Friday 11 December 2020

Our Horses!


 I'm a Kittyhawk 

We're caring for two retired thoroughbred racehorses/broodmares at home (Lions Raw and I'm a Cheetah), as well as I'm Dashing, our two-year-old, who we plan to race next year at Woodbine Racetrack. He's taking it easy because he has the beginnings of a bone chip on his left knee. We want the bone to heal well before he goes back into training in the spring. He's on a special supplement as well as good feed, and he's restricted to a small round pen or his stall. 

We also have Dani's Victory at home. We own 50% of this racehorse. He did well this year, including a win on August 9:

I'm a Kittyhawk is the daughter of I'm a Cheetah and the granddaughter of Lions Raw and the mother of I'm Dashing. She doesn't live on our farm at the moment because we don't have sufficient space to provide a separate area for her. 

We also own 30% of a two-year-old we co-own with some friends. He suffered a minor injury and is also taking it easy and will go back into training in the spring.
 
I use my experience of horse ownership and horseracing, as well as country-living - including pet ownership - to fuel ideas for stories for my books. 
So far, I've written three mystery novels - the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series, and am editing the fourth in the series. Check out the December e-book promotion! 

Tuesday 1 December 2020

Mystery Series E-Book Promotion!

 


All three books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series are available at special discount prices during the month of December: each reduced by about $1. E-book retailers' prices can vary, so these are approximate:

What Happened to Frank?: 99c;    Link to 1st book in series

Over Frank's Dead Body: $1.99;    Link to 2nd book in series

Pointed Attacks: $2.99                    Link to 3rd book in series

Each link takes you to the e-book retailer of your choice.

Soft-cover versions are available at Blue Heron Books located in Uxbridge. These are being offered at the special price of $17.99 each. 

If you can't make it to Blue Heron, contact@vickyearle.com and I can arrange to get copies to you!

Boxed sets of all 3 books are available upon request. Books make great gifts!

And - yes - a fourth book in the series is on its way. I'm editing! I'm hoping for a book launch in late spring/early summer. 

Happy Reading! and stay safe and healthy. I hope that 2021 is a better year for all of us. 



Monday 16 November 2020

The Cavern - A Story

 


Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabyay


This story was written for a Uxbridge Writers' Circle Meeting. The words in italics are the ones we were challenged to include in our writing. I hope you enjoy "The Cavern":

Carter had no desire to visit Benwick’s Cavern near the Devon coast. It was bad enough that he’d allowed himself to be cajoled into a trip to the southwest of England. He considered the area to be backward – what it lacked in culture it made up for with noisy amusement arcades and trashy souvenir shops.

Carter was a city man who loved the world of finance and international business, with its busy days and packed schedules. He even liked riding up the lift in the centre of Toronto, to the 60th floor, and striding along the corridor to his corner office to sit in his executive leather chair.

But he did allow himself a seat in the theatre now and again, or a ticket to a Toronto Symphony Orchestra concert.

He sat in the Palace Hotel that morning, and appreciated the white linen tablecloths, the silver cutlery and the real carnation. The buffet breakfast was pretty decent too. This was better than he’d feared. His room was tolerable, with its large ensuite bathroom and comfortable bed.

But all these satisfactory things weren’t enough to persuade him it was worth his while to dress down – to don jeans and a sweater to visit a dark, dank, dripping cavern. He’d picked up a pamphlet on Benwick’s Cavern from the display in the hotel lobby. But the poor quality pictures of stalactites and stalagmites, along with the slimy, shiny walls, just served to make him even more disgruntled.

Carter folded his linen napkin and placed it with precision, parallel to the table’s edge. He finished his strong coffee and replaced the cup onto the saucer without a sound, and prepared to leave. Maggie and John said they would pick him up at ten. They were bound to be late but he needed to be on time.

He stood outside the revolving door and the damp air seeped through his clothes in an instant. He viewed this as an ominous omen for the day. He put his new rain jacket on and told himself if Maggie and John didn’t show up within five minutes, he’d go back to his room.

But they did show up, laughing at some idiotic joke as they waved and came to an abrupt halt in front of the hotel. Maggie had yet to master a manual gearbox, so the drive to the cavern was far from smooth, and the space in the back of the car didn’t come close to being enough for Carter’s comfort, being much more cramped than he was used to. He tried to cross his legs and couldn’t. Maggie’s sparkly eyes caught his, in the rear-view mirror, and he gave her a weak smile.

There was an introduction to the guided tour, with great emphasis placed on how dangerous it was to attempt to go under or over the railing. Children must be supervised at all times. Carter tuned out and looked around him. The predictable gift shop guarded the entrance and notices had been erected in numerous spots. The lawyers would have made a buck or two out of these, Carter thought. His feet were cold. His leather shoes were not a good choice. He noticed a lot of colourful rubber boots.

At last, the guide beckoned the group to follow, but Carter hung back. He planned to trail behind. He’d let others be within earshot of the enthusiastic commentator. The gravel pathway gave way to slimy stone and Carter grew concerned as his shoes failed to grip. Their leather soles gave no pretense at providing any traction. Traction was not something Carter needed. His driver would bring the car to the door in the heated garage at work and the same at home.

Carter was glad he was at the back of the group. He could hold onto the railing as they descended down the slippery slopes which led further into the hillside. He thought of turning back but hadn’t made note of which way they’d come, or if there were several choices or not – he thought there were. He’d noticed that the lights came on automatically as the group approached them. Would they light up for him if he went back? What if they suddenly turned off? He wasn’t sure his mobile’s flashlight would be enough.

A scream. And it didn’t come from him. It was piercing and followed by sobs. But the guide hadn’t heard it and, if anyone in the group had noticed, they didn’t let on. The lights behind Carter went out, but there was still enough light for him to make out a mother crouched down, holding a child who had an arm outreached towards the railing.

Carter edged towards them. They were in semi-darkness now.

“What’s the matter?” asked Carter.

“My giraffe. I dropped my giraffe.” The child burst into uncontrollable sobs as the mother, crouched down beside him, held him firmly in her arms.

“It’s okay,” the mother said to Carter. “He has other toys.”

“I want my giraffe.” The child kicked out and hit his mother. Carter became concerned. What if the child broke loose and got under the railing?

