It’s September! Here’s a new Letter From Mickey for my Downey Trilogy fans:

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Dear Joey,

Your last letter gave me quite the laugh! The cheek of you! Alright then, if you want me to trust you with my jet you’re going to have to tell me what the message is hidden within this tale:

Back when Finn was still the adventuring sort and fond of women and drink — well, more so than he was at the time of this tale, in any case — he came across a young scamp. This boy said he’d take care of Finn’s horse in exchange for a few coins. Now, Finn had already spent the coin he had on the aforementioned activities, but he knew the horse was in need of care.

So, he says to the lad, “Tis true the horse needs attending but I’ve a more pressing matter that’ll earn you double the coin… if you’re interested.”

The boy’s eyes lit up at the opportunity,  for he was hungrier than a louse on a bald man, and at least three times more clever than hungry. “Oh, tell me, please,” the boy pleaded.

“Take the horse down the lane, past old man McIntyre’s, then take a right turn by the old oak and another by the raspberry thicket. There you’ll see a farm of some size. Knock on the door and say you’re delivering a message from Finnegan.”

“And what’s the message, sir?” the boy asked.

“That is the message, lad.”

The boy furrowed his brows, but agreed to take the horse. When he arrived at the place, he was greeted by an old hag rather fearsome in visage.

“Oh, ho, so Finnegan’s finally been gotten the better of, eh?” the old woman asked.

The boy opened his mouth to say something, but she waggled a wizened finger at him, “And don’t be thinkin’ I’ll be paying a thief who got the better of another thief, boyo!” Then she grabbed the horse’s reins and pulled him inside.

Realizing he had been had, the boy shouted, “Wait! I found the horse and I was just returning it. I don’t know this Finnegan. I was only hoping for a bit of bread and a place to stay. Perhaps if I clean the stall, I could rest with the horse for the night?”

The old woman paused and contemplated the offer. The boy did look rather peckish and he reminded her of her son at that age. “Alright, lad. I’ll have Moira bring you some bread and goat’s milk. Ye’ll be off at morning’s light.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he assured her.

And come the morning, her stalls shined as if they’d been built yesterday. And they were just as empty. When she returned to the kitchen, Moira asked her why she was smiling so.

“Why, because I’ve finally gotten rid of all my son’s stolen horses without having to answer any questions! What a good boy, my Finnegan is.”


I love you, Joey. Do try and be good in as much as that’s possible for any Downey.

Your loving father, Mickey.

Read the rest of the letters here: Letters From Mickey Downey

REBLOG #review via @CFFBooks: “The Good Life” by Genevieve Dewey

ICYMI: Christoph Fischer’s review of The Good Life.



The Good Life

Detective Kyle Anderson is a man of simple tastes and reasonably low expectations. Give him a juicy steak and no homicides, and he’d call it good. When his sister Katelyn got engaged to his best friend Dominic, he’d figured the worst of the unnecessary drama in his life was over. But that was before Dom’s free-spirited, twig-eating, exasperating sister Demetria came back to Nebraska and completely hijacked the planning of the wedding, starting with inviting Dom’s ex-wife Isabel. Now Kate’s so determined to prove Isabel is up to no good that she insists Kyle date her to keep her away from Dom. Soon Kyle is so knee deep in Anderson-Valentini dramatics, he’s thinking of changing his name and moving to Tibet. If he could just get Demi the impossibly sexy granola-flake off his mind long enough to do it…

My review:

“The Good Life” by Genevieve Dewey…

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Subscribe to Gen’s Fan Newsletter for sneak peeks & special promotions!

Ok, so, this will probably not be news to some of you, but Facebook filters out posts. The truth is, only about 10-20% of you are deemed worthy by them of seeing my updates. That’s probably being generous.

Anyhoo, my point, yes!

Here it is: Due to the filter-unless-you-pay-us shakedown of Facebook, and the incredibly fast moving nature of Twitter, and my bad habit of forgetting other social media outlets exist, the ABSOLUTE BEST WAY for you to not miss out on any special sales, free giveaways, or advance peeks is to sign up for my new fan newsletter! Brand spankin’ new, peeps!

We are talking free stuff from me to you, the BEST fans in the universe. I may not have a huge fan base, but if I have a thousand true fans, that’s better than a fickle fifteen minutes of fame. (Not that I would say no to both, haha!)

So, subscribe to my Newsletter to receive these special alerts, promotions, and deals! Those of you who know me know that you will actually NOT hear from me all that often. No spammy, no spammy, just fan love from me!

All it requires is an email, you don’t even have to fill out your name (though that helps when your email program filters junk mail).



This Blog Sucks

OMG! This man said exactly everything I feel. So um, yeah, what he said. *muah*

The Ravings of a Sick Mind

I’m going to be brutally honest here: I don’t really get blogs.


