Bell Bridge Books

BE CAREFUL WITH THE LITTLE DETAILS

by Melissa Ford

The first thing you need to know is that I don’t know a lot about television.  I watch whatever my husband puts on at night, and if he doesn’t turn on the television, then it wouldn’t occur to me to choose something myself.  One time my husband went to Berlin for ten days. When he returned and clicked on the television, it was still set to ESPN which he was watching before he left.  He looked at me and said, “you either missed me so much that you watched sports… or you didn’t turn on the television for a week and a half.”  Ding, ding, ding!  We have a winner.

The second thing you need to know is that when we were making Bermuda shorts in our Home Ec class in eighth grade, I didn’t align the front and the back properly so the fabric pattern went in two different directions.  I had hand-stitched my shorts together because I couldn’t get a hang of the sewing machine, and the fabric puckered strangely between the holes in the seam.

I know nothing about television and nothing about sewing.  So why did I make one character in Apart at the Seams a writer for a comedy news show, and the other a finisher for a clothing designer?

It was sort of by accident.  Noah and Arianna were supposed to be minor characters, meant to help hold up the plotline, but they were thrust into the spotlight when we decided to tell the same story over two books from two very different points of view.  If these two characters were a television writer and a finisher in Measure of Love, then they needed to have the same jobs when the story flipped over and was told from their point of view in Apart at the Seams.

The moral of this story is to be careful with even the little, throwaway details.

I was lucky in that a bunch of kind people in New York jumped in to teach me their craft so I could create a believable television writer and finisher.  Jill Katz at the Daily Show brought me to the set and taught me what goes into crafting a half hour comedy show from script to performance.  She didn’t even roll her eyes when I meekly asked her what the man working the camera was called.

And Brenda Mikel, the Atelier Director at Narciso Rodriguez, spent hours walking me through the process of designing clothing. It’s thanks to her that Arianna attaches sequins before the pattern is cut rather than after as she did in the first draft of the book.  There was no question too basic that Brenda didn’t take time out of her busy schedule to answer thoughtfully.

I’m grateful for all the people who stepped in to help bring veracity to the characters and storyline.  Though next time, I’m going to stick with what I know and make my character a women’s fiction writer, working out of her house.  Then again… it was pretty cool to see the Daily Show in action…

Make sure you grab Melissa Ford’s new release

– APART AT THE SEAMS-

out on June 14!!

Just click the link above!

And don’t forget to grab the first two books in this series – LIFE FROM SCRATCH and MEASURE OF LOVE!

Just click the links below!

You Know Who Mark Harmon is, Right?

By C. Hope Clark

          When you think of mysteries, crime, and agents, the routine acronyms come to mind like FBI, CIA, DEA, and ATF. The more arrogant Secret Service guys like to roll out their name and not use initials. Then not all that long ago, we learned about NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service . . . and Mark Harmon!

But I became aware of another group of federal agents when I signed on with the US Department of Agriculture, and at first blush I wondered what the heck agents with guns and badges were doing around cows and corn, tractors and silos. But when a client offered me a bribe, I learned quickly that crime exists wherever there’s motive and money, even in the country, even within the Ag Department.

The Offices of Inspector General (OIG) quietly exist for all federal agencies, Smithsonian, Transportation, Health and Human Services, etc. But I took particular interest in the Ag Agents since that was my dominion, and I soon learned they could throw cuffs on a culprit as effectively as any FBI agent. So why not open up a new world of crime in a unique mystery series?

Carolina Slade is offered a bribe in Lowcountry Bribe, and she meets Senior Special Agent Wayne Largo with USDA OIG. The culprit? A hog farmer.

Say what? Farmers aren’t like that. Hah! Farmers can be bad guys like anyone else, and this hog producer proved it over and over in the first book of this series. Human blood doesn’t look much different than hog blood, now does it? Our IG agent waded in amongst the muck to help our stumbling yet hardheaded protagonist crack this case.

