I Ain't Said Nothin' But A Word...

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE December 26, 2006 ISBN: 0-37386-006-4 Price: $5.99 / $7.99 AUTHOR ANNOUNCES RELEASE OF SIXTH NOVEL AND ROYALTY DONATION INTENTIONS: IN THE LIGHT OF LOVE National best-selling author, Deborah Fletcher Mello, is pleased to announce the release of her sixth contemporary romance novel, IN THE LIGHT OF LOVE. Known for her insightful, entertaining and poignant story-telling, Ms. Mello continues to enthrall her readers with her newest tale of love and seduction. Leading a college youth ministry on a mission trip to the motherland, Talisa London is convinced that her destiny doesn’t include the incredible man she encounters at an Atlanta hospital fund-raiser. But when she and the magnanimous Dr. Jericho Becton find themselves working side by side in a war-torn African nation, both donating their services at a Ugandan children’s orphanage, they quickly discover that destiny’s plans go beyond both their imaginations. As danger lurks where they least expect, both are swep

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! I'm off for the holiday and probably won't post again until after Christmas. There's just too much to do and I am quickly running out of time. But please come back again next week. There will be much going on and plenty of announcements. Until then, my best wishes to you all for a safe and blessed holiday season. Thought I'd leave you with a little holiday entertainment. Just click the red button, enter your name in the little box, then click the arrow to start. ENJOY!

The press release for the new book has been written and approved. The January newsletter is almost finished and just about ready to go to print. Promotional packages are laid out with the envelopes addressed just waiting for my quarterly newsletter. And, I still haven’t done an ounce of holiday shopping. No , take that back. I have only completed an ounce of holiday shopping. My marketing plan for the next book has come together quite nicely. I’ve got book signings scheduled from the beginning of February and running pretty well through the month of March. I fully intend to come off the holiday season hitting the ground running. I have a lot riding on my next book and not only for myself but for others as well because I’ve made the decision to donate a significant percentage of the royalties I earn on this book to others. Details of my donation intentions will come within the week. I’m in a giving mood but I’m not interested in standing in some long department store line to

Mr. Ben stopped by for a visit. He’s been under the weather lately and was very apologetic about having stayed away for so long. He was excited to share that the problem he was having with his “Johnson” (see Strictly Dickly – 9/16/2006) has been somewhat resolved. I didn’t ask how and thankfully he didn’t feel a need to tell me. He did however want to share his experience with his new lady friend’s daughter. The lady friend (who’s moving much to fast for his liking) has three children, a “hellion" of a daughter and two “lazy ass” sons. Recently, the daughter had invited the two of them to her home to have dinner with her and her husband. Now bear in mind the daughter is probably in her mid to late forties. They had a very nice evening and after dinner the husband wanted to show Mr. Ben his gun collection. As men do, the two headed for the gun room to talk man talk, leaving the two women to their own devices. Some time later the women come to check on the two of them. The lady frie

As a little girl, weekend trips to my granny’s house were like traveling to wonderland. After my grandfather’s death, my granny lived with her older sister. The two women were like night and day. Granny was the free spirit who allowed you to stay up until the wee hours of the morning watching horror movies while snacking on chocolate cake and popcorn. Granny always prepared my favorite foods, and with her, there was only one rule: Break all the rules! Her older sister, Aunt Janie, was the conservative sibling with many rules and regulations. She took me to church on Sunday mornings and insisted I sit through Sunday school. She dictated bath times, insisted at least one vegetable (usually collard greens) be consumed during a visit and dolled out punishment if she deemed such necessary. Aunt Janie taught me how to play bidwhist. Granny taught me how to play poker. Aunt Janie taught me proper etiquette. Granny taught me flirting skills. They balanced each other nicely and I have

