Tag Archives: Historical Fiction

Hemingway’s Daughter Virtual Book Tour

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: July 2, 2021

 

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Finn Hemingway knows for a fact that she’s been born at the wrong time into
the wrong family with the wrong talents, making her three dreams for the
future almost impossible to attain. She burns to be a trial lawyer in an era
when Ruth Bader Ginsburg is being told to type and when a man who is 500th
in his law school class is hired over a woman who is first in hers. She
yearns to find true love when the family curse dictates that love always
ends for the Hemingways, and usually, it ends badly. And finally, she’d give
up the first two dreams if she were able to triumph on the third. She longs
to have an impact on the only thing that matters to her father: his writing.
To accomplish that would require a miracle. All three dreams are almost
impossible, but it’s the “almost” that keeps Finn going. Ernest
Hemingway had three sons and ached to have a daughter. This is her
story.

 

 

EXCERPT

June 17, 1961

A mi hija hermosa, to my beautiful Daughter:

Well, Flea! Despite being in prison, also known as a forced hospital stay courtesy of my present wife, I’ve finished the book, the one for your mother. Finito! I never forgot what you said 13 years ago—that it broke her heart that I never put her in my books; wrote her out of my life, you said. Well, she’s in this one, all the way. It’s about us and Paris and the way it was then. 

And if I live that long—ha! at least another couple weeks!—the dedication will read, “To Finley Hemingway, My Daughter and My Muse.” 

You still there, Flea, or have I bored you into oblivion already? You knew it was always you, right? Without you, do you think I could have written a page of the finest book that ever came out of this much-battered Midwestern boy’s head? “A Single Drop of Red Wine” never would exist without you dancing across each page, hija mia. You were the engine. It’s that simple. And that’s the one that should have won the Noblitzer Prize (Nobel and Pulitzer together!), if it existed. Should we create one? And sure, I might have had some vigor injected at times by some of the “others” who shall remain nameless so as not to bitch the fine mood I have going here (I know you hated them, so let’s not talk about that). But the unvarnished truth is, I needed you, only you, to be proud of the old man, that you were Hemingway’s Daughter with a capital “D.” Not embarrassed or ashamed. Made me try for more each time I sat down to write, one sentence, then another. Sometimes flowing, sometimes drilling.

I’m calling the new one “A Moveable Feast.” And it will make her immortal. Love can do that.

I love you, kid. Forever. No way around it. See you in your dreams. 

Con todo mi amor siempre,

Papa. 

With all my love always. That was the last letter I got from him, and while a bit garbled, it was him, like he always was. A bit of Spanish thrown in and some of his own odd phrasing. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have guessed how ill he was. 

He was gone two weeks later. The highs and lows of living with him were over, and the loss of both was as excruciating as a finger bent to the breaking point, then twisted off to be sure you appreciated the pain the first time around. Still, without knowing it, he’d thrown me a lifeline. I now knew. Finally, after thirty-six years, I knew. 

 

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About the Author

Christine M. Whitehead,

I get my best ideas in the barn as I groom my horse, Nifty. The dogs keep a
careful distance as I lift a hoof, scrape it out, then move on to the next
one. The repetition soothes me. I begin to dream about women like me, women
on the edge, restless women who still want to trust that there is love out
there, and that being sentimental is not always contemptible, and that good
men are not so hard to find if you keep slogging along, seeking a melody to
fit your words. So that’s who and what I write about: restless women
searching.

 

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Hemingway’s Daughter Blitz

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: July 2, 2021

 

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Finn Hemingway knows for a fact that she’s been born at the wrong time into
the wrong family with the wrong talents, making her three dreams for the
future almost impossible to attain. She burns to be a trial lawyer in an era
when Ruth Bader Ginsburg is being told to type and when a man who is 500th
in his law school class is hired over a woman who is first in hers. She
yearns to find true love when the family curse dictates that love always
ends for the Hemingways, and usually, it ends badly. And finally, she’d give
up the first two dreams if she were able to triumph on the third. She longs
to have an impact on the only thing that matters to her father: his writing.
To accomplish that would require a miracle. All three dreams are almost
impossible, but it’s the “almost” that keeps Finn going. Ernest
Hemingway had three sons and ached to have a daughter. This is her
story.

 

 

About the Author

Christine M. Whitehead,

I get my best ideas in the barn as I groom my horse, Nifty. The dogs keep a
careful distance as I lift a hoof, scrape it out, then move on to the next
one. The repetition soothes me. I begin to dream about women like me, women
on the edge, restless women who still want to trust that there is love out
there, and that being sentimental is not always contemptible, and that good
men are not so hard to find if you keep slogging along, seeking a melody to
fit your words. So that’s who and what I write about: restless women
searching.

 

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Flames of Winter Blitz

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Flames of Winter Series, Book One

 

Historical Romance, Regency Romance, Historical Fiction

Date Published: January 12, 2022

 

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In this Regency romance by USA Today bestselling author BREE WOLF, a young
miss succeeds in escaping an unwanted marriage, only to end up finding
love.

