. A woman she had known for years to be the soul of grace and patience. Now, everyone knows that anybody can have a bad day. And teenagers have a tendency to push both boundaries and buttons. But this was harsh, even borderline abusive behavior, and it upset the applecart that was my mother’s comfortable, small-town existence.
Because these were not isolated incidents. Because it was happening over and over again, between people not known to be violent. Longtime Stony Mill families that were displaying the first signs of splintering and dysfunction. Normally that kind of thing, when it did happen, would have been kept quiet. Family secrets better left to sleeping dogs. Even the Stony Mill Gazette sometimes agreed with that philosophy, burying select newsworthy but scandalous local items behind the farmer’s report on page seven . . . but it did publish the police call report religiously. Everything that was called in to Dispatch showed up on those reports. Who, what, when, where, and why-dunnit, even if it was as minor as rescuing a cat stuck in a tree. The information it conveyed was better than a gossip sheet.

Lately, the call reports had been running . . . long. Very long. And not with lost pets. Filled with incidents similar to the one my mother described, like the one I had witnessed myself. So many people, already on short tethers, snapping for no good reason. Not to mention the deaths—murders, actually. No wonder I rarely saw Tom these days. He still had his regular duties in addition to serving as leader of the special task force that had been created to integrate between law departments. That promotion had guaranteed that any kind of a personal life Tom might have been wanting to have would have to be put off for later.

Oh, Tom denied this. We’d talked about it before. But even though he’d said mostly the right things, and even though he had more than hinted that he would like our so-called relationship to go somewhere—although the somewhere in question was clearly open to interpretation—the two of us never seemed to achieve liftoff status.

Maybe it was too much to ask right now. Timing, as everyone knows, is everything. History proved that particular Nugget o’Wisdom over and over again. Knowing it was one thing. Accepting it, well, that was another matter entirely.

It was a sore subject with me, growing sorer by the day. Was it any wonder Marcus and his gentle but compelling flirtatious ways had held so much intrigue for me? Tom told me time and again that he’d like to deepen our relationship, but it was beginning to feel like lip service. And Marcus? Marcus went out of his way to make me feel I was important, without demanding a single thing in return. Everything he did said that he wanted me. But what did I want? I was starting to wonder if I knew. All the more reason to steer my thoughts out of treacherous waters and channel them into more calming venues.

But deep within me was the sense that change was on the horizon, must be on the horizon.

It would come whether I was ready for it or not.

*****************************************
Copyright 2009, Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.

Oh my goodness. More Susan Boyle, more goosebumps...

Evidently a track -- a cover of the blues standard Cry Me a River -- from a charity CD recorded ten years ago went virtually unnoticed {only 1000 copies were pressed}, but with Ms. Boyle's amazing audition for Britain's Got Talent last week, some kind soul with a preternaturally long memory located it and uploaded it to YouTube. Get ready. It's gorgeous.

And this one I *can* embed. :)

Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

Earth Angel, Earth Angel . . .

Every once in a while, we mere mortals here on Earth are blessed with a moment of sheer grace and inspiration. Coming in the form of something very unexpected, we are taken aback and made to lift our heads from the daily grind. It is meant to make us come to attention. To remove our blinders and take note of something special.

Mere mortals sometimes need these wake-up calls.

Susan Boyle, a recent contestant from Britain’s Got Talent, is serving {consciously, or unconsciously, it makes no difference} as one of these Earth Angels. From the moment she stepped onto the stage, she surprised with her quirky charm and her spunky self-deprecation. Unemployed, and of an age clearly not conducive to new beginnings in most viewers’ eyes, she was an unapologetic underdog. But from the moment she opened her mouth to sing, the meaning behind her appearance was clear. Even her choice of song seems to be no coincidence.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did {and thank you, Jen, for passing it along to me! XOXO!}.

YouTube has disabled embedding for this show, so just click here to go to the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY Be sure to click on the "More Info" selection for the lovely lyrics to "I Dreamed a Dream" from Les Miserables.

Love to all,


Mad {madly}

Do You Gabble?

Today, I received this via email in a list of items predicted to soon become extinct:

9. Hand-Written Letters. In 2006, the Radicati Group estimated that, worldwide, 183 billion e-mails were sent each day. Two million each second. By November of 2007, an estimated 3.3 billion Earthlings owned cell phones, and 80% of the world's population had access to cell phone coverage. In 2004, half-a-trillion text messages were sent, and the number has no doubt increased exponentially since then. So where amongst this gorge of gabble is there room for the elegant, polite hand-written letter?

As a writer, this saddens me, even as I guiltily tuck away my oft-buzzing cell phone. . . and that doesn't even begin to address the emails and MySpace/Facebook messages I receive. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not about to give those glorious modern conveniences, either. But like a lot of writers I know, I also have a long-time love of beautiful pens, inks in beautiful colors, and special papers that allow pen and hand to glide across it like glass. Writing letters was once an excuse for possessing such luxuries of the handwritten word. Will it be long before these things fall by the wayside as well? Should I be glomming on to all the Waterman pens and Clairefontaine stationary I can find?

I've heard rumors that even cursive writing is to fall by the wayside. Quelle horreur! How many of us {especially young girls} worked to develop a style of script that was uniquely our own, oh-so-long-ago?

What about you? Do you still write letters? To anyone? Ever? Do you, too, mourn the loss of these things, or am I alone in my quirks?

As for me, journaling by hand will still require the special papers, pens, and ink. Thank goodness. If not for that, I promise you I would have had the most beautiful grocery lists in Indiana. :-)

Love to all on a very blustery Midwestern spring {Yes!} day,


Mad {madly!}

New Cover Art ;>

What do you think?

WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, #5 in The Bewitching Mysteries, ISBN 0425228711. Coming to a bookstore near you July 7, 2009. . .

Love always,

Mad {madly!}

News!

Dear ones!

Do I have news for you? By golly, I think I do. News has just sparked its way down the wire that The Bewitching Mysteries will be moving to ... hardcover! This is big news for any author, so I'm celebrating. Snoopy dancing, in fact. Now, nothing in publishing happens quickly, so the 5th book in the series -- WHERE THERE'S A WITCH -- will be released as the usual mass market paperback on July 7, 2009. Book 6, however {my as yet unnamed monster-in-progress} will be coming out first as a hardcover release in April 2010, with the mass market paperback issue to follow later that summer. I'm so excited about this -- it's a big step for any author.

Did I tell you WHERE THERE'S A WITCH is already up for pre-order on Amazon? I'll also be posting an excerpt here and cover art just as soon as I can.

If you're looking for free books, Writerspace.com is having a massive, blowout Valentine's Day Reader Extravaganza. Hundreds of authors, with Yours Truly included in that number, are giving away loads of books and other prizes. Visit http://www.writerspace.com/valentine for all the glorious details and to register to win!

Finally, I do have a couple of events coming up this spring:

March 10th, 2009 - I will be speaking at the South Whitley Public Library in South Whitley, Indiana at 6:30 p.m. This event is free to the public.

April 25th, 2009 - I will be speaking at the Clyde Public Library in Clyde, Ohio along with Rosemary Laurey and Stephanie McGrath of Lyrical Press. Address for the library is: 222 W. Buckeye Street, Clyde, OH 43410. This event is free to the public.

May 16 - 17th, 2009 -- Paranormacon! at the wonderful Fort Wayne Masonic Temple in Fort Wayne, Indiana. {Address: 216 E. Washington Blvd, Fort Wayne, Indiana} Yes, it's true. Fabulously gifted and renowned psychic medium Kristy Robinett and I will be speaking together once again with an eye toward Putting the Normal Back Into Paranormal. Note: You must purchase tickets to this event! Your purchase will help to support the historical treasure that is the Fort Wayne Masonic Temple. For more information and to see the list of other presenters in the paranormal field, visit http://inparanormal.com/paranormacon/ and have fun surfing around the site. Kristy and I are scheduled to be speaking on Sunday, the 17th from 1 to 3 p.m.

Speaking of Kristy, check out her new radio show, Seer & Sayer! The Seer, Kristy Robinett (Psychic Medium) and The Sayer, Chuck Robinett (King of Useless Knowledge and Pop Culture Extraordinaire) pair up for some fun, comedy, and a pinch of knowledge. Tuesdays at 7:00 p.m. on BlogTalk Radio - www.blogtalkradio.com.

That's about it for today's update... Love to all!!


Mad {madly!}

The Writing Life -- Living and Loving It

I have a confession to make.

I -- Madelyn Alt, Author -- am not always in the mood to write.

I know. I know! I have been blessed with this crazy, wonderful, chaotic career. A career any working writer would be proud to call their own. It is the least I can do to give it my full attention. The depth and breadth of my energy. The last shreds of mojo I have in me.

And I do. Much of the time.

Sometimes, though, life throws these little temptations my way. You know what I'm talking about. Like a sunny summer day with the bluest of cloudless skies that not-so-subtly sends a sparkling, come-hither invitation through your open windows. Come outside and play, why don't you? You have to admit, it would be almost criminal not to give in to the urge to take the pooches out for a long walk on a day like that. Or how about those moments when I sit down to write and one of my Meezer girls instantly decides that's the perfect opportunity for some quality facetime. It's not an easy thing to resist the unrelenting headbutts of a Siamese cat, let me tell you. And then oftentimes the distractions stem from one of my boys who has something important he wants to share with me and cannot wait another moment to do just that. It's so easy to get lost watching the thought processes play across their young faces, the dance of laughter in their eyes. So easy to lock the computer down safely from mischievous Meezer paws and errant puppy noses and listen to my sons tell their tales with my heart in my throat, wondering how I got to be so lucky. So easy to just exist within the moment.

Life. I have to say, I kind of enjoy living it. Really living it. It keeps me from getting too serious; from taking myself too seriously. It is rather a matter of perspective. That is not to say I don't have worries, doubts, and fears working to drag me back down into the mire, just like everyone else. I do. But the less I let them have their way with me, and the more I pay attention to the good things around me, the more their hold on me seems to lessen, and the more energy and focus I have when I do put my fingers to keyboard. The writing, I have discovered, will be there for me when I need it to be, better than ever for the distractions and temptations that I allow to steal my attention from time to time. Paradoxically so.

What about you? What tempted you today, and did you give in to the moment?

Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

Feathering My Nest...

Happy New Year to all! With 2009 now firmly underway, I thought I'd take a moment to update everyone on what's been going on around here.

Book 5 in The Bewitching Mysteries now has a title: WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, due to be released 7/3/09. Revisions came in over the holidays, but they are done, done, done, and I'm glad, glad, glad. My editor is a wonder and has the best suggestions, always, for little ways to make things clearer, better, bigger. With those out of the way, I am easing my way into Book 6.