Then Tidewater Murder drew Slade into the South Carolina Lowcountry amidst tomatoes and shrimp. Drugs and migrant workers caused quite a stir, and we learned that agriculture can get deadly in a hurry.

The term agriculture agent raises visions of cowboy hats, boots, and straw out the corner of someone’s mouth, but as redneck as the role may sound, they are legit. Some of their real cases include:

• Prosecuting Sarah Lee for selling bad meat leading to a Listeriosis outbreak, killing 15 people and sickening over a hundred.
• Breaking up dog fighting rings, to include the Michael Vick case.
• Nabbing a meal and veal exporter who dumped tainted meat on Japan, who then shut down its borders to American meat imports for six months.
• Arresting meat suppliers for dumping uninspected and tainted meat into school cafeterias.
• Busting horse owners and trainers for cruel and illegal practices on horses bred for show.
• Nailing people putting sewing machine needles into food.
• Cuffing a feed supplier for tainting calf feed with formaldehyde.

Theft, conspiracy, fraud, embezzlement, even murder, bribery and smuggling.  It gets bad in many colorful ways the average urban dweller doesn’t fully comprehend.

And now we have Carolina Slade’s newest release Palmetto Poison, where we learn that politics and peanuts can overlap in a bad way. The idea of Palmetto Poison came from the Agriculture OIG’s press release archive, when a produce inspector took bribes under the table to allow substandard products to pass through inspection.

Such action sounds little more than greedy, but can result in serious consequences. Bad peanuts may just sound like a nasty taste, but high levels of mold, fungal, and moisture can make them deadly.

Salmonella can actually wait dormant in that innocent jar of peanut butter until it hits the perfect growth environment, the human stomach. And if inspections get too far out of hand, more serious illnesses rise to the surface, like aflatoxin. Not a common scenario in the protected US of A, thus making it an opportune plot tool in Palmetto Poison, but in third world countries, many die from these cancer-causing peanuts that destroy a liver.

Whenever you have money, subsidies, or profits in the picture, you have crime. While it’s not palatable to think of our food infected with something that could kill us, the potential exists for large-scale tampering. While some mysteries poison the drinking water or substitute flu vaccines with crazy virulent strains of disease, Carolina Slade’s plots scare us where we feel safe, where we don’t expect crime to hit. And the agents in the mix specialize in that arena.

USDA’s OIG might not have a Mark Harmon yet, but I suspect we’ll see one downstream. And if you’ve read any of Slade’s stories, you’ll immediately wonder who could play the luscious Senior Special Agent Wayne Largo. I know I do. And since I married the agent in my bribery investigation, he’s rather intrigued as to who would play him, too!

BIO

Palmetto Poison is C. Hope Clark’s latest in The Carolina Slade Mystery Series. Hope is also editor of FundsforWriters.com, a website recognized by Writer’s Digest for its 101 Best Websites for Writers for the past 13 years. www.fundsforwriters.com / www.chopeclark.com

Check out C. Hope Clark’s newest release – PALMETTO POISON – today from Amazon!

Just Click the Link!!

Fried Okra and an (Almost!) St. Paddy’s Birthday

by Jean Brashear

Is it possible to love leprechauns too much? To thrill overly to the sight of a shamrock and too-deeply cherish the color green?

Yes, my name is Jean, and I adore St. Patrick’s Day to a possibly embarrassing degree.

Okay, so I got attached as a child—its proximity to my birthday and the ready-made party theme imprinted on me early. Learning that my ancestors came from Ireland (with more than a few braw Scots in the mix) only cemented the bond.

Discovering that the first of my family tree to arrive on the shores of what would become America occurred as a result of my ship’s captain ancestor wrecking on the Virginia coast…oh, golly, does that mean I can maybe throw a pirate into the mix? Be still my heart!

I KNEW there was a reason Eudora “Pea” O’Brien of THE GODDESS OF FRIED OKRA (can you say The Great Subconscious?) became a swordswoman!