I’m only doing this because I want to sell you books. According to popular wisdom, blogs create a platform, which supposedly translates into sales. I’m not quite sure I buy that. Most of my friends and family who really know me and care about me don’t buy my books, so why should I expect you to just because I wrote some snappy article and posted it on a blog?

Blogs are supposed to let readers get to know you and feel a connection, but that doesn’t always make sense to me either. I read Stephen King, Jim Butcher, P.N. Elrod and others because I love their stories and characters. I don’t give a shit what Stephen King bought at the grocery store today or any of the other random garbage that pops up in blogs. I’ve never understood…

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Goodbye hearts, hello shamrocks. I’m ready to let my inner Irish out.

There are lots of parts to me (and my family), but I’ve always been proud of the Irish bits and pieces. Why? Because I associate these parts with laughter, love, loyalty and perseverance. Is this exclusive to Irish folk? Nah, of course not. But every March when everyone becomes a wee bit Irish for a day, I smile and think it’s funny people think of drinking and parades. Because to me it’s always been about family and faith… that wee part of me.

Alright, enough of the pointless blither blather. I’m dusting off a Letter From Mickey that contains the sort of wisdom my grandpa was fond of sending me in HIS letters:


Dear Tommy,

First, I love you and I hope you are well!

A little birdie told me your hockey team didn’t make it to the finals. I am sorry to hear this and I know it is not from any lack on your part. You are quite talented, I am sure. Defeats are a part of life’s lessons for us I am afraid. Sadly they only get harsher as life moves on. But it is how you handle these disappointments that makes the mettle of a man. But I have no worries there, even as a young child you always brushed off disappointments with only a minimal fuss. A trait you get from your mother, no doubt, as it couldn’t have been easy raising you alone but she never complained. Even in the end shortly before she left, for as many arguments as we had she still was as loving and patient as ever. Every day I was able to spend with you, she always had a smile on her face and no matter the struggles she had, she could always find a way to spin a positive out of it. I remember one time when you were only about 2 years old, she had been ill all week with the Flu and had lost her waitressing job from the missed work. I brought her roses and the rent for the remainder of the year expecting to have to comfort her. But you know what she did? She smiled wide, handed you to me, and said, ‘I’m only sad I can’t smell these roses.’ I fed you dinner (spaghetti-os were your favorite) and I even got to give you your bath, something your mother usually did herself as I apparently made too much of a mess playing battleship with you. It was my habit each night I got to spend with you to rock you to sleep telling you stories your great grandfather, Seamus O’Malley, had passed on to me. Now, there is a man whose veins run with pure steel–he never met a disappointment he couldn’t turn into a blessing! He is a full 45 years older than I, yet he can still run circles around me in a spirited argument and still carves every day. If I possess even half of his vigor at his age I will truly be blessed. Anyway, this story was one of your favorites, or I should say, sent you to sleep the fastest, which in retrospect might be saying the opposite. You’ll have to tell me which case it is upon hearing it at an older age: 

Finnegan had been a hard working man, if the work you were speaking about was finding ways to do the least amount of work to gain the most. One of his favorite things to do was trick people in to buying his tales of magical healing wells. Now back then people had heard of Brigid’s Well but few knew where to find it. Finnegan would spin a yarn about how he had thrice been cured by it himself and he knew the secret path to get there. They would pay him in food and shelter and other such comforts to show them where the well existed. But wily Finnegan would lead them around in circles until they were good and dizzy then leave them off at the nearest spring he could find. By the time they discovered the water was just ordinary water, he would be long gone. One night he was sleeping in a barn and a Wee One appeared before him.

“Finnegan,” she said. “It just so happens there is such a well in Kildare as to make a sick man healed. Would you like to know how to find it?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” Finnegan replied, thanking his good fortune, but suspicious of it just the same. “What is it you would want in exchange?”

“You must agree never to trick others again. And, I must warn you, you can only drink the water if you truly seek healing.”

“Of course,” Finnegan agreed, while crossing his finger behind him.

The Wee One told him the well’s location and Finnegan began searching for it, out of curiosity and avarice. But every time he would get near where the well was supposed to be, he would find he was right back where he had started. But he would always begin again thinking this would be the time he would find it. He began to waste away from obsession and lack of food. One day as he was resting on a low wall along came a fair maiden. She gave him some warm bread and he told her of his quest. He figured he had been tricked by the Wee One just as he had tricked others because even now, when he was truly sick, he still could not find the water.

“You poor dear,” the girl said. “I’m afraid Morrigan left out the most important part. You must truly want to get well to find the water in the first place.”

“What foolishness is this?” Finnegan asked. “Of course I want to get well!” And he did, for she was quite beautiful and he could see himself raising goats and children with her as a good and honest man.

“Then drink,” Brigid said and waved her hand. Behind her apace was a small circle of stones with a bucket suspended atop. He drank the cool, mossy water and suddenly felt no desire to wander anymore.

