UPDATE: The winner is…Dawn Roberto!
*~*~*

I live with two grumpy old cats. The one above is Pumpkin, who adopted me. The first time I met her she was feral and wandering on the edge of the forest behind our house. I began leaving her food on the other side of the fence because I was worried about her. She was small for a cat and looked rather pathetic. I fed her daily, but she never approached when I was there. I’d watch as she waited for me to disappear inside, then from my window, I’d observe her eating the food I left.

Then one night many years ago, I had set an alarm to get up in the middle of the night to go outside and watch a large red moon. I felt something making figure-eights around my legs. When I glanced down, I was startled to see this cat (and so glad it wasn’t a raccoon!). She’d come to trust me, and slowly, she went from being a skittish outdoor cat to being a cat who refuses to step outside. She now lives in my bedroom, taking up the space on my recliner.

Tessa is the other elderly cat who inhabits my space. The two cats despise each other, and if they meet in the doorway as one comes back from the food bowls and litter box, they howl and spit at each other. Tessa inhabits the pillows at the back of my head when I lay down, and her purring is what puts me to sleep, although her yowls, when she gets mad if I roll to my side and disturb her sleep, are quite grating. If my hands are outside the covers, she nudges them for me to pet her—incessantly. So, I hide them under the covers when I’m done and wait for her to give a grumbling meow before she flops behind my head on the pillow and goes to sleep, snoring.

Right now, they both want to follow me into my office, so they are crouched on the floor, berating each other, waiting for the other to walk away, but that never happens. I have to break them up, picking them up to put them where they belong—one on the chair, one on the pillows.

This has been going on for years now. There is no peaceful resolution. They are sworn enemies who are jealous of the attention I pay the other. They will never be besties although they occupy the space of my bedroom for most of the day and night.

We live together, me being the buffer between them. I don’t know why I’m telling you about them this morning, except that Pumpkin is still trying to jump into my lap as I type. I rarely allow that because she doesn’t stop demanding pets and never settles—and I have work to do!

Betta fish are so much easier to care for. Feed them, keep their water the proper temperature, and enjoy the show. Not so cats.

So, for fun, have you ever had pets who were sworn enemies? How did you manage to keep the peace? Answer in the comments below for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card.

P.S.: I just wanted to let you know that I had no discernable side effects from my immunotherapy infusion last Monday. Not one. I sat for an hour while they dripped the medicine in my IV. Then I went about my life this past week without any nausea or pain. It’s so lovely. I’m still recovering my energy level after so many months of chemo, but I’ll get there!

Report Card

Last week…

1. The most noteworthy thing that happened last week was my meeting with my oncologist on Monday. There, he told me I’m in remission from the cancer that once filled my abdomen. Now, there’s a “smudge” of cancer left in my uterus, and I will be seeing a surgeon soon to remove everything! Halleluiah! That does not mean I’ll be cured. I’ll still have Stage IV endometrial cancer. It just means that, for now, we’ve knocked it back. I’ll take that and celebrate!
2. I also underwent my first every-six-weeks immunotherapy infusion. And guess what? It only took an hour—not an entire day—and the best part? No side effects that knock me on my ass! Glory Halleluiah! 
3. I continued work on one author’s edits and finished them.

This next week…

1. This week, I’ll be diving back into finishing up Ignition! Okay, so I said this last week, but I mean it this time. I want to finish it and put it up for pre-order.
2. I have one author’s edits to work on this week—perhaps a second set if the author gets me her pages.
3. So far as personal goals? I’m not ready to diet. I’m still in celebrate mode. LOL. I also can’t find the drive to up my activity. I need some inspiration.

Open Contests

Be sure to check out these posts and enter to win the prizes that are still up for grabs:

1. Flashback: Saddled (Contest) — This one ends tomorrow! Win a FREE book!
2. Memory Game: Places I would like to go… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
3. 5 Things I’m Thankful For… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
4. Saturday Puzzle-Contest: Dream Dinner Table — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!
5. Gabbi Grey: Gay Historical Romances (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win a FREE eBook or audiobook!
6. Report Card & Open Contests (New Contest, too!) — Win a pretty pen!
7. Flashback: Tailgating at the Cedar Inn (Contest–3 Winners!) — Win a FREE story!
8. Word Search: Hot Sauce Day (Contest) — Win an Amazon gift card!
9. Anna Taylor Sweringen/Michal Scott: Ellen F. Eglin — Inventor of the Wringer Washer (Contest) Win an Amazon gift card!
10. Saturday Puzzle-Contest: A Wishing Well — Win an Amazon gift card!