I’m all grown now, and, yes, I know March 17 isn’t actually my birthday…but I still have this deep-seated urge to brandish shamrock napkins and don green leprechaun birthday hats every March…and maybe to also whip out my sword and join Pea and Glory in a little celebratory sword dance to honor the sisterhood of all those remarkable Goddess of Fried Okra women!

Happy St. Paddy’s, fellow lovers of all things Emerald!

Jean

New York Times and USAToday bestselling author of THE GODDESS OF FRIED OKRA and nearly 40 other novels in romance and women’s fiction, a five-time RITA finalist and RT BOOKReviews Career Achievement Award winner, Jean Brashear will also confess to an ongoing fangirl adoration of the remarkable women at Bell Bridge Books and the amazing books they publish

Visit Jean’s website

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AND DON’T FORGET TO GRAB JEAN BRASHEAR’S NOVEL – THE GODDESS OF FRIED OKRA – TODAY FROM AMAZON!!

JUST CLICK THE LINK!

No Pot of Gold at This End

by Kathryn Magendie

Lots of supernatural magic happens in the Smoky Mountains. And if some of it is unbelievable to you and you and you,  well, there’s no way to prove that, now is there? We can hide more deeds in and among these mysterious mountains than city dwellers can (and I say “dwellers” as if it’s not spelled and pronounced that way, as if I am saying “fellers” all mountain south way).

But there are some things that need no proving. You must believe them! For in believing them, you can take away a piece of the magic for yourself—you can look for what you must find.

I once was hiking along a ridge-top when I saw a rainbow arcing across the sky, touching the next ridge-top over from where I was. There was something different about this rainbow, something more solid though it undulated, sparkly, and it was beckoning to me. I was mesmerized, hypnotized, and didn’t even think to consider the distance I’d have to trek to find the end of that strange rainbow.

But in the way that magic happens, when the earth aligns just so with the moon, and the stars although unseen bare their sparkled supernatural gifts, with only a few long running steps I soon arrived at my destin(y)ation.

When I tell this story, seeing as it happened on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, people will ask, “Did you find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? A leprechaun?” I just shake my head. Seriously? A pot of gold? A leprechaun? Those kinds of things are for other legends and other fairytales in other lands. Not for here. Not for me. And they will then ask, “What did you find, Kathryn?”

“I found,” I then say, “a cup spilling over with brilliant color that washed into the cup and over its sides, and down the mountain . . .” . . . on it flowed, as if a creek where many colors of paint were spilled. I didn’t hesitate, but threw off my clothes and dived in. The water-colors were warm against my skin, and when I lifted my hand, it was red, green, purple, blue, yellow, orange—and all the colors among and between those. Glancing down at my body, it was just as my hand appeared. My hair streamed out behind me, brilliant golden silver.

I then drank some of the water, unafraid, for the rainbow whispered promises to me—“It is good; it is good; it is so very good, dear one.” And it was. I tasted sweetness, a sweetness that entered my body and then spilled out from my pores. I sweated colors, and then, quite suddenly, because it was so very lovely, I began to cry. I sat upon the grass tinted by the colors, my feet emerged in brilliance, and I cried for everything I ever lost and gained and would lose and gain again. My tears fell upon the grass in gemstones of emerald, ruby, sapphire. I did not pluck them from the ground for my gain, for they belonged to the rainbow.

The waters then rose up and washed around me, hugging me, and I knew the rainbow would soon have to leave. The cup tipped and spilled all of its wonder and I lay upon the ground and let the colors wash me clean. I saw my life before and ever since. But I could not see what was to come, and that was okay, for the rainbow eased my worry.

Soon, the cup was empty, the water-colors rising up out of it and back into the rainbow, and then, as if it had never been there at all (but it was! I saw it!), the cup and the rainbow disappeared. I mourned it for a moment, until I saw something glimmer in the grass—one perfect tear still held there, garnet—deep blooded red. I touched it and it melted into my skin becoming a part of my blood that raced through my veins. I smiled, rose, and hiked back down the mountain.