What else have I been doing? Feathering my nest -- in other words, remodeling! One of our bathrooms is in the middle of a much-needed revamp, and while it's admittedly a little distressing to glance in the open doorway to find that you can look straight through the open floor joists clear to the basement, in the end it will all be worth it. The crew is actually working faster than I had expected; they just started on Wednesday, and should be done by Wednesday or Thursday of next week. While they are doing that, the family and I have been adding some much-needed color to our home. We've put the finishing touches on three rooms, have a fourth nearly done, and have a couple more rooms to evaluate. Not that Castle Alt will be a finished project when the rest of the rooms are painted, by any means. There is always something that needs done. Usually many somethings, just waiting their turn to hit the top of the priority list.

Still, it feels good to have the painting out of the way, at least. It's a little early for this to qualify as spring cleaning, but that's being accomplished as well as a byproduct of moving the furniture to the center of the room, sweeping cobwebs, cleaning or completely updating light fixtures, removing drapes, vacuuming corners. By the time spring actually arrives, my home should be in pretty good shape. :-)

Wishing you all only the best and brightest of blessings in the upcoming months,


Mad {madly!}

Spreading Holiday Joy One Video at a Time...

It's Adopt-a-Fox day at the Witchychicks henhouse, so I thought I'd stick with the holiday theme for today's treat.

For everyone's information, I did search for Christmas videos of Hugh Jackman and James McAvoy, but didn't find any. All of the fine fan-videographers out there need to get on the stick!

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Baby, It's Cold Outside...

I must admit, the local Wal-Mart has never been one of my favorite places, but it serves a purpose. This afternoon I had to venture out in the cold to do some grocery shopping, so off I hied myself, sans children, and sans poochays. Being without one or the other of the two choices can prove a rare event for me, enough to make even Wally World appealing, so I was determined to enjoy my time. I made a point of meandering through the Christmas area, checking out all of the new-and-improved LED lights--seriously cool {and I think that's the point! LOL...}, selecting wrapping paper and curling ribbon, trying to remember whether anyone needed a new stocking this year. And then, because it's something I think I do nearly every shopping trip this time of year, I swung by the big stands of Christmas music to search for new offerings.

I love, love, love Christmas music. There is something about it that makes the season feel real to me, even when I'm not exactly in the holiday spirit. I love the oldies, by artists such as Nat King Cole and Burl Ives, and I love the new and fresh, too. Certain songs bring memories of long ago rushing back to me, crystal clear in the blink of an eye. Silver Bells. Silent Night. Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. Sleigh Ride. Love, love, love. I came home with a Very Special Christmas CD set that I had managed not to pick up before, so I consider the shopping trip a roaring success.

And movies. Christmas movies galore. Anything that features a Christmas setting within it at some point in time qualifies, in my mind. All of the kid favorites, of course, like Home Alone and Elf and Muppet Christmas Carol and The Santa Clause, and then there are the ones that cater more to the adult audience. Besides the old favorites, like Christmas in Connecticut and White Christmas and It's a Wonderful Life, I love the newer ones like Love, Actually and Serendipity and even Funny Farm. Mood movies to put you in a holiday frame of mind, necessary when one is decorating the house or making designer Christmas cookies or wrapping presents.

Back to Wal-Marting. {Yes, that's a verb. At least it is around here.} Upon leaving the store and braving the danger zone of a parking lot, I found that even the weather was conspiring to ferret out the holiday spirit in even the Scroogiest of Scrooges. An inch of the finest of snowflakes covered the ground, with more coming down all around, blowing and billowing in freshets of wind. With everything loaded up for home, I stood beside my car for a long moment, eyes closed and face raised to the sky as the wind and icy flakes scrubbed away any residual worries I might have been holding onto. I popped my new CDs into the stereo and blasted the music all the way home, where vegetable beef stew was simmering away in the oven. Yum.

And it's still snowing . . . Yay!!

I think I know what I want for Christmas this year, and it doesn't come with a price tag attached. Do you have your heart's desire fixed in your mind?


Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Another View From Castle Alt

Three months ago, I was fairly certain we had all the pets we could handle. With two high-and-mighty Meezer girls and Daisy, a lovable, goofy, anxiety-driven Lab Shepherd mix who acts up when left alone for more than fifteen minutes, but is so contrite afterwards that you cannot stay mad for long . . . well, it's enough to keep any household busy. I think we should own stock in the Dyson company . . . the company that manufactures Swiffers . . . the companies that whip up pet enzyme cleaners . . . the company that bottles Febreze . . . the companies that make Pedi Paws and Scat Mats and those wonderful lint rollers. {Note, I didn't look up said companies. No time. I'm too busy cleaning up all the messes.}

Well, one day in August, one of the neighborhood boys dropped by with a puppy he'd found several blocks away, but which he was certain was homeless and on the brink of extinction. He was a cute little guy. A rat terrier, feisty as all get-out, rather like the Energizer Bunny on a caffeine buzz. But somehow the puppy became our responsibility, since the little boy's father didn't want it at their house, and one look into my nine-year-old's eyes told me there was no way we could take it to the shelter. Not that I could, either. Our local shelter doesn't have the funds to be a No Kill shelter, and his little puppy face would have haunted me forever, not knowing whether he'd been adopted out or not. So we kept him. You know. Just until we were able to find his owners. Just to be sure he was safe and sound.

No owners could be located. Overjoyed, my nine-year-old immediately named him Leo. Which is short for Leonidas , but honestly, I had NO INPUT. Honest.

My Meezer girls couldn't appreciate him. He bounced around too much for their peace of mind. I tried to tell them that he only wanted them to like him, but when he nibbled on their ears and tails and barked at them to come and play, I'm not sure they believed me.

Note the sneer?

Daisy eyed him with curiosity, but also a little confusion. She had gotten used to a very sedate and sleepy existence, livened up by daily walks and an occasional chase up and down the stairs with the cats. Leo ran circles around her, climbed on her, chewed on her ears and her jowls and her belly. He decided that, since he was the only male pet in the household, he should be the Alpha. The girls, naturally, disagreed with that assessment. Every last one of them decided to put the little guy in his place.

All-out war ensued.

While eventually acceding defeat {three against one, such unfair odds!}, Leo has proven incredibly resourceful. The Meezers he likes to keep on their toes . . . on the shelves . . . on the tables . . . on the nearest available human shoulder . . . Or maybe it's just that they prefer looking down at him in sneering disgust to being down on his excitable, playful, rascally level. They know they are the true queens of the household, and never let a chance go by to remind him of that. Daisy has adopted him as her own and lets him have his puppy way with her, serving dutifully in many roles: Chief Chew Toy, Chief Rodeo Clown, Chief Playground Supervisor, keeping him in line with the smackdown of her paw or by sitting on him, and then in quieter moments, Chief Ear Washer and Chief Snuggle Pillow.

Daisy is really good at snuggling. She also makes a good nose warmer.

Leo's not always Mr. Energizer Bunny, though. He does have quieter moments, especially when he doesn't have the girls to distract him. I even managed to capture one.

See?

So, somehow we managed to acquire a fourth furry friend, one who is disrespectful to my furniture, my floors, my shoes, and likes to raid the laundry basket and strew his booty all over the floor. And yet . . . I still kind of melt when he insists on cuddling.

I don't think he's going anywhere anytime soon. Do you?

Love to all on this snowy November afternoon,


Mad {madly!}

Bewitching Watch 2008 has begun!

Good evening, dear ones! Can I just say, I'm baaaaaaack . . . with a vengeance?

What an October! Finishing a manuscript in a blind haze of fury, losing my internet connection for-freaking-ever . . . it's all in a day's work.

But . . . BUT . . . I do have it on good authority that

{Mad clears her throat, ever so delicately}

WE HAVE HAD SIGHTINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Actual, honest-to-goodness, verified sightings of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, hanging out on bookstore shelves with all the usual stellar company!

That's right, folks. Bewitching Watch 2009 has begun!

Post your own sightings in the comments below, if you like. Or not. I'm easy.

I was even able to hold a copy this afternoon, thanks to my beloved editor, who so thoughtfully FedEx'd one to me, hot-off-the-press. It's beautimous. And on Wednesday I'll be hitting a few of the area bookstores to see if I can find it on the shelves.

So, dear ones, go forth and do a little Bewitching Watching on my behalf? :-)

Oh! And have a happy and safe Halloween and a very blessed Samhain...

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Official Release Date: 11/4/08

{but the sightings have begun!!! Woot Woot!!!}

Event: Mad & Kristy Put the Normal Back in Paranormal

Madelyn Alt and Kristy Robinett
~~ Putting the Normal Back in Paranormal ~~

National bestselling mystery author Madelyn Alt and internationally renowned Psychic Medium Kristy Robinett are just your average, everyday girls . .. . who share a unique approach to life that includes dealing with the supernatural. But they like to think that's part of their charm!

Have you ever been curious about the paranormal, but are put off by subjects and/or presenters that don't fit into your comfort zone? Want to know if what you've experienced fits into the psychic realm? Have you lived with ghosts and want to know a little bit more about how to live comfortably with them? Or are you perhaps interested in writing the paranormal, and want tips or advice from a successful author in how it's done? You won't want to miss this event.

In celebration of the upcoming release of the 4th book in Madelyn's Bewitching Mysteries, NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, we invite you to join Madelyn and Kristy for a spooktacular event that will include Madelyn speaking about her National Bestselling books and Kristy discussing an array of topics, including that of growing up in a haunted house and what you can do if you are haunted. She will also conduct an audience reading where she will relay messages from the other side.

When: November 8, 2008 from 4:00 p.m. - 6:00 p.m.

Where: South Lyon Hotel
201 N Lafayette St
South Lyon, MI 48178

The South Lyon Hotel was built on a cemetery…now how spooky is that?

Who: Madelyn Alt and Kristy Robinett

Cost: $35.00 per person

Visit http://www.kristyrobinett.com to purchase tickets via PayPal.

(Food and Drinks are NOT provided in the ticket purchase, but available at a reasonable cost).


Madelyn Alt

Madelyn Alt is the national bestselling author of the witchy and hip Bewitching Mysteries, published by Berkley Prime Crime. These Bewitching books features small town single girl and fledgling empath Maggie O'Neill, her witchy boss, and an unlikely circle of ghosthunting friends, the N.I.G.H.T.S., as they investigate an increasing level of paranormal disturbance–not to mention a series of unrelated murders–in Maggie's hometown of Stony Mill, Indiana. In other words, they are: "Mysteries…. with Hex Appeal.."

A late-blooming sensitive/intuitive, Madelyn writes from her home, an 1870's era Victorian in northeast Indiana, which she shares with an extraordinary number of persons of the male persuasion of assorted ages and sizes, two Siamese cats who rule the roost, and a Shepherd-Lab sweetheart who is only too happy to let them.

So what's a nice girl like me doing writing about ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night? Truth is, I've always been intrigued by the paranormal. I've experienced many things throughout my lifetime that have fueled that interest, not to mention experiences shared with me by others, people whom I trust. Isolated incidents can be explained away; these are not isolated incidents. They are also not the kind of things that can be proven easily by scientific methods. While that might sound like a pat answer, I've never been convinced that science has enough technology to have the right to pooh-pooh everything away. It seems the height of arrogance to say that we have all the answers.. The fact is, people are experiencing things that their logical minds want to explain away, but can't. That's not to say that science and the mystical won't some day coexist happily and sensibly, but until that day I think it's possible we're not meant to understand everything. Not yet.

