“How crazy it would beif the moon did spinand the earth stood stilland the sun went dim!How absolutely ludicrousif snakes could walkand kids could flyand mimes did talk!How silly it would beif the nights were tanand the mornings greenand the sun cyan!How totally ridiculousif horses chirpedand spiders sangand ladies burped!How shocking it would beif the dragons ruledand the knights were dopesbut the fish were schooled!How utterly preposterousif rain were dryand snowflakes warmand real men cried!I love to just imagineall the lows as heights,and the salty, sweet,and our lefts as rights.Perhaps it is incredibleand off the hook,but it all makes sensein a storybook!”
Copyright 2015
Friday, April 17, 2015
In a Storybook
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Sneak Peek at Illustrations
It is
always exciting the closer I get to the end of
creating a new book. The truth is, my latest manuscript has been stored
on my hard drive for a few months now. You might wonder what I have been
waiting for, letting it sit to gather virtual cobwebs. Well, I had an
itch to include illustrations with this adventure; I imagined introducing every
chapter with an intriguing picture. And I have been working diligently at
the task, sketching out scenes in black-and-white for Secrets of a
Noble Keykeeper. Only
three illustrations remain to be finished, and I am hoping the final one will be
done in a few short weeks. After that, I will happily turn the book over
for publication. Yeah!
 |
Secrets of a Noble Keykeeperis about a curious, young man whose calling it is to guard the gates of his homeland. As keykeeper of Dreamland, Gavin meets many outsiders referred to by his people as dreamers. Through a variety of bizarre and creative antics, Gavin steers these roaming trespassers away from the borders of his magical world—a world where ogres bowl for their dinner and pirates sail the clouds to plunder diamonds from the night's sky and bubbleberries make a person burp out loud. It is a place where anything imaginable is commonplace. All the while, the young keykeeper finds himself increasingly intrigued by stories of the outside world. Snooping about, he is captivated by a dreamer who piques his interest in the ordinary.
This book is supplemental to Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher.
I’m finding it sooooo hard to wait and wait and wait to share my accomplishment. Like a kid, I want to hold up my work in front of willing eyes and eagerly chirp, “Look at what I did!”
So, why wait?
How about a
sneak peek at a few of the drawings I intend to include in the tale of our young
keykeeper from Dreamland. I'll tempt you with just a handful. Maybe let me know
which one you like best. Enjoy.
Look at
what I did!!!
 |
The Red Dagger |
 |
Ogre Bowl |
 |
Chess in the Void |
 |
Prince Lyarg |
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
My Quote in an Oxford Textbook
May I share something truly neat that happened to me?
Okay... so, I recently received this Oxford textbook in the mail.
Okay... so, I recently received this Oxford textbook in the mail.
It is a course companion for a philosophy class. No, I am not taking a class at Oxford (I wish) and neither are my sons (not yet anyway.) I was actually aware the book would eventually be shipped to me—a free copy provided by the wonderful people who put it together—and I was oh so excited to receive it!
The very first thing I did, of course, was open up the pages to chapter seven, entitled, 'Identity.' Now why in the world would I rush to do that?
Because my quote is printed
on the first page introducing the chapter!
How cool is that?
Yes, I am feeling pretty happy. It is a neat thing to see my words printed in an Oxford textbook along with my website typed in a footnote. And, concluding the chapter, my name among references cited!
Silly me to be so excited, but I am.
Thanks for taking a moment to smile with me.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
The Devil's Rose
You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do.
But the cunning beast will have his beauty.
He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow.
The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume.
As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eye shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch.
Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence.
Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it.
He knows that is what you would do.
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Writer's Magic
Writers possess magic. It's in their words.
They compose phrases as powerful as incantations, creating illusions in the minds of readers. These spells make eyes envision things that aren't real; they make hearts feel things that aren't actual. A writer's work is to pen enchantments meant to entrance and hypnotize the mind, causing neglect of all other duties and responsibilities in order for the reader to remain a puppet controlled by the writer's wand. And if some foul friend does manage to break the spell, he is despised for it. His heroics are too late in coming. The words―the fairytales―have seeped beyond the body and into the soul, taking possession. Our poor reader is infected, compromised, never to be cured. The notion of magic found in simple words such as "Once upon a time..." has always fascinated me. It is no wonder I am compelled to write.
Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich
Friday, January 9, 2015
Discouragement, Fear, & Depression
three villains who lurk in the dark.
They slip inside souls with a blindfold and goals
to shatter your dreams and extinguish your spark.
Their tactics are highly effective.
They crush a great many each day.
And under their spell it is easy to dwell
On fiascoes and failures that end in dismay.
They crush a great many each day.
And under their spell it is easy to dwell
On fiascoes and failures that end in dismay.
The heart and the mind are left heavy.
The last speck of will is erased.
And nothing stays on when these villains are gone
but a mouthful of bile with the bitterest taste.
The last speck of will is erased.
And nothing stays on when these villains are gone
but a mouthful of bile with the bitterest taste.