I would never be the same.

When I tell this story, people think it is a metaphor, that I have some grand reason for telling it, some purpose.

That is up to the listener. I only know what I experienced that March 17 in a year that is secret to everyone but me—perhaps it is this year, and I simply saw the future. Perhaps it was a hundred years ago, and I saw a past.

I long to hike up to the ridge-top once more, to see a rainbow, where I would not look for pots of gold or leprechauns, but instead for the beckoning. I long to search until I find it again—though, I know in that knowing way, it happens only once in a lifetime, in ten-thousand life-times. I know that now comes the time that I must leave it behind and never ever will I ever see it again.

Check out Kathryn Magendie’s novel – THE LIGHTNING CHARMER – today on Amazon!

Just click the link! 

Tip o’ the Hat to Murph

 by Judith Arnold

My ninth-grade English teacher was a tall, broad-faced, red-haired, vehemently Irish man named Eugene Murphy. Murph was brilliant, motivational, stern, and funny—the best teacher I had in high school. All these years later, I still remember the cadence of his coordinating-conjunctions chant, his purple-prose parodies, his explication of The Iliad and his flummoxed reaction when we all handwrote our Iliad essays in spirals so he’d have to rotate our papers to read them. I remember the day he confiscated our water pistols and then turned them on us and mowed down the entire class with spritzes of water. I remember the day he read us a short story he had written, a lovely, lyrical tale heavily influenced by James Joyce. I remember him serenading us with “Danny Boy,” his voice a sweet, high tenor.

One reason I wound up writing for and then editing the high school newspaper was that Murph was the faculty advisor. I didn’t want to lose the chance to work with him once I’d finished ninth grade.

Not surprisingly, Murph took St. Patrick’s Day very seriously. My senior year, the St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York City coincided with an awards luncheon for high school newspapers at the Waldorf-Astoria. Our school newspaper had won some sort of recognition from the Columbia University School of Journalism, and Murph piled the newspaper’s senior editors into his car and drove us into Manhattan so we could receive our award.

I don’t remember much about the award or the luncheon. What I do remember was that we arrived in the city hours before the luncheon so we could view the St. Patrick’s Day parade first. I recall little about the parade itself—a parade is a parade—but everything about Murph that day. He wore a necktie festooned with shamrocks, and balanced a kelly-green derby precariously atop his red hair. He waved at the marchers. He sang. He cheered. He made me wish I was Irish.

I am not Irish. I come from Eastern European Jewish stock, and I’m as proud of my heritage as Murph was of his. And so, the following Monday, I brought Murph a St. Patrick’s Day present: a square of matzo painted green.

Tears glistened in Murph’s eyes when he opened the box and saw that bright green matzo. Whether they were tears of joy or horror, I can’t say. I did warn him not to eat the matzo, because I’d used real paint, not food coloring. Perhaps his tears arose from disappointment over not being able to snack on my gift.

I kept in touch with Murph for years after I graduated from high school. He was my mentor, my inspiration. He definitely deserves some of the credit for my career as a novelist. Never does a St. Patrick’s Day go by when I don’t summon a memory of him standing on that crowded sidewalk on Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan, wearing a tacky green derby and singing “McNamara’s Band” as the parade passed by.

CELEBRATE EVERYTHING GREEN (PAINTED OR NOT) THIS ST. PATRICK’S DAY!

AND DON’T FORGET TO GRAB DEAD BALL BY JUDITH ARNOLD FROM AMAZON TODAY! 

JUST CLICK THE LINK!

Three-Leaf Weeds

by Kimberly Brock

I’m not Irish. Not even close. I don’t even look good in green. But there’s something that gets to me every spring when St. Patrick’s Day rolls around – this whole business of luck. I don’t have it. I want to know how to get it. And I’m starting to worry maybe I just missed the turn on the way to my pot of gold.