The most important thing about life is the journey. Only at the end should we be able to look back and make sense of the lot of it. Part of the beauty is in the mystery.



Kristy Robinett

There's no flowing gown. There's no crystal ball. There's just Kristy Robinett, Psychic Medium and Life Counselor - an 'Abnormally Normal' all American girl that talks to the dead.

Kristy's involvement with the paranormal began at the tender age of 3 when she began playing and speaking regularly with spirits, labeled "imaginary friends" by her parents. This behavior was unacceptable in her household as her family was very religious. This however did not curb her curiosity for the paranormal and the unknown.

Today, Kristy is an internationally renowned Psychic Medium. Her clientele ranges from young to old, law enforcement, clergy, politicians, celebrities, domestic goddesses, to every day people. Her dedication and passion to her work is performed with honesty, integrity and humor, which sets her apart from the rest.

Kristy donates her time assisting law enforcement agencies with investigations involving missing persons, murder, suicide, arson and psychically profiling criminals. She has earned a solid reputation for Spirit Releases, psychic home inspections for homebuyers and haunted house investigations, lecturer at special events and owner of Encharming Events LLC.

Kristy has the gift of bringing warmth and love when using her gift of insight to help clear the cobwebs of confusion along with helping people embrace their own intuitive gifts. Not always serious, Kristy has a wicked sense of humor that she likes to bring to her readings.

How did I get a gig talking to the dead? It definitely wasn't the profession that my parents were at all thrilled with. Going to parochial school from kindergarten through high school graduation, I was taught that anything to do with psychics were evil, as if I didn't already have a low self-esteem like most kids! It was neat, however, knowing when the pop quizzes would be or when I could shut off the alarm because I knew that there would be a snow day even before the weather men predicted it. So after trying the 'real' world for a long time, I screamed 'Uncle' and gave in to my talent and here I am, day after day, talking to the dead and chasing ghosts.

I believe that we create our own reality. By being passionate about life, you can achieve not just anything, but everything. I mean, it gets boring and depressing waiting for that winning lottery ticket, right?!

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Madelyn's books will be available for purchase at the event, but you are also welcome to bring your own copies for signing and personalizing.

Again, to purchase tickets, please visit: http://www.kristyrobinett.com

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A Night at the Opera -- with the Phantom of the Opera

I wrote this for The Witchy Chicks, so thought I would share it here since I'm still off line and on deadline:


I have been living in a hole lately. Not my fault, but not exactly avoidable. What this means is, I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, that could fall under the "miscellaneous culture" tag. No opera, no concerts, not even a movie. Heck, not even a dinner out!

I am, of late, culturally challenged.

So, with that in mind I bring to you tonight a memory of one of my all-time favorite musicals, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera. No, I have never seen it on stage. Yes, I had heard the LP of the music and fell in love with the music. But {but!} when ALW brought it to the big screen and changed the vision of the Phantom somewhat from disfigured psychopath to disfigured tragic man with a few unfortunate psychotic tendencies explained by his need to control an out-of-control world that would never understand him, a world that turned against him the moment he was born with his physical handicap, I fell completely and utterly under the spell. This was a Phantom I could understand. This was a Phantom I could pity. This was a Phantom in which I could see the man, not just the travesty.

The movie did it for me in every way.

I can't even begin to describe the sumptuous sets, the swell of the full orchestra that pours into you until you feel almost bursting with the music itself, the intrigue, the mystery. The sweetness of Christine {in the movie version, she is an innocent and very much naive of her own power over this mysterious man}, and the pure, knight-in-shining-armor love of her Raoul. But the Phantom . . . oh, the Phantom. Dark, dangerous, sinuous, sinister, mysterious, a bad boy in every sense of the word. His love for the music is evident from the first moment he appears on screen as he lurks several levels below the stage and allows the music to fill him. He smolders on screen from the moment he holds out his hand to Christine, a command to come to him. Confident on the outside, but pleading and yearning on the inside. . . The Phantom's power lies in his bravado, and he knows it. What's more, he's learned how to wield it well.


"I am your Angel of Music, Come to me, Angel of Music."

It still sends shivers down my spine.

After three and a half years of wearing out my CDs, I still can’t listen to the music or watch the movie without tears, and I think that's quite amazing in this day and age. The emotional honesty of the premier voices never fails to amaze me. Emmy Rossum’s haunting soprano blends seamlessly with Patrick Wilson’s quietly accomplished Raoul, and the circle is completed by the raw energy and heartstopping pathos in Gerard Butler’s appealing baritone--sometimes rough-edged, sometimes smooth and pure, but always, always compelling with sheer masculine power. If you have somehow managed to miss this, do whatever it takes to get your hands on it. You’ll never forget it.

Here are some favorite scenes/music:

ALW wanted the Phantom to have a kind of rock and roll quality -- and boy, did he ever.


As evidenced by the way he swings that cape. ;>
Music of the Night is one of the most beautiful pieces in the entire production.
Desire . . .


Love . . .


Betrayal . . .


Desperation . . .


And in the end, sacrifice . . .

All the elements of a timeless work that will live on forever.

And Gerard Butler as the Phantom . . . who would have thought at the time? Honestly and truly, Gerard Butler does tortured and conflicted better than anyone. His performance in some of these scenes completely blew me away. So much emotion. I know, as someone with empathic tendencies I'm more than a little susceptible . . . but there is just something very special about it.

I leave you now with a POTO fan video from one of my favorite video editors, BluEyedDaizy Productions. This aria appeared as the epilogue in Ken Hill's stage production of POTO to music from The Pearl Fishers by Bizet. Haunting aria, absolutely gorgeous voices, and Blu's ability to match clips from the film to the music with some truly beautiful special effects all make this an all-time standout for me. Even if you have no time to watch the clips above, please watch this one video and see if it speaks to you, too. :)




Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

Where-Oh-Where Has Mad Gone?

I just wanted to pop in here to let you all know what's been up on my end of things and give you a heads up about where I will be in the immediate future: Conspicuously Absent. :)

You see, I had rather a rude awakening the morning of June 30th. Out of the blue, I was faced with the sudden rupture of two disks in my lower back and a fairly excruciating level of pain that only seemed to get worse, no matter what I did. Bedrest was the only option while my doctors decided the best course of action, but even that and all the best painkillers in the world didn't seem to help. Surgery, however, did, although I am finding myself with widely vacillating levels of energy and am having to face up to the fact that I'm obviously not as young as I would like to believe, which seems to be affecting my bounce-back capabilities.

Anyway, as a result of all this, July went Poof! and here I am now in mid-August, seven days out of surgery and with a deadline fast approaching. Which means, my lovelies, that I am going to have to stick my nose to the grindstone in order to meet my writing commitments so that when next July rolls around, all of you will be able to get your hands on the fifth in the Bewitching Mysteries right on schedule.

For you. Always, for you. Because obviously *I* derive no pleasure from the creation of this morass of the mystical and mysterious.

Ahem.

I'll try to pop in from time to time, but feel free to party on here amongst yourselves without me... :)

Back soon!


Mad {madly!}

New Favorite Paranormal Shows

Having been relegated to bedrest a month ago due to back issues, I've been catching up on a lot of paranormal shows that I've missed or don't have access to, all thanks to the wonders of YouTube. In watching such a broad sampling of shows that come out of the US, the UK, and Canada, I've discovered something -- a difference in approach that helped to solidify in my mind what has been bothering me about a lot of the ghosthunting programs I've seen.

So many participants on the paranormal shows we see on TV here in America willingly--almost eagerly--bait the spirits they are investigating in order to gain a response. I have seen this time and again on a variety of programs. They goad, they curse, they insult, they demand, they annoy. They are all-too-often completely and utterly disrespectful, and it makes me uncomfortable to watch. In fact, the groups often comment proudly on the differences between their "American" techniques as opposed to the softer-toned inquiries made by their counterparts in the UK. In my opinion, bad behavior is bad behavior, and is certainly nothing to be proud of.

Let's say you are a visitor at a place that belongs to someone else. Would you go into their house, guns blazing and mouth running, and disparage those who live there? It would be the height of arrogance and bad manners, and will probably get you booted right the heck out. I can't help but compare this to what the ghosthunters do when they bait the resident spirits, hoping to get a response on camera. It is rude, it is unmannerly, and it's liable to get them more than they bargained for.

In sharp contrast, a month ago I attended a paranormal event at the Riders Inn, a bed and breakfast in Painesville, Ohio that just so happens to be haunted. I was excited to go. Not only was I attending with two of my best friends -- Kristy Robinett, an amazingly gifted psychic medium who could give John Edward a run for his money, and Jen H, a super-talented glasswork bead artisan whose artistry makes me drool -- but also because I was able to take part in a spirit contact group meditation lead by Kristy. This group approach is rare for me. I don't trust just anyone with the Other Side. Unfortunately I feel that a lot of people don't know what they're doing, even when they think they do.

Kristy's approach is a kinder, gentler approach that mirrors my own. Not only that, but she has the ability to communicate directly with the spirits and her Guides in a way that is fascinating to witness. I am sensitive to energies--living, residual and Spirit--but if I were to compare my abilities with Kristy's, mine would be a teensy pocket flashlight shining dimly into the abyss, whereas Kristy's would be blinding, casting the kind of light that obliterates darkness.

We did have spirits around us that night. Everyone at the table felt it, and for some it was a new experience, an awe-inspiring one. Unfortunately the inn also holds at least one portal, so when a negative energy crouched in the corner of the room, watching us, Kristy closed the link down, unwilling to give it the slightest reason to stick around. She didn't try to annoy or insult it. She didn't give it any attention at all. She merely closed the line of communication and quietly told us why. To me, this demonstrated Kristy's inner strength, a quality that I greatly admire and find so much more inspiring than the brash false bravado people see in the shows on TV.

I had a more personal experience the next morning, but I'll save that story for another time. ;>

Of course I'll still watch all of the paranormal TV, but I have found a couple of new favorites:

Psychic Kids on A&E -- This program is all about teaching gifted children how to handle their abilities. Not only does it help them to understand themselves, but it empowers them, letting them know being different is not something to be ashamed of. Many of us have had to come to that realization on our own, so being allowed to witness the transformation of these wonderful kids coming into their own is so positive and life-affirming. I highly recommend it.

Ghostly Encounters on Bio -- I just happened to catch this show on a Bio Preview, and was instantly captivated. It is put out by our Canadian neighbors, and it, too, seems to have that kinder, gentler, more thoughtful approach to the world of Spirit. Instead of sending in teams of ghosthunters, this show has a distinct storyteller/interview format that allows the individuals who have been witness to ghostly phenomenon to tell what they experienced in their own voice. Being quite a fan of storytelling myself ;>, I was instantly captivated. We don't have access to the Bio Channel here, so I am only able to watch this on YouTube. If you aren't able to find it, try this YouTube Channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/ParanormRUs and search for Ghostly Encounters.