Alas! You must conquer the scoundrels!
Elude, dodge, and keep them at bay!
To feel fear slink in, boring under your skin,
is a sign that his brothers are well on their way.
Elude, dodge, and keep them at bay!
To feel fear slink in, boring under your skin,
is a sign that his brothers are well on their way.
So reach for your weapons against them!
Take hope and hard work in each hand!
Strap faith on your hips and a prayer on your lips
and show those debasers how firmly you stand!
Take hope and hard work in each hand!
Strap faith on your hips and a prayer on your lips
and show those debasers how firmly you stand!
Discouragement, fear and depression;
the truth should be known of these cads.
They’re empty and weak; it is your strength they seek.
Deny them and life is your wish in the bag. ”
the truth should be known of these cads.
They’re empty and weak; it is your strength they seek.
Deny them and life is your wish in the bag. ”
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Gratitude is Medicine
My New Year's Eve was the worst ever.
I felt like the crud under cow herder's shoes, having cried my fair share of tears the past few days. My husband was seriously hurt in a car accident―a wreck that kept him in the hospital for five days, me at his side. It was wrong; it was just wrong. For crying in the night, he's the seasoned emergency responder who saves other people in car wrecks!
Life is so not fair. I have been repeating these words as if the fact were some profound epiphany. This whole thing sucks lemons. And so for New Year's Eve, all I could think about was how awful, how dreadful 2015 was destined to be.
It seems traditionally we bring in every new year with eager optimism, making grand goals, having great expectations that excite us to action from day one. We stand at the threshold, hopeful. But this year, day one kindled no such hope or excitement for me, only a bleak sigh at the unavoidable uphill climb ahead.
It's easy to stew in a pot of "woe is me"―a salty stock made from my own tears. Nearly lost his life. Stapled and stitched together, his mobility hampered by injury. Bedrest, the doctors say. No work. An active guy forced to stop and wait for bones and flesh to heal.
What a dismal way to start off the new year. Life is so not fair.
January 1st, the sun rose as always. My spirits did not. I got up and went about helping my husband to carefully rise and strap on a sturdy back brace. Pain killers are administered every four hours; it hurts otherwise. He paused to thank me for my help, for my aid and assistance throughout the past hard week. This John Wayne of a man thanked me with tears in his eyes. I felt a warm ray of sunlight in my chest at his expression of gratitude, and I too was grateful. I was grateful to hear him say those words to me; he does not say them often.
I was affected by feelings of gratitude amid tragedy. The idea made me contemplate how we have things in this situation to be grateful for:
I felt like the crud under cow herder's shoes, having cried my fair share of tears the past few days. My husband was seriously hurt in a car accident―a wreck that kept him in the hospital for five days, me at his side. It was wrong; it was just wrong. For crying in the night, he's the seasoned emergency responder who saves other people in car wrecks!
Life is so not fair. I have been repeating these words as if the fact were some profound epiphany. This whole thing sucks lemons. And so for New Year's Eve, all I could think about was how awful, how dreadful 2015 was destined to be.
It seems traditionally we bring in every new year with eager optimism, making grand goals, having great expectations that excite us to action from day one. We stand at the threshold, hopeful. But this year, day one kindled no such hope or excitement for me, only a bleak sigh at the unavoidable uphill climb ahead.
It's easy to stew in a pot of "woe is me"―a salty stock made from my own tears. Nearly lost his life. Stapled and stitched together, his mobility hampered by injury. Bedrest, the doctors say. No work. An active guy forced to stop and wait for bones and flesh to heal.
What a dismal way to start off the new year. Life is so not fair.
January 1st, the sun rose as always. My spirits did not. I got up and went about helping my husband to carefully rise and strap on a sturdy back brace. Pain killers are administered every four hours; it hurts otherwise. He paused to thank me for my help, for my aid and assistance throughout the past hard week. This John Wayne of a man thanked me with tears in his eyes. I felt a warm ray of sunlight in my chest at his expression of gratitude, and I too was grateful. I was grateful to hear him say those words to me; he does not say them often.
I was affected by feelings of gratitude amid tragedy. The idea made me contemplate how we have things in this situation to be grateful for:
- Survival. A rear-end collision at 50-60 mph managed to crumple his truck like an aluminum can, but my husband survived.
- No one was in the truck with him―no child crushed in the back seat.
- His injuries, though painful and timely to heal, are expected to mend. He was nearly killed, but not. He was nearly paralyzed, but not.
- A great many friends and family have reached out to support us. They have stopped by for unexpected visits at the hospital and at home, offered words of encouragement over the phone, posted kind sentiments on Facebook, brought meals to us, offered assistance at any time of the day, held us firmly with hugs, whispered earnest prayers―all of it a heartwarming reminder that friends make every bit of difference in life.
- We have learned that laughter is a better painkiller than any narcotic.
- At the hospital, I crossed paths with many a stranger who proved to me that kindness and compassion are still strong in the world. I also realized that misfortune is a shared truth; everyone has an emotional, true story to tell.