Being cute is hard work. It also involves a degree of time and effort that’s not so easy to come by. A modicum of vanity doesn’t hurt either. With a to-do list that is already miles long, I don’t have but so much time to worry about being cute. And I’ve never been particularly vain. I remember my mother admonishing me once as I stared at my reflection in the mirror that my face wasn’t going to keep me from being hungry. “Worry about what’s in your head and your heart,” she’d exclaimed, “‘cause pretty won’t take you but so far.” It was probably one of the last times I remember worrying about what I looked like and more importantly what others might have thought. But I realized, as I was struggling to get through my resistance training this morning that I’ve been spending a lot of time lately worrying about being cute. And for the life of me, as I fought to get through that last set of chest presses, I couldn’t remember when the concern about my weight, and my hair, and my looks

I can't even begin to tell you what I was thinking when I wrote this. Then again, I probably could. But I won't. I'm sure it would only serve to get me in some trouble. Enjoy! She sat on the side of the public pool, Lycra pretending to be a bathing suit stretched over her ample frame. Her thighs flapped thick like two sides of ham, breasts pushed up and out like large watermelons threatening to burst free and flap in the wind. Dark shades covered her eyes so no one would know who or what she was watching. But everybody knew. Aretha lusted after them teenage boys with their very manly bodies who played ball in the water at the other end. She’d sigh with much appreciation whenever one or more of them would race from one end to the other, hormones raging in bikini bottoms that nicely outlined candy Aretha longed to taste. Smooth flesh in shades of midnight, chocolate, burnt sienna, toast and honey caused Aretha to breathe heavily with wanting. Aretha heaved a heavy sigh, air r

I survived a new stylist and although I left the salon looking like I had a poodle on top of my head, I couldn’t complain. I had been thoroughly entertained. And of course, I proceed with the usual disclaimer: All names have been changed to protect the guilty. Sandra, a very young twenty-something with two kids still in diapers, has been dating Tom, Dick, and Harry. And it would seem that Tom, Dick, and Harry have now fathered Sandra’s soon-to-be-born third child. Tom, Dick, and Harry are thrilled, each of them joyously contributing to the new baby’s needs. Tom purchased the stroller. Dick bought an assortment of nursery supplies, and good old Harry shelled out the bucks for a brand new SUV outfitted with three baby seats. Sandra was hardly fazed by the fact that she has now fabricated a bold face lie for these seemingly loving and responsible fathers-to-be. Her dilemma was how to keep Bob, the real baby daddy (she thinks) from ever finding out ‘cause Bob ain’t got no job, live

“Welcome, baby!” Phillis Wheatley exclaims as Dorothy West wraps her in a warm embrace. “There is a seat for you here,” Lorraine Hansberry calls out from the table where they have all gathered, each holding court when it is her turn. As Zora guides her to a cushioned throne between Audre and Octavia, she smiles her brilliant smile. “Young, gifted, and black,” Lorraine chimes as she leans to pat the back of her hand gently. “Joining us much too soon,” Ann Petry intones. “Not for us to say,” Alice Dunbar-Nelson muses, sipping from a heavenly cup of tea. “But it’s being said none the less,” says Audre. “Where am I?” she asks, in awe of the mothers and daughters who had come before her. They all smile. Zora chuckles softly. “In a room full of free women,” she answers. “Where the beauty of your words will continue to light the stars of heaven,” Octavia adds. “Heaven,” they all chime in unison. “Won’t you share something you’ve written?” Ann asks. “I do believe it’s your turn.” “And introduc

Years ago a close family member was shot at point blank range by her ex-husband. The divorce, which had happened two years earlier, had been amicable. Or so we all thought until that fateful afternoon while preparing her two young sons for their weekly court-ordered visit with daddy that she opened her front door to him holding a small caliber weapon and unloading six shots into her chest. By the good grace of God, she survived, stronger, wiser, and more cautious for the experience. But, so did he. If I remember correctly, the charge of aggravated assault (because he said he really wasn’t trying to kill her) only netted him two years in the state penitentiary. A few months of good behavior saw him released early. Imagine our surprise a year or so later when he showed up for my maternal grandmother’s funeral extending his teary-eyed condolences and a pound cake from the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. I know I didn’t eat any cake! I can’t tell you why this man snapped but snappe