UPDATE: The winner is…Deb Brown.
*~*~*

It’s Saturday—so, it’s puzzle time! I promise the picture in the puzzle is much prettier than this one.

I know what wish I would flip my quarter into a wishing well for, but I’d love to know what your wish would be. So, for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, solve the puzzle, then tell me what you’d wish for.

UPDATE: The winner is…Beckie!
*~*~*

When I was a kid, my aunt had a round, white washing machine with a wringer on top. Little did I know I was watching Black history unfold before my eyes as my aunt cranked the clothes through the wringer. That system of wringer rollers was patented by Ellen F. Eglin.

Depending on your source, Ellen F. Eglin was born either in Maryland in February 1836 or in Washington, D.C., in 1849. She lived in Washington D.C. with her parents, brother Charles, and two other siblings. There she worked as a housekeeper. Sources believe it was due to this stoop work that necessity, the mother of invention, tapped Ellen on the shoulder. In 1888, she devised a clothes wringer made of two wooden rollers with a crank used to squeeze excess water from laundry. Unfortunately, she never received just compensation for her invention.

Because of race prejudice, Ellen sold her invention for $18 (about $598 in today’s dollars). $18 wasn’t an inconsiderable sum when at the time a loaf of bread cost five cents, a pound of meat was ten, and a gallon of milk was twenty. But giving away the rights to her patent for such a paltry sum was a disgrace. The American Wringer company made huge profits from the sales of its product based on that patent. Her wringer is still in use today to wring out mops.

We wouldn’t even know about Ellen and her invention if not for feminist Charlotte Smith, who interviewed Ellen for Smith’s The Woman Inventor in 1890. Asked why she sold her patent, Ellen’s answer was heartbreakingly simple. “You know I am Black, and if it was known that a negro woman patented the invention, white ladies would not buy the wringer. I was afraid to be known because of my color in having it introduced to the market; that is the only reason.” She hoped to create another invention and exhibit it at an upcoming Women’s International Industrial Inventors Congress, but her plans never came to pass.

Those of you who may be watching Sir Julian Fellowes’ The Gilded Age will have heard this truth echoed in the situation of the character Peggy Scott. Wanting to be a writer, Peggy is told by the publisher interested in her work that if they don’t hide the fact that she’s black they’ll lose white subscribers in the South.

The year Charlotte Smith interviewed her, Ellen was working as a charwoman for the Department of the Interior. Records show she was still living in Washington D.C. in 1916, and that is the year assigned to her death.

I like to think that by sharing these blogposts I’m following in the footsteps of women like Charlotte Smith and Hallie Q. Brown (featured in my Oct. 2023 and Feb. 2024 D.D. blogposts) lifting up the lives and achievements of women so they won’t be forgotten.

For a chance at a $10 Amazon gift card, share your thoughts in the comments.

Her Heavenly Phantom
by Michal Scott

Forced into a marriage of convenience neither wants, a mild-mannered banker with an intriguing secret discovers his reluctant bride has a secret, too.

Excerpt:

Unwed and pregnant, Emily Hampton needed a husband. Newly freed and hungry for a foothold among the ranks of the Black elite in 1880s Brooklyn, William Broadman had the answer.

His son Harold.

The warmth shared between the two men stood in stark contrast to the cold chaste kiss Harold and his bride shared. Their coolness continued as they walked up the aisle. Guests, oblivious to their shared contempt, showered them with hugs and handshakes. Harold shivered even more as his father and father-in-law back-patted themselves and toasted the couple’s future happiness at the wedding reception. No doubt the arctic chill between the couple would extend to their first lay as man and wife, too.

If they had to that is. Emily Hampton hated this arrangement as much as he did. Therein lay his salvation. If she wanted as little to do with him as he wanted to do with her, his life didn’t have to change at all. Milquetoast straightlaced banker by day. Virile promiscuous masked singer by night.

The lady of the balcony numbered among his many admirers. Her missives of gratitude roiled with cock-stirring heat.

Your singing ravishes my body.

My core weeps for you.

Oh, for a coupling I know would thrust me into a heaven far beyond my grasp.

The last message had reached him after an exhausting browbeating from his father. He’d come to the theater in need of an escape that even singing couldn’t provide. She’d accepted the invite to join him backstage conveyed by way of his manager. In the dark windowless privacy of his dressing room, they’d thrust their way to a heaven beyond both their grasps.

He looked forward to what she’d write to him tonight. He’d need it as he lay alone on his wedding night.