My eyes still sting with tears, and weariness lingers in my bones, but I have decided that a year beginning with an uphill challenge has the potential to reap more rewards than I first thought. Perhaps 2015 will be a year of improved health, closer friendships, greater wisdom... and a new truck."Gratitude is medicine for a heart devastated by tragedy. If you can only be thankful for the blue sky, then do so." — Richelle E. Goodrich, Smile Anyway: Quotes, Verse, & Grumblings for Every Day of the Year
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
About Christmas
Christmas Day is right around the corner which means for many of us a rush to finish holiday shopping and preparations while squeezing out time to decorate trees, adorn table tops, wreath our front doors, and light up windows and eaves. Not to mention all the added Christmas parties and Winter concerts to attend. As our check-listing scramble begins to overwhelm, inevitably the spirit of the season diminishes.
It happens. Often without notice.
And so, I would like to revive that tender spirit of Christmas and gently warm your holiday heart once again... that is, if you will take a moment to check-list a short story.
Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich
It happens. Often without notice.
And so, I would like to revive that tender spirit of Christmas and gently warm your holiday heart once again... that is, if you will take a moment to check-list a short story.
My
identity is not important—age, gender, or ethnicity. The year and circumstances make little
difference either, other than to know it was a cold Christmas night when this
miracle occurred in my life. And though
the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never
passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope through this retelling of
events you will acquire every thread of understanding I gained in a remarkable
moment of truth.
It
was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the
ground. I sat outside on my front porch,
bundled in the warmest wrap I could find.
Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears—a celebration of
Christmas among friends and family. I
was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort
into the task. Christmas didn’t thrill
me like it seemed to for so many others.
And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a
particularly bright star, I wondered for what reason exactly this holiday
existed.
I
pulled the wrap more snugly around my shoulders while contemplating a string of
traditions practiced yearly at this time.
What was the big deal about observing silly rituals? Why the extra jollity and efforts this time
of year?
What
was Christmas all about?
I’m
not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite
natural in its occurrence. The shimmering
star that had locked my eyes upon it—a celestial light I knew to exist far, far
from my world—suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it
hovered above me at an arms throw. I
blinked a number of times thinking my focus would return to normal and the star
would once again hang sensibly in the heavens.
Instead, every flitter of my lashes produced a change in the star that
revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered within the light. He was beautiful beyond description—white,
radiant, and smiling down upon me. The thought occurred that I had passed on to the
afterlife. Perhaps unawares to my
conscious self, I had frozen in the cold and suffered death. Was this radiant being God?
The
man’s smile broadened as if he found amusement in my thoughts, and I worried he
could actually read them. Anxiety made
me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair. The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted I was
dead.
“Fear
not,” the man said in the softest voice ever to caress my ears. “Your prayer has been heard.” I assumed then he was an angel. To think God would personally come for me was
a highly vain notion.
The
smiling messenger reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light
appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin. It turned out he stood even closer to me than
I had first perceived. I blinked again,
disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes.
“Fear
not,” he repeated. “Take my hand.”
Stunned
by all the unusualness there was to perceive, I asked, “You heard my
prayer?” My forehead tightened at the
idea. I didn’t recall offering a prayer.
Suddenly,
his radiant palm was pressed against my chest.
“In here,” the angel explained. “He
knows all your heart’s desires.”
I
wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the
knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source
consumed my chest. All my fears
dissipated.
Again
a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold.
As
inept as I had proven myself at perceiving distances, it seemed time and travel
also elected to bewilder my senses. For
I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving
around me and my heavenly guide. A
whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime
sky. I noticed one difference among the
stars—a brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more
effectively than any star I had ever witnessed.
“Christmas,”
the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.
“This
is Christmas?” I wondered. “Is this what
Christmas is about? A star?”
The
angel smiled. “Not entirely.” He continued to look up.
“Is
it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.
He
flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes. “Not entirely.”
I
watched him as he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I
was afraid if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground which we
presently hovered above. It wasn’t my
intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved a difficult thing until
something more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus skyward
again.
Singing,
rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first. Such beautiful carols I had never heard
before. As my eyes swept across a choir
of angels, I held my breath in awe. They
were singing hymns of joyous praise.
Carols of a newborn king—the Christ child.
I
listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my
eyes. The whole time my guide squeezed my
hand, beaming. It wasn’t until the choir
began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered
beneath them, witnessing what I saw.
Then
we were all at once standing among the shepherds, mingled in their numbers as
if we belonged with them. I could
understand their acceptance of me, being wrapped in a woolen blanket that
resembled their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no
incredulous looks. Perhaps because of
the messenger angel above?
“Fear
not. For behold I bring you good tidings
of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is
Christ the Lord. And this shall be a
sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a
manger.”
After
a final chorus of praise, the angels went away.
I was sad to see them go, to have their inspiring music no longer
permeating the atmosphere. Naturally, I
sighed at such a stark loss.