Sharing time: What about you? What are your favorite paranormal shows, and why? And does the antagonistic approach bother you, or is just one of my pet peeves? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Mad and the amazingly cool AshNay, whose mom drove several hours to get to Cleveland for the expo signing... Someone definitely deserves an award!

The View From Here . . .

I've been asked more than once, and since I've been out and about recently, taking photos of the surrounding countryside, I thought I would share a little bit of what it's like in Maggie's part of the world. And since Maggie shares my world, it shouldn't be too hard.

My home is not grand. It's a 140-year-old Victorian farmhouse that rests on a quiet street in a small town in NE Indiana, complete with wraparound porch and matching bay windows that would make lovely window seats if heating registers didn't negate that possibility. :) It was built at a time when things were made solid and made right {for the most part, heh}. Over the years, things have settled here and there--few rooms are square, floors creak and aren't what anyone would call level--but it has seen a lot in its time, and there is a sense of that. It's a work-in-process, never completed--something is always needing fixed, or fixed-up, or torn out and completely done-over--but it's stately in an everyday-familiar sort of way, and it has a grace and serenity that speaks of having seen many days, many families, many lifelines, and much love, and that appeals to me.

Indiana in the summer is lush and green and beautiful in a way that makes me feel alive and very much a part of the inner workings of the world. I mirror this, as many do on a subconscious level, with my love of hearth and home, with my love of neat and orderly vegetable gardens and wildly chaotic flower beds, clipped lawns, and overgrown trees. I love the Midwest. I love the way that the world progresses all around us, and while it does reach us here, we retain a bit of the old ways, kept sacred by a few of us who remember. I love the circular path of the seasons, and the way that no matter how many years and seasons pass, there is always an air of newness to each one, as though it was the first we've ever witnessed. I love the sound of the wind in the trees, the way the sun looks mid-morning as it glints through tree leaves, and the golden glow of it as it begins its descent in quiet evening hours. I love the rain--wild, at times, and at others, as gentle as a mother's kiss. I love the smell of freshly clipped grass, and the first lilacs of spring. I love the way the wind makes ocean waves out of a field of wheat, and I love the way it whispers through the drying cornstalks in autumn. This is Indiana--all of the Midwest, really--and it is not just "flyover territory," as I've heard it so uncharitably referred to by people on both coasts whose lives move a little faster than ours. You may view our ways of life as being old-fashioned, but that doesn't make us relics. We just blend the old with the new and go on about our business the way people of the heath always have. :)

So, what do we do here?

We hang out {though not often in trees . . .}

We get together for backyard barbecues on indecently hot and muggy summer days, when it would probably be smarter to stay indoors in the air-conditioning . . . and I will not mention the mosquitoes. Or the ants. Or even the earwigs.

We go fishing

and sometimes find unexpected treasures.

We talk to frogs,

make funny faces,

and do goofy things.

Some of us grow out our hair and don't really like being caught in the garden,

but we can always find peace in our own backyard.

Sometimes we venture out elsewhere,














where the antics of the natives never fail to amuse and delight,

and where sometimes we unearth more unexpected treasures along the highways and byways.
We might go for a bike ride through the twilight down a long, deserted road
and discover that beauty lies around every bend.
It can be found in simple things, like a freshly tilled field,
in an old bridge that leads to nowhere,

in the sadness of abandoned homes and farms,

in nature,

even in the angular structure of a feed mill

or a water tower silhouetted by the evening sun.

We weather many storms

but stay strong through it all, because we have each other.

Sometimes we even stay up past the witching hour

and gaze in wonder at the moon.

And when it all gets to be a bit much,

we rest.

I hope you all enjoy this glimpse. This place, these people, are special to me. :)

Wishing you all faery kisses and midsummer blessings,


Mad {madly!}

Sneak Preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN

Since I am on deadline and will be noticeably quiet for the next couple of months, I thought I would post an early preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, 4 in The Bewitching Mysteries. NRFtW will be released November 4, 2008 {although you're likely, as always, to find it on bookstore shelves a little earlier than that}, and is available for pre-order now on Amazon.

Also, a side note for my Ohio fans: I will be signing books at the Meet the Spirits paranormal expo near Cleveland, Ohio on June 29, 2008. I'd love to see some of you there. You can read all about the event here: http://www.meetthespirits.com/events.php

Without further ado . . . the snippet. Hope you enjoy!

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NO REST FOR THE WICCAN
#4 The Bewitching Mysteries ~ ISBN# 0425224562
To be released: November 4, 2008

My name is Margaret Mary-Catherine O'Neill—Maggie, please, only my mother goes the long way 'round the bend—and I am a lifelong resident of Stony Mill, a mostly uninteresting small town in Indiana.

Mostly.

I used to think that living in a small town meant boredom, monotony, and slim pickin's in the way of potential male companionship. On the other hand, I also used to think a belief in magic, ghosts, and witches was a symptom of an overactive imagination, wishful thinking, and possibly even outright insanity.

Kind of funny, when you think about all that has happened here in the last eight months.
And all in this sleepy little town.

Except you won't find me laughing. Would you, if you discovered within yourself a previously unacknowledged ability to discern, and even feel, the hidden, secret, most private emotions of others? The ones they don't want anyone to know about? It's a little unnerving. Unfortunately there are no twelve step programs for empaths. No magic pill to make it all go away. Just like all the other intuitive souls out there in the world, we empaths are on our own, for better or for worse.

And actually, come to think of it, there was also nothing boring or monotonous about the strange disturbances that had been popping up all over Stony Mill, either. Turbulence of a sort in the fabric of energy and matter that makes up the reality the rest of us see and feel and experience. Ripples that seemed to have opened a door and put out a great, big welcome mat for all sorts of weird phenomena. In the beginning, only sensitives noticed the change in the tides, and only those sensitives with a deeper familiarity with matters esoteric understood the significance of what they were feeling.

That chaos energy was on the move.

Dark energy.

That's where the N.I.G.H.T.S. come into the picture. The Northeast Indiana Ghost Hunting and Tracking Society, that is. Headed up by my witchy boss Felicity Dow (at Enchantments, of course--Indiana's finest mystical antique shop), my band of ghost-hunting buddies have been a big help to me in learning to understand more about myself, and to gain some much needed confidence while together the lot of us plumbed the depths of the mysteries of Stony Mill—mysteries both dark and light combined.

For as any good metaphysician will tell you, one cannot exist without the other. I took comfort in that knowledge. That dark could never overpower light. That light would always exist, no matter what. As long as that was true, there was always hope.

A girl needed to have hope. Especially when all the signs pointed to the weirdness in town getting worse.

Scoff if you will. I know how strange this all must sound. A year ago I would have scoffed, myself, but all that I've experienced has since opened my mind. I'm still not convinced that's necessarily a good thing, but I am learning to deal with it. My way.

As for the charge of slim pickin's, it seems I might have been too hasty. A girl with two very different men vying for her attention can hardly complain. What to do with the two of them, well, that's another problem entirely.

My name is Maggie O'Neill, and this is my story.

In researching my newly recognized "talent," I'd read that many empaths tend to be unusually susceptible to the weather, reacting to it on more than just a physical level. Perhaps there was something to that theory, because there was something about a hot, sultry night that never failed to set my nerves on edge, and this summer had had no shortage of them. Summer . . . that's the thing. Summer, it wasn't. Not yet. Not quite. The formality of the summer solstice was still a little over a week away, but already we'd seen enough searing heat to brown the grass and drive people indoors to the cool relief of overworked air conditioners. Between the hot sun and a shortage of rain, the green lushness typical of mid-June in Indiana had thus far failed to manifest. Fields of soybeans and corn that should be beginning to flourish struggled valiantly to deepen their root systems in the crumbling soil, while above ground their growth had faltered, their yellowing leaves coated with the gray dust that was raised from gravel roads with every vehicle that traveled them. Local farmers eyed the sky beneath glowering brows, searching for a hint, any hint, of the much needed moisture.

How it could be as steamy as it was without rain, I had no idea, but it was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Saint Margaret, I was not. Not even close. I was actually beginning to be glad I lived in the basement apartment in the old Victorian on Willow Street rather than on the upper levels. Home to the occasional shadow creature my dark little apartment might be, but at least the surroundings were always a temperate (if damp) seventy degrees, and without the monstrous electric bills my best friend Stephanie Evans, better known as Steff, endured in her apartment two floors above me.

Still, a girl started to go stir-crazy if she stayed home too often. Which was one reason why I had allowed Tom—Fielding, that is, my on again, off again, not-quite-boyfriend—that steamy, Saturday evening, to sweet-talk me into a moonlit drive down to the sunken gardens in the old limestone quarry. The other reason being that I was still trying to make up to him, at least in my mind, for my unplanned lapse in ethical judgment six weeks ago, when I'd allowed Marcus Quinn to kiss me. Marcus Quinn, the delectable male witch I had once mistakenly written off as being attached to my boss. Marcus Quinn, who'd let me know in no uncertain terms that he was most definitely interested in me. Marcus Quinn, who with his shoulder-length dark hair, blue eyes, and laughing demeanor had teased his way into the illustrious position of Temptation No. 1 in my life.

Marcus, Marcus, Marcus!

Forgive the Jan Brady moment, but I will hereby confess to a general state of man-centered confusion. At least Tom was a known commodity. There were variables when dealing with Marcus. Unknowns. Call me a wuss, but unknowns made me nervous. He made me nervous.
Wow, did he ever.

I'd been avoiding him ever since. Or trying to.

Tom, on the other hand, I'd been doing my best to get to stand still. It had been six months since he'd told me he wanted to date me. I'd been trying ever since to figure out what exactly that meant to him. A lot of things had been implied, but never anything definite. There are just some things that a girl needs to get clear in her mind. Like, were we an item, or weren't we? Enter Steff, my very own bona fide Love Guru. She would just shake her head at me and remind me that love was all about the heart, not the head, whenever I voiced my concerns. But then, Steff had an innate confidence I'd always wished for but had never quite managed to acquire.

Back to my Saturday night interlude . . .

Closed to business long ago, the quarry had found new life in years past as one of the top make out destinations in Stony Mill. Not, perhaps, the usual haunt of a couple of non-teenagers, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We'd been there all of ten minutes, trying to get into the experience, when I remembered why desperation was such a necessary part of the equation for an illicit summertime visit to the local Lover's Lane: overheated lip-locks, a steamed-up windshield, hip bruised by a badly positioned seatbelt, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and the constant embarrassment threat of seeing someone you know stroll past did not make for full-blown seduction.

What had I been thinking?

To make matters worse, Tom was "on call," which as an officer of the law and Special Task Force Investigator was a nice way of saying he was really on duty, but allowed to do things he wanted to do unless his attendance was required elsewhere. Which also meant that the occasional squelch and squawk of the police radio was our romantic accompaniment. Which also meant that Tom's attention was—how shall I say?—diverted.