Buylinks:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBJ47ND6/
B&N https://shorturl.at/B0NLA
KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/secret-identities-8

Sometimes, one of the most difficult things to do as an author is to categorize a story correctly. Yet, it is tremendously important. In fact, it may be the most important thing an author does aside from writing the story. Now, one may think an author should easily be able to identify the genre since he/she wrote it. On the surface, that is an accurate assumption. However, there are a few factors that complicate the issue.

Some genres have overlapping elements. Fantasy and science fiction both include world-building. Romance and love stories both involve deep emotions and relationships. Thrillers and suspenses both include scenes that increase adrenaline and keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Second, some writers have stories that intentionally blur lines. Consider a book that has a magical system as its main setting. For example, a magical school that houses mythological creatures (e.g., dragons, elves, and witches) and only a specific group of people have the ability to use this magic. In this world, there are things that exist that are not explained by any type of science, and the government is run by the Mount Olympus Greek gods and goddesses. Readers would easily classify this story as fantasy.

But what if in that same world, it is explained that some species exist because artificial intelligence and genetic engineering have altered the biology of humans and animals; Earth has become so inhabitable that people have relocated and formed colonies on Mercury; and space travel has advanced to a level that allows traveling from planet to planet to be as common as crossing the street. Additionally, it is set in the year 3056. This second part is clearly science fiction.

Now, I don’t know how something like this would be possible, but suppose this world exists. It has elements of both fantasy and science fiction. Which should the author choose? How is it measured? A reader who wants fantasy may dislike the book because it includes in their opinion too much Sci-Fi. The opposite of that can be true as well. A Sci-Fi reader may complain there’s too much fantasy. It comes down to opinion.

This is where subgenres come into play. Simple, right? Try doing an internet search for the definition of subgenre and tell me how that goes. See, subgenres tend to be one of those things that people know what it is when they see it but can’t tell you what exactly it is—sort of like the mystery meat served in the school cafeteria. A very generic (and I should say useless) definition of a subgenre is that is a smaller and more specific genre within a broader genre. (Yeah, clear as mud. Didn’t teachers always say never use the word to define its definition?) But a subgenre isn’t necessarily a niche, nor is it considered a hybrid or mashup of multiple genres. Here’s my answer. (Don’t take it as being correct, exclusive, or exhaustive. It’s an opinion.)

A subgenre is two major genres blended, and each plays a significant role in the story. If one of the genres is removed, the story would not make sense. Notice that I said “significant” and not “equal.” One of the genres has to be the primary. And yes, it makes a difference. For example, you can have a romantic comedy (romcom) where the romance is highlighted (e.g., A Merry Little Meet Cute: A Novel by Julie Murphy and Sierra Simone) or a comedy with lots of romance. But who decides which is primary? One would think the author, but are they?

Many authors have been dragged for mislabeling their books, and quite frankly, incorrectly categorizing a book can kill it. In the past, some authors have been guilty of mislabeling books for one reason or another, but I don’t think that is the standard. Authors want to put their books in the hands of the readers who want to read them. A writer wouldn’t want to market an erotica to sweet romance readers. That’s a huge powder keg waiting to explode. But what how an author conceptualizes a book may not be the same as readers.

For example, I mainly write sports romance. Readers can expect to get a huge dose of both romance and sports. In the past, I’ve received feedback that there’s not enough sports, not enough romance, too much sports, and too much romance all for the same book. It’s not really upsetting. It just proves how difficult the process is. The balance is fragile.

Here’s the bottom line. In the writing world, there are very few rules and lots of opinions. Most everything is subjective. One reason self-publishing became popular is because traditional publishers for a long time tried to shove writers into narrow boxes, and writers grew weary of either having to conform or having to wait until a new box was formed. With few definitions, writers sometimes struggle to find the most accurate labels because they do not neatly fit into any mold. But also, each reader has his/her definitions. Just look at book reviews on Amazon and/or Goodreads to see the scatter. And while looking at those numbers, really look at those numbers. Math matters. The fewer the readers the worse one negative review impacts the rating. It’s easier to pull a rating down than it is up.

And that’s all I’ve got for today. Now, it’s your turn to sound off. Let me know your thoughts below in the comment section. Your feedback allows me to know the content that you want to read. And if you like this post, consider clicking the like button and sharing.

Demon Rodeo

If Brokeback Mountain, 8 Seconds, Poltergeist, and Supernatural had an orgy, Demon Rodeo would be the lovechild.

Demon Rodeo is available now on Amazon. For video book trailers, visit my TikTok page. The full blurb is on my Instagram and Amazon.

Demon Rodeo is the first book in the Chasing the Buckle series but can be read as a standalone. It’s a friends-to-lovers romance set in the rodeo world. These are not your typical cowboys. It’s a widely diverse cast of characters and a mashup of genres that aren’t always seen together. If you’re looking for a palate cleanser, this may be a book for you.