“I’ll get it,” said Carter, before he had a chance to think rationally or develop a plan. He took his mobile out of his pocket, got the flashlight working and shone it over the railing.

“Please don’t even try,” the mother said as she held onto the child’s writing body. “It’s not a stuffed toy, it’s made of wood and it’s breakable. It’ll be in pieces, falling on the rocks like that.”

“Ganpa gave it. Ganpa made it.” The child kicked out again.

“I will get it,” Carter said, as he placed a hand on the boy’s head. “But only if you stop kicking and screaming.” His deep, authoritative voice seemed to do the trick. The child turned his flushed face with its swollen eyes towards him and stopped his tantrum.

Carter took off his shoes. To give her credit, the mother didn’t make any comment – on this lack of suitability for a visit to the cavern. He rolled off his socks and folded each of them and placed them in his shoes. He could see the giraffe in the gulley and asked the mother to hold his phone so the light would stay focused on the toy.

They were right. It was dangerous to venture past the railing and negotiate the downwards slope of smooth, wet stone. He lost his balance and fell, but only his dignity was damaged. The gulley was about 15 feet deep and he’d slipped about two feet from the bottom.

The giraffe was lodged into a crevice but Carter was able to remove it with just one minor scratch. He crammed it into his pocket and scrambled back up the slope.

The child hugged his legs so hard that Carter thought he might lose his balance, and the mother gave him a peck on the cheek. What was this strange warm feeling tingling his insides?

“We need to catch up with the group somehow,” the mother said.

Carter said the child could ride on his shoulders, but the mother would have to alert him when they came to low parts. By the time they got back outside, Carter had a sore head from being pummeled by a wooden giraffe and a stiff back, but he’d made a lifetime friend in Annie.

He was so glad he visited Benwick’s Cavern.

It changed his life.


Vicky Earle Copyright 2020


Thursday 1 October 2020

Here's a bit of flash fiction!

 


This piece was written in a flash - ten minutes during a meeting of the Uxbridge Writers' Circle

The prompt was "Children in a Tree" by the artist Alex Colville (sorry, the image above is obviously not that picture!). 

Lewis has always contended that being left stranded in the large, leafy oak tree caused him permanent damage. It wasn't so much the broken leg that he suffered when he finally tumbled to the ground, but the sense of abandonment. He'd thought that his older brother, nine years old at the time, loved him, or at the very least cared about him. He believed they had fun playing together, laughing together, chasing the dog together. To find out, in such a hurtful way, that he was completely and utterly wrong, shattered him. His legs had trembled and the tears flowed, seemingly unstoppable, as he'd tried to climb down. Losing his grip, he'd landed on the acorn-covered ground and heard someone screaming - it had been him. 

     Several years later, he enrolled in the same university his brother was attending. He'd managed to keep his distance, somehow, all that time after the oak tree incident, but their father had decided that they were to share an apartment, and wouldn't hear of anything different. Neither boy, or young man now, wanted to live in close proximity to the other. 

     Lewis moved in first, followed the next day by Bret, who didn't say a word. But after a couple of beers, Bret told him that their father had caned him for leaving Lewis in the tree and he still had the scars. 

     They talked at last. 

Vicky Earle copyright 2020

Wednesday 2 September 2020

New Stories Posted On Short Stories Page

 




I belong to the Uxbridge Writers' Circle uxbridgewriterscircle.blogspot.ca and part of the fun is writing stories that use pre-selected words. 

I have just posted seven stories that I've written over the past few months. The pre-selected words are shown in italics. You can click on the Short Stories header, or you can click on this link: Short Stories Page

Here's a few words on each:

"Plans": About a person who has a troubled upbringing and is in a "weird" relationship. 

"Moxie": About a horse that is at the racetrack during the pandemic. 

"Dream Vacation": About making a significant life-changing decision (very loosely based on my own experience).

"A Little Too Late": A woman's three marriages, her role in their deaths, and her financial ups and downs. 

"Horace and Me":A life-changing event throws two people back together. 

"Gritty Compromise": Winnie wrestles with who she wants to be, reluctant to follow in her father's footsteps. 

"Sisterly Love": I think this says as much as I want to give away!

Hope you enjoy the stories.

Thursday 2 July 2020

EXCERPT FROM FIRST DRAFT OF FOURTH BOOK IN MEG SHEPPARD MYSTERY SERIES

Painting by Amanda Morgan

There's no book cover design yet for the fourth book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series. 
I have almost finished the first draft, but there is a lot of editing to do!
I am, what they call in the writing world, a 'pantser'. I don't develop an outline for each book before I start writing the story. So, I can change my mind about characters part way through - their traits, their actions, their guilt or innocence.
Even though it can be a challenge, I love editing. 

Here is the promised excerpt, but remember that it's a draft - and the final version could be different!
This starts on page 2:

'Melissa won’t get checked out. She implores me to help find out how the fire started and is convinced that it was no accident. She points out that fire safety regulations are much improved and there are regular inspections. Melissa’s so adamant that I relent, even though I’m to start my volunteer work with the Racehorse Rescue Re-homing and Retirement Society tomorrow.
            Cooper watches us with whiskers twitching as Melissa prepares a light dinner. She won't heed my pleas for her to rest in one of the recliners in the family room while I see to the barn chores.
            After I finish my work in the barn, I put Eagle and Bullet into their stalls for the night. I double-check that I haven’t overlooked any fire hazards before leaving. Images of barns burning and of horses trapped inside disrupt my thoughts and distract me, so I do another inspection and make sure that I maintain my focus this time.
            As satisfied as I can be, I emerge from the barn. Kelly races ahead of me in a silky black and white blur. William is at the back door and she almost bumps into him in her enthusiasm to greet him.
            A whiff of a heavy honey-like scent wafts my way from the large patch of echinacea. A milkweed butterfly flutters across my path as I walk towards William, who stops petting Kelly and puts his large hand on the doorknob.
            “What’s wrong?” he asks.
            “I was going to ask you the same question.”
            “Let’s go in. I expect Melissa will want to hear this.” He opens the door.
            We sit around the kitchen table. Despite the horrific news of the fire, tears of joy threaten to well up in my eyes. Surrounded by trust and love, this is the family I’ve always wanted and never had, until now. I have an urge to hug them both, and have to swallow hard. This isn’t the time to share my feelings. I’m certain William has heard about the fire. It would have hit the news by now.
            “Melissa,” William says, “I can’t remember if this is one of your workdays at the track.”
            “It was. You’ve heard about the fire, haven’t you?” She coughs. William gets up and pours a glass of water for her.
            “You should have that cough checked, and you’d be well-advised to get some eyedrops.”
            “You see, Melissa, William agrees with me.” And, although she won’t admit it, I think she's been traumatized by the fire. She might need counselling as well as a medical examination.
            “What do you know?” asks William.
            “What do you mean?” I ask.
            “I suppose Edwin must have had to euthanize that horse," Melissa says. "I don’t even know his name. That’s two dead. It’s so horrible.” She lowers her head and rests it on her folded arms which lie on the table. Her blond hair hangs like a curtain around her.
            “I don’t know about the horses,” William says. “Is there anyone you work with who’s missing?”
            Melissa snaps her head up, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “I don’t think so. Why?”
            “A friend from the Coroner’s Office, who knows you work at the track, called to tell me that they’ve received a body recovered from the scene of the fire. A human body, of course.”
            “Oh no!” Melissa grabs her phone and runs upstairs to her room, slamming the kitchen door on her way.
            “I wonder what happened?” I ask, not expecting William to answer.
            “There’s conjecture at the moment that the body is of a hotwalker who was known to sleep in one of the stalls that’s used for storage.”
            “That wouldn’t have been possible a few years ago. Every stall would have been full. That’s irrelevant to your story. Who is or was this person?”
            “A lad called Dan, but the identity has not been officially confirmed yet. That’s all I could find out.”
            “That’s so tragic.”
            “Perhaps your racehorse trainer, Neal, knows more. The barn was close to his.”
            “He might have had to evacuate all the horses. I hope they’re okay. Melissa would have said something if not, I’m sure.”
            Just as I pick up the phone to call Neal, his image glows at me.
            “Hi, Neal. What a tragic accident. Are you okay? And the horses?”
            “We’re fine. We didn’t have to move the horses. But it was no accident.”
            “Oh, no.”
            “I overheard the Fire Department guys talking, and they think it was set deliberately. Arson.”
            “That’s disgusting. What a horrible thing to do to the horses. How could anyone do that?”
            “That’s not all. There’s a rumour going around that they took out a body, and it wasn’t a horse.”
            “I’ve heard that too.”
            “News spreads fast here.”
            “I know.”'

Vicky Earle Copyright 2020

To keep updated on my progress on this book, sign up to get email alerts. See my blog. 
Or follow me on twitter or Instagram.
Links are on my blog: Vicky's Blog

If you haven't already read the first three in the series, here are quick links to your favourite e-book retailers: 

And blueheronbooks.com has all three books on their shelves and on their website!

Happy reading!

Monday 29 June 2020

Excerpt From Third Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series


This is the third book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.

Racehorse trainer Grayson is found dead in his office trailer and Meg's trainer, Neal, asks her to investigate. The members of a syndicate, who owned five horses trained by Grayson, are all under suspicion. But the list of suspects grows as Meg learns more about the horses' unexpected poor health and disappointing performances.

The series is set in the crazy world of thoroughbred horse-racing. Meg lives on a farm with her beloved border collie, Kelly, as well as horses and cats.
If you like cozies, you'll enjoy this series!

This is the excerpt from 'Pointed Attacks', which starts on page 126:

'The condo doesn’t look as if it’s been lived in since I visited last. We help Philippa to lower onto the soft sofa. She’ll need help to get out of it too. Oscar has carbonated spring-water, with lemon slices, poured out for us - so he’s proven that he can play host if needs be.
            “Your eyes look puffy,” Philippa says as she peers at me.
            “I didn’t sleep well last night. Don’t know why.” I give her a half-smile and sip some water.
            “I’ve got no time for chit-chat,” Oscar says. “Let’s get on with it. Meg, you’re the one who asked to meet with us, so you can go from here.” He crosses his legs with a flourish. 
            “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me. I know you’re both busy. I’ll get straight to the point. I need the truth about your dealings with Grayson and with Emma.”
            “That’s easy,” says Oscar. “The horses were doing so poorly that Philippa and I wanted to change both the trainer and the vet, even though they were members of the syndicate.”
            “How did you plan to do that?”
            “We hadn’t got a plan worked out.” He shifts his gaze to Philippa. “I hoped you would buy them out, Philippa.”
            “Not a chance. Even if I had the money, which I don’t, those horses aren’t worth it. I’ve always believed that the quality of the horse is paramount. There’s only so much that the trainer can do.”
            “But I thought we agreed that we needed to change things up because everything was going wrong. I spoke to Bryce, you know the trainer who’s in the same barn where Grayson was. I heard he’s a hard worker and would do a good job.”
            “You talked to Bryce?” Philippa squirms and lunges forward as if trying to launch herself out of her soft nest. “He’s a no-good useless piece of shit. Didn’t you think to look at his race record? Who told you he was good?”
            “Emma.”
            “So, the useless vet told you that Bryce is a good trainer. This would be funny if it wasn’t so terribly sad.”
            “I thought we’d agreed.” Oscar unfolds his legs and leans forward with his arms on his thighs.
            “I don’t know where you got that stupid idea from.” Philippa flops back on the sofa as if exhausted. “Bryce would be my last choice. All he ever says is that he wants a level playing-field and that he reports anything that isn’t fair. What it boils down to, is that he has sour grapes because he can’t get results.”
            “Philippa,” I say, “what do you think is at the root of the problems? For one thing, I’ve heard that the syndicate horses get ailments of all sorts, when other horses don’t appear to.”
            “They seem to get everything going, but I think the real issue is that the horses don’t have what it takes to be runners. I blame Grayson for selecting those horses in the first place. He obviously doesn’t have a good eye or good horse-sense. Useless.”
            “They do get sick a lot,” Oscar says as he puts his glass down on the table. “That’s why I wanted someone else to look at them. I asked the vet, Edwin, to examine them, but he wouldn’t unless I got Russell and Grayson to agree.”
            “Now, that I’d agree with. I respect Edwin,” Philippa says. “He’s the new vet now anyway, so that’s good.”
            “Have things improved?” I ask.
            “Not enough to satisfy me,” Oscar says as he clasps his hands behind his head and leans back. “I want out. I’ve had it with this business. It shouldn’t be called a business, it’s just one big gamble and the owners usually lose while the trainers, vets, jockeys and barn crew do okay. We take all the risk.”
            “But if you have the right horses…” Philippa says.
            “You have to have the right people too,” Oscar interrupts. “And we have nothing right. Rehashing all this isn’t getting us anywhere. I just want out of the whole thing and, quite frankly, I couldn’t give a damn who killed Grayson. I still think it was suicide. He should have killed himself. It was the honourable thing to do.”
            “Oscar, hang on,” Philippa says. “That’s a terrible thing to say. While I’m angry and disappointed and frustrated, I wouldn’t say he should have killed himself. I don’t think that five under-performing horses is enough to die for, personally.”
            “Well, I do,” Oscar says. “It’s a disgrace.”
            “I’m going to end this with one last question,” I say. “Assume that Grayson was murdered, who do you think could have a motive to want him dead?”
            “Bryce,” says Philippa. “He’s scum, and I know he didn’t like Grayson. Amy told me he hung around the barn a lot. That’s not right. There’s something odd about that guy. I’d guess he wanted to get rid of the competition that he had a hate-on for.”
            “No, it was Emma,” says Oscar. “My theory is that she was trying out new drugs that she made up herself. Let’s face it, we got enough bills for medication. I think she thought she was going to come up with some dope that wouldn’t be picked up in testing, but would make the horses run faster. But all she managed to do was make them sick.”
            I thank them both for their time. It’s just as well that I made notes since my mind is misty, as if my silent tears have leaked into my thoughts. I lack the will or the energy to do anything else today, so drive home with Kelly with no other ambition than to make sure all the animals are looked after.'