When I first realized that he was pausing to lend an ear to the portable police radio he carried as part of the job, I almost thought I must be mistaken. After all, his eyes were still closed; it could just be the heat getting the better of my imagination. With the second lull, though, I frowned and concentrated on putting more effort into keeping his focus on the business at hand . . . so to speak. But by the third breather, when he'd actually lifted his lips from mine and put our proceedings on hold while he trained his ears to the numerical call codes and details that followed, I was starting to feel a bit peevish, pent up, and put out. Between the heat, the steam, and the inevitable hurt feelings, any willingness to participate on my part had evaporated in a way that the sweat dampening my frizzing hair would not.

I extricated myself slowly and began to untwist my clothes. Tom shifted to make way for me, but his body was still on high alert, his eyes focused hard on the red power light on the radio as the call detail concluded with a noisy squelch. I don't think he'd even noticed the loss of our romantic evening mojo.

That hurt my feelings even more.

I tried not to let it. His job meant the world to him, and the last thing I wanted was to be one of those needy, self-absorbed women who have to be the primary focus of their man's life. But, geez. Call me high maintenance, but in her more intimate moments, didn't a girl deserve a little priority?

"Maggie." Tom was already buckling himself in on the driver's side as simultaneously he started the engine. I knew what it meant. Without a word I reached for my buckle. "Maggie, we're going to have to go. Both of the guys on duty are in the middle of things right now, and there's been a report of trespass and possible break-in at the feed mill in town." As he threw the truck into gear, he glanced over at me and added as an afterthought, "Sorry."

I sighed. Sorry he might be, but this seemed to be happening more and more often on what little time we managed to find together. Not that it was always Tom's fault; life at Enchantments, Stony Mill's answer to an upscale gift shoppe and secret witchy emporium, was keeping me busier than I ever would have imagined. Business, as they say, had been booming.

"It's all right," I told him, trying hard for magnanimity. "You've gotta do what you've gotta do."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. "That's my girl."

As we left the old quarry, I wondered how many couples had been startled out of their clinches by the bouncing headlights that identified our hasty departure. Then again, would I have noticed, had I been suitably enthralled? Hmm, probably not.

I turned my attention to Tom, keeping my expression neutral and my tone light. "Are you dropping me off, then?"

He shook his head. "No time, not if we want a chance in hell of catching whoever is there. Might be nothing, but better to be safe than sorry. You'll stay in the truck and lock the doors."
It wasn't what I'd wanted to hear, but it was all part and parcel of seeing a cop. Whether I liked it or not, there would be times he would be called in to duty, and whether I wanted it or not, there would be occasions where I would be with him when the calls came in and circumstances would necessitate my being taken along for the ride. Such was life.

I really didn't like it, though. I'd seen enough danger in the previous eight months to last me a lifetime, and none of it had been by choice.

We were traveling indecently fast up the bumpy county roads, slowing only a little before blowing through stop signs at the crossroads. My heart made a scaredy-cat dip every time. I managed to stifle any squeaks of distress, but I feared my fingers would make permanent dents in the soft parts of the doorframe by the time we drew near to the edge of town, where the pseudo-skyline of the feed mill loomed on the horizon, backlit by security lights in the steamy night air.

The Turners had owned the feed mill, the largest collection of grain elevators in the county, as far back as I could remember. A small village worth of silos of varying diameters and heights, the tallest stretching as high as a ten-story building, this hub for the farming community had changed drastically from when I had visited with my Grandpa Gordon as a child. Back then, it had been little more than some old silos, a dusty roundabout, and outlying holding pens for hogs heading for slaughter. Now the new-and-improved array of silos were interconnected by an extraordinary number of ramps and conveyer systems, the hog barns looked pristine—at least on the outside—and the very air itself whirred and buzzed with the noise from drying fans that looked big enough to drive a truck through. I remembered seeing an article in the Stony Mill Gazette about major renovations at Turner's and how they were costing a pretty penny, but this was the first time I'd been out this way in quite a while. Technology, it would seem, had arrived at last in the farming sector of Stony Mill.

As fast as we'd traveled through the surrounding countryside, now that we were drawing nearer the feed mill, we were creeping by comparison so as not to broadcast our approach. Next to me, Tom had gone instantly, perhaps even reflexively, into police mode, his entire body on high alert. His eyes grew sharp, moving here and there, taking in all the shadowed coveys, the many pockets of quiet where a person could easily be hiding.

"Jesus," he said under his breath. "Where to start? The guy could be anywhere."

I watched as he unlocked the glove compartment and withdrew his ankle holster, his eyes still on the quiet scene in front of us. Without a word, I reached behind the seat and grabbed the heavy utility belt and bulletproof vest he always kept at the ready like the Boy Scout he was, and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He opened his door and stepped out cautiously, drawing the vest over his head and securing the thick leather belt around his waist with a quick and practiced motion. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a big pocket knife, which he tossed onto my lap. "Here. Just in case. Stay put. Lock the doors behind me."

He closed the door firmly but quietly and moved away from the pickup with all the grace and danger of a panther on the prowl. His plain white T-shirt and blue jeans stood out all too easily beneath the bright glow of the security lights. A sitting duck, if anyone was out there with a serious reason for not wanting to be caught. Remembering what he'd told me about taking precautions, I punched the Lock button, feeling far more secure as the solid ka-chunk of the tumblers crunched into place. The weight of the folding knife in my hand reassured me even further—not that I'd need it, but its presence eased my mind anyway. At least, for myself; for
Tom, well, that was another worry altogether.

This was the hardest part of dating a cop. One never knew from day to day whether his health and well-being would continue. I found myself leaning forward on the truck's bench seat, staring out the windshield at the pockets of darkness as Tom darted in and out of them, hugging close to the walls. Why didn't he take a flashlight? I wondered, fretting. Maybe I should turn on the headlights . . .

I forced the thought from my head and made myself relax back against the seat. There was no way Tom would see that as anything other than interference, and I'd promised him months ago to keep my nose out of police business. Not that I had ever intentionally intervened. Like my mom had a fondness for saying, trouble just seemed to have a knack for finding me.

I fidgeted anxiously. Nine forty-two on the clock, glowing bright green on the dashboard.
At nine forty-three another car scuffed to a halt beside the truck, red and blue lights flashing, but no siren. I turned my head, but the officer who had been driving had already leapt from its confines and was standing outside my window, face stern, one cautious hand on the butt of his gun as with the other he motioned for me to open the window. Far be it from me to get in the way of the law. I pressed the Down button, posthaste.

Recognition registered suddenly on his face—Jed Something, I remembered just as suddenly, an older, thicker version of Tom, whose gunbelt served only to emphasize the middle-age drift.

"Oh, it's you," he said. "Thought I recognized the truck. Tom already here?"

I nodded. "Out there somewhere. I've lost track of him."

"Right. You stay here." He cut the flashers.

“Be careful. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but—”

He had already turned away from me. Just then the misty clouds that had been obscuring the moon shifted. I glanced up at the movement. My breath caught in my throat as the glow from the half-moon silhouetted a silo with its system of conveyers and chutes and ladders . . .

“Oh, my God. What is that?”

*********************************************

Copyright 2008, Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.

An Early Mother's Day Gift . . . for Me

This weekend, I betrayed a friend.

I know. I know! Dog. Meat.

Allow me to explain. A couple of months ago, before Nim’s Island was first released to theaters, my friend and I decided we'd see it together, just as soon as we could set a date. Since both of us are sincerely appreciative of Gerard Butler's talent as an actor {not to mention his other attibutes, ahem . . .}, we always make a point to try to get together to enjoy his new releases. Except we didn’t. My fault; my wacky schedule. Now. Leap forward in time to Saturday morning, when my son handed me a piece of paper from school that was advertising a special showing of Nim’s Island {honestly, what are the odds?} at our local family-owned theater, that was intended to be a Relay For Life event.

“Can we go, Mom?” he asks me. And then, giving me his best, most ingratiating, wide-eyed grin, “It has Gerard Butler in it . . .”

The kid knows me far better than he should. "Does it, now?"

Now, I knew GB was in the movie, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I was going for discreet. I mean, it’s not right that your nine-year-old son accuses you of thinking a well-known actor is hot . . . is it?

"Mmhmmm. Aaaaaaaaaannd, it’s only five dollars, and it includes popcorn and candy and everything!”

See? FAR better than he should. Gerard Butler and movie popcorn? Yum, yum, yum. “When is it playing?” I asked him.

“At noon today. We’re going, right?”

Was there ever any question?

It was 10:45 a.m.. There was no time to get my friend out the door on time from her home 45 minutes away, while also rounding my son up to get his teeth brushed and clean clothes on so that we could leave on time, a fair feat in and of itself. Forty-five minutes later, he was still sitting on the sofa with his thumbs twiddling a game controller, his eyes glued to the screen, despite the fact that HE was the one who had come up with the plan. Kids!

Sooooooo . . . as far as the movie goes, think Home Alone mixed with George of the Jungle mixed with Swiss Family Robinson mixed with Romancing the Stone. Kid’s movie, totally.

With perks . . .

Beautiful scenery. Beachy setting. In fact, a veritable tropical island paradise. And Gerard Butler . . . x Two! {I did say, ‘Beautiful scenery’, didn’t I?} Yes, the delectable Gerard Butler delighted us with a dual role performance in Nim’s Island. One, the Cutie-Geek, nerdy but somehow also magnificently studly, marine scientist Jack Rusoe, who spends his time on screen in beachy white cargo shorts and a white, gauzy shirt opened over a casual white tank . . . which only served to highlight, nay, perfectly display the golden tan that gleamed ever-so-tantalizingly over his nicely muscled body . . .

::koff koff:: Sorry about that. Got distracted.

A-n-y-w-a-y! In his second role we have the Uber-Masculine, Uber-Heroic, Uber-Delectable Action Hero Alex Rover, an Indiana Jones type of guy, right down to the pairrrrfectly fitted pants {not that I noticed} and rakishly tilted fedora.

Did I mention that the golden tan he is sporting in this movie really sets off the blue-green of his eyes? Sigh. I mean, it really, really did. Unbearably so. There are times when his eyes almost seem to glow. . .

But this is a kid's movie. I'm not sure if they realize how many of the more, ahem, mature females in the audience were nearly sliding off our chairs every time those eyes twinkled into the camera? What were these people thinking?!

I like to think they were giving the moms of the world a little prezzie for being so good as to cart their kids off to the theater for the afternoon. Think of it as an early Mother’s Day gift. Two Gerard Butlers for the price of one.

Don’t look at me that way. What can I say? I have a syndrome. It might have something to do with this:





















Yes, I think it just might.

