Sunday, July 12, 2015

Dandelions—A Story of Youthful Courage

"Of all the books you've written, which is your favorite?"

This is a question I've been asked many times.  The answer is easily, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher.  Why?  Because the story is powerful.  It grips the reader emotionally from the very beginning when the main character, Annabelle, nuzzles in close to your heart.  From that point on, your humanity bleeds for her amidst laughter, tears, anger, and silently-offered prayersall on behalf of children like Annabelle.  It is a fictional story, yes, but it is also a dark shadow of what sometimes proves real. 



Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher 
is available in paperback and e-book formats.  Read it today.



KINDLE   NOOK   KOBO   iTUNES










Saturday, July 4, 2015

Good, Wise, Brave, & God-Fearing

This 4th of July I celebrate the continuing independence of the United States of America. I honor those many individuals who sacrificed in diverse ways so this independence and freedom might exist. Likewise, I honor those who continue in their stead, preserving the precious human gifts this country boasts and cherishes. Acknowledge that your opportunities were won and are still preserved by the spilling of blood and by the sacrifice of good souls. Refuse to take this truth for granted. 


"Years ago, a group of good, wise, brave, God-fearing men stood up to claim and defend the human right for independence. Those men are now dead. Their work is not. If good, wise, brave, God-fearing men fail to stand up in their stead, that independence will cease to exist."
— Richelle E. Goodrich


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Friday, May 22, 2015

Whatever Made You Want To Write A Book?



"Richelle, whatever made you want to write a book?"


That's a good question. One I've been asked more than once. And if the answer were as simple as "Just because", I would end right here. But my personal motivation came from a mix of circumstances perfectly intertwined. Honestly, it is a miracle I ever made an attempt to put a lengthy story on paper.

Picture this...

It was one week before Christmas 2006, and I was sitting at my computer filling out Christmas cards. It is tradition to include a short family letter with the card, nothing big, just a line or two highlighting the accomplishments of each family member. The house was eerily quiet that afternoon with my husband at work and my three boys gone for Christmas break. I missed my children terribly. Painfully even. My thoughts were bogged with concerns for them. Are they okay? Are their needs being met? Are they safe? Are they happy? Do they miss me?  But to worry over your babies is normal for any caring mother. That's what I kept telling myself after whispering the hundred-and-twenty-seventh prayer for their well-being.

I realized all the worrying was doing me no good, but when your life revolves around your children for so many years, what do you do when they are gone? I needed something.  A hobby or... well, something.

I finished jotting down the yearly accomplishments for all my kids and my husband, which left mine for last. It wasn't that I was saving the best for the finale or that I was humbly mentioning my family's achievements before my own... no... the truth was, I just plain could not think of anything impressive to write about myself. What had I done in the past year?

Well, I had worked both outside and inside the home. I had made 1,100 meals, if not more. I had washed 2,000 sink loads of dishes, if not more. I had laundered, folded, and put away 600 loads of clothes (say it with me now, if not more.)  I had mopped floors, vacuumed carpets, changed sheets, scrubbed toilets, washed mirrors and windows and screens. I had weeded and re-weeded the garden, mowed the lawn, and given haircuts to my family. I had driven kids to and from school, scouts, mutual, karate, track, and whatever other functions they needed to attend. I had tucked my boys into bed with 365 nighttime prayers and bedtime reading. I had done all the regular, runaround, expected, mommy/housewife stuff.

But the question that troubled me was "What had I accomplished outside of chores?"  What personal achievement could I make note of in our Christmas letter?

I could think of nothing. That realization made me slump even further in my chair. Already moping about missing my boys, my spirits sank low realizing I had done nothing extraordinary in ages.

Did I mention that this was twenty years after my high school graduation? Oh yes, that too was on my mind. Twenty years! Where in the world had the time gone? What happened to all those amazing things I was going to do once I left home after high school? Where were the talents I once utilized in my youth? I no longer sketched or painted or danced or sang or played piano or performed in theatrical plays. My talents had been set aside for years. Neglected. Abandoned. How had that happened?

So there I sat, bemoaning lost years and the fact that happily-ever-afters don't come in happily-every-days when a sudden whisper of inspiration hit. A simple but powerful thought.

"If for the past twenty years you had written just one sentence a day, you would have composed a novel by now."

Don't ask me where it came from, but the idea was like a slap in the face, both admonishing and inspiring. 

Could I write a sentence a day? Yes! Easily! I could jot down a sentence in a matter of seconds!  But what was there to write about? I mean, you need an idea for a story, right?

The fact that I was brooding over high school memories took me back to the days when I used to finish classroom assignments so quickly that a good chunk of time was left to idle away. And what did I usually do with that time? How had I spent all those free moments in class?  Quietly drawing and daydreaming.