My
glorious companion sighed likewise.
“Ahhh, Christmas.”
I
nodded. “Is this what Christmas is about? Singing carols and songs of heavenly praise?”
The
angel smiled kindly at me. “Not
entirely.”
“Is
it about the message then? Is Christmas
about heralding Christ’s birth?”
I
was given another patient smile. “Not
entirely.”
We
separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, taking steps on
a dirt road. I felt secure enough to let
go of my companion’s hand. He released
my fingers readily. Our walk remained
quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country. I pondered the things that had transpired—the
message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds willing and ready
to hear. This was the first
Christmas. This was Christ’s birthday. What else would Christmas be about if not
Him?
I
had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at
my side. Turning back, my eyes opened
up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting.
We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable. Stone, wood, and straw were arranged as
shelter for docile animals. A small
light shone from within, sustained by a single candle. I squinted to make out two silhouettes that
appeared joined. Mother and baby.
I
couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is it Him?”
The
angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence.
“This
is the first Christmas,” I said, making sure my understanding of events was
correct.
The
angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.
“Christmas
is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared.
The
angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty. “Not entirely.”
I
crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention,
appearing from the back of the stable. A
man approached and knelt beside the mother and child. His arm fell gently around the woman, his free
hand careful to cup the baby’s head. He
leaned in to kiss his wife. The picture
touched my heart.
“Is
Christmas about family?” I asked.
I
mouthed the echoed response. “Not
entirely.”
My
eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion. It was strange that his brilliance didn’t
light the darkness within the stable.
But what hadn’t proved strange
thus far? I was about to question his
definition of “entirely” when
the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear. I twisted my neck to find strangers
approaching—shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer,
richer fabrics.
“The
wise men?” I guessed.
My
companion nodded.
I
watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the
stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child. I wanted a closer look myself and followed
the others across a carpet of strewn straw.
I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet. She appeared truly grateful.
“Is
Christmas about gifts?” I asked. It was
a holiday tradition spanning the ages, to be sure.
“Not
entirely.”
The
mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see. His features were glowing in the
candlelight. He was asleep. Adorable.
He appeared so tiny and fragile, snuggly wrapped in a single
blanket.
“He
came to save the world,” the angel told me.
“To suffer and die for all of us.”
I
nodded, aware of the truth.
“Is
that what Christmas is about?” I asked.
“Christ’s purpose? His suffering
and death?”
There
was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his
eyes. “Not entirely.”
I
sighed. What in the world was Christmas
about then? I thought of the few
Christmases I had celebrated in my own lifetime—gathered around family, singing
carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth,
rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds. Was this not what Christmas was about?
When
the others stepped back, I knelt before the new mother, questioning her with my
eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child. She smiled with understanding and held him
out to me, offering the chance to cradle the babe in my arms. I couldn’t make myself do it. To hold my savior was a privilege I was
unworthy to accept. I yearned, though,
to at least touch him. With a trembling
reach, I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm. I feared for a moment my touch might be too
cold, but the baby stirred and turned his face toward me, his little nose
nuzzling in my palm. I exhaled raggedly
and chuckled at this. My breathing
stopped entirely when his eyes opened up.
He
looked right at me.
I
couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears. His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one,
clasping on. Behind him, I caught his
mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”
I
bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true. His life, his actions—they proved it to be
so.
It
took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again. My companion waited patiently for my eyes to
dry. He was nodding before I even asked
the question.
“Is
Christmas about love?”
“It
is.”
As
my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once
again seated on the porch outside my own house.
I looked up in time to catch a shooting star. The laughter of friends and family carried to
me from inside. Rising to go join them
(wondering what the chances were they would believe my miraculous story) I
heard the truth proclaimed in the quietest, piercing voice. Words of a loving Father. Words I resolved that very Christmas night to
forever abide.
“For
I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Love one another, even as I have loved you.”
Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich
Monday, December 8, 2014
Give
“The sun rose and said to me, 'Be a ray of sunshine for someone today.'
The wind nudged at my back and said to me, 'Blow a kiss to someone today.'
The rain wet my cheek and said to me, 'Dry a tear on a somber face today.'
The soil fed grass at my feet and said to me, 'Add pleasure to a life today.'
The ocean washed ashore and said to me, 'Calm the tempest of a troubled soul today.'
The mountain trembled and said to me, 'Soften a heart of stone today.'
The moon lit the night and said to me, 'Show the way with your simple giving.'
So I went and did as they bid me do.
And the sun shone brightly on me.
And the wind caressed my face.
And the rain washed away my stains.
And the soil made a rose garden along my path.
And the ocean carried me from shore to shore.
And the mountain sheltered me from storms.
And the moon smiled down on me.
I've come to realize I can never give enough to recompense what I get in return.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
The wind nudged at my back and said to me, 'Blow a kiss to someone today.'
The rain wet my cheek and said to me, 'Dry a tear on a somber face today.'
