Thursday, November 23, 2017


As a world traveler, and one who has lived in two continents, I know how blessed we are here in the United States. How blessed for the jobs we  have. But this is a special, yearly opportunity: it is a time given for reflexion, inner scrutiny, and prayer, but especially for gratitude. May God shower all with blessings. May your family be blessed and loving. May you enjoy health and wealth. And may you live your day of thanks to the fullest.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Monday, November 13, 2017


My short story collection, The Fish Tank: And Other Short Stories, is on Listopia at Goodreads! If you've read it, and liked it, vote for it at Goodreads. If you haven't read it yet, see why it's number 3 on the list by checking out the reviews.

Saturday, November 11, 2017


With my deepest, heartfelt gratitude. Remember a Veteran, honor a Veteran, and help a Veteran. Thank you, all my friends who served and serve. Thank you.

Sunday, November 5, 2017


Dear All:
It is rare that I can't find the words, but this is one of them. Incredible review in Amazon and Goodreads on my short story collection.

The Fish Tank: And Other Short Stories

Customer Review

on November 4, 2017
Maria Elena Alonso-Sierra's short stories collection "The Fish Tank: And Other Short 
Stories" is a jewel.

Of the four sections, "For the Fun of Writing (Just Because), Soul Songs (Stories from

 the Cuban Diaspora), Prologues (prequel stories from upcoming novels), and The End,
 "Soul Songs" impressed me the most. Having lived in the Florida Keys, home to many
 Cuban refugees, Alonso-Sierra's stories reminded me of similar stories I have heard.
Alonso-Sierra's gift for writing allows the readers to "see" her characters' thinking, 
struggle with conflict, and the will to overcome whatever the obstacle.

Her book features a lot of strong women and I liked that.

In "Jerry's Gift" it's Maureen who got out of a non working marriage. Though she

supported her ex, Jerry, while he studied corporate law, he did not value her as a 

Tuesday, October 10, 2017


Haven't done this in a while, and can't wait! Fellow author and friend, Laurie Olerich, has her new Demons After Dark Series book 3 out!!! OMG! CHECK IT OUT!! It is fantastic! So, without further ado, a Q&A with Laurie Olerich:

ME: Ok. What is the title of your novel:

Koivu, Book Three of the Demons After Dark series. It is a Paranormal romance to be released October 12, 2017.

ME: Tell us more about the series?

It’s hot paranormal romance featuring unlikely alpha heroes who will make you laugh, cry, and swoon. Known as Trinity demons, this band of brothers was stripped of their powers and violently exiled from Hell. Forced to live as humans, they’re left with no power and no weapons while a secret society quietly plots Lucifer’s demise. For these big, bad demons, adjusting to life as a human is, well, harder than Hell!

ME: What will readers see in the blurb (in other words, show me more!):

Former Hell’s Fury champion, Koivu, is desperate to return to Hell to reclaim his title and stolen life. As an extreme athlete, he had fame, glory, and more pleasure than he probably deserved. He was a freakin’ rock star! Being exiled in a broken human body is his worst nightmare. Stripped of his powers and unable to fight, he’s consumed by frustration, counting the seconds until he can go home. His future looks bleak until he meets a sexy, soft-hearted physical therapist who heals much more than his shoulder.

Physical therapist Micki Glass knows something about damaged people. She’s been struggling to get over her ex for three long years when this crazy man crashes into her life. He’s crude and intense but irresistibly charming. With his feral eyes and sexy smile, Koivu takes her on a sensual joyride that makes her feel like a woman again. As their affair heats up, she craves him like oxygen until she discovers what he really is. With more than her heart on the line, can she accept his past and love him for who he is now?

The day of reckoning is looming closer and the sacrifices have begun. Can Koivu stop the murders, find the rest of the Trinity, and convince the woman he loves to give him another chance? 

ME: A little peek into the novel!

The Brooklyn Bridge was nearly deserted at 0400 hours on a Sunday morning. Only crazy people would be out on a cold, dark day. Koivu shrugged more deeply into his jacket and turned his face away from the odor of dried blood. The East River gleamed dully, barely reflecting the handful of lights visible in nearby buildings. A lone ghostly boat pushed a string of barges beneath him. He automatically calculated the distance from the sidewalk to the barge below. Once upon a time, in his demon form, he would’ve jumped for the fun of it.
Now? His fragile human body wouldn’t survive without broken bones or worse. Thanks to Lucifer, his shoulder was perfect again. He was unbelievably healthy now. His physical body was practically glowing with stamina. True to his word, the mighty archangel gave them precisely five minutes, and performed more than a few miracles in that time. Sighing with gratitude, he pulled his thoughts back to the tat on his hand. Lucifer’s touch had done something to it.
Close your eyes. This is going to hurt like a bitch.
Truer words had never been spoken. The devil’s flame burned hotter than Hell itself. The hellfire now filled more than the magical ink shaped into a trinity knot. Had Lucifer done it on purpose? Had he known what his touch would do to his exiled demons? Or, was it just a happy side effect of breaking the tracking connection? Impetuous archangels! Did any of them think before they acted? He rubbed at the ink again and smiled grimly at the faint red glimmer that flashed with his sudden anger. The glimmer was a problem. So were his eyes. Damn it.

