I've always cheered for the underdog, the guy everyone else hopes will fall flat on his face, but Charlie Sheen is on a whole other lever.  He's the train wreck no one can turn away from and as his sitcom is set to premier tonight at 9 on FX, the lions are hungry for his blood.

As I'm reading articles about the show, opinion seems to be split right down the middle.  Half the world can't get enough of him and the other half can't stand him.  The amusing thing is, critics seem to think that Charlie Sheen would even care what they think.  I mean seriously?

As the commercials for his series have shown, he can poke fun at himself and the entire train wreck-tiger blood-Adonis DNA-Two And A Half Men mess.  Love him or hate him, you can bet that Charlie Sheen is having the much deserved last laugh. 

So will you be watching Anger Management when it premiers tonight?

In my novel Spiritus, a ghost is haunting the young girl that he believes is his dead wife reincarnated.  Why?  Because in his mind they are soul mates.  It all gets me to thinking.  Is there such a thing as soul mates?

I've been known, especially in recent years, to be a rather jaded individual.  I do believe in soul mates, but I tend to agree with Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City.  I think it should be our very best friends that are our soul mates and that men can just be these really great guys to have fun with.

What do you think?  Are men our soul mates or is it better to remove that expectation from the opposite sex altogether?

Also, don't forget that if you like a ghostly romance about soul mates, my novel Spiritus is still free for Kindle June 27 and 28!

In my Spiritus series, Becca must make numerous sacrifices for love.  In book one, she must sacrifice having a normal teenage life.  In book two, she must sacrifice her sanity.  In the upcoming book three, Becca must make the ultimate sacrifice.  All of this leads me to wonder, what are we really willing to sacrifice in the name of love?

In most relationships, after the thrill of the romance fades, reality sets in and someone has to make sacrifices.  No matter how perfect things look on the outside, someone is sacrificing something. When it's real people and not fictional characters, when is a sacrifice just too much?

My best friend and I were talking about this the other night, sort of wondering where exactly our lives went astray and we could both trace it back to a moment when we were faced with a choice for sacrificing dreams and ideals that we had held for years in exchange for love.  The sacrifice didn't happen all at once.  It was a slow death of the people that we used to be and at some point along the line it became too much.

Now here we are, supposedly older and wiser, swearing that we will never again sacrifice that much of ourselves.  But I have to wonder, for the right guy, how much either one of us would still be willing to give up those little parts of ourselves that don't seem like much at the time until we again give up the very core of ourselves.

So, the question is how much would you be willing to sacrifice for love and when is it too much?


If you want to know more about the ghostly romance between Becca and Alastor, Spiritus is FREE on Kindle June 26, 27, and 28th.

So, I'm taking a break from the usual stress of promotion and poking a little fun at my characters and storyline.

In my novel Spiritus, Becca wakes up the one hundred and sixty year old ghost of her husband from a past life named Alastor and soon falls in love with him again.  How can a relationship between a human and a ghost really work though?  Becca seems to have it figured out, it's all about setting boundaries......

1. No rattling chains or making those bumps in the night after eleven o'clock. (I need my beauty sleep to keep from looking like I'm the dead one)
2. No possessing strangers and expecting me to play along (Unless you want to try for Channing Tatum, because I would so play along with that!)
3. When you enter a room, you will make yourself known and not just appear for the fun of frightening me. (One of these days, you're going to make me pee my pants.)
4. No sneaking a peak while I'm in the shower.  (I'm not showing you mine, if I can't see yours.)

If your significant other was a ghost, what rules and boundaries would you set?

It's been a crazy week, but I'm super excited about this Six Sentence Sunday excerpt.  This is a blast from the past with the first book in my ghostly love story, Spiritus.  Don't forget that Spiritus will be FREE on Amazon June 26, 27, and 28th!


I looked up at him one last time, staring into his sad and familiar eyes.  I took one last breath and prepared to die.

