Sommerville Holidays, a romantic comedy collection from Vicki Batman

Please help us welcome Vicki Batman to the blog this week. Vicki is here to share her romantic comedy collection, Sommerville Holidays. Welcome, Vicki! We are all super excited to hear more about Sommerville Holidays.

Hi, everyone! And thank you, Madison Michael, for hostessing me today.

Are you wondering how my writing journey began? I began writing romantic comedy mysteries, and to this date, I have two published with a third on the way. Through a friend, I learned how to write short stories and thus began my love affair with romantic comedy short stories. Not only did I love writing short, but I loved writing Christmas short stories. I’ve taken three and packaged them into Sommerville holidays.

Why Sommerville? All of my stories and books take place in the town of Sommerville. It is loosely based on the area I grew up in and where I live now.

Where do I love to write? I love to write at my desk. It sits perpendicular to a window where I can look out and watch cars go by, see the mailman come, and the squirrels are peeking in. Since I began using a laptop, I write many other places.

Why write romance and specifically romantic comedy? I first began reading Emilie Loring romances at fourteen. I was on summer break and pestering my mom to take me to the library as speed-reader me had finished the books I’d checked out. She gave me a strong look, reached into her handbag, and pulled Emilie out. I have loved her books ever since.

I didn’t know I wrote comedy until a friend told me how funny my voice was. I was like really? Her words made me feel good.

How do I spend my free time? I go to Jazzercise every day. I also practice yoga, walk my dogs, play mahjong, read books, stitch needlepoint and embroidery. I think doing those things enrich my writing.

Hopes and wishes and holiday kisses…Sommerville holidays.

Holiday Disaster: Days before Christmas, a librarian experiences plumbing issues and a Mr. Maintenance Man who isn’t nearly as jolly as Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas to me. Not really.

Wrapping my hands around the older-than-time plumbing underneath my bathroom sink, I yanked, hoping-praying-hoping the darn thing would loosen, and all would be saved. But no. Nada. Too darn tight.

Obviously, somebody more muscular than me was required to strong-arm the pipe free. My shoulders hunched with helpless feelings. I should have closed the drain stopper to prevent my contact from swirling merrily away after it popped out of my eye and flew in the sink.

Feeling helpless sucks big time, and I hate it.

Not a great way to kick off the holiday season.

I should have paid more attention when Dad donned his Mr. Fix-it hat and repaired stuff in the family homestead. Maybe I would have learned something valuable, something resembling Plumbing 101. But like most little girls, playtime was ten times more fun than hanging with Dad and repairing broken stuff.

What to do. What to do. Nothing I could do. I declared “surrender” and called the condo’s emergency number. Mr. Maintenance Man told me he was on his way. I hoped he wasn’t humoring me. Lying—my number one enemy.

 

The Littlest Angel: Two people. One ornament for the tree. Can a twosome find common ground and discover the true meaning of Christmas?

Bright and early on Saturday morning at the Sommerville fairgrounds, I slowly strolled along an aisle at my favorite flea market, pausing to look at special goodies that caught my eye. I halted when I saw a woman several booths ahead of me stoop in front of a table and drag a box to her feet. She reached inside the ragged cardboard container and pulled out something I knew deep, deep within my heart what I hoped to find for many years—a little Christmas angel.

I always hoped I would find a replacement and searched the dusty aisles of the Automobile Building, where the market set up the first weekend of every month. I dug through many a ripped carton or dirty bag and never saw anything close—until today.

Pressing my hands to my chest, I begged quietly, “Please. Please don’t take her. Please don’t.”

 

Holiday Handbag Extravaganza: Christmas Countdown is on! A hunk-a-licious customer pesters a boutique owner to locate a vintage handbag for his mother. Too bad the wedge between them is his sister, the meanest girl in town.

What a mess.

The bell sitting on the counter above my head ding-ding-dinged in an irritating way. I huffed. Really?

Then I heard, “Hey,”—two dings—“I need help. Anybody working today?”

Despite the din assaulting my ears, I didn’t answer, and not because I was mean. Because I was a woman on a mission. I had to retrieve the hundred-dollar bill, which vanished when The Copper Teapot’s front door erupted wide with a wintry gust. All kinds of stuff tornadoed about my store, like price tags, papers, and hard-earned moola. I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled to retrieve the mess. In today’s sucky economy, every smidgen of revenue mattered.

Sticking the ruler in the gap between the floor and the showcase, I bit my lip and concentrated, waving the makeshift tool back and forth so I could snag the elusive dinero. Another three-note ding sounded.

I rolled my eyes before sing-songing, “Just a minute, please.”

Obviously, this guy couldn’t see me crouched on the floor. His toe-tapping and bell ringing conveyed his impatience. Fingers drummed above my head. I shrugged my shoulders, thinking, rats. Every customer is important. Guess I should be a responsible business owner and do the right thing.

Find Vicki at:

Happy holidays!

 

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