Book Giveaway On My Facebook Page Today!

I’m having a book giveaway on my Facebook page today!

Like my page, scroll down, go to the pinned post with the cover of Such A Pretty Face and answer the question.

Good luck!

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Golfing And Zen Are Not Compatible

Innocent Husband put this book “Zen Golf, Mastering The Mental Game,” on my side of the bed last night.

This book MIGHT have appeared on the bed because I MIGHT have thrown my golf club the last time we golfed because the golf course was DELIBERATELY thwarting me and I MIGHT have said bad words in a loud voice.

I thought my temper was loooong buried and then I started golfing last year.

Why does golf light my hair on fire? And why in the world would Innocent Husband think that a little “Zen Talk” is going to help me? Chocolates, Innocent Husband. Chocolates. That’ll do it.

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Why Writers Should Head Into The Woods

When I was about eight, my parents took my sisters, my brother, and me on a six week camping trip in a tent.

Yes, I said six weeks.

No, my parents had not lost their ever lovin’ minds. My father had a sabbatical, they were sick of the city, and they wanted out.

We all piled into our long black Ford. The Ford had an uncanny and somewhat creepy resemblance to a hearse, but we ignored that part.

We tossed in our dogs, Frisky and Alphy. Frisky bit people, Alphy bit dogs. They were both bad, odd dogs. The Ford, immediately, was in total chaos.

We left Huntington Beach, California and camped up and down California and Oregon in a big, sagging blue tent which we later learned was not waterproof, as advertised.

My mother got a scary case of hypothermia, all three of my siblings threw their guts up because they drank the lake water in Lake of the Woods, the dogs got sick in the middle of the night, and we constantly had to drop by local hospitals so I could get my regular allergy shots so I wouldn’t start wheezing like a freight train.

A lantern dropped on my sister’s head, and she had to be rushed to the hospital for a bunch of stitches. Two days later she fell head first into a pond and soaked the stitches. My father had to dive into a river in Jedediah Smith State Park to rescue my brother who would have drowned had my father not been so quick.

Alphy tried to get in fights with other dogs, and Frisky tried to bite people.

The chaos continued. We persevered.

The result? Overall, we had a fantastic time camping in that saggy blue tent. It was a pivotal moment in my life as I saw the value, and beauty, of nature.

We saw mountain ranges and beaches. Elk and raccoons. Campfires and bears. Sparkling lakes and rushing rivers. For city kids, it started a lifelong love of nature for all of us.

All we had to do was go and play outside.
(Click on the link for the full story….)

Thanks for hosting me on Writers In The Storm, Laura Drake!


Why Writers Should Head Into the Woods

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Going Back To School

Last year I was invited to my old elementary school to talk to the students about writing.

I thought you might like to see some of the pictures they drew of me.

It was interesting walking down the long hallway towards the classroom. All of these long buried emotions came in and I remembered exactly how I felt when I started school there when I was ten.

We moved from Huntington Beach because my dad got a job at a tech company. I was scared to death. It was a hard year. A lot of scary and lonely times for a ten year old!

But I met some wonderful people there who I am still friends with a zillion decades later. Anyhow, thought you might find these pictures fun.

Fir Grove 2 Fir Grove 3 Fir Grove 4 Fir Grove 5 Fir Grove 6

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On Burning Bras And Thongs On The Deck Of A High Rise

I check once a week to see which one of my books is on sale on Amazon and this week it’s Henry’s Sisters. Cheap.

Here’s an excerpt. It’s a wild start about burning bras and thongs, just go with it:


I grabbed my lighter with the red handle from the kitchen, lighter fluid, a water bottle, my lacy bra and thong, and opened the French doors to my balcony. The wind and rain hit like a mini hurricane, my braids whipping around my cheeks.

One part of my balcony is covered, so it was still dry. I put the bra and thong in the usual corner on top of a few straggly, burned pieces of material from another forgettable night on a wooden plan and flicked the lighter on. The bra and thong smoked and blackened and wiggled and fizzled and flamed.

When they were cremated, I doused them with water from the water bottle. No sense burning down the apartment building. That would be bad.

I settled into a metal chair in the uncovered section of my balcony, the rain sluicing off my naked body, and gazed at the sky scrapers, wondering how many of those busy, brain – fried, robotic people were staring at me.

Working in a skyscraper was another way of dying early, my younger sister, Janie, would say. “It’s like the elevators are taking you up to hell.”

Right out of college she got a job as a copywriter for a big company on the twenty ninth floor of a skyscraper in Los Angeles and lasted two months before her weasely, squirmy boss found the first chapter of her first thriller on her desk.

The murderer is a copywriter for a big company on the twenty ninth floor of a skyscraper in Los Angeles. In the opening paragraphs she graphically describes murdering her supercilious, condescending, snobby boss who makes her feel about the size of a slug and how his body ends up in a trash compactor, his legs spread like a pickled chicken, one shoe off, one red high heel squished on the other foot.

That was the murderer’s calling card.

No one reports his extended absence, including his wife, because people hate him as they would hate a gang of worms in their coffee.

Janie was fired that day, even though she protested her innocence. That afternoon she sat down and wrote the rest of the story, nonstop, for three months. When she emerged from her apartment, she’d lost twenty pounds, was pale white, and muttering. At four months she had her first book contract. When the book was published, she sent it to her ex boss and wrote, “Thanks, dickhead! With love, Janie Bommarito,” on the inside cover.

It became a best seller.

She became a recluse because she is obsessive and compulsive and needs to indulge all her odd habits privately.

