Bell Bridge Books

What Began as as Whim…

by J.A. Ferguson

Dream Singer, the first of the Dream Chronicles, began as a whim. I’d been writing historical romances for years, and I wanted to write something different. For the fun of it, taking the advice of C.S. Lewis to write the book I wanted to read. I took the characters of Durgan Ketassian and Nerienne and dropped them into the setting and let the story unfold.

The only requirement was that anything was possible.

I wanted the book to have music and color in it. I’ve always admired musicians who create wondrous melodies out of nothing as well as visual artists like my sister and my daughter. They see things in unique ways. I gave music to Durgan, making him a dreamsinger, someone who can see into dreams through music. Nerienne got the gift of being able to discern people’s true feelings by seeing the colors surrounding them.

Right from the beginning, the idea that they were enemies who would have to fight a common foe drove the story. Okay, it’s a beloved romance trope – the bad boy and the good girl. But in this case, the girl is well-familiar with evil because her mother, the leader of their world, is not the nice and cuddly soccer mom type.

I wrote the first chapters, but something was missing. The heroine needed a reflection character, someone she could talk to so the reader (me!) saw the emotions she kept hidden from the hero. I tossed away the ideas of a servant or sibling as mundane. That led me to a pet…a talking pet only she could hear. But better yet, a truly annoying talking pet. Bidge was born.

I’ve been asked a lot about the origin of Bidge’s name. At first, I saw her as the character who not only listened to Nerienne, but nudged her to do the right thing. Her fuzzy-faced conscience in a shell. Nudge became Budge which evolved into Bidge. But Bidge evolved as well, and her name was even more accurate because instead of nudging, she nags. Think of a synonym for nag and say Bidge’s name aloud, and you should be able to pick up on the accuracy of her name!

With my characters in place, I wrote the book I wanted to read. Once it was finished, I went back to work on my contracted books. I never thought I’d do anything with it…until a good friend mentioned a friend of hers was starting a publishing company and looking for odd paranormal books. I sent off an email to Linda Kichline, the founder of ImaJinn Books, asking if she wanted to see my manuscript which definitely fit the definition of odd paranormal. Since then, the first book has grown into five, and my original three characters, especially Bidge, have played a part in each one to the delight of readers.

Pick up DREAM SINGER for just $1.99! On sale til the 15th!

DEEP IN DECEMBER

By Kathleen Eagle

The weather outside hasn’t been frightful up here in the North Country lately, but in the last few days Jack Frost woke up and started sprinkling tiny ice stars on the grass. Right now I’m watching snow sift softly like powdered sugar from an angel’s donut, and tonight we’re promised our first white winter blanket.  Because, baby, it’s cold outside.

It’s no accident that we celebrate our brightest holidays in the winter. It’s a dark time, and we need to brighten up our surroundings with fire and stars and smiling faces. It’s cold, and we need to wrap up and make a circle and share warmth. It’s quiet. It’s the perfect time to share food and gifts, songs and stories.

Romance comes from the heart, which is why so many holiday classics tug at the heartstrings. They’re love stories in the broadest sense. One of my favorites when I was very young was “The Little Match Girl.” The original Hans Christian Andersen story is pretty tragic, but the TV adaptation I remember had a happy ending. I cried every time the little girl stood outside in the cold, and when she was invited to come inside and stay, I sobbed.  Family, friends, finding a soul mate—holiday stories celebrate people coming together, face to face, hand in hand.

What a joy it is to have THE LAST GOOD MAN chosen for Amazon’s holiday store for the month of December. The story was inspired by my beautiful, brave baby sister, who is a breast cancer survivor. This book is a good answer to the question, “Where do your stories come from?” The characters and events are completely fictitious, but the emotional experience is drawn from life. THE SHARING SPOON—my collection of three novellas with three very different settings and common holiday theme—is also specially priced this month. I can just see readers taking time for themselves with one of my stories during this busy season. A comfy corner, a cup of cheer, and a book.  A gift for yourself. Read a good story and then pass it on to someone dear to you.