My thoughts on this adorable little film:

I think I loved goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry in his goofy, geeky and yet somehow incredibly attractive glasses, just as much as I adore hot, sexy Gerry wearing anything. {Or not.} But then they cut to goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry wet on a boat . . . and I completely lost all sense of integrity. ::drool drool::

The movie was . . . imaginative and fun. Meant to be enjoyed, not dissected. I can suspend disbelief in a movie as well as the next person. For instance, Nim’s Island features a very imaginative little girl {the always wonderful Abigail Breslin} who swims with a sea lion and makes a pet of a goofy little lizard that sometimes steals the show from his more human counterparts. Cute. Nim is incredibly resourceful, and shows it by repairing the solar grid that powers her island home so that she can receive email and send radio transmissions. Of course she does. And then there was the pelican Gallileo, who has the ability to reason that stranded Gerry/Daddy Jack is going to need his tool pouch since his boat was nearly capsized, the mast sheared off, in a terrible storm that pushed him hundreds of miles away from his island paradise and daughter Nim. Not a problem. I was there. The guy needed his tools {and can I just say that there is something about a pair of big, broad, very manly hands wielding a screwdriver and a hammer with what certainly looks like expertise that makes my mind . . . wander, hee hee hee}, and so of COURSE the big pelican brought the tools to him. But eventually we came to the part in the movie where Author Alexandra Rover tells us, the viewing audience, that she hadn’t left her apartment for four months, and I found myself raising my brows and thinking, “Well, DUH!!!”

I mean, would YOU ever leave your apartment if you had Gerard Butler, in any role, trapped within those walls along with you? Right-O. Me, either.

Other thoughts:

Despite the fact that GB’s Daddy Jack character spends 90% of the movie lost at sea and appealingly wet, he actually gifts us with quite a lot of screen time. Bless the directors, again and again.

His character is upstaged quite a lot by the precocious and preternaturally talented Abigail Breslin . . . but the great thing is, he doesn’t seem to mind. He just runs with it.

Swashbuckler Alex Rover, alter-ego of the timid, charmingly quirky, and verifiably OCD author Alexandra Rover {Jodie Foster} likes to speak in Zen-like, inspirational platitudes. Things like, “Be the hero of your life story,” and, “Touch the world.” Well. I could think of other, more interesting things . . . but that's just me.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Favorite Funny Dialogue {one of many}: In response to the “Touch the world,” advice that Alex Rover gives her, Alexandra Rover quavers, “I-I don’t wanna touch the world. It’s not . . . sanitary!”

Realization: Gerry as nerdy scientist speaks with a nondescript, American accent that makes him seem ever so . . . normal. Gerry as action-hero swashbuckler speaks with his native Scottish accent that makes him seem ever so . . . swOOn-worthy. Hmm. I wonder if that was intentional? ;>

Favorite On-Set Animal: Fred the Lizard. Yes, I know that Fred should be called “Favorite On-Set Reptile,” but . . . feh. Whatever. I have never seen a lizard pull so many interesting faces. Of course, I don’t make a habit of looking into the faces of lizards, so that point may in fact be useless. Moot, even.

Interesting Googleism: Do you realize just how many media mentions there are of GB as “the delectable Gerard Butler”? Gobzoodles. And I just added a couple myself. ;>

Not-so-favorite dialogue: “You’ve been writing chapter eight for months. You need to get it out of your head . . . and into your body.” Er . . . oh, great. Remind me, why don’t ya!

Final aside to Gerry as pseudo-geeky scientist: Just a hint. Weather-dot-com, kiddo. Always check it before heading out on a short sea voyage. Didn’t you learn anything from those crazy castaways? I mean, you almost bit it in this film. Again. And to Gerry as Himself, I don’t think I need to tell you that there are thousands upon millions of crazy women out here who grit their teeth every time you take on yet another role where you DIE before the credits run. Have a little mercy.

Post Script: I still don’t know exactly what happened to Nim’s mother, other than she isn’t alive and seems to have, I think, been swallowed by a whale? Which kinda, sorta explains why Nim and her dad are living alone out in the middle of the Asiatic sea on a deserted island, running amok with the animals, reptiles, and sea plankton. Because the mom’s not around to smack some sense into them! Although . . . I have to admit, having GB all to oneself on a desert island wouldn’t be such a bad scenario. Kind of like the apartment, only with hammocks and tropical breezes and no need for a dress code.

Post Post Script: Gerry as Jack? Your American accent slipped a time or two, sweetness. Just a teensy bit. You know, I do a mean American accent myself. I’d be more than happy to give you a few pointers. ;>

Post Post Post Script: Back to the original thrust of this post: Sorry, LorHen!!!!!! HONESTLY!!!! Mea culpa!

**********************************

A little side note: A wonderful reader has set up a Yahoogroups called Magic, Mystery, and Romance as a go-to place for fans of modern, magical, mysterious romances and romantic mysteries. My "Bewitching Mysteries" and Annette Blair's wonderful "Triplet Witch Trilogy" are just some of the romance and mystery series that can be discussed here. If you're interested, send an email to: Magic_Mystery_and_Romance-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

Once you've joined, you can set the list up for a daily digest or individual emails, or even web-only if you prefer. Annette and I will both be a part of this reader's group, though probably not on a daily basis, especially when we are on deadline. :)

Another place for discussions for the Bewitching Mysteries is on MySpace: http://groups.myspace.com/mad4madelyn

*****************************************

Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

Is It May Already? Really?!?

What the f*** have I been doing with my time? Work. That's it. Work. Very, very hard. I've been working. A lot.

All paraphrasing of one of my movie favorites aside, I really have been working. I've been on sabbatical for a little while now, just trying to regroup and re-energize and get back to feeling like myself again. The winter was a hard one, but . . . Spring Is Finally Here With a Vengeance {!}, and I caught the fever. Big time.

What is it about spring that makes you feel like everything has to be as fresh and new and bright and shiny? I've been scrubbing like a mad-woman {heh}, cleaning out closets, dragging loads of unneeded items to Goodwill, and just generally driving my family crazy. I've even been shop-vacc'ing the basement. In my defense, it needed it. The spiders were starting to set up subdivisions and cobwebby shopping malls.

Our yard has also been suffering some neglect, so I've been working on that, too, with a little help from some of the big, strong men I have in abundance around here. My biggest flowerbed is now refreshed, restored, and ready for action. I've added a low fence to keep my beloved pooch Daisy from making a bed out of the perennials, a couple of stepping stones to make access to the rambling Cecile Brunner rose easier, and the entire area is free of weeds. I've got my hopes pinned on a bunch of seeds I have sprouting in little peat pots -- every time I see a cottage garden in a magazine, my eyes glaze over and I drift off into that hazy netherworld of foxgloves and violets, lupines and delphiniums, sweet william and garden phlox, cabbage roses and hollyhocks, daisies and black-eyed susans, veronica, sweet alyssum, and more.

My garden space, on the other hand, still needs work! Lemon balm and oregano have launched a combined attack on all of the other herbs, and it looks like they're winning their bid for garden domination. I think I'm going to have to put my foot down. That, and a sturdy spade. =)

My mom thinks it's particularly funny that I've become a gardener these days. When I was little, she was always trying to get me to help her out with the weeding. The trouble was, I was as pale-skinned and freckled as a redhead can be, and I have a tendency to overheat without advance notice, and this was back in the day when people slathered coconut-scented oil all over their sun-loving bodies. She'd take me out to the big, country-style garden on my grandparents' farm, and we'd all weed for hours. HOURS. Did I mention the bugs? I am a bit {okay, a lot} phobic. I jump if something even remotely buggish comes near me, and I have been known to make amazingly agile leaps backward, upward, and sideways, shuddering and cringing and heeby-jeebying all the while. Most of the time I manage not to scream, though. I'm sure the neighbors appreciate that.

In other news, I am 98% done with a complete remodel of my main website, www.MadelynAlt.com, something that I'm actually pretty proud of. With any luck, I'll be loading it all in the next few days.

Aaaaaand, here's something just for fun. Just click on the link to cast your vote:

Team Marcus? Team Tom? Or Team Someone New? Cast your vote now!

Choice #1: Tom, duh! He's honorable, he's sexy, what more could you want?
Choice #2: Marcus is my man! Who can resist a man who wears black leather pants while scrubbing a floor?
Choice #3: Neither is right for my Maggie-girl! We need someone new to slay her dragons and capture her heart.

Cast Your Vote Now . . .

Gosh, I hope that works! Bet you all couldn't guess I'm not the most tech-savvy girl out there. :)

Wishing you all a wonderful spring filled with fairy blessings and sweet scented flowers as you wile away the hours beneath a cloud-kissed sky... and a very blessed Beltane!

Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

On Writing: Characterization

In fiction, what makes for good characterization? There are as many answers to this question as there are readers. Let’s face it – we all have our personal preferences.

I write character-driven fiction. Meaning, the things that happen in the stories I write are determined in a large part by the characters themselves. Their quirks, their foibles, their dreams, their fears, their love, their loathing, their arrogance, their denials. I have to know the inner worlds of all of my characters in order to know how they will react to a given catalyst. The forks they choose determine the next stop along the road, which presents a new set of choices, then another, and another. Infinite possibilities.

Other authors will tell you they write plot-driven tales into which they drop a very carefully selected character. Neither method is better than the alternative. It all depends on what works for the author in question.

Whichever method you choose, it’s important to remember one thing about the characters you are creating: in another world—their world, however fictional—they are real. Or they should be. They have lives that revolve around them, lives filled with people they like, people they love, and people who rub them the wrong way for oh-so-many-reasons. They have hopes for their future, dreams they have forgotten, and regrets that run too deep to be forgotten so easily. Early in her adult years, a woman might be in a maiden stage of her life, where love and the mating game rules her thoughts. The men she chooses to tarry with reflect back upon her, how she feels about herself and the way she fits into the world. Or perhaps she moves quickly into the mother stage, where nurturing and taking responsibility for those around her takes all of her time and energy. Is she married, and if so, what kind of man did she choose as her lifemate? Is he strong and protective, willing to risk life and limb and personal dreams in order to support his family? Or is he still stuck in a rut {pun intended, heh}, playing reindeer games best left to those without ties? What paths do they choose, together and separately? How do they relate to those around them, and why? Or perhaps your female lead is moving into the crone years. Her nest is empty of any children she’s raised, and her life might now be stretching before her. Is it filled with possibilities, or do her regrets swell to unbearable levels? Has her marriage stood the test of time, or is she alone, and how does she feel about it? Is she watching the world pass her by and wondering why she can’t fall into step, too? Or is she making her own way, taking time for herself, dreaming again the dreams she might have set aside?

So many possibilities.

As for me, the characters that whisper their tales in the night are why I am a writer. Their lives intrigue me enough to want to find out what happens next. Some characters are like best friends, others make me roll my eyes. The actions of a few make me cringe, while others make me want to shake my head and gnash my teeth. But always, their humanity is what I find most fascinating.

So, yeah. Paint mine in bright colors, please. Make them laugh. Make them cry. Make them rejoice. Make them regret. Make them happy, sad, reluctant, zealous, driven, alcoholic, workaholic, commitment-phobic, animal loving, meat-eating, nookie addicted, shopping frenzied, bill worried, what have you...

Just make ‘em real.

