Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 29, 2011 in
Life Every year I get excited about the New Year. I want to get things done and start something new. This year's no different. 
2011 wasn't my best year yet, but I did get lots done.
I wrote and edited.
I submitted something…. yet at this point, I can't even remember what that was [maybe it's just a figment of my imagination].
I moved. I settled–mostly.
I am ready for the New Year.
Come on in and tell me what your New Year looks like to you.
Have a Happy One!!
May God Bless it with the satisfaction of success.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: New Year Resolution, success, Writing
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 20, 2011 in
Books,
Holidays,
Life Letters from Home
By
Bethanne Strasser
To me, Christmas is about a promise. The promise of new love. The promise of new life. The promise of eternal happiness.
This story is for anyone in need of a good, old-fashioned promise. May this Christmas season be filled with Love.
Dear Isabel,
Two months, three days and six hours until you come home. (No, I’m not counting)
Yesterday, I walked past the school and it reminded me of when I first saw you. You might not remember me because you were scolding some bully for picking on a little kid. I always wondered what set you off. You were bigger than life, long hair flying, mouth running—in Spanish! I had no idea what you were saying, but it didn’t even matter. I think that’s when I first fell in love with you…
Isabel Rodriguez dropped the well-worn letter into her lap and stared through the tinted window of the crowded bus.
He loved her? The idea of someone loving her made her stomach twist. She rubbed a hand over her heart. Her secret admirer wanted to meet. On Christmas morning, no less, but after twenty-four letters—two for every month of her deployment—she wanted the discovery. “Although, if he knew me at all,” she muttered under her breath, “he’d know I was going to church with my family.”
The passenger next to Isabel—in her Christmas vest, bright green and red with Rudolf knitted on one side and Santa on the other, shifted, looking at her with a questioning frown.
Isabel cleared her throat and smiled, “Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”
…just thinking that when she found out who’d made her fall in love with him without even telling her his name, she was going to kick his butt.
The bus pulled into her home town of Red Bluff and stopped on the corner of Elm Street and Main.
Cold air washed over her as she stepped down into Northern California’s December mist. The driver pulled her duffle from the cargo bay, and she thanked him.
“No. Thank you, miss.”
She smiled and shook the hand he offered. “Merry Christmas.”
“Welcome home,” he added then waved before driving off.
“Eesabel!” An oh-so-familiar voice echoed from the church parking lot, strong and clear—or just plain loud. Heels clattered over the cold cement and jangling sounds of bracelets filled the air like bells in a Christmas song.
At first braced for impact, Isabel relaxed in her sister’s arms, the worry of tomorrow falling away.
“Maria, girl,” she scolded. “You need a jacket.”
“Never mind that. How was your flight home? Did you have to stay long on base before they set you free?” Maria looked her over—head to toe. “You lost weight again. Oh, but it’s so good to see you.”
Isabel cringed inside. It seemed with every deployment she lost a few too many pounds. “I’m just glad to be home. Where is everyone? No balloons? No band? Not even a roll of ticker tape for my return?”
“Very funny. We know you too well. You would be tempted to use your M-16. Come on. Mom says to stop at the church and light a candle. Then we’ll go home.” Maria hooked her arm through Isabel’s with a pregnant pause before she continued, “Have you gotten any more letters?”
“He wants to meet.” Isabel still didn’t know what to think of it. A secret admirer? It was weird… yet romantic—for a deprived soul like herself. “Christmas morning.”
The answering sigh was expected and familiar. “Have you figured out who he is?”
She threw her bag in the back of the car with a shrug and climbed in. “No. I’ve thought about it, but in the end, something stops me from really trying. Is it wrong to just enjoy the conversation and the attention?” It had been a long time since anyone had pursued her. “He’s kind, smart, funny. He likes kids and wants a large family. Of course, I’ll have to convince him otherwise about that.”
“Ha ha. You love us.” Maria tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Just one guess, though. You have to have at least one guess.”
“You want to gossip,” Isabel accused with a laugh. “I don’t know. If I knew, I might not be so taken.”
“So you are attracted. I do hope he’s young and good-looking” She wagged a finger in her direction. “He could be fat.”
Maria’s reality check made Isabel smile. “Love handles won’t matter as long as he has a brain and a heart.”
The neighborhood passing by—the Christmas lights especially—drove home the absoluteness of her mission completed. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
Straining her neck to see down River Road as they crossed it, she wondered if Zack was back yet. She missed having him to talk to like they’d been able to do while she trained at Fort Benning.
“Well, you won’t go alone.”
But, Isabel had every plan to go alone. Good Lord, she didn’t need an audience to watch her make a fool of herself.
“Can I get you something to drink, Isa? Gin and tonic? Or perhaps a beer?”
“Isabel,” she corrected her new, old friend with a smile. “No, thank you. I might fall over. How about a glass of punch?” She put a hand on Phillip’s arm. A gentle squeeze had his eyes lighting up like her mother’s Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. He was a nice guy. Nice. And she wondered if he was the one. Her heart hadn’t fluttered when he approached her earlier, and after all the letters, she was certain there would be something—a spark of recognition.
