Sunday, October 30, 2016

We can go pick out a Christmas Tree

“Hey girl, how are you? I miss you.” Tammy spoke into her phone. She was reclining in Danny’s chair, taking a few moments to call Molly before the guys came back from Stateside. 
“Oh, Tam, I miss you, too. How are you?”
Tammy closed her eyes, “I’m good.” Sighing softly, she opened her eyes and looked out the window across the fresh snow on the front yard.
“That isn't the sound of someone who's fine. I need to know what’s going on.”
Tammy proceeded to tell Molly about the video. Danny. Danny’s friends, and everything that'd happened recently. Molly shared her life with Ryder and that they were moving in together.
“Oh, Molly, that’s fantastic. We need to get together; maybe we can go pick out a Christmas Tree next Saturday. We'd like to get one put up right after Thanksgiving and that’s next week already.”
“Wait. We?” Molly smiled as she watched a movie play on the television, the sound turned down.
“Danny and I are moving in together. Actually, I’m moving in with him.”
The two friends shared their lives as they were now. Talking to Molly had always soothed Tammy’s nerves. No one was more level-headed than Molly.

Excerpt from Moving to Forever by PJ Fiala
Included in Love in Times of War

Love Romance? Give yourself the best Christmas gift:
Love in Times of War
No longer available

Saturday, October 29, 2016

She’s giving this to me as a special gift

I asked for her phone number. She gave it to me with a warning, saying that she liked chatting with her friends for long periods of time, so getting through to her would be tough. It would be next to impossible. 
This was true. After trying repeatedly to call her for three hours straight I finally got tired of it and resorted to send her a telegram, which I knew would be delivered at once by a young man riding a bicycle in a Western Union uniform and a cap, which is sure to get her attention. The telegram said, “Get off the phone. I’m trying to call you.”
Then I dialed again. It rang. 
The Bell phone operator came on. I could hear her fumbling about at the switchboard, which I imagined as a high back panel, consisting of rows of front and back keys, front and back lamps, and cords all about, extending every which way, connecting the entire mess into circuits.
At the other end, “Hello,” said Natasha. Her voice sounded intermittent. 
“She said, Hello,” said the operator.
“Oh, hi,” said I.
“He said, Hi,” said the operator.
We laughed. I could barely hear what I thought were giggles, as they were breaking off, coming back on. After a while the connection got better, but at the risk of it deteriorating again, we found ourselves talking rather fast. 
I asked Natasha if she got my photograph, the one I had sent earlier that month. It showed me amongst others in a group of Marines, all of us dressed in uniforms, looking exactly alike. 
She said yes, and was I the Marine second from the left, squatting, and in return I should expect a photograph of hers, which I’d better treat with extreme care, not the way I had treated her first envelope, which meant placing it in a dry, safe place, preferably close to my heart, because this is the earliest picture she had with her papa, so it was dear to her, and she’s giving it to me as a special gift, and on an entirely different note, what would I say if she told me that this summer she plans to take some time off from performances, which would give us an opportunity to meet, and even if her Mama would object to this idea, because she protects her only daughter from dates with men, and with soldiers in particular, because in her opinion they’re good-for-nothing low-lives who sleep who-knows-where with God-knows-who, she, Natasha, would love to see me if—and that’s a big if—I could arrange a visit.

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★

Friday, October 28, 2016

A romantic love story with an undercurrent of deception

Richard Weatherly is the talented author of Closed Doors. I am honored to read his thoughtful review of my WWI romance novel, Dancing with Air:

on October 28, 2016
U.S. Marine Lenny has been dispatched to London, having left his love Natasha back in the states. In his original assignment he works as a currier. After serving in this role for a time Lenny's commanding officer calls him in and prepares Lenny for a new assignment. By this time Lenny has learned Natasha, a virtuoso pianist, is coming to England to entertain the troops. The story is set in the months before D-Day.

Lenny is now in a predicament. His assignment is to seed love letters to a girlfriend with hints that General Patton and an invasion force plan to invade Europe at the closest point between England and Europe, Pas de Calais in NW France. Natasha gets to spend some time with Lenny which places him in a predicament. He must write the misleading love stories to a girl he knows in the states, maintain an apparent sincerity while avoiding Natasha's scrutiny.