And speaking of holiday gifts, my daughter brought me something special on Thanksgiving. We mothers treasure the gifts our kids have made themselves, and my grown daughter—Lady Elizabeth’s Dreamwear Catalog from THE LAST GOOD MAN is a nod to her name—still makes many of her gifts for family and friends. And there’s always some special significance, not to mention imagination and skill involved. The coasters she made for me this year are covered with my words—pages scanned from one of my books. She chose THIS TIME FOREVER because she was there when I received the RITA award for that book. What a lovely memory. What a lovely daughter! And what a lovely time of year for heartwarming stories.

The Last Good Man by Kathleen Eagle is on sale the entire month of December for just $1.99! Click the cover below to purchase!

“The Mother I Will Never Forget”

by Phyllis Schieber

My mother, a survivor of the Holocaust, thought it was a miracle that she could feed, clothe and keep her children safe. For a woman who had survived the Tranistria Death March when she was fourteen, it must have seemed an extraordinary triumph. But many years later, she discovered Dr. Leo Buscaglia, an inspirational writer and speaker, on television, and she learned that it was also important to verbally express love to those you cherished. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.” From then on, every conversation ended with, “I love you.” I admired her willingness to learn and to grow. She was charming too. People were drawn to her, captivated by her beauty, her wit and flirtatious ways. But she was fragile, damaged. I seem to have always known that just as I always knew it was my responsibility to care for her.

After The Manicurist was released, I was interviewed on Blogaid Radio. The host, Mananna Stephenson, suggested that the relationship between Tessa, the protagonist in The Manicurist, and Ursula, her mother, had a dynamic similar to my relationship with my mother. Ursula, who is extremely troubled and needy, depends on Tessa to help navigate the world. Though I shouldn’t have been, I was surprised by the resemblance between the circumstances of Tessa’s life to my own life.

I frequently write about the complex relationships between mothers and daughters. I loved my mother. She could infuriate me with her stubbornness and her neediness, but she could also touch my heart in ways that no one else could. Though she hardly wore any, she loved make-up and always bought items that came with a special offer. Once I said, “Mom, why do you buy all this stuff?” She smiled and said, “Because once in awhile, you just feel like a new lipstick.” She was right. My mother was shaped by an experience so devastating that I often wondered how she managed to still find joy in anything, to still love. But she did.

The relationship between Tessa and Ursula is so laden with disappointments and pain that it seems unlikely the two will ever be able to overcome their differences. Yet, throughout, they are unable to escape the bond between mother and daughter, even if it is a tenuous bond. From time-to-time in her later years, my mother would ask, “Was I a good mother?” I always reassured her that she had been a very good mother. And it was the truth. She did the best she could. And I believe that Ursula does the same. She wants to be good mother. That matters to her as it does to all of us who are mothers.

I dream about my mother sometimes. She’s always young, always smiling and laughing. Sometimes I’m cutting the threads between the scarves she sewed for a few cents each. I’m reading to her as the pastel colored chiffon tumbles around me, and she nods, listening and humming a song she could never quite remember the words to. That’s the mother I choose to remember. She was a good mother.  That’s the mother I remember, the mother I will never forget.

 THE MANICURIST by Phyllis Schieber is a March Monthly 100 for only $1.99! Get it today! 

“I found my true being…”

by Augusta Trobaugh

I have always believed that Southern writing is character-driven, rather than being plot-driven. So in this story, I brought together characters (folks!) who were all from different generations, social positions, and race.

I have so much fun watching as these characters drift into each others’ lives and begin interacting with each other in a most completely authentic manner.  At that time, I become an “observer,” rather than a “writer,” because at some time or other in a story, the characters simply take over, and I am left to chuckle at them or to weep for them.

Also, when I was growing up in rural Jefferson County, Georgia, I became fascinated by the many creeks in the area.  In particular, I remember being delighted when, riding in the car with my mother, we crossed the bridge over Boggy Gut Creek.  As a child, I pronounced it “boogie goot,” but my mother corrected me, and I was even more delighted by the real name.

I grew up in Stellaville, Georgia (population 82), and right down at the bottom of the hill  from my home was Brier Creek, where I watched salamanders and minnows and also the antics of several otters.

When the character of Pansy Jordan came to mind, I was impressed by her intention to do as she believed the Lord Jesus Christ had bade her to do: “Get yourself washed clean in the River Jordan.” Such was her strong intent that she changed her name from “Pansy” to “River.”  But when she finally came to realize exactly how far away the real River Jordan was, she consented to be baptized in Jordan Creek.  In that way, my love of Georgia’s numerous creeks was satisfied.