I had my favorite fantasies too, those I revisited and expanded on over time. One beloved adventure starred a young girl destined to rule a small world that thrived in another part of the galaxy. This was the story I never forgot. Truth be told, it was a daydream I sometimes entertained as an adult. Especially when I needed a healthy escape from reality.

In that moment of what I consider divine inspiration, I determined to write a book. A novel. The story of my favorite daydream. The account of Queen Eena of Harrowbeth.

I vowed that in twenty years from December 2006, I would at least be able to say I had written a novel, even if it meant doing so one sentence per day. I started typing those first few words at that very moment.

There is more humor to this tale
 than you might realize.  For you see, if you had asked me five minutes prior to my epiphany if I would ever attempt to write a novel, I would have laughed aloud (probably snorted) and exclaimed "Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how impossibly challenging it would be to write an entire novel? It would take like for-e-ver!"

You should also know that I earned my college degrees in Mathematics and Natural Science.  Never touched English literature.

Also, there is a tiny bit of truth I should probably confess: for the majority of my life I had a passionate distaste for writing. 

Are you laughing yet?  Okay, how about this...

Honest, true story.

In high school, my worst subject (not that I didn't earn high enough marks in the class) and the one area of study I groaned about the most was English. I hated writing assignments. Hated them. I think the reason why I hated them so much was because no "correct answer" existed.  Not like in mathematics where 2 + 2 = 4, no arguments.  But for English classes, I could scribble out a paper that one teacher stamped with a big, beautiful "A" while another instructor branded the same paper with a scarlet "C".  Writing became a matter of trying to please some disinterested adult whose expectations you could hardly guess. Not to mention the fact that the subject matter I was forced to write about was usually depressing and utterly boring.

And so I loathed writing.

I remember the day clearly when as a teenager I stood up from the kitchen table to stretch my stiff muscles. I was working on an English paper, and as I rose to my feet I made a firm, bold statement meant for any ears in the house. "I hate English, and I hate writing, but knowing my luck I'll probably grow up to be some stupid writer."

Well said, foolish teenager. Little did I know the twisted ironies of life.

And so, many many years later, pushing forty years of age, I sat at my computer and determined to accomplish a feat I deemed highly challenging. I figured it would take years, but the odd thing was, it didn't seem so impossible when I looked at the goal as a mere few sentences compounded daily. The more I wrote, the more I found myself craving free time to add additional paragraphs. I discovered an enormous difference in my frame of mind when it came to composing a work meant to please only me versus struggling with a composition meant to impress others. 

It is actually freeing.

And sweetly delicious.

And unbelievably addictive!

So I will eat crow and admit... I do love writing. 

No, no, I'm far from being a Victor Hugo or a Charles Dickens, but I profit by as much joy from the journey as I'm sure they did.  And it pleases me. I hope that for some readers out there, my stories prove entertaining enough to please you as well.  So, that is my answer to your question, "Whatever made you want to write a book?"



Wednesday, May 20, 2015

It's All in the Glasses

By Richelle E. Goodrich


I looked out the window on an early-morning bus, noting how low the gray cloud-cover hung.  The dark and heavy sky was threatening rain.  I watched a tall line of trees that bordered acres of hay field, the wind flailing branches like they were bits of straw.
“What a miserable day,” I sighed.
Surprisingly, someone responded to my bleak announcement—a man one seat back. “You just need new glasses,” he said. 
His hand reached over my shoulder, a finger and thumb pinched as if holding the thin arm of actual frames, only there was nothing in his fingers.
I glanced backwards, my expression questioning his comment as well as his sanity.
“Go on,” he urged, holding up his gift of nothingness.  My eyebrows slanted, appraising him. 
“There’s nothing there,” I finally pointed out.
“Sure there is,” he insisted.  “These are special eyeglasses.  Go on, put them on.”
I played along, partly to be kind and partly to avoid a public scene with a madman.  In a careful gesture, I took the invisible spectacles and pretended to slip them over my nose.  Another rearward glance found the man smiling.  He pointed at the window.
“Now look again.” 
My head turned the other way to take a second glimpse at the gray sky.  There were raindrops clinging to the window now, tracing a slow, horizontal line across the glass.  Before I could say anything, the man made a soft but excited observation in my ear. 
“See that beam of sunlight streaming through the break in the clouds?” 
It was beautiful, like a spotlight glimmering on a distant rooftop.
“And look there,” he said, gesturing again at the sky.  “See that rainbow?  Or half of it, anyway.”
My eyes followed a translucent smear of colors to somewhere behind a neighborhood of houses.  I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“See those pink blossoms on that little tree?”
I nodded as we past it by.  “Pretty.”
“See the hawk circling right above it?”
“I think that’s a blackbird,” I said.  It appeared charcoal from beak to tail.
“Huh…”  He laughed for half a second.  “That’s one big blackbird!”
He gestured to an upcoming cluster of young evergreens growing tightly together on someone’s property.  “See the naked Christmas trees?”
Funny.  It made me smile.
“Oh look!”  I exclaimed, startled by my own unexpected exuberance.  “Puppies!”  I pointed at two young golden labs on leashes.  They seemed more interested in wrestling one another than being walked.
“I see, I see,” the man grinned. 
He continued on, pointing out things beyond our window that were exactly opposite of the gloomy and miserable picture I’d beheld earlier.  It amazed me the number of wonderful things he managed to find.  Before long, I was noticing pleasantries he missed as we drove along.
Realizing the gift he’d given me, I thanked him.  “I guess it’s not such a miserable day after all."
He pretended to take back his lenses and smiled wide.  “It’s all in the glasses.”





Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Secrets of a Noble Keykeeper


A new book that reveals the guarded secrets of a young keykeeper.

"There are things
that make no sense,
that seem unreal,
that can’t be grasped
or understood
or explained,
that maybe don’t even exist…
And still, somehow, those wonderful things touch and change our lives.
Isn’t it strange?”

by 
Richelle E. Goodrich

     Meet a curious, young man whose calling it is to guard the gates of his homeland. As keykeeper of Dreamland, Gavin comes across 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 peaks his interest in the ordinary.

 



Enjoy a few excerpts from the book...



“Reality depends a great deal upon one believing what he sees—or seeing what he believes. Either way.”


“It is a keykeeper’s right to bestow a copy of his key on anyone he wishes. But this practice―a phenomenal rite―is hardly ever performed. To receive a copy of the key means to have its imprint seared into your hand. Holding that branded replica over the front lock miraculously parts the gates to Dreamland. It works just as effectively as inserting the genuine key. Staggering to think about, isn’t it? You might consider clenching your fists when you dream.”


“A warm feeling fell over the boy. A mix of security and comfort, as if a blanket were wrapping its soft layers around his heart and nuzzling him snuggly. Gavin loved his mother, and he would be forever grateful to his father for protecting her. The whole mystery behind it made him itch with curiosity, however.”


“And so the game went on in this manner, a throng of children playing keep-away from a bowling ball tossed back and forth between two plump ogres. The air filled with shrieks and cheers and shouts of laughter as daring players thrilled at the sport. That is, all but the few poor souls knocked flat and captured. No laughter rose from behind bars because those in the birdcage knew what was in store. They would soon be lunch for a couple of hungry ogres.

Now you might be thinking—didn’t Gavin call it fun when he was swallowed by a wolf earlier? And didn’t he tell that raven-haired girl it doesn’t hurt to be swallowed whole by a bear? All true, all true. But here’s a secret you might not know.

Ogres chew their food.

Luckily, it’s only the first bite that stings.”



~ Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich


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Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Sneak Peek—Meet the Keykeeper

My manuscript is complete, the cover designed, and eleven black-and-white illustrations finally finished!  Now it's your turn to enjoy the release my latest storybook, Secrets of a Noble Keykeeper



KOBO    iTUNES
Meet a curious, young man whose calling it is to guard the gates of his homeland. As keykeeper of Dreamland, Gavin comes across 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.


Intrigued by this not-so-ordinary story?  How about a sneak peek at the opening chapter?  Alright, go ahead—it's a rare treat to meet Gavin!   











Friday, April 17, 2015

In a Storybook

How crazy it would be 
if the moon did spin 
and the earth stood still 
and the sun went dim!

How absolutely ludicrous 
if snakes could walk 
and kids could fly 
and mimes did talk!

How silly it would be 
if the nights were tan 
and the mornings green 
and the sun cyan!

How totally ridiculous 
if horses chirped 
and spiders sang 
and ladies burped!

How shocking it would be 
if the dragons ruled 
and the knights were dopes 
but the fish were schooled!

How utterly preposterous 
if rain were dry 
and snowflakes warm 
and real men cried!

I love to just imagine
all the lows as heights,
and the salty, sweet,
and our lefts as rights.

Perhaps it is incredible
and off the hook,
but it all makes sense
in a storybook!”


Copyright 2015

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!
                

Here’s a short summary of the story…

 Secrets of a Noble Keykeeper 
is 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.


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


“Discouragement, fear, and 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.

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.

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.

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!

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. ”

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:
  • 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 himno 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 prayersall 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.
Ironic that I should learn to greater appreciate my own quote:
"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
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.