Order:
⇨ Amazon: https://readerlinks.com/l/4174852
⇨ All Stores: https://books2read.com/u/bP8RG7
*Note: All of my books can be purchased from brick-and-mortar bookstores (e.g., Barnes & Noble, Book-A-Million, etc.) as well if requested at the checkout counter.)

Until next time, happy reading and much romance. Laissez le bon temps rouler.

If you’re not following my blog, Creole Bayou, what are you waiting for? There’s always room at the bayou.

NEWSLETTER! Want to get the latest information and updates about my writing projects, giveaways, contests, and reveals first? Click here and sign up today.

Want to chat about writing, mental health, Cajun cuisine, Creole culture, or just spill some tea? If yes, let’s get connected. Follow me on one of my social links. There’s plenty to choose from.

• Facebook: Genevive Chamblee
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• X (formerly Twitter): @dolynesaidso

LOCKER ROOM LOVE

Locker Room Love Series

Are you searching for a sexy book boyfriend? You’ve come to the right place.

• Out of the Penalty Box (book #1) One minute in the box or a lifetime out.
• Defending the Net (book #2) Crossing the line could cost the game.
• Ice Gladiators (book #3) When the gloves come off, the games begin.
• Penalty Kill (book #4) Let the pucker begin.
• Future Goals (book #5) The future lies between a puck and a net.

About the Author

Hi, I’m Genevive, and I am a contemporary sports romance author. My home is in South Louisiana. If you like snark and giggles with a touch of steamy Cajun and Creole on the side, I may have your poison in my stash of books. Drop by the bayou and have a look around. The pirogues are always waiting for new visitors.

UPDATE: The winner is…Janelle!
*~*~*

Today’s another obscure holiday–Hot Sauce Day! Since I’m a lover of hot sauces, I thought celebrating them would be fun.

Did you know that chili peppers originated in the Americas? They were spread around the world by Spanish and Portuguese traders. They get their heat from something called capsaicinoids. They’re rated, too, on something called the Scoville Scale. Reading the rating of some of the hot sauces I looked at, I’m a bit of a weenie with my favorite sauces (Cholula, Tabasco, and Frank’s) only rating in the 1000s. Tabasco is the hottest in my fridge at 7,000. Da Bomb, which I listed in the puzzle, is a scorching 119,000 to 1.5 million!

So, for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, tell me whether you’re a fan of hot sauces and which ones are in your fridge!

UPDATE: The winners are…Kerry Jo, Beckie, and Debra Guyette!
*~*~*

After yesterday’s excitement, it’s hard to concentrate, but…back to work!

I know many of you come to my website to read my daily blog, but have you fully explored the many stories I have ready for you to consume? Have you read a short story written by me? I’ve written short stories that have appeared in many Cleis anthologies and stories that appeared in Penthouse Magazine. Do you remember those with the sexy, cute cartoons? Yeah, “Tailgating“ was one of those. I’ve written short stories that appeared in my own curated anthologies, my Boys Behaving Badly stories. I love writing them. Most often, they’re not connected to anything else I’ve written. They’re a chance for me to experiment. One theme that runs through all of them is a deep eroticism. So, if you’re into sexy stories, look no further. I would like to know if you’ve read one of my short stories before, and if so, which one was your favorite?

Comment for a chance to win your choice of
one of these stories! I’ll choose
three winners!

Click on the covers to read more about these stories!

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Tailgating at the Cedar Inn

Two construction workers come to the aid of one woman looking for a last taste of freedom…

I stepped out of the shower onto chipped and cracked aqua blue tiles with grout so dingy it was hard to tell what color it had been. Not that the bathroom was dirty, thank god. Just old. Like the rest of the 60’s-built motel I’d found on the little back country road.

I toweled my hair then shook my head like a dog, not caring where the droplets landed. It wasn’t a mess I’d have to clean up. For one last night I could be irresponsible, messy, even if it was only in a small way.

I draped the towel over the edge of the old white tub and sauntered naked into the small room with the double bed. It smelled of tobacco and industrial cleansers. The bedding looked clean if a little nappy from wear, but I peeled back the quilt-top and tossed it on the floor anyway. Pristine white sheets beckoned.

Just as I lay back, sighing with relief, sounds from outside the room jarred me from my happy haze. Tires squealed, masculine laughter bellowed through the thin walls, and car doors slammed.

