Happy Father's Day

Dad, Richelle, Mom

     Over the years I've learned many things from my father. He has been there for me and my boys throughout our lives. I am grateful for his hard work, his generosity, and some lessons learned. Here are probably the top ten things I learned from him, last to first:

10. Coats belong in the closet. Salt and pepper belong on the table.
9. Everything should be celebrated afterwards with ice cream.
8. You don't pick the winning team in football based on their jersey colors.
7. YES, you can do anything, but NO, you're not better than anyone else.
6. Parents don't flap their jaws just to hear themselves talk.
5. John Wayne is king, ruler, chief, icon, superhero, and the last real man to have set foot on this earth.
4. The world is full of opinions; yours is the one that matters most.
3. There are a lot of idiot boys my age.
2. If you can't look yourself in the eye standing in front of the mirror, you better fix the reason why.
1. No matter what—you are loved. (Unless, of course, the salt and pepper don't make it to the table.)

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!!

Good Days, Good People, Good Deeds

   I was standing in line at the post office a few days ago with a package I had procrastinated mailing. It was filled with candy bars and board games for my son who now lives a couple states away. Six people were ahead of me in the line that passed through the open side of a set of glass doors. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw more individuals joining the line at my back.

   Only two postal employees stood behind the counter that afternoon, so I knew the wait would be a bit long. A trip to the post office is always a gamble: sometimes it’s a quick in-and-out visit, other times you pay your dues in tendered time.

   Not in a real hurry, I began observing those around me. People-watching has always been my fascination; I find human nature intriguing. As I stood there waiting for the line to move forward, it occurred to me that everyone kept quietly to themselves. The only real conversations were those between the two postal workers and the individuals being helped. I had to smile at the realization that despite the long line, calm and patience set the tone.

   One woman who had taken up five minutes at the counter turned and apologized to everyone, aware of so many of us waiting. It was a courteous thing to do, and I again observed no show of annoyance in anyone’s demeanor. No grumbles, groans, or toe tapping. Such kindness made me smile.

   My attention then jumped to an elderly lady, also at the front counter, who was picking up a package. Her expression was one of surprise when she discovered the size of the box—about half her height in length and width—yet she refused every offer of assistance from the attendant.

   “Oh thank you, but I think I can manage. My car is right outside.”

   When she turned to leave, hefting that big box, it was evident she would not be able to squeeze through the one open double-door, so I stepped out of line to hold the second door open for her. The dear lady took about three steps forward before she put the package down, apparently reconsidering her need for assistance. Just then, a young man stepped out of line and asked to carry the box for her, giving the elderly lady a reason to sigh a sound of relief.

   We all watched the young man lift the box with ease and carry it through the double doors. Someone else further down the line held the main door open for him so he could step outside. We stared out the picture window as he crossed the street to reach the woman’s car where he carefully fit the box into her trunk. It was a sweet scene when she gave him an earnest show of thanks.

   I returned to my place in line. The young man also returned to his place in line—no objections from anyone.

   Why do I mention these simple acts of service that took place during a few minutes at the local post office? Because they happen every day all around us. The patience. The smiles. The acknowledgements. The opened doors. The helping hands. The gratitude. These humble services are the most precious treasures we give to one another, and they are daily occurrences among us. I fear, though, we have learned to overlook these quiet blessings, instead taking note of things loud, obnoxious, and harsh. Why concentrate on the negative when there is so much positive at work everywhere? Open your eyes and notice it. Then pay the kindness forward.

   No matter how bleak or negative the media paints the world, there is still an abundance of good—good days, good people, and good deeds. Choose to see these simple acts of kindness. Be part of what still defines us as humanity.

The Journey Continues in 2022

     Can you believe nine years have passed since I published my very first book, Eena, The Dawn and Rescue ? It was a dream come true that took two years of initial writing, then editing, followed by a cover illustration, and finally work with a publisher. I was elated the day I held the first printed copy in my hands. I was an actual published author! 