 

A kidnapped young miss.

A protective Scotsman.

And a cabin in the woods in the deep of winter.

 

England 1804: SARAH MORTENSEN, daughter to BARON HARTMORE, is
desperate…desperate to escape yet another horrible match her parents
arranged for her. Once, she saw it as her duty to save her family from ruin,
to sacrifice herself in order to repay her father’s gambling
debts.

But enough is enough.

Determined to escape her latest fiancé, Sarah places her trust in
the Dowager Countess of Whickerton, known far and wide as Grandma Edie.
After all, no one is as shrewd as the dowager countess…or as daring.
Her plan is outrageous. Her intentions, however, are pure.

And so, Sarah agrees…to a feigned kidnapping…hoping to win
her freedom.

KEIR MACKINNEAR, second son to the chief of CLAN MACKINNEAR in the Scottish
Highlands, questions his own sanity when he finds himself kidnapping a shy,
wide-eyed English lass from her London home in the middle of the night. He
ought never have gone along with the Dowager Countess of Whickerton’s
ludicrous plan! Yet here they are, hiding out in a cabin in the woods in the
middle of winter!

Only the two of them!

Not counting two horses, an old goat, a handful of chickens and a haughty
feline by the name of Loki.

What could go wrong?

After all, the dowager countess is not known to be wrong. Ever.

Yet what slips Keir’s mind is that Grandma Edie loves nothing more
than to play matchmaker. And while she is certainly determined to save Sarah
from her vile fiancé, she might just have an ulterior motive.

Why not hit two birds with one stone?

Some stories can be told in one book. Others cannot. This is one of those
stories.

 About the Author

Bree Wolf logo

USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of the LOVE’S SECOND CHANCE
SERIES. Bree Wolf has always been a language enthusiast (though not a
grammarian!) and is rarely found without a book in her hand or her fingers
glued to a keyboard. Trying to find her way, she has taught English as a
second language, traveled abroad and worked at a translation agency as well
as a law firm in Ireland. She also spent loooong years obtaining a BA in
English and Education and a MA in Specialized Translation while wishing she
could simply be a writer. Although there is nothing simple about being a
writer, her dreams have finally come true.

“A big thanks to my fairy godmother!“

Currently, Bree has found her new home in the historical romance genre,
writing Regency novels and novellas. Enjoying the mix of fact and fiction,
she occasionally feels like a puppet master, forcing her characters into
ever-new situations that will put their strength, their beliefs, their love
to the test, hoping that in the end they will triumph and get the
happily-ever-after we are all looking for.

If you’re an avid reader, sign up for Bree’s newsletter at www.breewolf.com
as she has the tendency to simply give books away. As a welcome gift, you
also receive the prequel to the bestselling ‘Love’s Second Chance Series:
Tales of Lords & Ladies’ for FREE. Find out about freebies, giveaways as
well as occasional advance reader copies and read before the book is even on
the shelves!

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Of Lessons Lost Blitz

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: November 4, 2022

This fast paced novel opens with brothers Yaakov and Lazer’s daring escape
from the back of a Nazi vehicle en route to their execution in occupied
Poland. Surviving alone in the woods until the war ends, the brothers return
to their hometown in search of Wilus Chomelstien, the mayor that had
informed the Germans of their plans to organize an armed resistance. The
brothers want Wilus to pay for his disloyalty. But the outcome of their
meeting with Wilus will haunt them and their descendants far into the
future.

 

 

About the Author

Fred Snyder

 

I am a retired senior executive for a fortune 100 company. Years ago my
first novel (Ezekiel’s Vision) was launched via a conventional book
publisher.  My new self-published novel is titled: OF LESSONS
LOST.

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The Very Dead of Winter Virtual Book Tour

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A Sinner’s Cross Novel, Book 2

Historical Fiction

Date Published: 07-04-2022

Publisher: One Nine Books

 

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On the eve of what will be known as The Battle of the Bulge, the survivors
of Sinner’s Cross are scattered all over Europe. Halleck, the tough Texan
who drives men like cattle, finds himself surrounded in the snow-blanketed
forests of the Eifel Mountains riding herd on greenhorn soldiers; Breese,
the phony hero with a chip on his shoulder the size of Rushmore, embarks on
a bloody mission of redemption behind enemy lines; Cramm, the one-eyed,
one-armed German staff officer, tries to balance duty against his lust for
vengeance against those who crippled him. Three men separated by war will
once again converge… in The Very Dead of Winter.

Winner of the Literary Titan Gold Medal and the Pinnacle Book Achievement
Award.