Lenny convinces his commander that he should have the freedom to travel through the area he's assigned to write about. He's given permission and brings Natasha along riding in the sidecar of his Harley-Davidson. During his travel to the Straights of Dover he discovers elements of truth to enhance the realism in his letters to the girl in the states. He learns more details about the diversionary plan.
When Lenny takes some time to investigate an ammunition storage area for the Allies his trip is cut short.
The ammunition storage area or depot explodes almost costing Lenny his life.

It takes a long time for Lenny to come around from an apparent coma. Afraid that Natasha may have discovered his letters while incapacitated, he soon learns of Natasha's deep love for him.

This is a heart warming story, a continuation of a thought provoking family saga while observing Natasha's mental decline in her later years.
Uvi Poznansky is a gifted writer who has painted warm yet realistic saga. I strongly recommend it.

Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

Thursday, October 27, 2016

An intense and dramatic read. Got me crying.

Here is a short and sweet review for my WWII Romance novel, The Music of Us:

on October 25, 2016
An intense and dramatic read. Got me crying.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Her way of giving

If I were to focus strictly on my parents, ignore the entire background of this place, and let the clutter and the smell of it just fall away, this could take me back to a different time, a time in my childhood, when our kitchen table was set for the Passover meal. What comes back to me first is the tinkle, as my father finished blessing the wine, and clinked his glass against hers, against mine.
I remember: the table was draped, all the way down to the floor, with mom’s best, rarely used tablecloth, made of the smoothest ivory satin you ever touched. Dad sat at the head of the table, mom to his right, I opposite her. 
All day long she had been cooking, which infused the air with a wonderful aroma. In it you could detect a sharp whiff of horseradish and of gefilte fish and sweet brisket and red cabbage and roasted potatoes, all of which made my stomach growl. It went on growling until he finished reading the long, archaic text in the Hagadda, which meant little to me, except a vague notion of the utter futility of patience.  
I remember: my mother ladled the clear, golden chicken soup and set it here, steaming before my eyes, with three matzo balls floating inside, which was her way of giving. “It’s hot,” she said. “Make sure to blow on it first.” Yes, the smell of her cooking was good, but then, the taste! Just wait till you took the first bite—

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★
The complete series: 

"Few authors would be able to pull off the manner in which the apparent polar opposites of Ben and Anita begin to bond... but Poznansky has the visual and verbal and architectural skills to create this maze and guide us through it." 
~Grady Harp, HALL OF FAME reviewer

Saturday, October 22, 2016

She's so grateful to me for letting her cling to the hope she can change me

“Not sure you can drive it?” said Uncle Shmeel. “Just try, what’s the worse that can happen?”
An answer wasn’t expected, so I did not waste time looking for one. Instead I asked, “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure!”
“Can you afford it?” 
“No,” he said, “but how could I say no to such a fine vehicle? I got it as a birthday gift. Pearl is grateful, so grateful to me for letting her cling to the hope that she can change me, despite all evidence to the contrary. She knows how to treat someone like me, someone who appreciates the more elegant things in life.”
“You,” I said, “are a lucky man.” 
To which he shrugged. “She’s a patient woman.” 
Out of his pocket came the car keys, jingling. 
“Here,” he said. “You’re going to have great fun driving her. She’s such a beauty!”
“You mean, Pearl?”
“No! The car.”
“That,” I said, “was my second guess.”
“She’s sitting there idly,” he said, pointing farther ahead, across the intersection. “There in the driveway, see? And she’s doing nothing but trying to tempt me morning, noon, and night to take her out for a spin, which is the first thing I’ll do as soon as I get my driving license.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I keep failing the damn test.”
We turned the corner and there she was, looking quite substantial in her wide, matronly body, radiating heat in the mid-morning sun. She was graced by the ample roundness of the front and rear fenders, which were shaped as puffed-out cheeks. The grille was a three-part affair with a tall center that nosed its way down in-between twin nostrils, low down on the fenders. I imagined that she knew I was coming for her.
As I turned the key in the ignition I saw Uncle Shmeel in the rear view mirror, taking the clarinet out of its case and putting it to his lips. Then, growing smaller and smaller as I drove away to Natasha, he could still be heard across the distance, blowing a tune for me. One note after another rose trembling in the air, awakening a mood, a joy turned into something inexplicable, into sadness, over which I murmured, “I don't need a song to prove that I'm in such a lowdown groove.”