Alastor was almost to me, snarling and terrifying.  Just as he reached me his face became horrified and his arms went out to me.  There was another loud crash, glass breaking, and pain ran through me.  Something was pulling me and there was the sickening copper smell of blood.


Thanks for stopping by!

Today is the first days of summer and while most are celebrating the summer solstice, my mind is miles away in New Orleans and the upcoming St. John's Eve on Saturday.

In the second book of the Spiritus series, Haunted, St. John's Eve plays a critical role that continues to the last book of the series.

St. John's Eve is used in voodoo traditions going back to the famous Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau.  It is said that she held voodoo ceremonies on the Bayou St. John and the practice continues to this day.

When I began my research for Haunted, I discovered that one of the rituals rumored to be performed was the bringing back of the dead as living and breathing things.  Now can you think of anything more perfect for a story about a romance between a living young woman and a one hundred and sixty year old ghost?  If I didn't know better, I'd say there was a little voodoo working on me while I was doing my research.  What do you think?

Excerpt of Haunted

I clutched his hand as we moved along toward Magnolia Bridge. Still yards away, I could hear the drums as well as feel them vibrating somewhere deep inside the middle of my body. As the bridge came into view, the beat of the drums took over the air and shook the ground beneath my feet.

The crowd kept moving closer and closer to the old wood and metal bridge. As I stepped up on the first creaking wooden plank, I saw eerie drawings of symbols and words in glowing white chalk scratched on its surface.

The air was thick with humidity and noise, too loud to even breathe. It all began to spin, the drums, the wooden planks covered in glowing drawings, and the sickening sweet smell of so many bodies pushed together.

I felt myself staggering, everything going hazy and then coming back to quickly, like a record played at the wrong speed. Before I could recover, I was spinning and the drums became loud booms that shook the ground and far off there was a baby crying.

It wasn't safe here. I had to get away. They were going to find us. They were going to get me.

"Jonah," I pleaded, "I've got to get out of here."

He didn’t hear me. I was clutching at his arm, but he was lost in the sea of bodies. At last, I clasped his hand and jerked him around to face me.

"Now!" I demanded. "I want to go now!"

Jonah was reluctant to leave, but the expression on my face must've convinced him because he guided me through the crowd without complaint.

As we stepped off the bridge, a beautiful woman with deep olive skin stepped into our path. She seemed to glow in her long white dress and white head wrap. There was something pulsating on her shoulders. It took a moment for my eyes to focus enough to see that it was a large snake that slithered about her neck.

  "I see that which you want most," she declared, pulling the snake’s head up to hers so that it's forked tongue could flicker across her lips.

I stepped around her, cringing away from the serpent.

The woman laughed, showing a wide mouth of bright white teeth, "He can come back, you know."

  The air left my lungs and I stopped short. I couldn't have heard her right. I dropped Jonah's hand and turned around slowly.

"What did you say?" I asked.

She stepped over to me, swaying her hips so that her dress swung like a bell.

"I can bring him back," She whispered as she came within inches of my face. "I know that is the thing that you want most."

There was a surge of air swirling around me and over my head. The woman's eyes focused on it with a knowing smile.

"He will be angry," She said and took a card out of the waistband of her dress. "Come and see me when you can."

I clutched the card in my hand as Jonah led me away. I looked back and watched the woman disappear in the darkening crowd.

Jonah pulled me along, oblivious to the exchange. Once we were safe in a taxi and heading back to the hotel, Jonah put his arm around me and kissed me on my cheek.

"You'll feel better after a long soak in the tub and a little rest." He whispered hot and wet in my ear.

I don't remember saying anything. I just remember the feeling of the card’s sharp edges in my palm. Nothing else in the world mattered except that card.

Late that night, I slipped from the bed were Jonah still lay sleeping. I dressed and went down to the Carousel Bar. Again, the card that I was turning over and over in my fingers held my attention.

MADAME MARIE DESMARAIS’S SHOP OF VOODOO

Royal Street

New Orleans, LA

            Could it really be possible? Could Alastor actually come back?