ME: OOOOOOO.... I LIKE! Now let's get a peek at Mikki Glass:

“Dr. Glass, your next patient is waiting.” Her receptionist, Shantel, paused before adding shyly, “Fair warning, he’s in a mood. Do you want me to give him to a tech to start him on warm ups?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose against the beginnings of a vicious headache and sighed into the phone. Yay. God forbid he be easy for a change. Her receptionist didn’t get paid enough to deal with Mr. Big and Grouchy. Dealing with him was her job. “My day can’t get any worse. I’ll be right out, Shantel.”
After popping a couple of aspirin, she skimmed her patient’s file to review their treatment plan. Normally she loved being a physical therapist. She was fascinated with the mechanics of the human body and truly wanted to make people feel better. Since she was squeamish about bodily fluids, nursing and doctoring were out. As a PT, she could work wonders with patients without the blood and urine. It was the perfect job. Usually.
Mr. Big and Grouchy was more than simply a difficult patient. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her uncomfortable. To most patients, she was a means to an end; a tool, really. Most people focused on her instructions and paid no attention to her as a person. She could’ve been a robot as long as she got results. But this one was different. She wasn’t afraid of him—that wasn’t it—she was unbalanced with him. It was the intensity of his stare that bothered her. Sometimes it was almost like a wolf’s predatory assessment. Cool, intelligent . . . inhuman. His icy jade irises seemed to see beyond her professional mask. He watched her, studying her as she worked with him. Sometimes his mouth lifted into a knowing smirk that made her wonder just what, exactly, he saw when he gazed into her face. Did he see her secrets? Did he see her shame? It was disconcerting, and she wasn’t in the mood for it today.

ME: OMG! After those excerpts, I'm running to get this novel!! Here is the cover (Yum!) and the buy links:


Buy links:

ME: Where can readers touch base with you and comment, not only on that yummy cover, but also about your characters?




Tuesday, September 19, 2017


I'm really excited about this. I'll be speaking in the Romantic Suspense panel with some wonderful authors!! Come and hear us speak about the craft we love on Friday, October 6, from 3:00-4:00 pm.

Here is the link. Registration begins Oct. 1!!!

Monday, September 18, 2017


I love G. K. Chesterton. I've read many of his works and treatises. I love his wit, his humor, his depth of thinking, the manner in which he can synthesize thought into a powerful message.

I recently came upon his essay on Dickens's Pickwick Papers (another great work) and the second paragraph of his essay is really a brilliant exposé of the creative process. I had to include the first paragraph so that readers can get into the context of the second (there are no shortcuts to understanding context), but Chesterton's words on the subject of creativity in literature is unique and powerful. Enjoy.

From G.K. Chesterton's Pickwick Papers (

Pickwick Papers

There are those who deny with enthusiasm the existence of a God and are happy in a hobby which they call the Mistakes of Moses. I have not studied their labours in detail, but it seems that the chief mistake of Moses was that he neglected to write the Pentateuch. The lesser errors, apparently, were not made by Moses, but by another person equally unknown. These controversialists cover the very widest field, and their attacks upon Scripture are varied to the point of wildness. They range from the proposition that the unexpurgated Bible is almost as unfit for an American girls’ school as is an unexpurgated Shakespeare; they descend to the proposition that kissing the Book is almost as hygienically dangerous as kissing the babies of the poor. A superficial critic might well imagine that there was not one single sentence left of the Hebrew or Christian Scriptures which this school had not marked with some ingenious and uneducated comment. But there is one passage at least upon which they have never pounced, at least to my knowledge; and in pointing it out to them I feel that I am, or ought to be, providing material for quite a multitude of Hyde Park orations. I mean that singular arrangement in the mystical account of the Creation by which light is created first and all the luminous bodies afterwards. One could not imagine a process more open to the elephantine logic of the Biblesmasher than this: that the sun should be created after the sunlight. The conception that lies at the back of the phrase is indeed profoundly antagonistic to much of the modern point of view. To many modern people it would sound like saying that foliage existed before the first leaf; it would sound like saying that childhood existed before a baby was born. The idea is, as I have said, alien to most modern thought, and like many other ideas which are alien to most modern thought, it is a very subtle and a very sound idea. Whatever be the meaning of the passage in the actual primeval poem, there is a very real metaphysical meaning in the idea that light existed before the sun and stars. It is not barbaric; it is rather Platonic. The idea existed before any of the machinery which made manifest the idea. Justice existed when there was no need of judges, and mercy existed before any man was oppressed.
However this may be in the matter of religion and philosophy, it can be said with little exaggeration that this truth is the very key of literature. The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists, as the mother can love the unborn child. In creative art the essence of a book exists before the book or before even the details or main features of the book; the author enjoys it and lives in it with a kind of prophetic rapture. He wishes to write a comic story before he has thought of a single comic incident. He desires to write a sad story before he has thought of anything sad. He knows the atmosphere before he knows anything. There is a low priggish maxim sometimes uttered by men so frivolous as to take humour seriously – a maxim that a man should not laugh at his own jokes. But the great artist not only laughs at his own jokes; he laughs at his own jokes before he has made them. In the case of a man really humorous we can see humour in his eye before he has thought of any amusing words at all. So the creative writer laughs at his comedy before he creates it, and he has tears for his tragedy before he knows what it is. When the symbols and the fulfilling facts do come to him, they come generally in a manner very fragmentary and inverted, mostly in irrational glimpses of crisis or consummation. The last page comes before the first; before his romance has begun, he knows that it has ended well. He sees the wedding before the wooing; he sees the death before the duel. But most of all he sees the colour and character of the whole story prior to any possible events in it. This is the real argument for art and style, only that the artists and the stylists have not the sense to use it. In one very real sense style is far more important than either character or narrative. For a man knows what style of book he wants to write when he knows nothing else about it.