     Soon after, I turned to social media sites to introduce myself and my book to the world. It was great fun gaining new followers little by little over time. Since then, I have received messages and emails from readers about my stories and quotes, not to mention questions from fellow authors about their works in progress. This journey still continues, and it is an exciting one.

     Many quotes from my written works have been posted on memes and media sites for people to enjoy. Some of my quotes have been reprinted in various books including multiple versions of Chicken Soup for the Soul and in an Oxford Philosophy: Being Human course book. One quote was used in a Revlon ad magazine campaign, and another was televised on an opening scene of the tv program, Alone, on the History channel. That was a thrill!

     At the end of each year, I like to look back and compare my starting numbers with present-day numbers such as likes and followers from various places. Progress, even a little, is encouraging. I have learned to appreciate the steady increase in sales, online posts, and loyal readers. So here goes another year of reflection...

Nine years ago, 40 people liked my most popular book quote on Goodreads out of about thirty quotes posted at the time. 

Five years ago, my most popular quote reached 237 likes (out of 977 posted.)  

Today, my most popular quote on Goodreads has 393 likes out of 1,667 quotes posted there. I love it!

Nine years ago, 8 people considered my writing inspiring enough to call themselves a fan or follower on Goodreads. 

Five years ago, the number reached 149. 

Today, 240 people follow me as fans on Goodreads. Thank you!

Nine years ago, I started with 3 followers on Twitter. 

Five years ago, that number increased to 887. 

Today, I have 2,337 Twitter followers. Thank you again!

Five years ago, 13,552 visits were made to my author website. 

Today, my author website has had 20,660 visits (and counting.) Yay!

Five years ago, 441 people followed my Facebook author page, 397 followed me on Instagram, and 41 followed me on Tumblr. 

Today, 918 people follow my Facebook author page, 562 follow my Instagram page, and 208 follow me on Tumbler. 

     Slow and steady progress. I am grateful for it.

     From my first book published in April of 2012, eleven others have followed: a six-book series titled the Harrowbethian Saga; Dandelions, a novel accompanied by a short fairytale; and four motivational books that give readers an original quote/poem/story for every day of the year. Book thirteen will soon follow, a Hallows Eve werewolf adventure titled The Tarishe Curse. I have to say, this is my dream coming true, and I am grateful for every step forward.

    

     I want to add a big THANK YOU to all who have supported me in my writing endeavors. Thanks for purchasing my books, thanks for sharing my books with others, and thanks for leaving kind comments and reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, and other websites where my books are sold. It really helps! 

     2021 was a difficult year in personal ways, and I did not get as much writing done as I had hoped. 2022, however, is a fresh chance to make new goals and put pen to paper. I suppose you could say... 

This year, I survived.

Next year, I will thrive! 

Happy New Year, all,

and best of luck on your own personal 2022 goals!

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A Christmas Story... Feeling Needed

 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes

Isolation - A Poem

On a dreary, cold October while I watched the leaves descending,
twirling orange, red, and golden from the trees,
my frame of mind, it dourly echoed the depressing song of autumn,
for my life had turned as dull and dry as leaves.

I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.

Nay, I don’t recall the day when joy began to fade to nothing,
turning every hour a somber shade of gray.
Drawn out weeks I spent alone while urgent business called you elsewhere,
keeping both your mind and body far at bay.

It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.

Nonetheless, when life demands it, love and fantasy erode
until the push to make a dollar turns to greed.
And so you spent more time without me, crafting deals and making money,
never meaning to neglect my greater needs.

Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.

Day by day you lingered longer in the caves of money changers.
Night by night your presence failed to warm my bed.
But oh! The times you did appear with pretty gifts and warm affections,
not one small complaint or griping word was said.

Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.

Sipping chamomile while nibbling almond crumpets, I would
hear a spotted owl that answered every noise with “who?”
And for weeks my desperation found the owl a fine companion
‘til I realized we were “whooing” out for you.