The soil fed grass at my feet and said to me, 'Add pleasure to a life today.'
The ocean washed ashore and said to me, 'Calm the tempest of a troubled soul today.'
The mountain trembled and said to me, 'Soften a heart of stone today.'
The moon lit the night and said to me, 'Show the way with your simple giving.'
So I went and did as they bid me do.
And the sun shone brightly on me.
And the wind caressed my face.
And the rain washed away my stains.
And the soil made a rose garden along my path.
And the ocean carried me from shore to shore.
And the mountain sheltered me from storms.
And the moon smiled down on me.
I've come to realize I can never give enough to recompense what I get in return.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Thursday, November 27, 2014
I Am Thankful
It's Thanksgiving Day and I've eaten waaaay too much... again. The turkey, potatoes, gravy, dressing, sweet yams, homemade rolls-it was all delicious. Well worth the hour of bloated misery afterward. But as wonderful as our traditional spread always is, the turkey and tempting trimmings aren't my main draw to this holiday. I like that Thanksgiving is a day of opportunity to give sincere thanks. I enjoy taking time to really contemplate the many things I have--the abundance of blessings I enjoy. And today I've done just that. Here is my list of ten things I'm genuinely thankful for. It barely scrapes the surface.
1. The chance to be Mom. There was a time I thought I would never get to hear someone call me "Mommy," until three great boys blessed my life. Now I get to hear "Mom!" all the time--spoken, whined, grumbled, and even yelled across the house.
2. The opportunity to pray. I learned to talk to God when I was little, and I've done so daily all my life. Things I can't tell anyone else, I tell the Lord. He has become my best friend.
3. The phenomenal things done on a cell phone. I can self-publish a book, take virtual tours, watch tv, communicate with anyone anywhere, pay bills, create music/photo albums, see my house from space, play chess with a stranger in Japan, check my heart rate and temp, Google info on any curious thought, and tons more!
4. Having my parents nearby. The years tend to teach us what a miraculous blessing it is to have parents who sacrifice so much (including moments of sanity) to raise you, who continually support your far-fetched goals, who listen to your complaints, and who would never ever consider forsaking you. Parents are golden.
5. The continual improvement of talents. I kept a copy of my very first attempt at writing a novel. Reading it makes me groan (and sometimes laugh out loud.) Oh, how far my writing has come since then! I can only imagine the progress in years to come. I'm grateful for the fact--practice is improvement, and improvement only leads to perfection. I can see this truth in my artwork as well.
6. Hot fudge sundaes. My new favorite treat is a smooth, sweet, tempting, mouthwatering, chocolatey, irresistible, oh so yummy... uh, be right back.
7. Family and friends. Relationships make life richer. Everyone needs a little love and attention—both given and received.
8. The time and freedom to write my books. I've learned to use moments wisely and not take time for granted, knowing small increments add up. Word by word I write my novels. They are my escape from life's burdens, a portal to new worlds and realities, a fresh change of scenery, a means to interact with my imaginary friends, and a real workout for my creative muscle.
9. Good health and strength. Truly, being well and whole and able are great blessings not to be taken for granted. I love that I can walk, breathe freely, feel good, see to read, and type to write.
10. Learning new things. It's incredible how much information exists at our fingertips nowadays. Want to know about something? Just go online, search the topic, and see the mass material available!
Friday, October 31, 2014
The Next Chapter You've Been Waiting For in The Tarishe Curse
Happy Halloween!
An air of excitement sends a chill down my spine because I just posted the next chapter of The Tarishe Curse online! As in years past, this spook tale that continues every Hallows Eve is dedicated to my friend, the reigning Queen of Halloween—Cathie Duvall. If you have recently become aware of our Hallows Eve tradition, click on the title here—The Tarishe Curse—and enter a gripping Halloween tale that will have you returning every year on this same spooky night for another reader's treat. Now, get comfortable, ghouls and goblins. It is story time!
“Vengeance would have us assault an enemy's pride to beat him down. But vengeance hides a dangerous truth, for a humbled foe gains patience, courage, strength, and greater determination.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Saturday, October 25, 2014
A Cursed Halloween Story
All
Hallows Eve
is nearing! I'm so excited!
You know what this means—another installment in the ongoing spook tale,
If you have yet to
experience the plight of the Queen of Werefolk—caused by a witch’s curse—now is the time to curl up in the corner of your sofa and greedily feast on the beginning chapters of a gripping Halloween tale. Following are quotes from the reading to wet
your appetite:
"Vengeance, retaliation, retribution, revenge are deceitful brothers; vile, beguiling demons promising justifiable compensation to a pained soul for his losses. Yet in truth they craftily fester away all else of worth remaining."