            I glanced around at the other patrons of the bar reflected in the many lights and mirrors throughout the room. Were they aware of such possibilities? If so, how could they just sit there and drink the night away?

            I sipped at my hurricane cocktail and enjoyed the tingling burn as it went down my throat.  I tapped the edge of the card on the table one, two, three times.

            The bartender sat another cocktail in front of me. I was already lightheaded, but I took it anyway.

What was I supposed to do now? Could I bring Alastor back and lose Jonah forever? Would I ever be happy with Jonah if I knew there was even the smallest chance that Alastor could come back?

It was just too impossible to sort out. It was easier to just keep drinking and pretend like I didn't already know the answer.

Two more drinks later and I barely recognized Jonah when he took a seat at the bar beside me.

"Why aren’t you upstairs?" He asked, taking the drink from me and pushing it away.

I rubbed my hands over my face, "I couldn't sleep."

"Is anything wrong?"

I looked down at the card on the bar and then covered it with my hands.

"Not really," I said. "Just restless, I guess."

Jonah leaned over and kissed my cheek. He brushed his lips over my ear, "Why don't you come back upstairs?"

I slid off the barstool, struggling to stand on unsteady feet. Jonah's arm went around my waist to steady me.

As I reached back to get the stiff white card from the bar, I saw Alastor’s face reflected in the mirrors surrounding the bar. He glared at me with angry blue eyes as I took the card and slid it into my pocket. I silently dared him to try to stop me.

            I glanced back at Alastor's image as I stepped into the elevator with Jonah. He glared at me with hostile eyes until the elevator doors closed and it was just me and my new husband alone in the elevator.

            I leaned back and let out a sigh.

            Alastor’s secret voice reverberated in my brain, "Becca, throw the card away, no good will come of it."

            I can't do that.

            "What you’re thinking is impossible," He argued. “I wish it could be different, but it cannot.”

            You don't know that.

            "Yes, I do and you're not being fair to Jonah."

            I glanced over at Jonah. He leaned against the wall, watching the floor numbers change as we went up. He felt me watching him and turned and gave me one of his brilliant smiles.

            "I love you." He said simply and looked back up at the numbers.

            How could he be so trusting? That familiar stab of guilt hit me in the gut.

            "I love you too." I answered.

            But I love him more…

            Alastor swirled near me, whispering inside my head. "I'm telling you that what you want is impossible."

            I can't give up while there is even the slightest chance for you.

            "Becca, you have to see that this is a lost cause."

            I can't believe that.

            "You have to believe it or else you will drive yourself mad."

Photo  By Bart Everson (originally posted to Flickr as Offerings) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

When I began writing my paranormal romance series Spiritus, i knew the books had to be set in Corydon and I knew that they weren't just about what was taking place in the current time, but also what happened in the past that shaped the main characters.

The first time around, Becca and Alastor lived in the turbulent times of the Civil War.  While that was a favorite subject of mine (Gone With the Wind, anyone?), I was clueless what role the town of Corydon played.

I began my research with the Battle of Corydon itself and discovered that while not covered that deeply in textbooks, it was as dramatic as any other battle for those that lived through it.  I read the facts, but they seemed oddly detached.  I came across the actual Corydon Weekly newspaper article and that lead to a from a young girl that survived the attack.  I've included parts of it, but you can read more about her experience at IndianaPublicMedia.org.  The young girl was Attia Porter and she lived in Corydon.

Our home guards skirmished with the rebs from the river to Corydon . . . . The battle raged violently for thirty minutes, just think of it! And on account of the large number of the rebs we were forced to retire which our men did in good earnest every one seemed determined to get out of town first . . . . I don’t want you to think I am making fun of our brave home guards for I am not in the least. But now, that all the danger is over, it is really funny to think how our men did run.

While the section above may read as though she amused by it all, the next section on the site proves how truly terrified she was of the situation.

I think that was the awfullest day I ever passed in my life. The rebels reported around that they shot father because he would not surrender, but it was all a story. . . . We killed six or eight of theirs and wounded twenty five or thirty. I expect you are tired of hearing about Morgan so I will stop.