It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.

An enchanting moon shone luminous upon my virgin path,
highlighting every step into the yet unknown.
I traveled on with neither destination nor a goal in mind
except to walk the aching sorrow from my bones.

‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.

It was in an open circle, very small but boasting daisies
and white asters growing wild among the grass,
well-illuminated also by a moon so full and glowing
it appeared to be a lid of giant mass.

Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.

With my face turned up to heaven, eyelids closed against the moonlight,
I stepped slowly to the circle’s very heart.
There my foot bumped into something far more supple than a boulder.
When I looked, the image gave my fright a start.

For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.

Just a gasp at length I managed, for a scream seemed rather pointless
in the middle of the forest in the night.
With wide eyes I scanned the body, more than certain it was lifeless,
seeking evidence of how she’d met her plight.

A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.

Then I noticed in her fingers lay a vial. It was empty.
I could picture how in life this troubled soul
had destroyed herself through poison in a bleak, crestfallen moment,
having nobody and nowhere else to go.

Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.

As I shed a tear or two, my fingers touched the cold cadaver
and the strangest shiver traveled up my spine.
At my back, I felt a chill that far surpassed the curious warmness
I’d encountered stepping through the ring of pines.

The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.

For a brief eternal moment I believed my life in danger,
but that notion faded with a simple smile.
The young spirit kept her distance as she studied me in wonder,
lost in mutual contemplation for a while.

Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.

“Speak your name,” said she in eagerness. I did without delay.
She told me hers, at which we shared a pensive sigh.
Placing both feet on the grass, she stepped beside me near her body.
Pointing to the vial, I softly uttered, “Why?”

In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.

Then, as if she were a child, I heard her say, “Come play with me.
It’s been so very long since I have had a friend.”
I turned to find her two eyes hopeful, glowing near as white as starlight,
with a longingness my heart could apprehend.

I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.

In the morning I awakened ‘mid the mossy ring of pine trees
with my sweater draped across my shivering arms.
I had almost deemed the evening but a figment of my dreaming
when I spied the ashen corpse with some alarm.

Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.

Determining it wise to leave the body where it rested,
I stepped back into the trees to head for home.
Momentarily, I paused to scan the circle for a sign
that night had not elapsed with me out here alone.

Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.

Had I fantasized this friendly specter out of desperation?
Had the solitude and quiet made me mad?
Or, rather, had the most delightful night I’d spent in ages
been a pleasure for one living and one dead?

Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.

When I passed between the pine trees, smelling moss upon the branches,
I glanced everywhere with highest hopes indeed.
At the feel of drenching warmth my eyelids closed to face the moonlight.
Then I felt a shiver, followed by a plea.

“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.

I scarcely can express the great relief I felt to know
I wasn’t half as mad as I had first assumed.
And throughout the moonlit evening we did laugh instead of grieving.
In my heart a bud of optimism bloomed.

Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.

One wet and drizzly afternoon while fast asleep in bed
I felt a large and gentle hand against my cheek.
My mattress shifted at the weight of someone sizeable and heavy,
and I heard a man inquire if I was weak.

“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.

“It is you!” I cried. “My darling, you’ve returned to me at last!”
He hugged me tight, and in his ear I breathed a sigh.
“How I’ve missed you!” “Oh, I’ve missed you too, but sadly I can’t stay.”
A cold remark to which I gravely uttered, “Why?”

“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.

He then showered me in gifts, so I put on a glad expression
and accepted dainty trinkets and a ring.
I was grateful for the night we shared exchanging warm affections,
but by morning he was flittering his wings.

“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”

Now, before I said goodbye I made him swear to backtrack quickly.
He assured me it was just a few more days.
“I’ll be standing on our doorstep by this very hour next weekend.
Hear my promise; I shall rush and not delay.”

Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.