Love to all,


Mad {madly!}

Ghost Hunting: Mad's Quickie Guide to Hauntings

It has been my experience that many people who don't make a personal habit of investigating the paranormal on a formal or even an informal basis often tend to lump spirit activity under one all-encompassing heading: Hauntings. Actually, this activity can and should be broken down further into the following subheadings:

Poltergeist – The word poltergeist finds its roots in the German language, and essentially means "noisy ghost." And that's it, in a nutshell. Poltergeist activity can run the gamut from noises like knocks or bangs, scattered objects, broken objects. Furniture might move or shake, items might disappear only to reappear in another location, seemingly without human intervention. People who find such activity within their sphere have been poked, prodded, scratched, pushed, whispered to. Poltergeist energies might be short in duration, but others can endure for years; each case is different. What causes this type of activity is open to interpretation. Oftentimes the activity will be centered around one person in the family, possibly a teenager in the throes of hormonal upheaval, or another family member who is undergoing emotional trauma. At other times, the activity can actually be attributed to several entities who pool their energies together in order to manifest change in the environment . . . which means, this activity can overlap other categories. See below.

Residual Haunting – A residual haunting has oft been likened to a recording of energy from a past event, an impression that replays itself over and over again. This type of haunting is one of the most common – just think of all the reports of "grey ladies" and "crying" or "screaming" spirits from castles across Europe. Buildings and even the land itself can serve as a kind of battery or recording device for such energies over time. Any violent or traumatic act that generates extremely high levels of emotion has the potential to generate future residual hauntings. Another factor might be the sheer number/volume of energies that visit a given place – residual hauntings that do not derive from traumatic events seem to take place most often in places that receive a lot of "focused" human traffic – such as churches, schools, hospitals, hallways, staircases. This type of "haunting" is more akin to a movie scene that has been set to repeat, and often the energies recur at the same time of day or year. It is generally not considered a true haunting, because there is no interactivity of the energy with the human activity surrounding it. There have been theories about the interplay of dimensions and linear time and how we might occasionally perceive them, but that's another topic.

Intelligent or Interactive Haunting – Human – This is what most paranormal investigators will consider a "true" haunting situation – when a location or person or object has an attachment by an entity who has intelligence and free will and can interact with its situation and the humans inhabiting the location. The spirit can manifest in many ways: as an apparition {grey haze, sparkles, shimmering space, actual human representation}, as sounds, by movement, by affecting the electrical and/or mechanical equipment in the vicinity. Most importantly, though, they are aware of you, and can acknowledge your presence by trying to communicate with you. Like the humans within your personal sphere of consciousness, these spirits can be benevolent; they can be playful; some seem to be upset and might even act out, depending on their reasons for them being where they are. Most of the time, you will find that they were once human. Generally speaking, they are not confined to one location in a building/physical location, although you might find they have prefered spots to manifest. They seem best able to manifest between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. {the Witching hours, LOL...}. Few are strong enough to show themselves physically during the day, although they may make themselves known in other ways, especially with those who are sensitive/intuitive. Why are they there? There could be several reasons. Perhaps the home/ land/object once belonged to them, and they feel they belong to it. Pride of place/ownership can be very strong, perhaps especially so for people in years past, when ownership was not possible for so many. Perhaps they lost someone very important to them and remain in "wait" mode for that person to return to them. Perhaps they are confused and don't know they have passed over. Perhaps they fear fully crossing over due to their religious belief systems in life. Perhaps they suffer from extreme guilt and don't feel they deserve to let go of that. Perhaps they have "unfinished business" left over from their life experience. Some spirits may actually be random "fly-bys" who are attracted to the energy and spiritual openness of a resident of the home, possibly a child, without a doubt someone who is sensitive to energies or who has mediumistic abilities {whether they are aware of this ability or not}. The trick is in discovering the why behind the presence.

One thing to consider: we sometimes confuse contact from our own Spirit Guides as evidence of an intelligent haunting. :)

Intelligent or Interactive Haunting – Non-human – The most controversial category, anything that falls within this type of activity is without a doubt the most unnerving, amazing, and in some cases, frightening examples of spirit contact a person can experience. There are many different types of entities that might qualify under this heading: Shadows {both tall and small}, the Fae, Elementals/Earth Spirits. The Angels and demons of Christian theology. Some paranormal investigators don't believe in dark entities such as demons – they maintain that there is nothing inhuman about such entities, there are only flawed former humans intent upon wreaking malice and hatred upon the living, continuing the behavioral patterns of their former life. Others maintain that non-human entities, both dark and light, do exist. People do tend to believe absolutely only in those things they have personal experience with, and perhaps that is as it should be.

I hope this helps you to understand the main types of spirit activity that one can encounter. I think perhaps the most important thing to remember is to treat spirits with the same kind of respect and dignity that you would afford another human being. Just as with people, some are fun, some are harmless but annoying, and some just need to be given wide berth. :)

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Holiday Message & News

To All of My Dearest, Most Beloved Readers ~~

The holidays are upon us, and as per usual, I am shamefully behind where I would like to be at present. The month of November didn't even register upon my consciousness, since I was on deadline and working hard to complete Book 4 in the Bewitching Mysteries in a way that satisfied me. And now December is a little more than half gone, and all I have to show for it is a whole lot of email correspondence, a teensy bit of gift shopping, a couple of get-togethers, a tremendous amount of cookie baking, and . . .

Oh, yeah. There was the release of HEX MARKS THE SPOT mixed in there. Just in time for the holiday shopping crush. Did you all know that books make wonderful stocking stuffers? Spread the love! Give a book {any book!} as a gift this holiday season.








{{ Just a teensy bit of subliminal messaging . . . pay no attention . . . }}






And now, for a bit of new news . . .

Exciting news, actually. My fabulous agent and wonderful editor just finished hammering out the details for an additional two books in the ongoing Bewitching Mysteries, bringing the total to date up to eight {for now . . . ;> }. Aaaaaaaand, more good news: we'll be bringing them out every nine months, rather than once a year. This should be good news for all of you who have begged me to write just a little bit faster. :)

Stay tuned: the new publishing schedule will be announced shortly.

So, while I'm rolling out cookies and creating masterpieces with frosting, non-pareils, and sprinkles, I'm also working out in my mind what trials and travails Maggie O'Neill will be experiencing next. Despite its quaint appearance and seemingly sleepy facade, life in Stony Mill is never boring. {Maggie and her friends will always see to that.}

Wishing you all the warmest of warm blessings this holiday season . . . May your hearths and homes be warmed by the fires of love that exist within your hearts.

Love to all,


Madelyn Alt

It's Out, It's Out, It's Out, It's Out, It's Out!!!!!

Coming up for air after finishing and sending off the fourth book in the Bewitching series . . . ::pant pant pant:: . . . I just wanted to post very quickly that book 3 -- HEX MARKS THE SPOT -- just came out on December 4th:

ISBN# 0425218708
Hex Marks the Spot
#3 - The Bewitching Mysteries, Berkley Prime Crime
~~ Mysteries . . . with Hex Appeal ~~

The Blurb:

Maggie O'Neill loves her job at Enchantments, Indiana's finest mystical antique shop. But something dark is brewing in Stony Mill--and it's not just the fabulous coffee Maggie serves to browsing customers. . .

Looking for charming stock for the store, Maggie accompanies her boss--and favorite witch--Felicity Dow to the countywide craft bazaar. Felicity falls hard for a beautiful armoire, intricately carved by an Amish craftsman. Maggie can't help noticing that though his clothes may be plain, he himself is more handsome than a man sporting a jawline-only beard has any right to be. And he seems pretty aware that the ladies love his. . . furniture. But when the hunky craftsman turns up dead, with a strange hex symbol etched near his corpse, Maggie wonders if the craft involved just might possibly have been the witchy kind. Because Maggie knows that the dead man could well have been oversexed. . . but was he also overhexed?

The latest review from Fresh Fiction:

"The latest in the Bewitching Mysteries series and a winner from page one. Ms. Alt transports her readers to the lovely town of Stony Mill and entertains with characters both charming and sinister. The mystical elements of the story weave seamlessly throughout as the reader learns, along with Maggie as she becomes more comfortable with and knowledgeable about her gifts and how to work with them for the greater good. This is enchanting entertainment at its finest."

What others have said about Maggie:

"Mystery fans who seek out "feel-good" reads for their literary escapism (books by authors like Janet Evanovich, Charlaine Harris, Kyra Davis, et al.) should definitely check out Alt's Bewitching Mystery saga, which is powered by her Everywoman heroine O'Neill. A small-town girl struggling to find her place in the world, she has an optimistic and idealistic outlook on an oftentimes malevolent and depressing reality -- as well an addiction to old episodes of Magnum P.I. -- that makes her one of the most refreshing and endearing protagonists to grace the amateur sleuth genre in years. Alt certainly picked the right name for this series. It's a bewitching saga by a positively witchy chick. Highly recommended. " ~ Paul Goat Allen, BN Ransom Notes Editor

For those who have not yet been initiated into Maggie's world:

The Bewitching Mysteries feature small town single girl and fledgling empath Maggie O'Neill, her witchy boss, and an unlikely circle of ghosthunting friends, the N.I.G.H.T.S., as they investigate an increasing level of paranormal disturbance--not to mention a series of unrelated murders--in Maggie's hometown of Stony Mill, Indiana.

That's about it. And now, having actually completed this deadline on time, I am going to go eat chocolate and celebrate tonight with The Golden Compass.

Oh! One last thing to celebrate: Hex Marks the Spot was the #3 Mystery Mass Market last week. I definitely think that deserves an additional WOOT. :)

Love and Hexes,

Mad ;>

Mad's List of Universal Truths, Halloween/Samhain-Style

I've always enjoyed all those fun Top 10 lists, and as I was sitting here today, nursing a headache caused by too much makeup, not enough sleep, and way too much sugar, I thought, Hey! Perfect Blogging Opportunity!

Here's what I came up with. Universal Truths for those lovers of Halloween/Samhain. By the way, sorry for the blurry pics. My photographer was a 14 year old who doesn't have the patience to hold still. :)

Ready?

#10) At times like these, a girl can never use too much glitter

#9) Never let a 14-year-old boy loose with a pint of fake blood.

Or faery wings. Yes, that's my son demonstrating his best Owen Wilson pucker below. And yes, he probably got his goofy sense of humor from his mom. I claim no responsibility for the blood above, though. Ick. The wings look totally wrong from behind, by the way.

#8) Always buy more candy than you bought last year {10 big bags, and we ran out in an hour and 10 minutes this year!}

#7) Glitter is something that goes with everything, and as such, should maybe even be used every day

#6) False eyelashes and the right makeup can make any woman look H-O-T, which is definitely cool. No wonder the stars like ‘em so much!

#5) Chocolate will always get a rave vote from Trick or Treaters

#4) Chocolate always gets a rave vote from those persons passing out the Treats, too. ;>

#3) Kitties pick up glitter like crazy

#2) Glitter in the hair one day means looking like Dreamy McSparkle on days two and three, no matter how much you shampoo and brush. Then again, guys seem to like that. ;>

#1) What goes up, must come down... but that can wait until the weekend. :)

There's a whole lotta cobweb on our old wraparound porch, trust me. :)

A few more pics from Castle Alt:

That's about it, so until next year, remember:

Always Practice Safe Hex! And watch out for the zombies!