I couldn't help but note that perhaps that terror and the image of the rebel forces invading would scar a person forever.  Now imagine if you were a soldier and heard of this attack on your town, but you are fighting in another part of the country.  That was the exact circumstances I wanted for my doomed lovers.  I wanted Becca to be traumatized by the raid and for Alastor to be racked with guilt that he wasn't there to protect her.  That created the perfect backdrop (backstory) for what became of their murderous relationship.

To me, what happened to make these characters the way that they are is just as important as what is currently happening to them.  To all my writer friends out there, do you agree?  To all my readers, how important is a relevant backstory?

It is still crazy here with no internet, but I made a special trip to McDonald's just to share this with my readers.  I am so excited about the release of Shifting Gears by Shawn Kirsten Maravel.  The author has been a supporter of my Spiritus series from the beginning and I am so honored to have the chance to spotlight her for a change.

Wesley Pierce, a Virginia State Trooper, is in search of the perfect log cabin to settle down in. After losing his brother and doing his best to care for the family he left behind he decides, a year after Nathan’s death, that he’s finally ready to move forward.

Olivia Michaels, a realtor in search of her own dream home and a way out of her parents’ attic, takes on a client who can help get her that much closer to affording her freedom. Little does she know that it isn’t the perfect home that she finds but through Wesley Pierce she manages to find herself. And maybe, if she’s capable of taking the leap, she might even manage to find love. 

***

This novel, not unlike its predecessor in the Rider series, The Wanderer, is not a story about life altering suspense and mystery or a love that seemed impossible from the very start. Instead, this story is of love in its purest form. In life it isn’t mystery and excitement that drive our hearts but trepidation and the moment in which we all decide to jump unguarded into the arms of another.


Excerpt:

For as long as she could remember, the two things Olivia Michaels wanted was to be a successful lawyer and to live in a log cabin like the ones she had seen featured in Cabin Life Magazine.

Rolling off of the blow-up mattress set up in her parents’ attic she began to doubt that either would ever happen. In fact, her dream had shifted considerable since graduating from law school when her career goals took an abrupt change in course. Her new digs, however, pushed her that much closer towards fantasies of a stone fireplace and a loft that overlooked the living room.

Propped up beside the wanna-be-bed, as if to mock her, sat her law degree from George Mason University in an old barn wood frame. Tucked inside a plastic sleeve, appearing to be no more than an ordinary piece of paper, her realtor license leaned up against the glass of the brilliantly displayed Masters.

Life, as her favorite quote by John Lennon went, is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

The partially finished attic, despite the premise of living in a room intended for storage, had been painted a warm teal color with antique lace curtains that hung in front of the single window. Olivia’s collection of old blue mason jars lined the windowsill with sprigs of eucalyptus and dried lavender arranged in each, emitting a soft sweet smell that filled the room with a soothing aroma.

Draped over the double-high blow-up were a set of teal jersey sheets and a purple patchwork quilt with matching pillow shams. At the end of the bed sat a ruffled antique white afghan with long fluffy fringe.

Aside from the subtle splash of rustic décor the rest of Olivia’s belongings, apart from an antique dresser full of clothes, remained unpacked. Though it had already been almost three months of living back home with her parents, she was determined that it would remain only a temporary arrangement.

Tip toeing around the black and tan mass of dog that rested at the side of the bed, Olivia collected her hamper and heaved it up into her arms, being careful not to straighten completely and bump her head on the slanted ceiling. At her movement the Rottweiler’s big weighted head attempted to rise from the old wood floorboards.

“Its okay, Melon, I’m just doing a load of laundry before our walk. Stay put.”

The dog’s eyes squinted and he opened his wide jaw to moisten his dry tongue with a few lazy laps of his tongue before resting his head back down.

“Good boy,” she cooed then slipped her feet into an old pair of flip flops and descended the steps.

“Sweety?” a muffled voice called from down the hall, “is that you?”