Vicky Earle Copyright 2019

Thank you to blueheronbooks.com for stocking all three books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series on the shelves and having them listed on their website.

They are also available at your favourite e-book retailer: Pointed Attacks

Stay connected! Sign up to receive notification of new posts on vickyearleauthor.blogspot.ca

Excerpt from draft of fourth book to be posted soon!

Happy reading!





Sunday 28 June 2020

Excerpt From Second Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series


This is the second book in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series. "Over Frank's Dead Body", like the other cozy mysteries in the series, is set in the world of horse-racing as well as country life.
Meg Sheppard is an amateur sleuth and avid animal-lover, as well as a racehorse owner.

In this book, Meg wonders if her husband Frank's murder, the death of a jockey at the racetrack and the theft of some horses are linked.

In this excerpt, Meg meets with her racehorse trainer, Neal, and groom, Linda, before watching one of her horses race.

'My arrival at the racetrack helps me to shift my focus back to Rose’s race. I’ll have time to visit the backstretch, although I don’t want to disturb the trainer, Neal or the groom, Linda. But most of all, I don’t want to agitate Rose.  
As I step into the shedrow I catch a glimpse of Linda, and am pleasantly surprised. She’s clean and tidy, wearing a new pair of jeans, a smart black windbreaker and a clean purple cap. Neal’s stable colours are black and purple. The horses look elegant when they go out to train in the mornings, with black saddle pads trimmed in purple, and with purple polo bandages wrapped round their legs (which they wear for protection).
“You look great, Linda.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” She sounds breathless and her frown is so pronounced it’s making her eyes look smaller.
“Oh no, there isn’t something wrong is there? Is Rose okay?”
“Sorry. She’s fine, great. It’s something else.” Tears roll down her cheeks.
“Is Neal okay?”
“I’m fine.” He steps out of the stall to our right, and Rose puts her head over the mesh gate as Neal closes it. “But let’s get out of Rose’s sight. I don’t want her picking up on our stress as we talk.”
Neal is dressed in a suit, hoping to be photographed later in the winner’s circle. He strides ahead and Linda has difficulty keeping up with us. Despite the strenuous physical exercise she endures every day, her rotund body is no less spheroid, and her short steps are no less wanting. Neal leads us to his modest office, which is at the end of the shedrow. It’s about six feet square and houses a rusting fridge, a coffee maker on a small metal table, a couple of chairs, a tall, leaning cupboard, and numerous hooks on the walls with a myriad of horsey things hanging from them. There’s no window, but the door is always open when Neal is around. Linda enters the office puffing and red in the face. Neal insists we sit down on the two plastic chairs.
“So, what on earth is the matter?” I ask.
“A jockey was killed this morning,” Neal says. Tears run down Linda’s hot cheeks. Neal hands her a couple of tissues. “The official take on it is that he was thrown from his horse just as they were about to start a timed work.”
“But that’s not right.” Linda almost chokes, and blows her nose.
“Linda and I saw what happened. We were there watching one of our horses being breezed.” Neal hands Linda another couple of tissues. “It looked like Juan blacked out and slumped forward, frightening the horse, which bolted, and Juan was thrown, landing on his head.”
“It was the worst thing ever.” Linda breaks into sobs.
“The reason we wanted to tell you is that there’s something fishy about it.”
“We want to find out the truth.” Linda looks at me with red, puffy eyes and a runny nose.
“And we think you’d be able to find out what happened. I knew Juan. He was a good kid. He hadn’t been at this track for very long, but he was doing well most of the time. He was a champion jockey at a track in the States.”
“I don’t think I’d be any help.” I need this like a hole in the head. Too much is out of control in my life at the same time. “What about the police?”
Linda snorts and then blows her nose again.
“Accident,” Neal says. “It seems like no-one else thinks it’s suspicious, so they’re not listening to us. But no-one was close to Juan when it happened, not like us. And we both agree. Hope you’ll help. We can’t think of anyone else who has the connections and would be able to ask questions without getting people uptight.”
Neal and Linda look at me while the silence hangs unseen but felt, expecting to be broken. I can’t ignore their eyes. They remind me of Kelly’s eyes when she’s asking me for something. I can’t resist their appeal.
“I mean it when I say I don’t think I’ll be able to help.” I let out a sigh. Linda’s frown deepens as she looks at me with unwavering intensity. “But I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s great.” Neal shakes my hand. Linda gets to her feet, wipes her nose again, and hugs me. I’m not comfortable with physical contact, but her embrace, limited by her rotund body, doesn’t make me feel smothered, and she releases me after a couple of seconds, letting me breathe again.