Lenny in The Music of Us (narrated by Don Warrick)

Uncle Shmeel will always remain a bachelor, and it is up to his girlfriend, Pearl, to realize that she would never change him, in spite of the gifts she keeps giving him... 

Don Warrick, the narrator of the audiobook edition, told me that he has an 'Uncle Shmeel' in him. Indeed, to listen to his voice I would never deny it!

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★

"Her ability to create a dreamlike atmosphere within her tale is spellbinding. She touches my soul with her words." 
Dii, Top 500 Reviewer

Friday, October 21, 2016

Flows Like Silk

I am thrilled to find this review of my romance novel, The Music of Us:

on October 20, 2016
If you've ever read anything by Uvi Poznansky before now, you'd be familiar with her wisdom and often precise insight. If not, you will learn that this author has a mesmerizing talent in both her novels, blogs, interviews and articles, for observing the intricacies of life and human motivation and is able to deliver these in the most gripping of ways. The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3) is no exception. I found this to be a beautiful masterpiece of chapters, which draws the reader into a tapestry of history, war, love and a new understanding of the human spirit. For those who have not read books 1 & 2, I would recommend doing so, but if you've stumbled upon The Music of Us first, it will be of no consequence. This read, with its fascinating array of historical factors, music, art and a detailed view of Alzheimer, is so enthralling in its detail that it will more than satisfy. Yet, it isn't just Poznansky's devotion and captivating observation that is a thrilling experience, it is likewise her unique artistry of words. She captures the reader with flowing beauty. I felt the life and atmosphere of the 1940's, and was so absorbed in the story, I likewise felt a yearning for a time I never knew. This novel will truly move you, take you into Uvi's realm. Her words unfurl like silk and touch the reader on a deep level. Highly, highly recommended.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Let me introduce you to my author friends

My author friends have joined forces with me!
We bring you amazing stories
Narrated by great voice actors
just in time for Thanksgiving. 
Click the profile image or the name of each one of us 
to learn about our work
We invite you to a three days of storytelling and gifts. 
Come listen to voice clips from our audiobooks 
You may win one of them!

Go to
A Time for Giving
And click 'Going'

"I paint with my pen, and write with my paintbrush."

"Author of thrillers exploring crime, conspiracy and duplicity."

Bestselling author of novels from historical to fantastical.

"Mystery, Romance, and YA featuring Characters at a Crossroads."

"Addictive, award-winning fiction. You'll fall in love with the characters and love to hate the villains.”

Multi-genre, multi-language, multi-profession and fearlessly going wherever the next book takes me.


"What would you do if you could see other people's dreams?"

Writing Dreams

Roller coaster rides of twists and turns.

“Sharing stories about love, secrets and the messiness of life.”

Author of intense thrillers that might make your house messy and dinner late!"

DV Berkom Books; Where murder and mayhem meet the page.”

I like to venture out of my comfort zone, and that is why writing is like air to me.

Writing is fun because over & over again, I fall 
in love with my characters!

