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And Then There Were Two by Kitty Bucholtz

July 22, 2023 by in category It's Worth It by Kitty Bucholtz, Writing tagged as , , ,

When I got married 33 years ago, I knew there would be a lot of combining things in our lives. John taught me to enjoy comic books and Dungeons & Dragons. I helped him discover a couple chick flicks he could watch multiple times.

What I didn’t expect to share was my identity as a writer.

At first, it was really difficult for me, a middle child, to share a place I’d carved out for me. (Middle children out there, I bet you understand.) But over time I not only got used to the fact that my animator husband had started writing middle grade superhero stories, I decided to help him get them published.

Insert long story here about sending the book out to agents. (Many of you know this story.) So John decided he’d follow me and self-publish.

And since I’m a book coach and help people not only finish their books, but self-publish their books…yup, I had another client! (This one pays with kisses and backrubs and…ah-hem…moving on!) So as we insert another long story here, I’m now officially a publisher since I publish two authors. Whoa!

Let me know if you’d like to know how that’s working and I’ll make a point of writing it all down and posting it here. Meanwhile, I’m doing the publisher thing and promoting a book! 😀

Life as a Teenage Superhero is free through the end of today, Saturday, July 22, 2023, on all Amazon stores that sell ebooks. (I never thought I’d have to add those last three words, but the new Amazon store in Sweden doesn’t sell ebooks yet!) If you enjoyed the Harry Potter books, you might love Life as a Teenage Superhero. And if you have kids or grandkids from about 8 years old and up, they may love it too! (Also available in Kindle Unlimited for the next 90 days.)

We’ve got John’s second book in the 11-book series, Get a Half-Life, up on pre-order on Amazon with new books in the series coming out every 2-4 months. One of the new things I’ll be doing this year is creating a second print edition that is specifically for dyslexic readers! It’s a busy and exciting time to be a writer — and a publisher!

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Sing to Me of Rain Book Tour and Giveaway

May 25, 2021 by in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Rabt Book Tours tagged as , , , ,



Middle-Grade Fantasy


Date Published: 5/22/21







An innocent naiad. A wounded boy. An adventure that will change their lives forever.


Plip is a naiad of the Great Waterfall, destined to one day sing the songs that send rain out into the world.


Akino isn’t destined for anything but trouble. His father long gone, his mother working on a plantation far away, he doesn’t really belong in the village below the Waterfall. And the villagers don’t let him forget it.


When Akino convinces Plip to travel down the mountain with him, for his own selfish purposes, he launches them into a world more dangerous than either of them could imagine. A world where people are not always what they seem and the rain does not fall evenly across the land.







About the Author



E.B. Dawson was born out of time. Raised in the remote regions of a developing nation, traveling to America was as good as traveling thirty years into the future. Now she writes science fiction and fantasy to make sense of her unusual perspectives on life. Her stories acknowledge darkness, but empower and encourage people to keep on fighting, no matter how difficult their circumstances may be. She currently lives in Idaho with her family and her cat Maximus.



Contact Links









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Sing to Me of Rain

by E.B. Dawson


Plip shook herself and looked about tentatively. Out the opening of the globe, the caravan of kempelas strode on tirelessly over an endless sea of yellow sand. The bright blue sky hung low and thick all about them, almost tangible. Plip had the sensation for a moment that they were actually walking along the bottom of a great river, surrounded not by sky, but water.

Strange gray outcroppings began to emerge out of the blue. Porous rock which had been carved by the wind into sharp, jagged formations, like the teeth of some great monster.

But the illusion of water only reminded her how very far she was from the clear streams of the Mountain. She turned her attention to the orange sphere which housed her.

It seemed to be made of thick skin, stretched taut over a strong wooden frame. All about her were sacks of spices, piles of soft carpets, and various objects of fine metal, plus a plethora of items she could not identify. But just to her right was a cage with a very frightened looking bird inside. He was rather small and black, with a tuft of brilliant blue on his breast and matching blue rings around his eyes.

He kept tilting his head back and forth as he watched Plip and hopping left and right every few seconds.