“I squinted at the western sky behind Thaddeus, a blood-red smear melting into blackness. Twisting my neck, I glanced the opposite direction. My teeth clenched at a magnified, round moon nearly as scarlet as the portending sunset, its luminous face half masked by hazy cloud cover. Hatred, vengeance, anger… such emotions coursed through my veins in a poisonous concoction that muddied my mind, impelling me to grip my sword tighter and fight with every ounce of strength I possessed against those who threatened my family - my kind. Currently, Thaddeus was behaving as such a threat, using his powers of persuasion to condone human sacrifice for some outrageously perceived good. He wanted an offering for the monsters; a desperate, futile offering of human flesh that would in no way protect the other villagers from being mauled as he promised.”
“Misery is a river of tears that whispers my name in a constant hiss.”
I nodded. “It’s warm.”
“I made it. Well, actually, I didn’t skin the animal, but I did kill it… after the others pinned it down. It’s werewolf skin.”
My heart faltered; I gripped at a wad of black fur.
“I slayed the beast for you, Catherine. I used your sword. It was your grandmother’s idea actually, a wedding present. You mentioned how chilly you get.”
“You didn’t slay a werewolf,” I breathed before repeating the words louder. “You did not slay a werewolf, Thaddeus.”
“Oh, but I did. I took a band of huntsman with me and we tracked one down. A smaller one, mind you, not far from the front gate…”
“You did not!” I contended more strongly. Why would one wolf have separated from the pack? Why outside our walls?
“Yes, Catherine, I did,” he insisted.
I shook my head disbelieving. “You’re not capable—”
“I am so.”
I wanted to cry. I wanted to protest, but to do so meant giving away my knowledge of the truth. Without knowing what else to do or say I changed the subject.
“The fire’s gone out.”
Thaddeus turned his head to check. “You’re right. I’ll see to it.”
He fed the barrel stove until a healthy blaze was roaring. Finding me no longer a decent conversationalist, Thaddeus left with a promise to return soon with food and water. Unobserved, I gathered up the fur hide of a lost soul and curled into a ball, hugging it close to my chest.
I cried silent tears and mourned for this unknown werewolf for days.
“Enemies may unite to eliminate a common threat, but never without a wary eye fixed on their ally.”
“Vengeance would have us assault an enemy's pride to beat him down. But vengeance hides a dangerous truth, for a humbled foe gains patience, courage, strength, and greater determination.”
The
nonsense of his claim made me stammer over the rest of my question. “But…no, no, why did you… I mean, why didn’t
you kill me? Why let me live? I’m your sworn enemy wielding the power to destroy
you, so why am I not dead?”
His
face fell forlorn as if he had insight into the ending of my story, one that
could only be labeled a tragedy. I was
certain such was the case; I would most likely die here at the hands of the
same monsters who’d taken my offspring.
But I would not go to the grave without first understanding this
mystery. When moisture appeared to glisten
in his eyes, the sight was excruciating to me, so I dropped my gaze to stare at
his legs—waiting.”
“Enemies may unite to eliminate a common threat, but never without a wary eye fixed on their ally.”
I
made a heart-sworn oath at that very moment, vowing on my son’s grave to hunt
down the black queen of the devil and strike her dead with my silver
sword. And I would do the same to her
companion, that foul umber wolf.
“Grandma,
it hurts,” I cried, lifting my face to seek compassion in her gaze. “I want that wolf to pay for what she’s
done!”
Her
cold hand rested on my cheek and wiped at a spill of tears.
“Oh,
the wretched creature shall pay, Catherine,” Grandmother assured me. A fiery glimmer flashed in her eyes, and I
knew my pain was understood. “She shall
pay dearly.”
“Vengeance is a monster of appetite, forever bloodthirsty and never filled.”
Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Books, Blogs, & Bits Interviews Me
The following is an interview of yours truly arranged by Books, Blogs, and Bits: A site to share and highlight books, authors, and other interesting stuff. I enjoyed this interview a great deal and have posted it here for your reading pleasure.
BB & B: I love this quote of yours,
Richelle: Yes, I certainly can. For the most part, my quotes have been inspired by personal experiences and some unpleasant trials. At times, however, they’ve resulted from a keen fascination for observing and evaluating human behavior. I like to ‘people watch’, perhaps because I never cease to be amazed by the actions of others.
The quote you mention regarding courage came to me when I was facing a difficult challenge that resulted in taking a stand for what I heartily wanted despite strenuous opposition. I’m no super hero, I’ll admit. I cringe at the mere mention of anxiety, fear, and confrontation. But I’ve learned that courage isn’t reserved for the brave and daring only. Courage means taking action, period. And even a timid personality can do that—albeit trembling the entire time.
BB & B: I love fantasy and magic in my books and you definitely capture these elements so beautifully in your stories. What inspires you when in the creation of your characters and the world they live in?
Richelle: I’m a daydreamer to the very core. There are a thousand stories swirling in my head constantly, sort of like an inner library where I slip a book off the shelf almost daily for the purpose of entertaining an untiring brain. If only I could write—had the time to write—all the adventures and fantasies that play on my mental viewscreen. I have my favorites memorized, and I tweak their stories often, hoping someday to jot them down on paper. I’ve always been this way, passing the time in another world, pretending to be some extraordinary character. I have to laugh because I actually wrote a quote inspired by this truth:
Art seems to be a strong stimulation when it comes to sparking stories in my imagination. I believe that’s because art is so highly interpretive, which means I must draw on my own creativity to evaluate it. And once the creativity starts to flow, quite frankly there’s no stopping what develops from it.