Monday, October 17, 2016

Spoil me with your gift

Before I can go back to my writing, my other wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, leans over my desk with her newborn baby. With motherly pride she bounces him this way and that in her arms. 
“You know me,” she says. “Unlike that other wife of yours I’m modest, much too modest to ask anything for myself.”
“Thank goodness,” say I, with a sigh of relief.
“But then again, what about your son, Amnon?”
“What about him?”
“He’s your first born, dear, the fruit of your loins,” she says, with a sudden blush.
“I suppose he is,” say I. “So?”
Ahinoam puts Amnon in my arms, wanting me to coo at him. “I don’t want to put any ideas in your head,” she says, “but—”
“Then, don’t!”
“But, but won’t he look adorable, and ever so princely, in a cute little purplish suit?”
“I’m too busy for chitchat, don’t you see?” I tell her, trying to subdue the tone of complaint in my voice. 
“And,” I go on to say, “adorable as he may be, I’m not going to squander my hard earned booty, and on top of it let tens of thousands of sea snails be crushed into extinction, just for a trifle, for a baby suit, which he’ll soon outgrow.”
“That would be such a waste,” says Abigail, nudging Ahinoam, ever so gently, away from me. “On the other hand, if you’d find it in your heart to buy your servant a new gown, I promise: I’m never going to outgrow it!”
“Oh darling,” says Ahinoam, under her breath. “It would be quite a challenge to get any bigger than you already are.” 
Which Abigail pretends not to hear. Batting her eyelashes, she blows a little kiss in my direction and says, “The expense is well worth it, my lord. Really, it’s just like saving money.”
Meanwhile, my new bride, Maacha, elbows her way between both of them. “Splurging is something I truly appreciate,” she says, “but why would you do it for simple women, women who don’t have a drop of royal blood flowing in their veins? They’re commoners. I’m not!”
To which I say, “I have nothing against commoners. I’m one of them.”
Abigail smiles. “Thank you, my lord.”
At that, Maacha stamps her foot. “Did you hear that? She admits being a maid. I’m a princess!”
And Ahinoam jeers at her, “Who cares? You’re not even one of us, are you?”
“Enough already,” say I. “Take leave of me, all of you.”
Instead, Maacha makes her way into my arms and from here, she hisses at the other two, long and hard, in a manner that is questionably regal.
To placate her I try murmuring sweet nothings in her ear. “Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride, milk and honey are under your tongue. The fragrance of your garments is like the fragrance of Lebanon.”
“Forget milk and honey,” she bristles at me. “And forgive me for saying so, I don’t care much for poetry, either.”
“Really? You don’t? That,” I say, “is a problem. Any wife of mine must appreciate the finer things in life—”
“What I really need right now is one thing,” says Maacha. “A purple veil for the upcoming wedding. I want to look mysterious.”
I hesitate to refuse her, so she presses on. “Need I say the obvious? By marrying me, you’re about to gain an important political ally. My father, the honorable king Talmai of Geshur, will be ready to attack your enemies from their back when you face them in battle.”
“My enemies,” say I, “are my brethren.”
“Even so. Ours is a union of mutually calculated benefits. You give, I take.”
“Is that how it works?”
“It is,” she replies. “So why not treat me in the manner to which I’m accustomed? Spoil me, David, with your gifts, your little tokens of luxury.”
I shake my head in dismay. “Why, no! I’m not going to ask for your father’s help to spill the blood of my brethren, just so you can dye your veil purple.” 
“Soldiers are expendable,” says Maacha, in a perfectly calm voice. “Not so us women.”
“My lord,” says Abigail, “if you don’t treat us with proper care, we may start suspecting that the rumors are true.”
Noting that the three of them are exchanging glances I take a step back. “Rumors?” 
“Dear,” says Ahinoam, “are you cheating on us?”
“Who, me?”
“Tell us the truth,” she demands. “Are you having an affair? Tongues are wagging all over town, about those two new girls next door, Abital and Eglah.”
So what choice do I have but to swear, “In heaven’s name, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting,” says she. “I’m just saying.”
“I would never betray my wives!” 
“Wouldn't you, dear?”
I clap my hand over my heart, most earnestly, and in an offended tone I say, “Of course not! Which is why I’ve already proposed to both of them.”
“I see,” says Maacha. 
Abigail giggles. “I can just imagine, my lord, what words you used.”
“Yeah,” says Ahinoam, and with a hint of mockery in her tone she quotes the line I once whispered in her ear, and in the ear of any other girl I knew, “Your eyes behind your veil are doves. Your hair is like a flock of goats, descending from the hills of Gilead.”
Taking a cue from her, Abigail goes on to quote my next line, “Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon. Your mouth is lovely. Your temples behind your veil are like the halves of a pomegranate.”
And Maacha says, “I don’t really care for all that agricultural talk. A purple veil is what I want. Give it to me and then, who cares? You can describe me as any kind of fruit you wish.” 

★ Love historical fiction? Treat yourself to a gift 
Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...

"Written with the artistic grace that is her signature style. She writes with a calm, steady hand that plucks the strings of her tale with lyrical precision that leaves the reader deeply entrenched in her words long after the last page." 
-Dii, Top 500 reviewer