The recluse had received a flowery lemon – smelling pink letter, too. So had Cecilia, whose brain connects with mine.

The rain splattered down on me, the wind twirly whirled, and I raised the Kahlua bottle to my lips again. “I love Kahlua,” I said out loud as I watched the water river down my body, creating a little pool in the area of my crotch where my legs crossed. I flicked the rain away with my hand, watched it pool again, flicked it.

This entertained me for a while. Off in the distance I saw a streak of lightning, bright and dangerous.

It reminded me of the time when my sisters and I ran through a lightning storm to find Henry in a tree.

I laughed, even though that night had not been funny. It had been hideous. It had started with a pole dance and ended with squishy white walls.

I laughed again, head thrown back, until I cried, my hot tears running down my face off my chin, onto my boobs, and down my stomach. They landed in the pool between my legs and I flicked the rain and tear mixture away again. The tears kept coming and I could feel the darkness, darkness so familiar to me, edging its way back in like a liquid nightmare.

I did not want to deal with the pink letter that smelled of her flowery, lemony perfume.


Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/Henrys-Sisters-Cathy-Lamb-ebook/dp/B002I1XSDU/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

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Best Friends

This book is for people who have a best friend.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P53BX3K/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

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To Be Healthier in 2018, Clean Less

I have already learned something very, very important in 2018.

I will tell you a short and, hopefully, enlightening story.

On New Year’s Eve afternoon I was hit with a mental thunderbolt. It just came out of the blue and smacked me in the cranium.

The thunderbolt told me to immediately clean the attic. The attic had never been cleaned, but I did it because I obey mental thunderbolts. Around this time, I also cleaned out two drawers that were filled with junk, muttering as I went.

Shortly after this cleaning spree, I got sick.

A tiny bit sick, not the flu. But still. Yuck.

So, I sat and thought about all this as I whined in bed. I put my thinking cap on. Why did I get sick, I asked myself, oh why? Right then, another mental thunderbolt struck. Smacked me again.

After hours of analysis and evaluation I came to this medically sound and scientific conclusion:

Too much cleaning = Sickness.

It was obvious. I had cleaned too much!

Therefore, to guard against sickness and keep myself healthy, I vow to clean less in 2018. In place of cleaning (= sickness), I vow to date Innocent Husband more. I vow to use that spare time to call and pester Darling Laughing Son, Adventurous Singing Daughter, and Rebel Dancing Daughter to call and visit me more.

I vow to spend more time laughing with my girlfriends, reading, walking, and daydreaming, and less time sweeping.

Happy 2018! Play more, clean less.

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Want To Join An Online Book Group?

Come and join Readers Coffeehouse if you love books and love chatting about books with other people. We have 5,400 members.

The founding authors are Catherine Ryan Hyde, Steena Holmes, Barbara Claypole White, Jo Ann Mapson, Kimberly Belle, Laura Drake and moi.
We have a monthly Author, Tuesday chats with authors, giveaways, Reader Features, etc.

Below is our list of featured authors for 2018.

You’re welcome to join.

Click here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/ReadersCoffeehouse/


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Such A Pretty Face Is On Sale For $7.99

Need a New Year’s Book? Such A Pretty Face is on sale for $7.99 on kindle.
Happy New Year!


Written by Stevie Barrett.

I am going to plant a garden this summer.

With the exception of two pink cherry trees, one white cherry tree, and one pink tulip tree, all huge, I have a barren, dry backyard and I’m tired of looking at it. I almost see it as a metaphor for my whole life, and I think if I can fix this, I can fix my life. Simplistic, silly, I know, but I can’t get past it.

So I’m going to garden even if my hands shake as if there are live circuits inside of them and a floppy yellow hat dances ominously through my mind.


I’m going to build upraised beds, a whole bunch of them, and fill them with tomatoes, squash, zucchini, radishes, lettuce, carrots, peas, and beans. But not corn.

I’m not emotionally able to do corn yet – too many memories – but I am going to plant marigolds around the borders, pink and purple petunias, rose bushes and clematis and grapevines.

I’m going to stick two small crosses at the back fence, but not for who you think. I’m going to build a grape arbor with a deck beneath it, and then I’m going to add a table so I can paint there, as I used to, before my memories took that away.

Silverton Tulips 020I’m also going to build three trellises for climbing roses over a rock pathway, one arch for me, Grandma, and Grandpa, which will lead to another garden, with cracked china plates in a mosaic pattern in the middle of a concrete circle, for Sunshine.

This may sound way too ambitious.

It is. But I see this as my last chance to get control of my mind before it blows.

I can wield any type of saw out there, and I have to do this, even if it takes me years. That I can even think in terms of a future is a miracle.


Because two and a half years ago, when I was thirty two years old, I had a heart attack.

I used to be the size of a small, depressed cow.

Silverton Tulips 017The heart attack led to my stomach strangling operation, and I lost 170 pounds. Now I am less than half myself, in more ways than one.

My name is Stevie Barrett.

This is a story of why I was the way I was and how I am now me.

I am going to plant a garden.




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The Christmas Bake Off With Innocent Husband

Innocent Husband and I had a Christmas Bake Off.

If you want to vote on which one looks tastier, go to my facebook page.


For the record, Darling Laughing Son, Adventurous Singing Daughter, and Rebel Dancing Daughter have told me that I must tell YOU that the Snowwoman was made with a box mix and bought icing. They’re getting rather picky over here. The chocolate delights were made from scratch.

So. Ho Ho Ho. Which one looks better?

 Merry, Merry Christmas!



Brad Christmas dessert 2017

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Cathy Lamb
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