“Poor thing. You’re as frightened as I am.”

The bird shrieked in alarm. His feathers puffed out all around his head and breast, forming a great black oval and revealing a larger stripe of bright blue. He shuffled back and forth in a funny little dance. His head seemed to have disappeared entirely.

Plip watched silently, thoroughly impressed but a bit confused, until the dance ended, and the little bird’s feathers settled back into place, revealing his head once more.

“Amazing!” Plip whispered.

The bird hopped backwards, lowered its head towards the floor and tilted its beak up suspiciously. “You did speak!” he cried, in a shrill voice. “Oh, this is terrible. What kind of a demon are you?”

“But you’re talking too,” Plip protested.

“I’m a shangrila bird, of course I can talk.”

“I never knew any birds that could talk,” Plip said.

The shangrila bird ruffled his feathers. “And how many birds have you known?”

“Well, none really.”

“Hmph. I thought as much. Birds are wildly misunderstood by bottom dwellers.”

“Bottom dwellers?”

“That’s what I said. Most of the world is made up of sky. Or do you never bother to look up?”

“I never thought of it that way,” Plip admitted, though she didn’t particularly like the bird’s tone.

“What am I thinking, trying to explain things to a sprite?” The bird straightened his neck.

“Who’s a sprite?”

“You are!” He flapped his wings impatiently.

“I’m not a sprite, I’m a naiad!”

“What’s the difference?”

Plip frowned. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know. What’s a sprite, exactly?”

“They live in the clouds,” the shangrila said. “They’re the ones who make it rain…or not rain, as the case may be.” He began pruning himself absentmindedly.

“They’re not the ones who make rain,” Plip protested. “The naiads and Weather Masters do that.”

“What nonsense are you babbling?”

Plip crossed her arms in irritation. “It isn’t nonsense, and I should think I know more about it than you, anyway.”

“Oh, really? You didn’t even know what a sprite was!” The shangrila crossed his wings comically.

Plip did a quick somersault inside her jar. “Well, I’ve never been inside a cloud.”

“My point exactly.” The shangrila would not look at her.

Curiosity softened Plip’s temper. “So, what is a sprite, exactly? Do they look like me?”

“A great deal…though now that I come to think of it, there are significant differences. You wouldn’t last long in the clouds; you are entirely too solid.”

Plip was beginning to suspect that there was no real ill will behind the shangrila’s insults. “And they don’t talk?”

“Certainly not. They haven’t the capacity for it. They aren’t really sentient, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Plip said somberly.

“Well,” said the bird in a satisfied tone, “you are young.”

“I wonder if the Weather Masters know about the sprites,” Plip said softly to herself. “Please, Mr. Bird—”

“Mr. Burung, if you please.”

“Please, Mr. Burung, do you know how they make it rain?”

Burung stuck his chest out and cleared his throat. “Ah, well you see, it’s all rather involved and multifaceted and one might even say interdimensional.”

Plip’s eyes grew wide.

“It would take an expert to explain the process thoroughly, which I am not—though I understand why you may think I am. But I do think even the experts would agree that it could all be summed up by the word evaporation.”

Plip frowned.

“Yes, evaporation is that complicated process by which a cloud sheds its water and rain falls to the earth.”

“And the sprites help with this process?”

“Just so. And it must be quite a messy business, too. For they seem to always be squabbling among themselves.”

“This is all so much more complicated than I ever understood,” Plip sighed.

“As is life,” Burung said with a dramatic sigh, “as is life.”

“I wish Akino were here.”

“Who’s Akino?” Burung asked.

“He’s my friend. He’s clever and brave and used to being on his own.” She sighed again. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”

“Somewhere terrible, I expect.” Burung sunk his head into his shoulders. “The Sand Plains are not known for their spiritual enlightenment. They stopped visiting the White Temple decades ago.”

“What is the White Temple?” Plip asked.

“Bless me,” Burung cawed, “it’s sentient, but it’s a heathen. The White Temple is only the holiest place in all the lands. It is where the physical world and the spirit world connect. All those seeking enlightenment find their way there eventually.”

“Have you been there?”