I had a truly blessed childhood, roaming free (usually on horseback) through the rural areas.  I found my true BEING in all of nature – especially the forests and creeks.

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“A Sort of Homecoming for Me”

by Virginia Brown

I have a confession: I am an avid Anglophile. Since I was a small child, I have loved any and everything I could read, see at the movies, or watch on TV about the British Isles. Until recently, I never understood quite why I have always been so fascinated with anything English. A few years ago I began to research our family genealogy, and at last I understand. My mother’s ancestors came from England and Ireland, half of my father’s from Wales and Scotland. On my mother’s side I was able to trace our lineage back to Waleran de Gyrlington, born in 1058. He married a local Yorkshire girl, and happily set about creating a long line of descendants. Perhaps that is why, upon my first visit to England, I actually wept with emotion at setting down on the runway of Gatwick Airport. It was a sort of homecoming for me.

In researching background for NEVER TEMPT A DUKE, I chose Hampshire, a beautiful location on the southern coast with a rich history and gorgeous homes. I shamelessly borrowed from other country manors, castles, and villages to create my hero’s home and lineage. While the surrounding hills and vales are as accurate as I can describe them, the house itself is a composite of other impressive homes scattered over the English countryside. It was easy for me to imagine the Duke of Deverell in such a setting, and even easier to imagine a young American girl’s awe at finding herself living in Deverell Hall as his ward. Of course, Alyssa’s arrival was fraught with anxiety since she was pretending to be her twin brother, a deception that Blake Crandell, Duke of Deverell would certainly not appreciate. But what else could she do when faced with the alternative of languishing in a female academy at home in Virginia? Her twin, Nicky, had inherited an earldom through their father, but Alyssa’s future was uncertain. Since the duke had been made guardian, he had control over their lives until they reached the age of twenty-one. Nicky chose to go to sea, and Alyssa embarked on a deception that would change her life forever. As an American in an unfamiliar land with unfamiliar customs, she had much to learn, and never expected to fall in love with the duke. Nor had the duke any expectations of love, especially with someone he’d watched grow from a rebellious girl into a beautiful young woman. Deverell had few illusions, having been disappointed in love before, and had vowed to never allow himself to be tempted into such dangerous emotion again.

But he hadn’t anticipated the power of Alyssa’s desire or his own response. . . .

NEVER TEMPT A DUKE is an Amazon Monthly 100 for March for only $1.99! Grab it today!

“The Initial Blooming of My Imagination”

by Augusta Trobaugh

During my childhood, a “Swan Place” actually existed. It was a two-storied, unpainted house in Jefferson County, Georgia, set well back from the unpaved road, beyond a cotton field, and protected from road and field dust by many Sassafras and Crepe Myrtle trees.

My great-grandparents, Eliza Ann Narcissus Aldred Connell and Nathan Jerome Connell, lived in that large old house and provided stagecoach drivers, passengers, and horses a haven where they could eat, be refreshed, and spend the night.  The entire second floor was divided into two large bedrooms – one for gentlemen and one for ladies.  From what I have learned, this original “Swan Place” was selected as a rest stop for the stagecoach that ran from Savannah to Augusta.

Because I grew up during an era when children could safely wander around (especially in completely rural areas), I often went to that deserted old house, riding my horse there from my own home about half a mile away.  I had not personally known either of my great-grandparents, but I always felt something of their lives when I was there.  I could imagine my great-grandmother cooking in the detached kitchen (well away from the main house, in fear of kitchen stove fire) – the kitchen sort of a separate little cabin resting on logs and equipped with large iron latches, to which mules could be hitched to pull a burning kitchen well away from the house itself.

In that old house, I dreamed my dreams, inserting my great-grandparents into a story that I made up.

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the initial blooming of my imagination.

When I wrote “Swan Place,” I created a much grander home than the old, unpainted house of my childhood, but the feeling of sanctuary was the same,  as was the fanciful thinking I had done there.

It’s a treasured memory!

SWAN PLACE is a March Monthly 100 for only $1.99! Get it today!