It’s the early morning hours of Thanksgiving Day and I am thankful to be up and standing, in reasonably good health, and definitely high spirits. I am at this moment doing the second thing in this world that I love most doing. I am lost in the warmth of my kitchen, the delectable aroma of candied yams, cheesecake, macaroni and cheese, and other assorted foods wafting through the air. My son thinks I’m crazy to be cooking a full meal when we will be celebrating the holiday elsewhere. He reminds me that we will be able to pile plates full, wrap them in tin foil, and cart it all home if we want. He does not understand that this has very little to do with the food. I find great comfort in my kitchen when I am whipping egg whites into stiff peaks and folding them gently into a creamed batter. It is especially calming to drizzle melted chocolate atop an iced and layered seven-tier cake. My mind and spirit soar as I knead bread and mix batter or prep the meats and vegetables for a fami

In the name of research I spent a few hours in an ADULTS ONLY store. This establishment has only recently opened and is owned by an outrageous, gregariously funny mother of four. When I first walked in I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights because I was just amazed at all the stuff that lined the walls and shelves. I thought I was playing it off as I maneuvered my way over to the lingerie section to get myself acclimated but I obviously wasn’t doing that good a job. The owner greeted me warmly, then politely said, “The plus sizes are on those three racks over there.” I guess I didn’t look amused because she laughed and then said, “Honey, you’ll never get your girls in any of those things there. I promise you that rack will be way too small for all your stuff.” Now had I been in a different mood I might have walked out but the moment was suddenly too funny and all I could do was laugh with her ‘cause I knew she was right. The 34B lace demi-cupped bra and thong set in my ha

Writing doesn’t pay my bills. Most folks think just because you actually have a book, or two, or seven, published by a major publisher, then you just have to be rolling in dough. Unfortunately, that’s not necessarily so, most especially if the only thing you’re published in is romance and your career is kind of middle-of-the-road. I'm not a newbie, but I haven’t attained superstar status yet. Attaining national, best-selling author status has many a perk, but financial reward has yet to be one of them. Truth be told, my writing doesn’t even come close to supporting me. If I had to depend on my writing to eat, I’d be hungry more times than I’d probably care to count. Depending on how you look at it that might not be a bad thing since I wouldn’t have to go out of my way to diet. Thanks to the husband I eat fairly well. I told him he’d eventually come in handy for something and since I embarked on writing and getting published he’s come in very handy ‘cause the bills still have to be

One year ago today we lost our son, Allan Jr. He died from cancer complications. His young life ended abruptly after an unexpected diagnosis of a rare T-cell lymphoma that had spread too quickly through his body. A few short months of chemotherapy treatment served to aggravate his condition rather than help it. My son knew he was dying. Even while he and his wife were researching treatments and we were all proclaiming that he would beat the cancer and survive, he knew. He knew it before the rest of us could even begin to think about wrapping our minds around the possibility. I didn’t see it back then but I truly believe it today. And I believe that he tried to prepare me so that I could prepare everyone else. He’d kept a journal right after his diagnosis. A private space for him to share his thoughts and reflect on all he was going through. The last day he was admitted to the hospital he gave me that journal and told me to hold onto it. He said that I would know what to do wi

Lord, have mercy! I just couldn't help myself! I don't necessarily celebrate Halloween, most especially now that the young'uns is all grown up. It's not like when they were little and I would make them these really cool costumes to wear. I use to get a kick out of that and I have the many photos to remind my brood of just what a good time I had. (And no, this is not one of them.) For me the day marks the beginning of the holiday season and I love the holidays. I'm like a little kid in a candy shop come Thanksgiving and Christmas. Last year the holidays sucked big time. We didn't even bother to put up a tree. This year I plan to make up for that. Might even have me two trees if the moment moves me. I'm approaching this holiday season with a renewed spirit. It feels promising and I'm excited about the prospects. So, for those of you who get into the ghouls and goblins, have a great day! For those of you who don't, have a great day! And to all of you,