I sighed and stared at the bared rafters above me. The laughter faded. I reached across to flip off the switch to the nightstand lamp with its yellowed shade. Lying in the darkness, I willed my body to relax, one limb at a time. I’d driven three hundred miles that day. I’d have gone another fifty for a decent hotel, but the shorter route my Garmin had found led me through narrow two-lane roads deep in the Ozark Mountains. I doubted I’d have found anything nicer.

I should have stuck to the Interstate, but I’d wanted to shave some miles. Little did I know that the route would keep my foot busy pushing on the gas pedal then the brake the whole way. Exhausted, nerves shattered, I’d seen the crooked Vacancy sign outside the Cedar Inn and made my decision on the spot, swerving into the empty gravel parking lot. Not until I’d opened the door to my tiny, musty room did I have second thoughts about my decision. But how bad could it really be? I’d turned on the swamp cooler set into a window frame and felt my hair frizz instantly.

Not that I’d really cared. There wasn’t anyone around to impress. Other than the clerk at the front desk, a skinny, twenty-something redneck with puppy dog eyes, the place was deserted. I’d shivered a little bit at the thought, double-bolted my room door and checked the locks on the remaining window. Visions of the shower scene from Psycho didn’t put me off taking a long, lukewarm soak to wash away the road grime and sweat.

The cooler purred, spilling muggy air into the room. The sheets felt clammy. Still, I grew calm as my body warmed the sheets beneath me, then a little horny when I wondered if the room might have little peepholes for the clerk to watch me. He’d been cute if a little skinny. I wouldn’t mind if he watched—at least not in my fantasies. Who knew how long it would be until I felt comfortable enough, private enough to indulge in a little one-handed play when my grandmother slept in the room next to mine.

I slipped a hand between my thighs and lazily trailed my fingers through my cleft until my breath caught and heat pooled. I raised my knees and let them fall open, tilted my hips and thrust two fingers inside my pussy. I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t even that eager to come. The motion soothed and excited, allowing my mind to let go of my troubles—the firing, the break-up, the move to my grandmother’s house—and focus only on the pleasure curling deep inside my core.

When the blare of a TV sounded from outside, I had third and fourth thoughts about my decision to stop here for the night. What the hell? Why had someone moved their television set outside rather than watch in the seclusion of their room where the sound would be somewhat muffled.

I gritted my teeth, swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for shorts and a tee, slipping them over my nude body and the keys in my pocket before I stomped to the door and flung it open.

Not that the two men sitting on the truck noticed me—at first.

Under the single flood light that illuminated the parking lot, I noted the construction company logo on the side of the pickup backed up to the door of the room beside mine. Then I eyed the large men seated on the sides of the truck bed, their shirts gone, faded jeans stretched over thick thighs. Their attention was glued to the basketball game, blaring from the small screen of the TV they had set in the bed of the truck on top of a white ice chest. They held Budweisers in their grips.

At last, one of the men’s heads turned. He spotted me then whistled at his friend. Soon both their gazes peered down.

I felt foolish standing in my bare feet with my wet hair spiked around my head. Why hadn’t I simply put a pillow over my head to muffle their noise? But I was testy. Moody. I’d lost my job, had a blow-up with my boyfriend over the fact I wouldn’t be splitting rent with him for a while, and cut my nose off to spite my own face by breaking up with him. Homeless now, I had no options. Grandma’s in Little Rock was my last resort.

Tonight would be my last night of freedom before I moved under her roof and abided by her rules. She’d pay the bills—if I knuckled under and went back to school. Something I resented after being on my own for a couple of years, living by my rules.

Which might have been exactly why I remained, rooted to that spot. The men seated on the truck would never meet Grandma’s high standards.

Sweat gleamed on their naked chests and both of them were thickly muscled and a little dirty—as though they’d come straight from work without the benefit of a shower.

The shine only served to emphasize the depth of the musculature and their starkly masculine features. Their tanned, leathery skin stretched across cheeks and jaws that were sharpened to rough edges by hard work.

Both their gazes homed on me, and while I knew the smart thing would have been to retreat without a word to my room and relock the door, I tilted my chin and thrust out my chest. “Can’t you watch the game in your room?”

“We botherin’ you, sweetheart?” the one closest to me said, sliding off the truck to land in front of me.

I peered a long way up and frowned into the face tilted my way. We stood close enough I could see the bristles of his evening shadow. He wore a ball cap that shadowed his eyes, but glints of blond hair shone beneath it. “It’s late. I was trying to sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” he drawled. “Join us for a beer?”

I glanced behind him and noted the grin on his buddy’s face. He was bare-headed with shaggy brown hair and a devilish quirk to his firm lips. The game seemed to have lost its fascination. Their gazes drank me down like I was long cool drink.