BB & B: To what extent do your characters remind you of yourself or someone you know?
Richelle: I’m smiling at this question. I am a firm believer that there is absolutely a portion of the personality of a writer in the main character(s) he/she creates. My characters are not exactly as I am, but they most certainly do possess solid elements of ‘me-ness’ in them. They must, because it’s me imagining how they would react and respond and reply to presented stimuli. And all I have to go on is what exists within my experience; experience that has made me, me.
BB & B: If you had to pick just one story or one character of yours. Which or who would it be and why?
Richelle: Hmmmm. Pick one for what purpose? Do you want the character that entertains me the most? Or the one I most relate to? Or the one that I enjoyed creating most? Okay, let’s see…
The character that entertains me most is probably Kira the Mishmorat from my stories in the Harrowbethian Saga or "Eena" books. Kira’s personality is nervy, edgy, and spirited—traits I normally repress. She speaks at will, behaves boldly, is a striking beauty and an alluring nymph. I love how she is.
The character that I most relate to would be Annabelle Fancher in Dandelions. Not because I have ever experienced the abusive life she unfortunately endures, but because she and I both are dreamers and avid people watchers. Despite Annabelle’s youth, she makes very astute observations about her peers and many adults.
The character I most enjoyed creating would be Eena, hands down. That’s because she is me. I am her. At least that’s the way I always imagined it when I use to daydream about Eena and her other-world adventures as a high school student bored to death in class.
BB & B: Here’s another quote from Smile Anyway
Next, I’ve come to realize that where dreams are concerned I have only two choices—give up or keep going. If I were to give up, that would translate into sheer failure, and I do NOT want to fail. Therefore, I’ve no other choice but to keep going, to keep striving towards those dreams.
The last habit I rely upon most heavily. I pray. I explain to my Heavenly Father what I wish to achieve, and I ask Him for inspiration, guidance, and His hand in making it possible. And I believe assuredly that He can and will help me.
BB & B: Do you have any works in progress? What can fans expect from you in the near future?
Richelle: Yes, as a matter of fact; I’m excited about this one! I’ve begun a new YA book staring a genius boy-gifted girl duo. They’re coerced by an old Mayan priest into opposing phantom villains who must be stopped at all costs or else… (Wait a minute. I probably shouldn’t give the entire story away.) Anyhow, I hope to have this work completed by the end of the year.
BB & B: Do you have any closing words you’d like to share?
Richelle: Sure, how about a quote to inspire? This one is from my recently released book, Smile Anyway:
Thank you Richelle for your time! Beautiful words indeed!
To get to know more about Richelle and her great works, please visit the links below:
____________________________
Books, Blogs, and Bits
is proud to present:
Richelle E. Goodrich
Richelle E. Goodrich lives in Washington with her husband and three boys somewhere in a compromise between country and city living. She has two BA degrees and possesses a wide range of interests in the creative arts. Her love for writing emerged later in life, first manifesting itself through children’s books geared at entertaining her boys. Eena, The Dawn and Rescue and Eena, The Return of a Queen (the beginning adventures in the Harrowbethian Saga) are Richelle’s first novel-length achievements. This author will tell you that the greatest thrill of writing is to hear what readers have to say about the characters living within her enchanted pages.
~ ~
BB & B: I love this quote of yours,
“Courage to me is doing something daring, no matter how afraid, insecure, intimidated, alone, unworthy, incapable, ridiculed or whatever other paralyzing emotion you might feel. Courage is taking action… no matter what. So you’re afraid? Be afraid. Be scared silly to the point you’re trembling and nauseous, but do it anyway!” -Smile Anyway
Can you tell us about this quote and what brought out these words of encouragement?
Richelle: Yes, I certainly can. For the most part, my quotes have been inspired by personal experiences and some unpleasant trials. At times, however, they’ve resulted from a keen fascination for observing and evaluating human behavior. I like to ‘people watch’, perhaps because I never cease to be amazed by the actions of others.
The quote you mention regarding courage came to me when I was facing a difficult challenge that resulted in taking a stand for what I heartily wanted despite strenuous opposition. I’m no super hero, I’ll admit. I cringe at the mere mention of anxiety, fear, and confrontation. But I’ve learned that courage isn’t reserved for the brave and daring only. Courage means taking action, period. And even a timid personality can do that—albeit trembling the entire time.
BB & B: I love fantasy and magic in my books and you definitely capture these elements so beautifully in your stories. What inspires you when in the creation of your characters and the world they live in?