I purposely don’t make writing the main focus of my blog. Although I may share my writing experiences and dilemmas as the moment moves me, I don’t feel that I have the expertise to tell others how or what or why in a professional capacity. I had an author-acquaintance (notice I did not say friend) comment that I should be blogging more about the art and craft of writing instead of the “mindless mutter” that I do share, and most especially because I am a black, female author, but I strongly disagreed. It was truly an “oh, hell no” moment. To put it more politely than I put it to her, this is my space and I will blog what I want and for no other reason than I can. If you like it, please come back and do tell a friend. If not, well then it was nice you stopped by for a visit but I certainly understand if you don’t come back again. Folks looking for writing and publishing how-to can find such easily. There are plenty of blog and web sites that offer an abundance of information, more

Disclaimer: All names have been changed to protect the guilty. So, Jackie was bemoaning her man problems this past weekend at the beauty salon. Her man, Jack, has been giving her mixed signals and she’s gotten caught up in that drama that being in love can land a soul in. All was peachy, keen, and dandy in the beginning. Brother was sweating her big time – romantic dinners, expensive trinkets, and weekend excursions that didn’t just include the bedroom. Girlfriend fell and fell hard and just when it had gotten too good to her, Jack started to distance himself with no explanation for his cooling behavior. Jackie tried to play it cool, like she wasn’t but so bothered by it, but beneath her smiling facade, her heart was being ripped to shreds. The last time they talked Jack told her that he really cared for her, that he couldn’t call it love, but that she definitely moved his spirit. A girl could have gone into insulin shock from all his sweet words. Then he ended the conversation

I wrote poetry before I wrote anything else. It was middle school, seventh grade, and I would scribble poems in the margins of my science workbook. My science teacher gave me validation when she told me to keep writing and to not let anything or any one deter me from my love of the written word. I am eternally grateful for the kindness and encouragement she gave me and the passing grade in a science class that I had no interest in being in. The Naked Truth Can you see me behind the shadows of who I want you to know? And if it’s me you think you see, how can it be that what I know about me and what I show, gets lost in the not so black and white gray area of my truth and your truth and the real truth? And if it’s me you think you see, how can it be that you love me so and still know that the naked truth of who I am and what I be, is lost, even to me? Been To The Promised Land Been to the Promised Land on the sweat of your brow, riding the shadowy mist of a stolen kiss and promises of

Friday night the son and I went to see the touring production of the Lion King . The boy balked at first, eyes rolling, head waving, insisting that he was going to be bored for the entire night. Even had the audacity to say that I was his one and only mercy date for the year! Of course, he left the theater with the biggest grin on his face. After spending some sixty bucks on a tee shirt and a little stuffed Timon souvenir he is still raving about how spectacular the show was. The entire performance was a reminder of what I miss most about not living in Connecticut. I miss how easy it was to catch the train into New York for an evening of dinner and theater. If you have an opportunity to see the stage production of Lion King, please do. It is well worth the price of a ticket. It was absolutely captivating. The entire show was just a breathtaking spectacle brought to life. They had giraffes strutting, birds swooping, gazelles leaping, an oversized elephant that strutted, and grass that

Rereading all of this after so many years brings back many memories. Two women in my critique group actually told me not to give up my day job. They said I couldn't write because they didn't understand or like the story. Oh, well! Enjoy! It was one of Miss Tolliver's dusty days. The heat hung unbearably, blistering the green leaves that sheltered small gnats and flies. The air was thick and filled your lungs with the heavy fumes of the hibiscus and gardenias blooming under the sweltering sun. Miss Tolliver called it a dusty day because by nightfall even the brownest of skin was coated ashy white from the dry dust that rose in large swells. Everyone in Delacroix knew Miss Tolliver, the Voodoo woman whose eccentric manners frightened and enthralled the most sincere skeptic who doubted her abilities and questioned her sanity. Although she professed to have drawn her first breath on the shores of France, somewhere along the Baie de la Seine, the elderly brethren of Delacroix w