He settled down and made a good life with her. But one day his past came to haunt him as these things tend to do. One of the people he had tricked in the past came seeking justice. When Finnegan offered to let him drink from their well, the man thought he was being tricked yet again and absconded with Finnegan’s bride. Enraged, Finnegan armed himself and his children and swore vengeance upon the man and all who would aid him, vowing he would not stop until he was reunited with his fair love. But he did not know Brigid had sacrificed herself rather than be used by his enemies. So, endlessly he searched, killing all those who dared try and stop him. After each battle, those who would come to claim the bodies of their kin would swear Brigid’s ghost would wander about the dead, crying for their souls, and singing: ‘Until we meet again, my love, until we meet again’.

Then one day, wearied unto his soul from his searching, Finnegan laid down his weapons and gathered his children and grandchildren near and said, ‘enough’ and breathed his last breath, thus finally being reunited with his eternal bride. But his children did not weep, for there is nothing so perfect as a thing with no ending and no beginning, such as a family of souls intertwined.

My dear boy, I think of this story often when I think of you and your mother, not just because it reminds me of when we were together, but because it gives me comfort knowing that eventually, we will be a family again.

Your loving father,


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“Alma Mater Vol. 1: The Midwest” #poetry from @RPRPPoetry (Coming Soon)

…Rags Daniels, Author Extraordinaire, Bon-Webvant… who LUVS ya baby?… #TBSU…

Seumas Gallacher

…there are times when yeez sense there may just be a wee glimmer of hope for the planet after all… yesterday, my great pal Down Under, the super, m’Lady, Cate Russell-Cole, posted a blog piece about Rags Daniels, who is recuperating from a severe stroke… I was privileged to pass it on as a reblog… it basically directed good folks to lend their prayers and good thoughts toward one of our terrific internet scribbling family… the suggestion was also mooted that p’raps tangible support in the way of downloading some of Rags’ books from Amazon would be appreciated… I feel certain that whatever may be achieved in terms of any financial contribution from royalties-on-sales will pall into the background  against the sheer overwhelming surge of LUV for one of our own… my reblog on Rags has already, in a 24-hour span, received more hits, reblogs, Re-Tweets, and Facebook shares than any…

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…Authors, beware… ROOL #27b (amended)… don’t take yerselves too seriously… #TBSU…

Food for thought for some…

Seumas Gallacher

…one of the best definitions I know for an ‘expert speaker’ is sumb’dy who’s addressing an audience in any location more than 100 kilometres from their own normal base… it seems that emb’dy brought in ‘from away’ must be endowed with the attributes of authority… yeez’ll recognize the introducer’s opening line, ‘…all the way from…’ …now, if yer surname happens to be Einstein, or… or…or… or…well, Einstein… chances are ye’re the real deal… good advice among lots I heard as a youngster, and most of which I promptly ignored, was, ‘…by all means take yer career, yer profession, yer livelihood, seriously, but for goodness sake, never, never, never take yerselves too seriously…’ the old thing about becoming  a ‘legend in yer own mind’  is fraught with peril… these days, I’m content to call myself a writer, an author, yer humble quill-scraper, dweller in the realm of the virtual…

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Dammit, Jim! (The value of the Red Shirt)

REBLOG from last year. This year the Red Shirt/3 show minimum rule saved me from missing out on one of the BEST SHOWS EVER, The Blacklist. That show is Spot-freakin’-ON in all aspects. Excellent writing and acting.

Genevieve Dewey

You know how it is, every fall season there are new shows paraded in front of us that are going to be the next new hottest thing everyone is talking about. Trouble is there’s only so much time and so much DVR space.

So, in our house we have what my husband calls the Red Shirt process.

(For those of you born only a few years ago or hidden under a rock or perhaps newly escaped from a Neo-Luddite compound this is a reference to the original Star Trek series in which a tertiary character, always wearing a red shirt, usually never seen before or only seen once or twice, and in whom the audience has zero invested, beams down to a planet with Captain Kirk and shortly thereafter gets unceremoniously killed. )

We each pick a few shows and let the DVR record the entire season while other shows we actually make…

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Psst, Mistah – You Want a 5-Star Review?


creativity by MatisseThank God for Indie Publishing – it is my opinion that we are far better off with it than without it. Is there a wider range of quality – undoubtedly. There are authors who are amateur, don’t properly edit their work, and put out a shoddy product. But I think that for the practiced reader, those are pretty easy to spot. All you have to do is have a look inside the book and read a page or two – which Amazon is very generous about. By and large, the real stinkers sink pretty quickly, too.

And you know, even if they don’t and there’s a market for the work… so be it.

There are also hugely successful and highly professional authors who do a far better job publishing their own work than their (usually former) traditional publishing houses ever did. While traditional publishing does some things very, very well…

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