Poking her head into her parents’ bedroom Olivia smiled sweetly. “Morning, mom. Just doing some laundry.”

Her mother, a slender woman with hair that was once as golden as her own, dulled with age, lay curled up in the crook of her husband’s right arm. Olivia’s father, still fast asleep, had his arm delicately wrapped around her shoulder. The sight, agelessly romantic any other day, made her heart ache now.

Jerry had broken things off after spending their entire college career together, completely inseparable. When she’d renounced her dream of becoming the Erin Brockovich of Binghamton, Virginia he all but kicked her to the curb. In the end it shouldn’t have surprised her; he’d called her crazy when she began showing an interest in real estate. Add to that the fact that he preferred Italian brick to rustic log and it was pretty clear that their romance had been doomed from the start.

“I never know if it’s you or that horse you insist on calling a dog coming down those stairs,” she said with good humor. “I’ve started up so many conversations with Melon thinking he was you that I half-expect your father to put me in a home.”

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said with a giggle. “The stairs creek a little. I hope it doesn’t wake you.”

“Don’t be silly, Sweetie, it’s no problem. I must ask though, why do you insist on living up there? You know the spare bedroom is all yours when you’re ready to move down from that spider infested hole-in-the-wall attic.”

Olivia shivered at the thought of spiders in her bed. “Mom, we like it up there. Besides, you know it’s not permanent.”

The words never left her lips but her mother smiled sadly as if to give her condolences for the hundredth time  for having to move back home after fleeing the nest. Now, with her wings clipped, Olivia was starting over. She’d managed to put a good sized chunk of money away in the bank but until she found her dream house, she was determined to keep her feet planted in the dusty old attic, settling for no less than the home of her dreams. Considering her location and occupation it was only a matter of time. There were plenty of log homes in the area and if she was patient the one meant just for her was sure to go on the market and present itself to her.

Or at least that was the hope.

With her darks sloshing around in the washing machine Olivia called Melon down from the attic and began fixing his breakfast. With all one-hundred and twenty pounds of him seated in the kitchen, his uncharacteristically long tail wagging happily against the floor, he waited patiently as she finished up.

Melon scarffed down his food, Olivia downed an apple fritter and some coffee, then they headed out for their morning walk.

It was late March and the air already gave promise for a long and hot summer ahead. Birds chirped happily and bugs filled the air with their steady hum. Though the weather was uncharacteristically warm she couldn’t say that she minded. The winter had been wet, cold, and rainy and any snow that had turned up had been heavy and wet. She would probably wish away the strange warm weather once it became unbearably hot but for now she was happy to take advantage of it.

Making their way down the sidewalk they headed for the cemetery, Olivia’s favorite place to walk Melon. When she’d attended the university she had taken up walking through the neighboring cemeteries for their peacefulness; Arlington being among her favorites.

When she had gotten Melon, against Jerry’s persistent objections, she found that walking him in heavily populated areas often lead to more frustration than relaxation. Pedestrians would grow wide-eyed as she and Melon ambled toward them as if they were sure to be eaten. Some even went as far as to risk dodging traffic to make it over to the other side of the street. In general she found the company of the dearly departed much more soothing. Among the gravestones she found peace, a place to clear her mind and think with little distraction.

As they walked beneath the wide stone archway of Binghamton Cemetery a cool breeze picked up, complimenting the warm kiss of the morning sun against her skin. Dressed in a loose fitting pale pink shirt and cutoff denim shorts Olivia knew that by the end of the walk she’d be sweating generously. With Melon’s black leash secured around her wrist she took a hair tie and pulled her long honey colored hair up into a loose ponytail.

The paths in the cemetery were many, some more pronounced than others with a solid path of white quartz pebbles. Others, hidden among the tree-scattered hills, were made of no more than heavily traveled maintenance vehicle tracks carves into the grass. The headstones varied as well. Some, dating all the way back to the civil war, were chipped and faded over time. Other headstones, smooth and polished, donned signs of frequent and recent visitors. Fresh flowers and small religious statues were delicately arranged at their base.