People will put ridiculous amounts of faith in luck. They’ll latch on to just about any old thing and then claim it to be lucky. There’s the luck of the Irish. Blind luck. Lucky pennies. Lucky horseshoes. Lucky numbers. Lucky socks or shoes or hats or garter belts. Lucky stars. But even with these endless options, I’ve never really been lucky. I don’t stumble upon opportunity or trip over good fortune. I don’t win at slots. I never scratched off a game card and got the Free Big Mac Meal. I never met Ed McMahon at my front door in curlers to receive my Publisher’s Clearinghouse millions. But this stuff happens. Out of the clear blue, it seems, there’s luck. So, maybe people who love the idea of luck are in fact, actually, lucky. Maybe it’s real enough, not just coincidence. But – and this is not because I’m green with envy – I’m starting to think luck might be a lot more than, well, dumb.

I married a man who can find a four-leaf clover without fail. It’s a wonder to behold, how that taciturn man can walk onto any patch of grass, bow his quiet head, and call up a little miracle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he creates them out of the wishes of his heart. To tell you the truth, I am suspicious of his methods. There’s something annoying about the fact that I can stomp all over that same little patch for hours and all I’ll see is grass and the most ordinary three-leaf weeds on earth. I resent it, if you want to know the truth. I put in the effort. I crouch and squat and squint until my back aches and my head is dizzy and in the end, I have nothing to show for it but a bad attitude. He, on the other hand, waltzes along, whistles, even. He will hardly glance at the ground, just plucking up little bouquets of blessings. He finds them so easily, he doesn’t even care to just give them all to me. Now, what is that? Is that luck?

So, finally, one day I said, It’s not fair. You don’t even have to try. I asked him how he did it. He smiled. And this is what I’ll think about this spring when the stout little leprechauns start trotting around, measuring their shillelagh sticks. He gave me a handful of clover and said, Maybe you’re just looking so hard you can’t see what’s right in front of you.

And that’s when I realized, my luck isn’t Irish at all. He’s German.

Check out Kimberly Brock’s novel – THE RIVER WITCH – on Amazon today! 

Just click the link! 

Red Headed Heroines Throughout History

by Niki Flowers

“Red-headed stepchild,” “Ginger,” “Fire-tempered.” These are just a few of the names that redheads get called just for being redheads! It’s mean, there’s no need for it, and (by the way) red hair is gorgeous! (In fact, I was a red head for a while 😉 Course it wasn’t as pretty as natural red hair. Haha).

All of that being said – and to start off BelleBooks’s Red, Green, and Irish Week – I would like to name and talk about some fantastic Red Headed Heroines Throughout History!

1. Emily Dickinson: A reclusive American poet who, unfortunately, wasn’t made famous by her work until after her death when her parents put it out for the world to see.

2. Margaret Sanger: The woman behind Planned Parenthood and who said it was okay for women to have a say in whether or not they had children. She rallied for birth control and brought about the age of liberation for women.

3. Elizabeth I: The daughter of Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII, she was the last of the Tudor Line and was referred to as “The Virgin Queen,” for she did not marry, nor did she bear any children. Her reign was titled The Elizabethan Era and was written of in plays by Shakespeare and Marlowe.

4. Carol Burnett: Host of her own variety show – The Carol Burnett Show – from 1967 to 1978. She’s been in a plethora of other TV shows, movies, and voice overs. She will always be known for her Tarzan call, Went With the Wind (A Gone With the Wind parody), and her ear-tugging salute to her grandma.

5. Geri Halliwell (or Ginger Spice!) She was the most musically famous of The Spice Girls. She was on the Spice Girls Reunion of ’07 and she has many solo albums out. Even though she didn’t marry soccer hottie – David Beckham – she’s still very famous and very lucky. What could beat a music career (besides publishing ;P)?