Isabel side-stepped into the alcove, out of the way of all the traffic—family, friends, and strangers. Exhaustion blurred the edges of the celebration as the last four days of processing and travel caught up with her. She needed just five minutes against this wall to get her second wind, because if there was one thing the Rodriguez family knew how to do well, it was celebrate. Holidays, holy days, first communions, weddings, even funerals.
Food would pour out of the kitchen as if it was the last day on earth. Drink would flow and music would resound through the rafters. She loved it. And hated it. The family joke was that she’d joined the Army to be alone. There could be a grain of truth in that.
A hand settled on her shoulder and she jerked away.
Zack Benson raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Slow down killer.”
Isabel scowled. “Oh, it’s you.”
A long time ago, they’d been like siblings. Now, not so much. Now, she had an urge to fix her hair and stand up straighter. Those she could ignore, but the racing of her heart gave her away as it had since that summer after graduation.
He was her friend nothing more, like a brother.
“If Phillip’s bothering you, I could take care of him.”
“You better not,” she demanded, horrified at the thought of him running off a potential love match and just as horrified that he noticed her awkwardness. “You’ve done enough for me in the past, thank you very much, Zack. I won’t have you messing with this.”
“A love match, eh?” Zack held up a plate of food.
“I didn’t say that.” Her frown caused a headache right between her eyes. She grabbed a piece of broccoli and dipped it.
Zack brushed a finger across the paper sticking out of her shirt pocket and left a trail of warmth across her collarbone.
Maybe the doctor was right about needing more rest. She blinked away a touch of lightheadedness. Yes, that was it—fatigue.
She’d carried the letter for months. As proof that someone on God’s green earth wanted her. Maybe Phillip? “He works with the fire department—an investigator, and he’s very nice. He likes children.” As a matter of fact, he has two of his own. That hadn’t been in the letters.
She wanted children, though.
“You look like hell, Isabel. You need food and sleep in that order, not some idiot who writes sissy love notes and offers you beer when it’s obvious you’re about to fall over already.”
Tears tickled the back of her eyes. She was tired. And irritated by the whole mystery. Chinese torture, that’s what it made her think of and she wanted to scream. “Don’t call him an idiot.”
Zack was always being over-protective.
“Mija, amor.” Her mother approached and interrupted, putting an arm around her and giving Zack a hard look. “Go find something to do besides tease my daughter.”
Zack winced. “Los sientos, Margaret.” He waited a heartbeat. “And Isabel.”
Phillip strode through the crowded kitchen toward her and a sound must have escaped, because her mother tsked. “Don’t get caught up in something that isn’t real, Isabel. You don’t even know if he’s the one.”
“But, he could be the one, Mamá.” Her voice faltered and the room spun.
Phillip was standing over her with a punch in one hand. The silly grin on his face turned to worry. “Isabel?”
Isabel opened her mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Lightheaded, she frowned. A chair. She needed a chair.
Her mom’s lovely face came into sudden, sharp focus. Her lips were moving, but it was as if someone had muted a television. Beautifully tapered fingers snapped at someone behind her.
“Miguel!” Zack called to her dad. But, his strong, commanding voice faded.
“I’m so sorry,” Isabel whispered as someone wrapped arms around her, and she slipped into the sweet, blessed oblivion of darkness.
The letter, which had been in her pocket last night, was gone. She threw back the covers of her bed, frantically searching, and dumped the contents of her dresser drawers. Gone? After all this time? She couldn’t believe it.
She wanted to cry.
Maybe it was a sign. She’d held onto it for so long. Maybe God was telling her to put aside false hopes. She sighed. That’s what her mother had said, anyway.
After rushing to get out the door, Isabel drove to Ayer Park with a pounding heart and sweaty hands. She hadn't been this nervous since…well, ever. There wasn't even a car in the parking lot. Isabel shut off her car and got out. A breeze cut through the trees, and she tightened her coat, tying it off in front. She slipped her hands into leather gloves and stuffed them in her pockets.
After years of playing in the park as a kid, the stone path was familiar under her feet.
God had allowed her a good night’s sleep followed by the most gorgeous sunrise she’d seen since leaving Afghanistan. There was eternal promise in the blazing colors and it lifted her hesitant mood as she took the last turn in the path and followed it toward the row of trees along the river bank. A figure stepped into view.
Someone was there.
Slowing, she caught a glimpse of dark hair and a jean jacket—she knew that jean jacket. And a jaw line, smooth and square. She would recognize it anywhere. Her heart fell.
Oh no. What had he done? A fire started under her feet and she steamed closer. That son-of-a-gun. She did not need his protection any more.
“Zachariah Edward Benson!”
He turned, watching her approach with hooded eyes.
“You sent him away, didn’t you?” She stopped short in front of him and pummeled him with her fists.
“Isabel,” he growled, trapped her in a grip and gave her a little shake.
Her teeth chattered closed. And she stopped. “Who was it?”