“No time to talk more,” Neal says, as he grabs a lead-rein off one of the hooks. “Linda and I need to get Rose ready for the race. We’ll see you track-side.”'

Vicky Earle Copyright 2018

If you enjoy cozies, then add this series to your summer reading list!

A big 'thank you' to Blue Heron Books for stocking all three books in the series on their shelves, and including them on their website. 
They are also available from your favourite e-book retailer: Here's the link for this book:

Happy reading!

Friday 26 June 2020

Excerpt From First Book In Meg Sheppard Mystery Series



If you like cozy mysteries and are interested in horses and the exciting and challenging world of horse-racing, then you'll enjoy this series - and I should mention that Kelly, a border collie, plays an important role in the story.

Here's a short excerpt from about one third of the way through the book. Meg Sheppard meets with the trainer of her racehorses (previously her husband's horses):
 
   
     “Hi, I’m glad you’re here,” the trainer says, as he takes off his grubby baseball cap and sweeps his rough hand through his dishevelled red hair. He seems to be looking right through me with his dark eyes.
     “Hi. Perhaps I should see Rose, then.” 
     “Yes, yes. She’s in the end stall.” Shane turns and struts ahead. I have to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with him. He opens the half-door, catches hold of Rose’s halter, and uses a tie which is attached to the stall wall, to secure her. He motions to me to go round with him to the side of the horse the furthest away from the stall door. Bending over in the semi-darkness, he runs his hand down the horse’s foreleg.
     “I can feel some warmth in the tendon. See what you think,” Shane says, as he pulls himself up and steps away from the horse. I obediently bend down, and rub my hand slowly down the leg. I can’t feel anything unusual. There’s no warmth, puffiness or apparent tenderness. I know that Shane is standing too close to me, almost touching. A crawling sensation creeps over my skin as if little spiders are building webs from one extremity to another.  
     “Where’s Linda?” I ask, as I look for a space to pass the man and leave the stall. I feel pinned in and claustrophobic.
      “Oh, it’s her afternoon off.” Without warning, he grabs my hand and firmly guides it down the horse’s leg. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. My stomach lurches and my palms are wet with sweat. I can barely breathe. I pull my hand away abruptly and dive under the tie, almost touching Rose’s nose, and make my escape, trembling.
     “I don’t feel anything unusual,” I say as I catch my breath and regain my composure outside the stall. Shane releases the horse from the tie, and closes the door.
     “Well, she’s definitely favouring the left fore.” He acts as if nothing has happened. “I’d like you to come into the office. We should discuss this, and I’ve got some information I need to give you.” Giving me little chance to reply, he marches off towards his office. With reluctance and ill-at-ease, I enter the trainer’s well-used and tattered domain. There’s a couch, the original colour of which cannot be determined. There are faded, moth-eaten pictures of winners, including him with the horse’s owners in the winner’s circle, on all four walls. Hooks are haphazardly arranged, with pieces of bridles, saddle pads, bits and some other items which I can’t identify, hanging from them. Despite the small open window, the office smells strongly of horses, but the odours of leather and human sweat also hang with heaviness in the stuffy, musty air.
     “Drink?” asks Shane. He picks up a bottle of rye from off his desk and reaches into the small, battered fridge for a can of cola and another of ginger ale. I’m careful to avoid the sofa, and sit on an upright chair which has rusty legs and a padded seat with a ripped plastic cover. It’s prickly and sticky. Shane pulls two white, disposable plastic tumblers out of a bag, and pours a generous measure of rye in one.
     “No, I won’t have a drink, thanks,” I say, just as Shane’s about to pour rye in the second tumbler. He pauses, and then pours the rye anyway.
     “I really don’t want any,” I say, getting up. I walk over to his battered desk.
     “It seems to me that you may not want any, but you need some!” Shane smiles. His dry, weathered skin looks as if it will crack. “If you don’t tell me what you want in it, I’ll just have to guess, won’t I?”
     After a slight pause I say “I’ll have some ginger ale.” My intuition is shouting at me to leave, but I don’t listen. I walk back to the chair. I suppose, at this particular moment, my curiosity is stronger than the repulsion I hold towards the man. 
     “Frank and I used to enjoy the odd drink,” he says.
     “Frank didn’t drink.” Why did he lie?  “What do you want to discuss about Rose?” A sudden pang of loneliness comes over me. I miss Frank. He would have dealt with this whole thing with Shane brilliantly. Shane always treated him with respect, at least to his face, and wouldn’t have dreamt of being so pushy and inappropriate with him.
     “I want to show you the vet bills first,” Shane says, as he downs a large gulp of his drink. “Here, hold this.” He gives me his drink, picks up some papers off the desk and drags the sister of my chair over, to be close to its sibling. He takes his drink from me, and, after taking a gulp, he puts it on the floor beside him.
     “Come on, drink up. It’ll do you the power of good.” He leans over me and peers into my tumbler. I shift away. The smell of alcohol hangs about him like a threatening cloud.
     “Let’s see these papers then. I have to go soon,” I mumble. Shane pulls his chair closer. Too close. I shift mine away. He downs another large gulp of his drink, puts the papers on his lap and stares at me for a couple of seconds.
     “I can’t understand why Frank would leave you on all those trips he took to England.”
     “That’s none of your concern. It was my choice. I had no desire to return to that country.” I’m taken aback. I don’t know why I responded. It’s none of his goddam business. My gut’s now screaming at me to leave but still I hesitate. And he doesn’t reply, presumably because he doesn’t like what I said. The suffocating silence that hangs between us is broken by some familiar, though muffled, sounds coming through the small trailer window. These sounds knock some urgently-needed sense into me.
     “What’s that? I think I can hear barking. It’s got to be Kelly,” I say.
     “You brought your dog? That’s nuts. But she’ll be fine. Have your drink.” Shane picks up my tumbler which I’ve just put down on his desk...

Vicky Earle copyright 2018

You can get the book at blueheronbooks.com or at your favourite e-book retailer What Happened to Frank?
Thank you for reading this cozy mystery! 



Wednesday 24 June 2020

Don't Give Up!


...that's what I've been telling myself during most of 2020!

The curious circumstances we've found ourselves in this year have posed challenges of all sorts, affecting all kinds of people - including racehorse owners, and, writers.