6. Lucille Ball: I Love Lucy! In fact, who wouldn’t? Married to Desi Arnaz and mother of two adorable munchkins. I Love Lucy will always be remembered as the first American program to have a lady in the leading role and also one of the first to show a woman who was preggers (even if they weren’t allowed to say the PREGNANT word).

7. And last but not least, my three personal favorite Red Heads: Ariel from The Little Mermaid, Anna from Frozen, and Meridia from Brave! As a Disney-a-holic, I can safely say that these three redheads show Bravery, Beauty, and Brains (And a lot of Awkwardness from Anna) and they also have the ability to inspire little girls to believe that they can be and do whatever they want in life despite the challenges they face. 🙂

Those are just a few of the numerous Red Headed Heroines of History. Who are some of your redheads? Let us know in the comments!

And don’t forget to celebrate Red Heads by grabbing BelleBooks’s own Red Headed Heroines off of Amazon!

Just click the links! 

These are just a few of the many red heads we have over here at BelleBooks! Check them all out at Bellebooks.com and on our Facebook page here! 

WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING

by Mary Strand

From a certain perspective, I grew up in an Irish household.

This is pretty funny, actually, since I’m only 1/8 Irish and half Norwegian.  My mom was 1/4 Irish but, not being a math person, thought of herself as 110-percent Irish.  This mostly meant that she tended to lead the wailing on “Danny Boy” and sang the loudest on “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” the latter possibly with the assistance of Irish whiskey, and she had a penchant for giving her kids names like Brian, Sheila, and Patrick.  My dad had little say in the matter, but he sighed a lot.

I followed in my mom’s footsteps, but mostly just on St. Patrick’s Day.  In college this meant green beer, lots of it, and dancing Irish jigs to any song, most of those songs entirely inappropriate to an Irish jig, especially since the bar where we performed these jigs was a disco bar.  (Don’t blame me.  Blame the late 1970s.)  In law school my so-called Irish self and I spent St. Patrick’s Day in one of the Irish pubs a block or two from Georgetown, on Capitol Hill.  I was kicked out of one of them one year.  For an Irish lass, it was a proud moment.

Next thing I knew, I was married and practicing law, and St. Patrick’s Day became yet another day of work or, in a wild moment, a civilized dinner of corned beef and cabbage.  No more green beer.  No more getting kicked out of anywhere.  No more Irish jigs.

And then, one year, kidlet # 1 was born.  Due on Easter, he arrived four weeks early (bless his little 1/16 Irish heart) on St. Patrick’s Day.  My mom insisted he be named Patrick.  Tom and I had long since named both of the kids we were to have, and Patrick wasn’t in the mix.  My mom declared, mournfully, that I had failed her and all of Ireland.  These things happen.

Ever since, St. Patrick’s Day has been all about kidlet # 1.  His lifelong favorite color is green, but he has no interest in corned beef, cabbage, Irish soda bread, or (so far) green beer, and he calls the shots on his birthday.  As a result, my wild St. Patrick’s Days have become a distant memory.  One of my brothers, who remains as 110-percent Irish as my mom was, calls me every year to explain that he might not be able to come to kidlet # 1’s birthday dinner, because, gee, it falls on St. Patrick’s Day.

Yes, it does.  And it will next year, too.  But now we celebrate a more important holiday:  my son’s birthday.  Still, I’ll always have a fond spot in my 1/8 Irish heart for St. Patrick’s Day and my mom’s favorite Irish blessing, embroidered on a decorative pillow:

May those that love us, love us.
And those that don’t, may God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn’t turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles
So we’ll know them by their limping.

LET YOUR IRISH EYES SMILE ON MARY STRAND’S ROMANCE NOVEL – COOPER’S FOLLY.

HEAD ON OVER TO AMAZON AND GRAB IT TODAY! JUST CLICK THE LINK! 

It’s National Kahlua Day!

To celebrate, we’re giving away one pack of the Kahlua brand coffee!