I rushed over, arms outstretched as if to offer an embrace,
but when I reached the girl my hands dropped to my thighs.
A dismal exhale crossed my lips; my features twisted with compassion.
No one spoke until the mourner raised her eyes.

I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.

Months elapsed and turned to years while their love blossomed undiscovered,
yet they yearned for more than meetings in the dark.
But alas! The unforgiving world denied them any refuge.
To the afterlife they both vowed to embark.

It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.

Beneath a harvest moon they spent their last devoted hours,
resolute to make the final sacrifice.
Star-crossed lovers held up vials as they toasted their affections.
To their lips they put the poison and imbibed.

But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.

She collapsed and breathed her final dying breath among the daisies
while her living lover muttered deep regrets.
He scurried off, a single kiss upon her icy hand in parting--
wanton cowardice she never would forget.

She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.

A well of tears I shed at hearing her disastrous tale of heartbreak,
and upon its end she questioned where I’d been.
Disappointing her the prior night had caused a valid worry
that, just like her love, I’d ne’er return again.

I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.

We connected much like sisters and divulged a wealth of secrets.
In our misery, we howled up at the moon.
For the first time in my life I felt both understood and pitied.
It was hard to part when morning came so soon.

Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.

She said there was yet another vial of poison, left untouched.
Her fleeing lover had abandoned it in haste.
She suggested that if someone sought to reach the world beyond
the vial’s contents would require but a taste.

I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures we forgo.”

I understood her subtle meaning: now or later ends the same.
But giving up my now seemed wasteful and unwise.
“You forget what you’d be gaining—an eternity together.
What you’d lose are lonely days that you despise.”

At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.

She was there for me. A ghost! Not now and then but every evening.
While the flesh-and-blood I’d married, he was gone.
Though he’d promised one week prior to return at dawning light,
my sole companion was an owl the whole day long.

Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”

So I contemplated hour by hour that one repeated word,
and in the morning I continued wide awake.
As the owl and I “whooed” out for you, my tears turned to a river.
And the sun, he traveled slowly for my sake.

And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich

The Harrowbethian Saga

     This is a six-book, young adult, fictional series that tells the story of Queen Eena of Harrowbeth. Though the tale begins on the planet Earth, it does not remain grounded in one, small area of the universe. There are diverse characters introduced along Eena's journey, each with a unique personality, culture, and background. Travel to new worlds as you share in the adventures of a young queen and her companions. Learn a bit of original mythology. Fret over life and love decisions. Treat your imagination to unexpected twists and turns! 

     Below are summaries of each book that makes up this fun saga. Start here, and prepare for some enjoyable days of reading...

The Harrowbethian Saga (6 books)

Series Summary:

After an unplanned trip to the doctor’s office, Sevenah Williams discovers that her ancestry is anything but human. This shocking news puts her on a course to find out the truth about her parents and a tragic past that placed her in hiding at a very young age. Eventually, she takes on her birth name, Eena, and accepts her birthright as the only living heir to the throne of Harrowbeth.

Eena soon learns that this privilege comes with a price, beginning with the painful process of being physically joined to an heirloom necklace known as the dragon’s soul. From that point on, Queen Eena slowly uncovers powers granted her by the necklace, giving her the ability to manipulate energy—a gift that comes in handy when she faces enemies who wish to see her royal line eliminated.

Eena must fight with new friends at her side including Derian, the captain of the Kemeniroc; Kira, a Mishmorat with might and spunk; Shanks and his crew of giant Viiduns; and Ian, her best friend and sworn protector. Her greatest challenges, however, turn out to be personal: learning to love, to trust, and to handle adult problems as a teenager.

_______________

Book 1 - Eena, The Dawn and Rescue

Book Summary: Sevenah Williams lives a quiet farm life until she stumbles upon a mysterious past and learns she is heir to the throne of Harrowbeth. She is the last living of royal blood able to don a peculiar and enchanted heirloom necklace. Given the new name, Eena, she sets off for a new home—a world plagued by civil war—only to discover that her enemies and allies are near impossible to distinguish.

