Christmas Bells and Wedding Spells

 Writing Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells felt a little like decorating a tree with one hand while stirring a pot of hot cocoa with the other—equal parts joy, juggling, and the occasional sprinkle of chaos that somehow makes the whole thing magical.

I wanted to craft a story that glows. Not the blinding-LED kind of glow, but that soft, porch-light warmth you get when you’re pulling into your hometown on Christmas Eve. The kind of story that lets you know you’re about to walk into a world where goodness still wins, people still believe in each other, and the cookies are always baked with love. The book blends the charm of Hallmark, the humor of reality TV, and the coziness of small-town holiday magic. No harsh drama, no claws out; just enough sparkle, romance, and mischief to give your heart a happy little flutter.

And now—Lord help me, I’m still squealing about this—it’s published and officially available on Barnes & Noble. Anybody can grab it there, download the free NOOK app, and be reading it faster than you can say “Bless that man’s heart for trying to hang Christmas lights in the wind.”

This book wasn’t written to impress the literary elites or win a prize for “Most Symbolic Use of Mistletoe in a Supporting Role.” It was written for the people who want to curl up with a story that feels like a mug of something warm, a blanket over your knees, and the comforting nonsense of holiday romance swirling in the background. 

At the end of the day, Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells is a story about joy. About friendship. About the kind of love that sneaks up on you between a sleigh ride and a snow-kissed misunderstanding. And writing it reminded me that we all deserve a little enchantment!

So please...grab your sleigh bells, your cozy socks, and your Nook app. The doors of Sugar Hollow Harbor are open, and there’s a slice of holiday magic waiting just for you!

(click the book to be taken to Barnes and Noble website!)

Happiness Doesn’t Need a Subscription (But I Still Watch Bravo)

 The world’s gotten mighty skilled at making distraction profitable. Every platform promises “escape” in shiny high definition: Hulu, Netflix, Peacock, Prime. I’ve subscribed to ‘em all, bless my overstimulated heart.

I’ll confess: I’ve streamed everything from Hallmark to Bravo. A little I Love Lucy when I need comfort, a little Real Housewives when I need chaos (and a reminder of what not to become). In moderation, it’s fine — a little relief from the world’s noise, a quick dose of disruption for the stressed-out soul. But it’s dangerous dangling over that ditch; once you get in, it might take you a day, a weekend, or a week, to crawl out. 

You start with one episode “just to unwind,” and before you know it…the dream project you were gonna finish? Still sittin’ in the corner, lookin’ at you with judgmental side-eye. Because happiness, real happiness, comes from flourishing. And flourishing doesn’t usually come with a laugh track or three commercial breaks unless you’re a comedian or an actress. 

Distraction is the sneakiest drug there is. It numbs the ache but steals the meaning. Too much of it, and the side effects are brutal: laziness, despair, self-loathing — all the symptoms of a soul that’s been benched. 

So this is my little reminder (to myself, mostly): happiness doesn’t need a subscription. It doesn’t come from drama or perfection or the next season of anything. It’s made the old-fashioned way: from character, courage, and the stubborn choice to bloom where you’ve been battered by nature, by work, by that own voice in your head cussing you out for a mistake or two, or 2,543!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to turn off and a life to get back to, but I will for sure check in with you after the Great British Bakeoff. Because that’s one show that so far, is not only a balm, but the message in it is: Aim for excellence. Learn from your failures. And have a few laughs (a-lot of laughs) along the way. 

Real life, unfortunately doesn’t come with a pause button (yet, don’t give our tech overlords any ideas!) but it does come with purpose, if you’re brave enough to press play on yourself!

Friday News Dumps Are Casseroles of Distraction

Friday news dumps are casseroles of the worst sort: tossed together, hidden under a blanket of cheese, and slid onto the table with the hope you’ll be too polite—or too busy—to ask what’s in it. I don’t know who first thought it was clever to release big news on a Friday.  The idea, of course, is that by the time Monday rolls around, we’ll all have forgotten the announcement, too busy doing laundry, running the kids to games, and decorating for whatever holiday is upon us. Politicians call it “strategic communications.” I call it hiding the peas and broccoli under the mashed potatoes.

Every Friday, like clockwork, there’s a press release that says something you might actually want to know—about: budget cuts, indictments, layoffs, or the sort of scandal that comes with the word “alleged” clinging to it like dryer lint on a sock. It slips out at 4:59 p.m., just when we’re uncorking a bottle of Pinot Noir and deciding what pizza goes best with a cozy red wine.  

And yet—here’s the secret nobody in power likes to admit—people notice. Not everyone, but enough of us. Enough that the trick doesn’t feel like misdirection so much as insult. 

Now Aunt Midge will tell you the truth straight out: “Honey, if someone only talks when you’re half out the door, they don’t want you to hear them. That’s not communication. That’s cowardice dressed up in a business suit.” Because Midge believes news, like gossip, should be aired in daylight.

Friday news dumps are the equivalent of sneaking a slice of pumpkin pie cooling on the windowsill and thinking nobody’s going to notice. We notice. We always notice. The question is whether we care enough to holler about it come Monday morning. And the truth is, sometimes we don’t—which is precisely what the dumpers are banking on.

So when the politicians or corporations are feeding us casserole on a Friday night, the key is to scrap off the golden buttery top to see what kind of slop is underneath.