It’s refreshing, delicious, and it smells fantastic!

To enter, just “like” the Bell Bridge Books Facebook page here!

And while you’re enjoying your Kahlua Coffee, you can cuddle up with the Tiki Goddess Mystery Series by Jill Marie Landis available on Amazon!

Just click the links!

IN MEMORY OF TRISH JENSEN

Last week the literary community lost one of its own. A champion of the written word and a talented author. Trish Jensen will be forever missed. Her words will continue to live in the hearts of her fans and pages of her books. In the words of her friends:

“I’ve known Trish Jensen for more than twenty years, first online and later in person. I remember when she made her first sale. I remember when she hit the USA Today list with one of her earlier books, and she didn’t seem to realize what a major accomplishment that was. I remember when she fell in love with her computer-geek boyfriend, and, some years later, when she fell out of love with him and sent him on his way. I remember when she was stricken unexpectedly by liver failure, and she was told she needed a liver transplant. A bunch of her writer friends organized an auction to raise money for her. I critiqued a bunch of manuscripts, for which the writers generously paid into the Trish fund. We were all so glad we could do SOMETHING for our Trishie.

And then she got her new liver and recovered, and she was back, as feisty and funny as ever. She and I disagreed on politics, but we never let those disagreements get in the way of our friendship. She was curious about Judaism and frequently asked me–no expert on the subject, but with the basic knowledge that comes from growing up in a reformed Jewish family–questions about the religion’s beliefs and practices. She was a Penn State fanatic, although she always cheered with me when the Patriots won a Superbowl. (I can’t prove it, but I think she might have had a crush on quarterback Tom Brady. <g>) She loved shopping at Chico’s. She doted on her dog. I think the dog ate better than Trish did–although I always meant to get Trish’s vichyssoise recipe. That was one of her specialties.

The last time I saw Trish was at the Ninc conference in 2011. I was hoping she’d come to this year’s conference. Three years was way too long to go without a hug from Trishie. I can’t believe I’ll never again get one of her emails asking about why Orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to watch TV on Friday nights, or a collage of adorable animal photos, or some silly joke. At least her books will live on, as will the love of her friends.” —USA Today Bestselling Author Judith Arnold

“For those of you who are Trish Jensen’s friends in real life, my deepest condolences.  But what a tribute to an extraordinary person that she touched people who didn’t know her in everyday life as well.  She promoted, cheered, and fought for us whether we were newbies like me or longtime bestselling authors.  My heart goes out to her family and friends. She’ll be missed, but never forgotten.” —Donnell Ann Bell, author of The Past Came Hunting, Deadly Recall, and Betrayed.

“I’m one of those lucky ones who has known Trish for years. She was always as she was here, the first to cheer, the first to support, and passionate in defending anyone or anything she loved.

I’m not feeling very lucky this morning. But I’m glad her pain is over, even if mine is just beginning.

A dear, sweet friend, author Trish Jensen, slipped away from this world early this morning. In all the many years I knew her, Trish was the first to jump up and cheer for anyone’s achievement, no matter how small, and was always there with support for everyone she knew. We nearly lost her a few years ago, so I suppose this extra time was a gift, but I’m having trouble feeling grateful for it when it wasn’t supposed to end yet. Later I will, I’m sure, but right now I’m just horribly sad. The world needs bright spirits like Trish.

About Trish being a force of nature, as Lynn said. Jill Barnett and I were messaging and got onto about there better be dogs in heaven, for Trish. And said if there weren’t she’d turn around and leave. And then I realized no, she would start a campaign and rally the troops to demand a rule change!”—USA Today Bestselling Author Justine Dare

“While many of us are homebodies, we writers know how to connect with each other across the miles, and Trish was always the first to step up.  She started the BBB authors loop, and then she made it work.  She introduced newbies and made them feel welcome.  She was first to encourage, first to raise a virtual toast, first to sympathize.  She didn’t just send positive vibes–she was positive vibes.  Trish was a generous friend.  I miss her already, and I will treasure her stories.”—New York Times Bestselling Author Kathleen Eagle