As Olivia walked along the path, covered by small patches of shade cast by the tall pines that littered the cemetery, she took in a long and savory breath. Jerry thought it was a strange practice to walk through cemeteries and doubted that she really felt as at peace as she claimed. He always refused when she invited him along.

As she walked she couldn’t help but think of him and how wrong he’d been to say that the setting was even remotely depressing. The way the sun beat down, already warming the soft breeze; it was as if she was the only person in the world.

This time of day, around ten o’clock, Olivia was very often the only guest in the cemetery. It wasn’t uncommon for her to feel, if only for the duration of her walk, that she was in fact completely alone with her thoughts.

Most often her thoughts drifting from one frivolous thing to another. Very often by the time she left she couldn’t quite recall what she’d even been thinking about in the time she’d been walking. In a way the thoughts were sacred and remained in the cemetery to await her return.

As Olivia continued along, enjoying the solitude, she noticed a quick brush of color against the faded surroundings up ahead. Another visitor making their way through the graves. She reined Melon in from lifting his leg to a previous dog’s territory, wanting to show her respects to the stranger if in fact they were visiting a loved one. Most often she saw other people out enjoying the quiet paths as she did, walking their dog or jogging through. However, on the off chance that someone was in fact grieving a loss she did her best to keep Melon from defacing the grounds.

Making their way over the hill that the streak of dark blue had vanished behind, Olivia felt her breath hitch in her throat as she noticed a state trooper stop at the base of a headstone and remove his hat. She halted for a moment, automatically putting her fingers to her lips. Her heart twisted instinctively, certain that he wasn’t there simply to admire the view.

With a single red rose between his fingers the officer lowered into a squat and placed it on top of the headstone before him. Leaving his hand on the top he bowed his head in grievance. Though it was too far away to tell for certain, Olivia could swear that she saw his shoulders shutter with the onset of unadulterated tears as he cover his face with his other hand.

The path she was on cut right past where he stood and she was half-tempted to turn back and go another way. Feeling her throat constrict even more at the sadly heroic scene, she wasn’t sure it was her place to interrupt. As she considered her options Melon barked up at her, perplexed as to why they’d stopped moving.

In the same instant that she jumped with surprise the police officer turned his attention in their direction and stood up. Wiping roughly at the corners of his eyes she knew now that indeed that he had been crying. And she’d shattered his sacred moment of mourning in addition to managing a fair amount of humiliation of her own in the process.

Fearful of what he might do, as if he could haul her off to jail for ogling, Olivia shuffled forward. “Thanks a lot, Melon,” she scolded through the edges of her lips.

As they walked closer she wondered what she should say to the man, if anything at all. Standing up straight and still as a status the police officer continued to watch her, convincing her that the smart decision should have been to turn around and avoid the close proximity. No matter what the circumstance cops made her nervous and this one was no different. It didn’t help that he watched her curiously as the space between them shortened.

His dirty blonde hair, buzzed along the sides, glistened in the sun and she could see now that his eyes were a soft shade of blue. Tall and lean, he towered over her, surprising her with an unexpected smile and a tip of his hat. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Morning,” she replied shyly, averting her eyes from his glassy gaze as they passed.

He was younger than she had originally perceived him to be from a distance and she thought offhandedly that he was pretty cute. But what captivated her most, what drew her in and pulled at her curiosity as well as her heart, was the question of who he was visiting.

Once back home, preparing for one of the local open houses, Olivia’s thoughts continued to drift to the police officer in the cemetery and the resilient look in his cobalt blue eyes.


Shifting Gears on GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13609746-shifting-gears Blog: http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fshawn-kirsten-maravel.blogspot.com%2F&h=yAQHbvfwD Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Shawn-Kirsten-Maravel/191311257546970Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_1?_encoding=UTF8&sort=relevancerank&search-alias=books&ie=UTF8&field-author=Shawn%20Kirsten%20Maravel B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/shawn-maravel