Burung rocked back and forth in a self-satisfied manner. “Many times. The White Temple is located in the center of the forest which I call home. The White Monks are kind to my people and often choose us as companions for their lifelong journey toward enlightenment.”

“I had no idea!” Plip was duly impressed, even if she didn’t fully understand what it was she was impressed by. “What does enlightenment mean?”

Burung sighed. “Spiritual knowledge and understanding of Maha.”

“What is maha?”

“Maha is the ultimate being, the origin and sustainer of life. The sun rises by his decree.”

“Oh, you mean the Creator!” Plip gasped. “He taught the first naiads to sing and gave the Weather Masters their skill.”

“I suppose so,” Burung looked a little puzzled, “though I have never heard of you or your weather masters.”

Just then a man entered the globe, momentarily blocking out the dazzling sunlight and casting a shadow directly over Burung.

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Coming Out of the Writing Closet

August 5, 2016 by in category It's Worth It by Kitty Bucholtz tagged as , , , ,

Hi OCC Family. I am still recuperating from my first RWA Conference last month. The conference reminded me of one of the trade shows I attend. It’s also like going to a place you’ve always wanted to go. You’re exhausted, but want to see and do everything because it’s your first time and you paid for it.

This month, I wanted to introduce you to a new writer, John Bucholtz. If the name sounds familiar, it should be, because it’s Kitty Bucholtz’s husband. John is new to writing, and I think you’ll enjoy hearing from him.

Enjoy the post and I’ll update you next month on my 12 Titles project.


Heeerrrreee’s John…

Coming Out of the Writing Closet 

A couple weeks ago, I chose to come out of the writing closet.

No, Mom, I haven’t lost my mind. 
No, my marriage to my wife is okay. 
I have decided to come out and tell everyone – I’m a writer. I have spent years hiding the fact that I write fiction from most of my friends and family. For some odd reason, I associated some sort of stigma to it. I always pictured stoop-shouldered figures bent over their computers writing for hours on end, finally emerging into the sunlight to scuttle off and toil away at their day jobs. People would look after them, shaking their heads and whispering to each other, “Oh, he says he’s a writer, but he still has a day job. He must not be serious.” 
But I discovered I was completely wrong. 
Writing is a passion. Writing is an art like painting or drawing that you want to share with the world. Writing isn’t just about trying to get published and make lots of money. (Well, okay, I would be lying to say I wouldn’t mind something like that.) It’s about sharing an adventure with someone else. It’s taking someone and showing them a world that you find interesting, amusing, and yes, maybe even scary. You write because there are these voices in your head that whisper to you to tell a story. (Please be careful what kind of voices they are – some require therapy.) 
But I guess writing is a type of therapy for many of us. We do it to quiet the voices in our heads. We do it to finally put words to the pictures and images we see that we think the world might find interesting, to situations that we find humorous, or to an adventure we want friends to undertake with us. 
I went to the Romance Writers of America (RWA) National Conference in San Diego in July with my wife. It was my first ever writing conference, the first time I thought about trying to be taken seriously as a writer. This conference was good for me on so many levels. Not only did I meet seasoned veterans of the writing world, but I had the opportunity to meet a handful of literary agents and a smattering of book publishers. 
I ran into a surprising number of wide-eyed and slightly frightened first-time attendees like me. It was comforting to see their mutual excitement and nervousness at being at a national conference attended by their peers. The classes not only catered to the romance crowd, but many of the classes could be applied to the writing of any genre. (For instance, I write books for junior high boys.) And the energy and plain helpful attitude of the more experienced attendees and staff quickly made me a little less nervous and more excited in attending the first of what I hope will be many writing conferences and seminars in the future. 
My wife told me something after my first day there that I quickly found true: “I think you’re going to find that these are your people.” I was surrounded by other people who heard the little voices in their heads, who created strange worlds and the many characters who inhabited them and the adventures they went on. My wife was one hundred percent correct. 
So I’m here to say to the world: Hello, my name is John Bucholtz, and I am a writer.

John Bucholtz 

Middle-grade author, husband, artist, funny guy but easily distracte…

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