“There are people who knew Trish much better than I did, but I she always made me smile and made me feel like the little things in my life were important.  I will miss her sunny personality and am so glad I have her books so that I can continue to feel her presence. ” —USA Today Bestselling Author Katherine Garbera

“Trish was a loving and loyal friend, an author who made us laugh and touched our hearts.  She loved animals and she was always there to cheer people on and give them support in any way she could.  I will miss her very much.”—Eve Gaddy, author of Cowboy Come Home, Uncertain Future, and Too Close for Comfort

Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.—Mark Twain

“Trish was very much a sunny spirit, and her books are a legacy that will be enjoyed for years to come.”—Lynn Kerstan, author of The Big Cat Trilogy

“I didn’t know Trish other than from the BBB Loop, but with all of the tributes to her that I’ve read today, I wish I had known her. The tributes show just how much she was loved and how much she gave of herself to others. It sounds like Heaven got another angel.” —Vickie King, author of Carly’s Rule

“I’m partial to funny writers–or rather writers who write funny books–and the writing world lost a good one today with the death of Trish Jensen.  I first read her when I judged her entry in the West Houston Emily contest.  Right away, I knew she was going to sell that book–and I told her so.  She did and it was published as THE HARDER THEY FALL.  We’ll miss you, Trish.”—USA Today Bestselling Author, Heather MacAllister

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If I can’t make myself giggle while writing, I’m a goner.

Okay, Amazon just informed me that my book has shipped. I think I’m going to sleep with it. The cover is so beautious, I can’t wait to see it in print.

I’m really liking fan girls. What ARE fan girls, anyway?

I’ve been going through emails from Trish. Hundreds of conversations. In the past few years I got to know Trish better than I realized. Now I miss her as if we were lifelong friends.

My books just arrived. OMG, he’s more gorgeous up close and personal. Guess which dog is being bumped out of bed in favor of a book? He’s GORGEOUS. — Trish, pathetic, I know, but I take thrills where I can get him . . . errr, them.

Mainly, we discussed her books. The old ones being re-issued by Bell Bridge, but also the new one she was planning to write next. But in the course of “business talk” we also covered a crazy-quilt funhouse of you-name-it: talk show hosts, Teddy Bears, dogs, cats, our shared advocacy for animal shelters, old boyfriends, people she wanted to smack with a cooking pot, people I wanted to smack with a cooking pot, and much, much more.

On the success of a relatively mild promo success:

We’re #2! We’re #2!
Okay, back to polishing book and won’t look again for at least . . . you know, at least fifteen minutes. 🙂 — Trish

And when Against His Will reached No. 1 on the Barnes & Noble bestseller list?

Muchas Gracias!  This takes the sting out of the pictures my sister keeps sending me from her Caribbean cruise.

Sprinkled through all that chat and those work discussions was a comforting bond of friendship and life itself. That’s what I’ll miss so much. —New York Times Bestselling Author Deborah Smith

“I first met Trish Jensen when she signed onto GEnie’s RomEx roundtable. She and I became instant friends, and after chatting with her for only a few minutes about her writing, I said you’re next. It wasn’t long after that when she sold her first book. I was so proud. She also wrote reviews for Pen and Mouse during that time, and I was the recipient of one. To this day, it is one of my favorites. I still quote her whenever I can. She wrote: “laugh, cry and fall in love.” And that describes my relationship with Trish. I have watched us both laugh, cry and fall in love. She held my hand while my husband was dying, and was my champion when I became a basketcase after I lost him. When my grandbabies were born, she sent gifts and demanded pictures. Her sense of loyalty knew no bounds. To be Trish’s friend was to be blessed beyond measure. And I have been so blessed. All the puppies in Heaven are getting a belly rub about now. Miss you.”—Deb Stover, author of Maid Marian and the Lawman