“Back to your old fighting self, I see.”
She stomped her foot and looked him in the eye.
All argument fled at nervousness shimmering in his blue eyes. Not just nerves. Longing. “But…”
“I have something for you.” He fumbled into the front of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper.
“My letter!” Isabel grabbed it from him and smoothed out the roughened edges. “How did you? I mean, when…”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged a shoulder. “I took it last night after carrying you up to your room.”
“You? Oh,” she breathed. “I’d thought…”
“Um, do you think you might finish a sentence?”
She shook her head slowly and really looked at him again. The spark of humor in his eyes. The slightly crooked nose, broken during combatives during training together a few years ago. Maybe it was okay that he’d scared the letter writer away. She already loved him. Letters from a stranger could not mean as much as what she was feeling right this minute.
Isabel grabbed the letter by each side and started to rip.
“What are you doing? Stop,” Zack exclaimed and stole the paper back from her grip.
“Don’t you see?” she questioned, stepping closer to him and reaching for his hand. “It doesn’t matter anymore who was here.”
His brow rose and, with a chuckle, he handed the letter back. “Read it.”
A touch of sadness stole over her as she let go of love that could never match what she'd had right here all along.
I can’t wait to see you on Christmas morning.
Stay safe. I’m praying for you.
What? Her gaze flew to Zack then back to the letter. Her heart pounded ferociously against her sternum, and a laugh bubbled out.
A line had been added at the bottom of her letter.
P.S. It’s me.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: 12 Days of Christmas Stories on PC, Christmas, Christmas Story, Gifts
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 4, 2011 in
Life Even though this month is a busy month, often filled with shopping, parties, deadlines at work, family visits, the ladies at PC are awful busy!! We're writing, critiquing, discussing the market and the upcoming year. It's a sign of things to come and I'm really excited about 2012 all of a sudden. I just feel that good things are going to happen. You know what? That makes it easier to relax around the holidays. And that's my plan! Keep writing. Keep reading. …and enjoy life. Stop by on the 13th when we start our countdown to Christmas with SHORT STORIES from PASSIONATE CRITTERS! If you're not in the mood to celebrate Christmas, these stories will get you there.
THE 13TH! I can't wait for it. I've read every story and I'm excited!
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Nov 20, 2011 in
Life This week–okay, every week, but this week in particular because it's the week we United States Americans celebrate Thanksgiving–I'm so thankful for this group of ladies at Passionate Critters.
1. They keep me humble, reminding me often that I need to keep working, keep improving if I want to succeed.
2. They make me laugh. At least three times a week, I know a conversation we're having on the forum will make me, if not burst out loud, chuckle and/or blush.
3. My writing partners are very smart. I have a wealth of resource in these ladies, from copy edits to plotting and cover art to marketing/promotion.
4. We're friends. It's not a given that a bunch of writers, from different parts of the world, with different lifestyles and different beliefs will come together and mesh, but we do.
I'm THANKFUL every day for this group of people.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Oct 18, 2011 in
Books,
Goals,
Movies,
Research,
Writing Craft Think Ghost, right?
Or Pearl Harbor…
So, I pulled out an old story to work on, and I'm sitting here wondering how to create some emotion, but not too much emotion that I might tick off my readers when I kill one of the good guys. And not just any good guy, but the heroine's husband. I just don't have it in me to make him bad. You know, like he cheated on her or he only seemed like a good guy and as the mystery unfolds, we see an evil side.
Nah. I don't want that.
Unfortunately, that means I have to kill a good guy.
Key elements to killing a good guy.
- Make it worthwhile. None of this killed-in-an-accident or innocent-bystander bull.
- Make it good [a little drama never hurt]. Bullets, knives, torture. Don't make it slow. And never kill them with a coma!
- Highlight at least one flaw. When we don't want them to be bad guys, we have to be honest with ourselves. Even a hero has flaws. Maybe he was annoyingly organized or perhaps he didn't want children.
- Keep the backstory short. I hate this one, but you don't want your reader to love a dead guy more than the new guy.
What I've learned and gleened from years of letting this manuscript stew.
So, give it to me straight… what are your rules for killing a good guy?
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: Death of a Hero, Ghost, Killing the good guy, manipulation of the story, Pearl Harbor
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Aug 2, 2011 in
Life …and yes, I’m talking about the weather. 
I wonder if Someone is preparing me for my coming move to Georgia. The weather up here in the midwest STINKS! It’s too hot! I’m ready to move to Alaska!
A gal mentioned on facebook that I would love Georgia and that once you go South, you never want to leave. But I’m having serious doubts about that. LOL
So tell me, where are you from? Is it hot where you are? Do you bask in the heat and love every drip of sweat that pours from your body? Or are you like me and want to get your favorite jeans on and your comfortable sweatshirt?
Oh! I can’t wait!!! My boots, my sweaters, jackets and jeans. Heck yeah, it’s going to be a good day when temperatures drop below 80 again.
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: alaska, georgia, heat, personality, weather