As racehorse owners, we can't go to the racetrack to visit our beloved horses, or to watch them race.
That's tough.
But at least woodbine.com is operating, thanks to all the hard-working, dedicated, caring people who work in the backstretch. And thanks to the administration and leadership who, now that racing has finally started, are doing their utmost to keep it going and to draw attention to this wonderful sport.

And, then there's writing.
With all the distractions and additional stress, it can be tough to be creative.

The picture of my desk might give you a clue as to why I've had to tell myself "don't give up"!
I'm what they call in the writing world a "pantser" - I don't develop an outline of each book before I begin writing. I can easily get into tangled messes but it's much more fun to write this way. It allows me to change characters as things unfold and to add twists and tension that I might not have thought of until I become buried in the story-telling.
But this means that it's best if I can keep things rolling in my head - if I have long breaks in writing it makes it  harder to remember where I was headed or to regenerate the energy.

Despite the many obstacles, and my chaotic desk, I'm pleased to reveal that I'm on page 260 of my first draft of book #4 in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series! Yeah!

I have to add that blueheronbooks.com has my first 3 books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series on their shelves and also on their website. Thank you to Blue Heron Books!

If you read cozy mysteries and are interested in horses or horse-racing, as well as country-living, these are the books for you!

I will be posting excerpts from all four books in the series soon! Sign up to be notified of new posts.

I hope you are keeping safe and: don't give up on your creative project, whatever it is!
vickyearleauthor.blogspot.ca

Saturday 25 April 2020

New Book Review



A big 'thank you' to Anne Leueen for a great review of What Happened to Frank?, the first in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.
Link: What Happened to Frank? (I'm currently writing the fourth in the series!).

Anne Leueen has an excellent blog that is full of observations, experience and facts relating to dressage and horses (especially her talented horse, Biasini), as well as other interesting topics.
As the home page of the blog says "the world is best viewed through the ears of a horse'!

horseaddict.net is well worth checking out!

So, I'm delighted that Anne Leueen has posted her review of "What Happened to Frank?" on her esteemed blog.

This is the review:

What Happened to Frank is the first in the series of Meg Sheppard mysteries written my Vicky Earle. The novel opens with Meg Sheppard getting ready to ride one of the horses she has on her farm.Usually she loves to ride. But this day is not a usual day. It is the one year anniversary of the death of her husband, Frank Sheppard. While she is grooming her horse she gets a phone call from a woman in her grief support group. During their conversation the woman says it is good that Meg has accepted that Frank’s death was an accident.
But Meg has not accepted it was an accident. Frank’s car went off the road on a bend and plummeted down into the river below. But it was a clear day, with no weather issues that would have caused him to lose control of the car, on a road he knew so well. He had not been drinking and he was in good health. What happened? Meg cannot accept it was an accident.
Frank Sheppard was a government minister and several things he was trying to implement had made him some enemies. He was fighting for the environment and some of the powers-that-be, in the local town, were opposed to any controls on their business and their waste management. But did they dislike him enough to kill him? He also had cracked down on the use of drugs for racehorses and yet the trainer of his own horses was known to favor the use of one of those drugs. But would he kill Frank?
With someone following her in an ominous dark pickup truck and her dog being kidnapped Meg is certain there is a cover up. Someone wants her to stop looking for answers. But she has to find out what happened to Frank!
This is a quick paced and easy to read mystery. It carries you along as Meg investigates a series of possible suspects until she finds the answer to Frank’s death. And that answer is a surprise! I shall say no more!
Author Vicky Earle lives in South Ontario on a small farm . She and her husband have a small scale breeding program of Thoroughbred race horses.

Friday 10 April 2020

Story Published in Dark and Stormy Newsletter

A big "thank you" to It Was a Dark & Stormy Book Club, a podcast for mystery lovers, for featuring my short story "Close Call" in the April 2020 Newsletter. 
Check out their website: itwasadarkandstormybookclub.com and sign up for the newsletter!


The podcast can be found on itunes, Stitcher and all major podcast players. They have over 80 episodes for our listening pleasure. They feature author interviews and book reviews in the Mystery, Thriller and True Crime arena. They are concentrating on authors not yet household names, but probably should be. Their goal is to help readers to find their next favourite author. 

Here's my story as published in the newsletter:

Close Call

The woman’s gaudy skirt swirled around her as she scooped up some books and magazines into her arms, to make space for me to sit. Millions of dust particles were disturbed and caught in the sun’s rays that forced their way through the dirty window pane.
 
Her bare toes brandished long nails with the remnants of colour at their tips. I didn’t get a good look. I didn’t want to stare at her grubby, flaky feet.

This wasn’t an ideal time to meet, she’d told me. The mornings were her best creative hours, when the words flowed and the verses gathered on the paper.

A stone-carving of a toad caught my eye and she noticed my interest. She explained that she’d been a sculptor once, before it happened. The fact that she made reference to the tragedy, albeit fleeting, gave me an opening.

“As you know, Serena, I represent the private investigator hired by Maurice Bouchard, your son’s paternal grandfather.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“He’s asked us to look into your partner’s death of a year ago. Maurice’s grandson, your son, Len, has recently been accused of Bert’s murder.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“This must be difficult for you, but please tell me all you know about what happened. I’ll be recording this conversation.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
          
She sat on a wooden chair behind a dark table covered in papers. I wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps her recollections of the events surrounding her partner’s death would be clouded by time and distorted by grief.

She stood up and threw her hands into the air.

“I won’t tell you what I said before.”

I kept silent and watched as she twirled on the spot, her skirt ballooning out, the papers curling up in the breeze.

“I won’t tell you the lies.”

“I’m here to get the truth,” I said, somewhat bewildered by her behaviour, wondering if the unbearable grief of losing her partner had sent her stark raving mad.

“I’m not mad. I’m just sad. See, the poet can’t help it.”

“Okay, tell me.”

She sat down on the chair again, rested her elbows on some papers and stared at me.

“The only problem is that you won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Bert,”

“Your partner.”

“Yeah. Bert told Len he must be home by midnight. But Len drove the Mercedes back at three in the morning and it had a dent in the roof and was covered in mud. You must know all that.”