Richelle: I’m a daydreamer to the very core. There are a thousand stories swirling in my head constantly, sort of like an inner library where I slip a book off the shelf almost daily for the purpose of entertaining an untiring brain. If only I could write—had the time to write—all the adventures and fantasies that play on my mental viewscreen. I have my favorites memorized, and I tweak their stories often, hoping someday to jot them down on paper. I’ve always been this way, passing the time in another world, pretending to be some extraordinary character. I have to laugh because I actually wrote a quote inspired by this truth:
“I live in two unique worlds, traveling between both with just the opening or closing of my eyes.”That’s me. What inspires these stories—the characters and the worlds they come from? Well... what doesn’t inspire them? In other words, just about anything can act as inspiration for me, depending upon what I’m thinking about at the moment. A mangled tree once inspired an entire book, including the type of life that dominated a fantasy world. A touching scene from a movie was what sparked the idea for my book, Dandelions.
~Richelle E. Goodrich
Art seems to be a strong stimulation when it comes to sparking stories in my imagination. I believe that’s because art is so highly interpretive, which means I must draw on my own creativity to evaluate it. And once the creativity starts to flow, quite frankly there’s no stopping what develops from it.
BB & B: To what extent do your characters remind you of yourself or someone you know?
Richelle: I’m smiling at this question. I am a firm believer that there is absolutely a portion of the personality of a writer in the main character(s) he/she creates. My characters are not exactly as I am, but they most certainly do possess solid elements of ‘me-ness’ in them. They must, because it’s me imagining how they would react and respond and reply to presented stimuli. And all I have to go on is what exists within my experience; experience that has made me, me.
BB & B: If you had to pick just one story or one character of yours. Which or who would it be and why?
Richelle: Hmmmm. Pick one for what purpose? Do you want the character that entertains me the most? Or the one I most relate to? Or the one that I enjoyed creating most? Okay, let’s see…
The character that entertains me most is probably Kira the Mishmorat from my stories in the Harrowbethian Saga or "Eena" books. Kira’s personality is nervy, edgy, and spirited—traits I normally repress. She speaks at will, behaves boldly, is a striking beauty and an alluring nymph. I love how she is.
The character that I most relate to would be Annabelle Fancher in Dandelions. Not because I have ever experienced the abusive life she unfortunately endures, but because she and I both are dreamers and avid people watchers. Despite Annabelle’s youth, she makes very astute observations about her peers and many adults.
The character I most enjoyed creating would be Eena, hands down. That’s because she is me. I am her. At least that’s the way I always imagined it when I use to daydream about Eena and her other-world adventures as a high school student bored to death in class. BB & B: Here’s another quote from Smile Anyway
, “A daily dose of daydreaming heals the heart, soothes the soul, and strengthens the imagination.”
I just love your quotes. They’re inspiring and full of wisdom. I can see that you are about positivity and living up to your true calling and not giving up. Can you share with us your tips for staying positive and keeping on course? I think this can be especially challenging for those of us in the creative field.
Richelle: There are three things that help fuel my drive to succeed. The first is an easy and simple habit; I do at least one thing daily to get me nearer to my goal. On a busy day, that might mean writing just one sentence in a developing manuscript. On a lazy day I might read for research purposes or scribble out an entry on my author blog. The point is that I not allow myself to become stagnant. Doing nothing achieves nothing, therefore I take at least one step toward my goal every day, despite how tiny the step.
Richelle: There are three things that help fuel my drive to succeed. The first is an easy and simple habit; I do at least one thing daily to get me nearer to my goal. On a busy day, that might mean writing just one sentence in a developing manuscript. On a lazy day I might read for research purposes or scribble out an entry on my author blog. The point is that I not allow myself to become stagnant. Doing nothing achieves nothing, therefore I take at least one step toward my goal every day, despite how tiny the step.
Next, I’ve come to realize that where dreams are concerned I have only two choices—give up or keep going. If I were to give up, that would translate into sheer failure, and I do NOT want to fail. Therefore, I’ve no other choice but to keep going, to keep striving towards those dreams.
The last habit I rely upon most heavily. I pray. I explain to my Heavenly Father what I wish to achieve, and I ask Him for inspiration, guidance, and His hand in making it possible. And I believe assuredly that He can and will help me.
BB & B: Do you have any works in progress? What can fans expect from you in the near future?
Richelle: Yes, as a matter of fact; I’m excited about this one! I’ve begun a new YA book staring a genius boy-gifted girl duo. They’re coerced by an old Mayan priest into opposing phantom villains who must be stopped at all costs or else… (Wait a minute. I probably shouldn’t give the entire story away.) Anyhow, I hope to have this work completed by the end of the year.
BB & B: Do you have any closing words you’d like to share?
Richelle: Sure, how about a quote to inspire? This one is from my recently released book, Smile Anyway:
“Never give up.
It’s like breathing—once you quit, your flame dies letting total darkness extinguish every last gasp of hope. You can’t do that. You must continue taking in even the shallowest of breaths, continue putting forth even the smallest of efforts to sustain your dreams. Don’t ever, ever, ever give up.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Thank you Richelle for your time! Beautiful words indeed!
To get to know more about Richelle and her great works, please visit the links below:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)