Book 2 - Eena, The Return of a Queen

Book Summary: The young queen of Harrowbeth, has been saved from the clutches of her enemy, only to fear prophetic nightmares of being captured again. A red-eyed dragon haunts her dreams frequently, portending doom within his fortune-telling gaze. It is Derian and Ian's job to keep the beast's grim visions from coming true.Joined by their allies—a large and warring race called the Viiduns—Captain Derian and his militia escort their queen across the galaxy toward home. An unexpected detour takes them to an advanced world where a quirky king might possess the power to rid them of their enemy for good. But is trusting the promise of a stranger a risk worth taking? It will require Eena to face her worst nightmare alone.

Book 3 - Eena, The Curse of Wanyaka Cave

Book Summary: Captain Derian and his crew have successfully returned the young Queen Eena to her home in Harrowbeth. Their enemy of over a decade has been defeated. The world awaits healing as peace once again settles over the land. Unfortunately for those closest to Eena, this much-deserved rest proves short-lived.Deep within Lacsar Forest inside the black walls of Wanyaka Cave, a childhood ghost story has become reality. A more powerful and enduring enemy lures the young queen to where two immortal sisters await in confines, having been imprisoned there for generations. These evil sisters and their brother, along with a dragon forced to do their bidding, combine efforts to manipulate Eena into helping them accrue a means of escape. Though she tries to refuse her assistance, every move she makes only seems to worsen her predicament. She fears losing Derian's trust, Ian's friendship, and possibly someone's life.

Book 4 - Eena, The Two Sisters

Book Summary: Queen Eena sees her world crumbling, chiefly the lives of those she loves most. Affected by a compassionate heart, she tries to console one man who mourns for a lost love while endeavoring to assure another she does indeed plan to marry him... someday. But emotions are sensitive and doubts strong, especially when provoked by the lying tongue of an immortal scoundrel.All the while the young queen continues to search for a way to defeat two devious, indestructible sisters who seem capable of manipulating outcomes regardless of Eena's attempts to thwart them. The closer she gets to fulfilling the final demands of these witches, the more it appears only one way exists to save herself and her world—by agreeing to join the enemy. But would that make her a hero or the ultimate traitor?

Book 5 - Eena, The Tempter's Snare

Book Summary: It is the queen’s eighteenth birthday, and all of Moccobatra is eagerly prepared to participate in a world-wide celebration. Mallawum ballgames; multicultural song and dance; bartering booths filled with books, trinkets, clothing, and other treasures; children’s games; delectable banquets—these are but a few things in store for the party. Within the year, the young queen of Harrowbeth will be married as tradition dictates. Her husband will then become the rightful king of Harrowbeth, and together they will rule the land as Shen and Sha.With a sure promise of happiness for Eena predicted by Arden’s Vision, it seems nothing can go wrong. But not everyone is happy with her choice of a suitor, especially when respectable men more fitted for the calling of king anxiously wait in line. Pressures mount and are added upon by disturbing dreams that seem beyond the average nightmare. Are these dreams merely a reflection of regrets? Or are they messages that require Queen Eena’s serious attention?

Book 6 - Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul

Book Summary: The young queen of Harrowbeth is determined to set things right, but doing so means breaking a few big rules. Joined by a select group of Harrowbethian militiamen, as well as a handful of Viidun warriors and a few spunky Mishmorat sisters, Queen Eena sets off for Laradine—the home world of the immortals.There in the land of Tribanees, with the support of her traveling companionship, she intends to confront the immortal governing body and convince them to undo a terrible wrong. But persuading immortals to concern themselves with the troubles of temporary beings may prove to be a futile waste of time. Things get carried away, plans are drastically altered, and before long Eena starts to wonder how many wrongs it will take to finally set things right.








The Harrowbethian Saga by Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2012 - 2019

An Excerpt from Slaying Dragons

 

"Many of us draw lines which we intend never to cross.