“The Mercedes was found in the driveway. But I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Now the truth part. Bert was angry. Really mad. I screamed at him to leave Len alone, but he wouldn’t. He lost it.”

“Did he often get angry?”

“Yeah, violent man. Angry man. Hateful. Bert and Len had a punch-up. Bert hit Len so hard that he fell and hit his head on the hall tiles. I screamed. I was half-way down the stairs. Bert picked up my best carving of a bat from the hall table and threw it. It smashed into two pieces as it hit my shoulder, and I fell down the stairs. I couldn’t move for a couple of minutes. Fear, pain, not sure.”

She smiled.

“It feels so good to tell someone. I want to tell the truth.”

“Please go on.”

“La, la, la,” she sang.

Her behaviour shook me and her words befuddled me. Lies and truths were mixed together, with some curious drama thrown in – a recipe for deceit.

“I’m not making this up,” she said, looking straight at me through a web of wispy hairs that hung over her face. She had an uncanny way of sensing my scepticism. “Len got up and Bert swung at him again. I threw a piece of the broken carving at Bert and it hit him in the face. He fell backwards and hit his head on the corner of the glass coffee table. Bert was motionless.”

“Was he still breathing?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay.”

“We had large, puffy cushions on the sofas and chairs in there. I managed to get to my feet and took one of them, the soft stripy one, and put it over Bert’s face.”

“Bert was found in the garage.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s where I hung him up so it would look like suicide.”

“The reason you’re telling me this now…”

“I know you guys will keep digging, so I might as well come clean, and save a lot of time and aggravation.”

“Len’s your son by your late husband. Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah. See, I knew you’d be digging.”

“Bert and Len fought, you say. Did Bert ever hurt you?”

“Yeah.”

“Was there evidence of his physical abuse of you? Did you ever go to the police or a hospital or your doctor?”

“No.”

“So, your injuries didn’t require medical attention?”

“They did, but I didn’t get it. I couldn’t. Bert would have killed me next time.”

“Did you get checked out that night? Or the next morning?”

“No.”

“But you must have appeared to be injured. You said you were hit by a sculpture and you fell down the stairs.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But Bert had evidence of old injuries, some scars and bruises.”

“He’s a clumsy person. What can I say?”

“I’m not making myself clear. I suspect that you were the abuser, not Bert.”

“Okay.”

“He’d been admitted to hospital four times in the previous five years. Injuries included a broken wrist, internal bleeding as well as some cuts and bruises.”

“Always having accidents, that horrid man.” She pushed her chair back and it scraped the wooden floor with an angry, scratchy sound. She folded her arms in a gesture of defiance, but her frown and her flushed cheeks gave her away.

“I’ve hit on the truth,” I said.

She unfolded her arms.

“You don’t understand.” Her voice was muffled.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Bert was a drunk.” She looked at me with wide eyes. Her voice had regained its sharpness. “He wasn’t too bad when he was sober, but he got drunk every night. Then he would start the ridicule about my carving, demeaning me and my work, making me feel worthless.”

“You got angry.”

“I sure did. I thought I could beat some sense into Bert.”

“But that didn’t work, I assume.”

“Yeah. Bert kept on with his taunts and ridicule.”

“What really happened that night?”

“I’ve already told you. Bert was blind drunk and flaming mad about the car. Bert punched Len and Len punched back. I threw the sculpture at them. It hit Bert and he fell back onto the tiled floor. I picked up the big, stripy cushion and smothered him. I told Len that he had to help me hang him up in the garage to make it look like suicide or I’d tell the police he was a murderer.”

“So, Len helped you deal with Bert?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I told him he had to. Len helped enough with the lifting so that I could get Bert in the position I wanted him. But that’s all he did. I killed Bert.”

“It was odd that there were no fingerprints found on the chair.”

“I was the one that put the chair there. I wiped it clean.”

“Okay. So, you both came back into the house from the garage.”

“Len was a blubbering mess. He mentioned the police.”

“How did you stop him from calling them?”

“I told him it’d be better if we found Bert in the morning, and that I’d call the police then.”

“What did you do next?”

“I helped Len up to bed. I went downstairs and collapsed on a sofa. I could barely make it, I was so tired after getting Bert up in the noose.”

“What did you do in the morning?”

“The police came and Len told them that he couldn’t remember anything. But I’ve been worried that he might squeal.”

“And tell the police that you murdered Bert? I’ve recorded this conversation and it will be in the hands of the police soon.”

“Good.”

“Good? You haven’t told me the truth at all, have you? You’re protecting Len.”

Silence. She hung her head, her chin touching her chest.

“When Len brought the Mercedes back after he’d rolled it,” I said. “Bert lost his temper. There was a fight. Len threw the stone carving. It hit Bert and he landed on the tiled floor. Death was caused by blows to the head, not suffocation, that’s what the autopsy report stated. The pillow didn’t play a role. Len asked you to help position Bert to look like suicide. You didn’t want to help, but Len told you that you had to, otherwise he would report that you murdered Bert.”

“No.” She stood up. Beads of sweat had emerged on her brow and glistened in the hazy sunshine.

“He threatened you so that you would handle the rope and the chair.”

“No.”

 “Why would you confess to a murder that you didn’t commit? As I told you, I’m here to get the truth. Len’s grandfather, Maurice, believes Len to be innocent. So, who murdered Bert? It wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t murder.” Her skirt had drooped, hugging her trembling legs. The truth was hidden in there somewhere.

“The evidence does not support suicide.”

“But it was.”

“It can only be Len.”

“But he’s my son. And he’s innocent.”

“Len tried to protect you from Bert’s abuse. He even fought with him.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“Someone killed Bert. It was not suicide. There were no fingerprints on the chair and Bert wasn’t wearing gloves. And I believe that your fingerprints were never on that chair.”

Serena stared down at me. “Len’s innocent.”

“Someone must have killed Bert. If it wasn’t you or Len, who was it?”

She looked at me with watery grey eyes that had sagged at the corners.

“It was Maurice, wasn’t it?

She whipped around and her skirt caught the chair, sending it crashing to the floor.

“They won’t believe you. I did it.”

“No, it’s quite clear that you didn’t.”

“It’s all lies. You made me say things.”

“I haven’t made you say anything and this recording of our conversation confirms that.”