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Halloween/Samhain Lovin'

Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain to all! Here at the Alt household, our wraparound porch is absolutely dripping with cobwebs and purple and orange lights. Eyeballs blink away at passersby from the windows, and of course I put up the big moon with the flying witch silhouetted against it on my front door. A protective scarecrow watches o'er the proceedings, surrounded by jack o'lanterns, all sporting jaunty grins or wicked grimaces and patiently awaiting the touch of the match to the candles within. All the veggies and herbs that will be useful to us have been culled from our garden, with the rest remaining for whomever or whatever might need them. :)

I'll be walking around town with my son -- and yes, I dress for the occasion -- while he scavenges for treats from all of our neighbors. A friend is coming over to help hand out treats at Castle Alt, a wide variety of goodies. We generally have between 200-300 hobgoblins out our way. A fun time is generally had by all! I don't even have to worry about leftovers -- my highschooler takes them in for locker goodies. Though I might just snitch a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and some M&M Darks for myself.

And yes, it's a good thing the candy doesn't last long! ;>

Happy Haunting to all,


Mad {madly!}

On Signs, Banishing Rituals, and the Throne of Reckoning...

What led me to write paranormal? Nothing less than a sign. The kind of spiritual sign that is akin to the slap of a frozen salmon upside the head. The kind of sign that says, "Wake up, stupid! You haven't been listening! Go. Do. This. Now."

I need the big signs. I can be a bit dense... though I prefer to blame the constant need for multi-tasking. :)

I had been sticking to writing straight historical romance for so long that I had convinced myself that I couldn't/shouldn't/wouldn't try anything else. In fact, I had accumulated so many rejections that I had slowly, steadily, painfully arrived at the certainty that I would always be two steps behind the market trends in romance; that I was just not a person who could ever consider herself lucky. It just wasn't in the cards for me to be successful in romance.

I'd hit a particularly low point while attending an all-day workshop with a nearby group of writer friends. By that time, I'd already received the "SIGN!!!!!!"--an epic, fun, cool idea for a paranormal themed mystery series set in modern day Indiana--but didn't have the courage to follow the idea to fruition. At this everyday writers workshop, there was an exercise that we were all supposed to take part in, one that smacked of a banishing ritual to me. All writers present were supposed to take a length of toilet paper, and on it we were supposed to write a list of all the things that we saw as obstacles or challenges in the way of our success as writers, any frustrations that were affecting our work, any whining we needed to get off of our chests, and we weren't supposed to be nice, or hold back in any way. If we needed to bitch about anything and everything under the sun, this was our chance.

Well, I try to be a nice person on a day-to-day basis, but that wasn't what this exercise was about, and on that particular day, something inside me just . . . snapped. {I think maybe, just maybe, it was my niceness bone...} I measured out a length of toilet paper, then measured out a little more, broke out my gel pen, and started writing. And writing. And writing. Everyone present was laughing at how long it was getting, and at how fast and furious my pen was moving across the, um, page. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, anything that had or was going wrong at that point in my adult life was touched upon. It was negative, and it was petty, and it felt SO GOOD to flush that toilet paper down the throne of reckoning.

And it was a turning point for me. Somehow, in some way, that simple act of symbolically flushing away all of the negativity in my life cleared the way and began to open new doors for me, both spiritually and mentally. I wrote the book that I worried I wasn't a good enough writer to do justice. I started plotting out the series in my airy-wispy-atmosphere-filled-seat-of-the-pants way -- enough to get the bones of it, but not enough to remove the element of synchronicity that keeps me going. I found an agent who loved it, who found a publisher who thought it could work. And from those baby steps, we moved forward with The Bewitching Mysteries.

What do I like best about telling Maggie's story? The freedom. The absolute, utter freedom of creating a world filled with characters I love. Characters who speak to me and whisper their stories. Characters who could be walking the streets of the town I live in {but who, of course, aren't}, who are familiar and down-to-earth and filled with the quirks and idiosyncrasies we all seem to have in abundance. I love being able to bring a taste of Indiana, one of those forgotten states that exist almost nebulously somewhere in the middle of this great nation, into the public eye {and yes, we are aware that most people know nothing about us beyond the Indy 500}. I love being able to show a variety of spiritual and religious beliefs, and I love being able to talk about religious intolerance and hopefully demonstrate that it is never a one-sided issue. I love exploring the spirit world, and the ways that it touches our own. And I love writing Maggie. She is a searcher, and through her journey toward self-discovery I have learned so much about so many lovely spiritual paths. And what's more, I get to do it with a wink and a smile.

Love to all on this lovely autumn day,

Mad {madly!}

Guest Blogger: Kristy Robinett, Psychic Medium

Today I have a special treat for you all. I have been chatting with Kristy Robinett, a very talented clairvoyant and spirit medium for the last few weeks. Kristy has so many fascinating experiences, and she possesses a connection to the world of spirit that never fails to amaze me. Thinking it would be cool to be able to offer you all a little glimpse into her world, I asked her if she would be willing to be a guest on my blog here, and I was so happy when she graciously said yes.

So, without further ado . . . Kristy Robinett.

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I want to thank Madelyn for giving me the opportunity to be a guest Blogger. Mad and I came upon one another on the mysterious World Wide Web. I don't believe in coincidences but in universal synchronicity, and I thank her whole heartedly for becoming my friend!

An Undercover Psychic Medium
Kristy Robinett
www.tangledwishes.com

"Does this happen often?" I evenly asked the middle aged lady sitting across from me as I ducked the second cobalt blue tea cup that had been aimed at my head. I watched as it fell to the ground without breaking.

"It started a few weeks ago. He seems to like dishes the best," Celia responded. "I've asked him to throw something softer, but he seems to like dishes the best," she repeated, ducking a matching plate.

The house was a typical 1970s ranch with a typical family inside to match. I had received the call from Celia asking if I would please do a paranormal investigation and a house blessing. She stated that odd things were happening.

Odd didn't quite describe it.

The air in the three bedroom house was thick and heavy with negative emotion and fear. Part of the fear was coming from me I was sure. Even after umpteen years (you think I am going to tell you my age?!) of doing investigations, I was still in awe and I still got scared. My husband sat next to me, one eye brow raised slightly, as he looked around at the unexplainable chaos. He silently shook his head and gave me a sideways smirk. He married into the nutso life of me being a Psychic Medium and as he always said, "came along for the beer." Although neither of us drank.

I was born with "the gift", but growing up I often referred to it as "the curse," as it seemed to cause more trouble than it was worth. My father was extremely religious; a well respected Deacon of the Missouri Synod Lutheran church. Anything ghostly or psychic was of the devil. Or that was what I was taught from early on. So, when I saw spirits at the age of three and communicated with them, it wasn't exactly the kind of heart to heart talk that I wanted to have with my parents. To be honest with you, I still haven't had that chat. I confess; I am not great with confrontation. I kept the gift hidden. Sort of. I loved doing predictions and would share them with my friends, especially if I 'knew' that there was going to be a pop quiz, or that so and so was going to break up or get together. When asked how I knew about these things before they happened, I made up lame excuses. The toughest part of the gift comes with situations like plane crashes or other disasters, and they still continue to impact me quite hard. When September 11th happened and I had a,vision a few days beforehand, I blamed myself for not doing anything other than scribbling some drawings, names, dates, and other miscellaneous things in my journal. If I wasn't given this to help, then why was I given this? It is still a question I often ask myself.

So what is a Psychic Medium? I am sure that images of flowing gowns, incense and airy-sounding women come to mind. Ha! That is sooooo not me. Flowing gowns just aren't my thang. I tend to gravitate towards jeans and cute t-shirts. Incense? I just don't like the smell, but I do burn white sage! And the airy voice. Hmmm…my husband may call me an airhead sometimes, but he says it in a loving way! In a nutshell, as a psychic medium, I talk to those who have crossed over, along with Spirit Guides, and I pass along information that they give me. It is different from a psychic who uses earthly tools (tarot, pendulum, etc) to foretell the future. Readings with me are never of the cookie cutter variety. I have a sense of humor, and I like to use that in the readings. I still remember the first time I went for a reading for myself. Wowzers, was I nervous. I thought for sure that he would tell me all bad and nothing good. Instead I was immediately put at ease, and felt like I was talking to a friend. That is how I want my readings to be, and I strive to achieve that with everybody I read, no matter the person or the situation. I take my police work very seriously, though. Missing persons and murder cases are tough, especially when they deal with children. I have had my share of tears working on cases with police and private investigators. And paranormal investigations, although they can be fun, can also be stressful and dangerous. It isn't always the ghosts or demons you have to fear, but the living. There is never a dull moment in my life and for that I am thankful as I get bored easily. Sometimes I wait to hear "Cut" from a director and have it all shut off; but my life is real. Sometimes surreal, sure, but still real.

It is difficult to sum up my life as a Psychic Mediumship in one journal entry. I have stories. Boy, do I have stories! And with each paranormal investigation, murder/missing person case and each client I read for, I add more to it. I love being a Psychic Medium. I love doing readings, I love doing radio, and I love doing television. I used to hide, but I am coming out of my shell as to who I am. I am no longer an undercover Psychic Medium, just a Psychic Medium. I will scream it from the rooftop.

Ok, maybe not. I am afraid of heights.

Celia's problem seemed to be an older gentleman in spirit who had once lived in the house. He was very upset that the family was renovating the kitchen. I had a talk with this stubborn spirit in residence, and it was decided that Celia would keep the dishes in the same spot that his wife had always kept them – next to the stove instead of next to the sink. Another mystery solved.

If only they were all that easy!

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Interview File Now Available Online

Well! The interview was last night, and I have to say, I didn't even get hives! Kristy and Amy were amazingly good fun, and it really did feel just like girlfriends chatting about everything under the sun. Plus, a little bit of book and writing info as well.


If you weren't able to listen live last night, you can access the file here: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/League_of_Extraordinary_Paranormal_Women/2007/10/01/para-women-radio


The regularly scheduled radio show is going to be switching to Thursday nights at 7 p.m. EST. Be sure to give them a listen! They have a number of fun interviews in their archives, to boot. Here is a pic of the intrepid hosts:

That's Amy there on the left, and Kristy on the right.

In addition to ParaWomenRadio, Kristy and Amy are two of the foundng members of the League for Extraordinary Paranormal Women, which was formed for Women, about Women, and supporting Women in all area's of the Paranormal fields including investigators, authors, writers, editors, artists, filmmakers, screenwriters, actresses, and musicians. A very cool concept, I think. Please visit them on MySpace here: http://www.myspace.com/extraordinaryparawomen

Also, if you are interested, Kristy and Amy are heading up a ghosthunt for Halloween at the BlackHawk Bar & Grill in Richland, Michigan on October 30th. You cannot go wrong with this group if you are looking to experience a real, live ghosthunt. Please get in touch with them via http://www.myspace.com/hauntingexperience . It looks like it will be a haunting good time!

Here is Kristy's MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/tangledwishes (don't forget that Kristy is a wonderfully talented spirit medium!)

And Amy's MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/hauntedhillsdale


Love to all on this cool, rainy night...


Mad {madly!}