The Very Dead of Winter tablet

EXCERPT

…he headed back the way he’d come, but with each step his tread became heavier and heavier still, until at last he felt he could go no further and sat down on the first object that presented itself—in this case, an empty fuel drum that had rolled clear of the stricken American tank. The last of Genschler’s howitzers rolled past, driven by muscle and blasphemy, their wheels cutting like circular saws into the slush, and Cramm found himself almost alone on the battlefield, with nothing but his pipe for company. He was still sitting there, listening to the sound of his heart over the ringing in his ears, when the distinctive sound of horses moving at canter through the trees caught his attention. This in itself was not unusual, for the German army moved literally on horsepower, but the hoofbeats were not rhythmic, and there was no accompanying sound of wagon wheels. Half-curious beneath the weight of his exhaustion, he looked up and saw Colonel Bix approaching through the gently falling snow on a huge broad-chested stallion, leading a second, riderless horse that clopped close behind. Bix sat perfectly erect in the saddle, his gold-spurred jackboots firmly in the stirrups, a figure out of the past. 

All that’s missing is a sword.

The colonel rode close enough that the steam that billowed from his mount tickled Cramm’s face. For a long moment, Bix simply stared, either in wonderment or disgust—it was impossible to say. “I ought to have you put under arrest.”

Cramm, puffing stolidly on his pipe, did not immediately reply. Instead he remained seated on the oil drum and watched the Sherman burn. 

“Come to your feet when I’m addressing you!” Bix roared.

Cramm took another puff. He had removed the ill-fitting helmet, and snowflakes had settled into his hair and scarf and into the creases and folds of his greatcoat. Keeping the stem of the pipe between his teeth, he removed the Colt from its holster and weighed it on his palm. “I fired this today. All six rounds. Didn’t hit anyone though. I don’t suppose I’ll ever hit what I’m aiming at again.”

Bix continued to glare. In those rheumy eyes and heavy, judge-like features, all the more impressive because of the upturned leather collar behind them, there resided neither pity nor patience, so Cramm stood up, reholstered the pistol, and reluctantly lowered his pipe. “I was once the best shot in the Eleventh Cavalry Regiment, you know. I could hit a bullseye from horseback at a full gallop.”

“I’m not interested in what you could do, Cramm. What I want to know—”

“Respectfully, Herr Oberst: I already know what you want to know. I’m your intelligence chief. It’s my job.”

“To gather intelligence! Not go gallivanting into battle like a green lieutenant looking for an Iron Cross!”

“I don’t want an Iron Cross, Herr Oberst, and I came forward with the troops under the direct orders of General Reinscheid.”

“General Reinscheid certainly did not intend for you to participate in the actual fighting.”

“The commander of this battalion was out of action. As senior officer present, it was necessary for me to take over. It is imperative we capture Auw before the Amis dig in there.”

“Don’t lecture me on tactics!”

“I apologize. But the urgency is real.” 

“So it is. But if you were to be captured—”

“An officer of the General Staff does not surrender.” 

Bix leaned low in the saddle and thrust his considerable nose to within a foot and a half of Cramm’s; at that distance, Cramm could see each overstrained pore. He wondered, fleetingly, about the colonel’s ancestry. Some Frankish blood in that family tree, perhaps. Frankish or Italian. Certainly no pure-bred German ever boasted a conk like that. “Oh? And just how do you intend to shoot yourself with an empty pistol? Will you ask the Amis to help you reload it?”

Cramm opened his mouth and then slowly closed it. The ghost of a defeated smile haunted one corner of his mouth.

“Ah!” Bix said, baring enormous cigar-yellowed teeth. “It seems you don’t know everything after all!”

I know what you had for breakfast, and you should have had a mint afterward. “Indeed, Herr Oberst, I have much to learn.”

“And your first lesson, Cramm, is that those purple stripes on your trousers do not bestow either infallibility or omniscience!”

The colonel pointed his riding crop at the second horse, a roan-colored mare whose shy and remarkably feminine-looking eyes gleamed from within an ungroomed mane. Cramm, who hadn’t ridden since before the bomb had taken his arm, hesitated for a moment; then, using his left hand, swung defiantly into the saddle. Bix turned his stallion about, and the two men rode side by side through the falling snow. A machine-gun platoon marched past them Indian file, bipods braced over their shoulders, ammunition boxes swinging; the scar-faced sergeant at the head of the column took his hand from the butt of his machine pistol and touched the rim of his battered helmet in salute. Returning the salute with a nod, Cramm said, “Herr Oberst, if I may pose a question so as to improve my understanding, why is the divisional chief of staff in the forward battle area himself? Certainly not to collect me. That really is a job for a green lieutenant.”

 “Because I know you, Cramm. You spent too much time with Rommel and picked up his bad habits. Arrogance. Indiscipline. Vainglory. You expect obedience from your subordinates, but you do not offer it to your superiors. It must be exacted from you. Well, I have dealt with your kind before. If dragging you around by the collar like a misbehaving child is what is required to make you perform your duties correctly, then that is exactly what I will do.”

Cramm replaced the pipe between his teeth. “My governess never had much luck in that department, Herr Oberst, but I wish you better luck.” 

 

About the Author

Miles Watson

Miles Watson is the x15 award-winning author of the CAGE LIFE and SINNER’S
CROSS book series as well as the short story collection DEVIL’S YOU KNOW. A
veteran of both Hollywood and law enforcement, his first and last passion is
writing, and he intends to publish in every genre before he cashes in his
chips.

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