She lunged towards me. “I’ll take that contraption.” She clawed at my mobile with her long, unkempt nails with their yellowed, jagged tips.

But I stood up and dropped my mobile into my jacket pocket. Her steel-grey eyes glared at me with unwavering intensity. Her chest heaved and I could smell her sour breath. She lunged at me again, her hands extended as if she planned to grab my neck. I felt the warmth of her body and anticipated her scratchy nails digging into my skin. But she thrust a hand into my pocket and grabbed my mobile.
I caught her wrists and told her there would be nothing gained in taking the phone, but she yanked her arms free and shoved me with such force that I fell backwards onto the grubby, spongy sofa. I leapt back up onto my feet as she opened the backdoor and started down the concrete steps to the unkempt garden overgrown with thistles. I sprinted across the room and jumped onto the bottom of her skirt as it wafted over the second from last step. The skirt ripped at the hem but not enough to give her her freedom and just enough to let her fall, face-down, onto the prickly weeds.
My mobile landed on the bottom step.

I unwrapped my purple, silk scarf from around my neck, pulled her arms behind her back and tied them at the wrists. I picked up my mobile and helped her to sit on the bottom step and sat down next to her on the cold concrete. Thistle seeds danced in the breeze, elusive and unsettled, just like the woman next to me.

“Maurice and I love Len so much,” she said, as tears dropped onto her dry feet.

“Let’s go inside.” I held onto her quivering arm as we stood up and went back into the house. We sat at the paper-strewn table.

“Okay. Tell me what happened.”

“Maurice and I hated the way Bert treated Len. Len was in the hospital many more times than Bert. They had the most awful fights. I tried to intervene. Before you ask, we were doing our best to get Bert out of the house. That place is mine and Len’s, left to us by my late husband, Len’s father. But I can’t face living back there yet. It’s haunted by memories of pain and anguish, of screaming and throwing, of helplessness and sadness. I made a terrible mistake when I let Bert into our lives.”

“He was after the house, wasn’t he?”

“He was after my money. I have quite a lot, although, other than the house, I do my best to hide it. He wanted control over me and he tried to drive Len out. Maurice was a frequent visitor, and Bert tormented him as well, not so much, but still did. Maurice once said to me that he could murder Bert for what he was doing to his family, to us. I didn’t take him seriously, but that night was too much for him.”

“Len did bring the car back in a terrible state.”

“No. He didn’t. And you won’t have worked this out. Bert organized to have the car rolled in a ditch down the road. Len didn’t use the Mercedes that night. He went out with friends, and they picked him up.”

“Bert damaged his own car?”

“It was mine, but Bert drove it. Damaging it was a clever plan to turn me against Len. But I found out what happened. He wanted to divide and conquer us. But the more he tried, the more we clung to one another.”

“Why didn’t you tell the truth about Maurice? And why did Maurice hire us?”

“Because Maurice loves us and did the right thing by getting rid of Bert. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison.”

“Why hire us? The truth would come out.”

“Maurice and I are desperate to save Len, but I didn’t want Maurice to pay the price. I said I didn’t want to go to the police, but I’d talk to a private investigator, and I’d confess to the murder, to save Len and Maurice.”

“That’s a huge thing to do.”

“Not from where I sit.”

“But now you’ve told me the truth.”

“I want to do this for my son and Maurice. They will be fine without me. Please, please untie me and give me that mobile.”

I wavered. I almost did it.

It was a close call.

The End

Friday 27 March 2020

Lions Raw is 24 today!


Lions Raw is 24 today, March 27, 2020.
This picture of her and me, taken by William Bell, appears on the back of my most recent cozy: "Pointed Attacks", book 3 in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series.
(NB My e-book promotion ends on March 31! Vicky's e-books)

This video shows Lions Raw as a foal, followed by her first race!
Lions Raw foal and first race

Lions Raw was an excellent thoroughbred racehorse and a wonderful broodmare. All but one of her foals were winners at Woodbine. One ran in the Queen's Plate! Lions Bay came 6th despite a serious problem with a shoe. We were proud to be part of that incredible experience.

Her granddaughter, I'm a Kittyhawk, won three stakes races!
I'm a Kittyhawk had her first foal two years ago. He's called I'm Dashing and we hope he will race later this year or next. He's doing some light training at a farm right now.

We feel so fortunate to have Lions Raw as part of our family. She and her daughter, I'm a Cheetah, are enjoying a pleasant retirement on our farm.
Here's a poor quality video of Lions Raw beating 'the boys' on August 19, 2000. She's the one with the white flash on her face, number 7.
Lions Raw beats the boys

We wish Lions Raw many happy returns of the day!!

Saturday 29 February 2020

Second Annual Spring E-book Promotion!



If you like cozy mysteries, you'll love the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series!
They are set in the crazy world of horse-racing and of country life. Lots of fun to read! 

I'm offering the e-book versions of all three at a special discount as a Spring Promotion, during the month of March 2020 only. 
The reductions I've requested the e-book retailers to put into effect are about 50% for What Happened to Frank?; 33% for Over Frank's Dead Body; and 25% for Pointed Attacks.

Here is where you can find quick links to my books: Vicky's Books
Click on each book covers to get the link to your favourite e-book retailer.

Or, you can click on these links:

Soft-cover versions are available at Blue Heron Books, Uxbridge, Ontario blueheronbooks.com

If  you can't get to Blue Heron, please email me at contact@vickyearle.com

Boxed sets of the three books in the Meg Sheppard Series are available upon request, while supplies last. Please email me. 

And don't forget to leave a review with your e-book retailer, or at Goodreads, or email me. 
Thank you!!!!

Here are excerpts from a recent review by Jennifer Morrison, Four-time Sovereign Award Winner, Freelance Horse-racing Writer, Handicapper, Ajax Downs Commentator:

On What Happened to Frank?
"...This book will take you on exciting twists that will keep you guessing!"
On Over Frank's Dead Body
"If you thought book#1 in the Meg Sheppard series had you scratching your head at the goings on surrounding her husband Frank, then "Over Frank's Dead Body" will keep you in suspense all over again...Finding out what is behind all of this takes the reader on another mind bender in Book 2 from Vicky Earle."

Happy Reading!

PS I'm currently writing the fourth book in the series.

PPS You can follow me on my blog and/or twitter and/or instagram