But life tests our resolve, mercilessly at times, and a foot budges, nudged past that thinly-drawn line. So we draw another, resolving never to cross this one. Days grow dark and fog creeps in to blind our view, clouding the reason for the line’s existence from our minds. We draw another mark, ashamed that the last was crossed with less coaxing than we imagined it would require. Shadows and doubts give further need to draw a new line, and then another and another.

Lines, I think, are too slim and obscure to be dependable deterrents for behavior. Too often, too easily, people stumble into places they later regret entering. What, then, keeps some individuals from crossing those narrow lines?

It is the power of values.

For if a person possessing values were to step one foot outside their line, they would be forced to release hands with those inflexible values and consciously abandon them. But their values are persuasive, keeping a tight grip, warding off the luring temptations beckoning one to test the line. Thus values maintained keep a person safely away from areas they dare not travel, steering a life between the lines, enhancing willpower and shaping mighty strength of character."

―Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year 

What to Expect from Author, Richelle E. Goodrich, in 2021

“Enemies may unite to eliminate a common threat, but never without a wary eye fixed on their ally.”  

― Richelle E. Goodrich, The Tarishe Curse

Writing Again

     Yes, it has been a while since I last published a newsletter—nearly two years, actually. Hard to believe so many months have passed since I seriously sat down and authored anything creative. My heart and mind have found it difficult to focus on fictional worlds and poetry because a lot has happened in my real world.

     Normally, I refrain from mentioning much about my personal life; I prefer to shine the spotlight on my books rather than on me. But the truth is, my life was greatly upset some months ago. My circumstances were altered in drastic ways. I will not say tragic, because trials often prove to be doorways to improvement and growth, though I doubt many of us (if any) pray for experience in the form of harsh trials. Nonetheless, I have evolved throughout these months and find my life far better for what was done. I did not desire the hardships—betrayal and divorce (drop an epidemic on top of it)—but you can hardly force people to do or say or choose what you wish. It is not like shaping book characters where you can write a happy ending and make it so. But “what’s done is done,” as they say, and though I am not quite “right as rain,” I am well, confident, and happy.

     And I am ready to write again.

     That said… some of you may recall how in October of 2012 I started an annual Hallows Eve tradition. It was the year Duvalla, the Queen of Werefolk, came to life in my chilling tale titled The Tarishe Curse. Originally, it started as a short story written for a friend; I had no intention of creating a world around Duvalla. But curiosity as to “what happens next” made me consider the possibility of further adventures for the werewolves. I decided to add to the story the next Hallows Eve… and every October since (excepting last October for above mentioned reasons.)

     This year I made it my goal to finish writing The Tarishe Curse in its entirety. I will then self-publish the completed book in e-book, paperback, and hardcover forms. I hope to have this done with illustrated cover sometime in 2022. I am excited to give readers a spectacular ending—wild, blood-tingling, unpredictable, and well worth the long wait!

     In the meantime… where can you sample some beginning pages? Well, you are in luck! The first part of Duvalla’s story is posted on my author blogsite. Feel free to read it and share the link with friends. My plan is to have The Tarishe Curse available to preorder by the end of 2022… hopefully.

Read sample pages NOW!

SUMMARY: A thrilling piece of fiction from the Queen of Werefolk's point of view. It is challenging enough for Duvalla and Kresh to protect their young family in a world of Hallows Eve creatures, but such a feat proves near impossible when a witch bent on vengeance against the werewolves casts a Tarishe curse that manipulates both heart and mind. The fight is not only with the sword but an internal struggle to love the ones Duvalla has sworn under a spell to hate, and hate the one who through evil enchantment manipulates her heart.

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What else am I working on?

Besides putting my main efforts into finishing up The Tarishe Curse, I am writing new poems to include in my book of original poetry, A Heart Made of Tissue Paper. I plan to include a few black-and-white illustrations with this book.