The Cemetery Guardian.

I’m very excited to be able to offer my readers something a little different this year. As you may know, I recently wrote a horror novella entitled The Cemetery Guardian. It will be published in time for Halloween with Corbeau Media, along with some wonderful stories by some of my favorite writers.

What is a cemetery guardian? Folklore tells us it is the spirit of the first person ever interred in a cemetery. Every graveyard is said to have one of these watchful spirits and its main function is to protect all souls, living or dead, who enter its domain.

For the most part, there is little written about cemetery guardians but I’ve always been intrigued by this legend. They appear to be benign spirits who would never hurt a soul. Caretakers, one might say.

When I decided to use this story as the basis of my novella, I wondered what might happen if a cemetery guardian wasn’t quite as benevolent as previously depicted.

I dug deeper. There are accounts which present a more sinister twist to this legend. In fact, there are some who believe these “guardians” were killed in order to fulfill this function. I can see it now. The town of such-and-such has just opened a new cemetery. They need a cemetery guardian in order to keep it safe.

So they go out and find one. After all, no one would answer that job advertisement.

“Cemetery in need of guardian. Hours: infinite. Pay: none. Room and board: provided. Oh, but you need to be dead.”

I wanted to give my cemetery guardian a history, a name. I can’t think of any who have been given a backstory before. Very soon, you will meet him and I hope the encounter is unforgettable.

The next time you visit a graveyard, do spare these souls a passing thought. And if you feel like you’re being watched, it’s because you are.

(All photos taken by me at Highgate Cemetery, London.)

Be kind to yourself. Turn off the noise. #UpbeatAuthors.

Today’s theme at #UpbeatAuthors is “favorite way to be kind to yourself.” If you read my blog, you’ll know this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot. There comes a time when there’s really no choice. We have to take a stand with our own health, be it mental, physical and emotional. In fact, I would argue they are all intertwined.

For me, protecting my emotional wellbeing is very much connected to “turning off the noise.” What does this mean? It can mean different things for different people.

If you are an author, it might mean you surround yourself with positive people, ones who can be honest without being nasty. It might mean you don’t search out all your reviews on Goodreads. Trust me on this one. I read my reviews when someone in my fan group has told me they posted one but I don’t scroll for them anymore. Even if you’re the most popular author in business, you will have readers who despise your work and who aren’t afraid to say so. No matter how thick your skin is, reading those words will have an impact.

If you have a different job, it might mean removing yourself from gossip and negative conversations. It might mean you take your breaks outside in the fresh air. I’ve had corporate jobs before and I know full well how toxic the cubicle world can be. It helped me to remove myself from my pod regularly.

So many factors can add to the voices inside our heads. I know I always have a mental “to do list.” When the list grows longer instead of shorter, I feel stress. Yes, we’re all adults. We need to get things done. However, I would argue we can probably all manage our time better and spend less time fretting about things we can’t change.

Most of all, we have to find our peace where we can. If that means we go for walks in the park, so be it. If you long to spend the weekend in your garden, smelling the flowers, make time for it. If you’ve been putting off reading that book, take a few minutes and read.

Life will continue. Work will still be there when you get back. No one will blame you for taking a beat. Just be still, close your eyes and breathe.

Now stop reading this blog and go do something that makes you happy.

Onward and upward. #UpbeatAuthors.

If you follow my blog, you’ll know I recently had to take a break from social media and all the “noise” out there. It wasn’t long. A few noise-free days did the trick. And you know what? I didn’t miss being tied to my phone. I logged in here and there, of course, but cut down on the endless scrolling. I can honestly say I feel better now, refreshed.

Reducing one’s time on social media doesn’t cure every ill. I do recognize this but it’s amazing how removing one little thing from my list of things to do cleared my head.

From now on, I’ll be concentrating my energies on the positive, on making little changes to my life and my writing and my approach. It starts today.

Following the lead of #UpbeatAuthors, today I’ll be talking about one simple way to improve our health. Now, I’m not a doctor but I think most of us know what’s good for us and what’s bad for us. We all know when we’re “cheating” with our health.

If I could make one change for myself, it would be the following: MOVE.

I spend so much time at the computer or at my work desktop. When I get home, I sit. I know I don’t move enough. In fact, I think I’ve blogged about that too. It doesn’t have to be a game of football (to be frank, I never quite figured out how that game works anyway and I’m just not interested in sports.) For me, the key has always been getting up off my bum.

Personally, I love to walk and hike. Not only does it move my limbs, it clears my head. I could use a lot of that right now. With so much going on at home and at work, “head clearing” is just as important to my personal health as moving.

So won’t you move with me today? It doesn’t have to be far, it doesn’t have to be long but it should take you in a new direction. Let’s stretch. Let’s breathe. Let’s get going.

Onward and upward.

Taking a break from social media. #amwriting

I’ve been fighting with my manuscript, probably longer and harder than I have with any other manuscript. It’s to the point now where I’m starting to question a lot. Is the story working? Does it still speak to me? Will it sell?

Ah. The old “will it sell” question. I’ve been pondering that one a great deal.

I’m currently in one of those “my writing career is shit” moods. I’ve tried so hard to stay positive, and usually I am, but even I can’t keep it up forever. I’ve received so much encouragement from my readers (my real readers, you know, those angelic creatures who have actually bought,  read and often reviewed my books.) They are my strength.

And yet I remain in this slump.

I figured after writing a few books, it would become easier, not harder. However, each time I begin a new story, I second-guess myself at every turn. Why? Perhaps it’s because I’ve learned more as each book has been crafted. I can critique myself better. I recognize mistakes as they occur.

They seem to occur a lot right now. I’m distracted by everything. I’m happier washing dishes than writing right now.

One thing is certain. I have to finish this book, even if it’s the last one I ever write. I know that sounds extreme and I have no plans to stop writing but it’s tempting sometimes to wonder what it would be like if “Rosanna Leo” just stopped.  The romance industry boasts so many authors and books. Would mine be missed at all?

Okay, okay, I know I sound ridiculous but we writers are insecure people. Indulge me a little. It’s been a lean few years.

I hope you’ll pardon me for sounding like a Debbie Downer. It feels as if there have been so many hurdles lately and my legs are sore from trying to leap over them.  They haven’t all been writing hurdles either. Life has been stressful in many ways. I’ve tried to throw myself into my day job with renewed force recently as well and even that has been a disappointment. Something has to give. I’m finding it very hard to “spark joy.” Hell, I’d settle for sparking a couple of plot bunnies. (That’s not true. I’d probably torch those bunnies out of rage.)

I’m constantly questioning my writing and publishing choices lately. I know I made them with the best possible information at the time, but times change. The industry has changed. I worry I’m not keeping up. People tell me I’m not keeping up, that I should do this or that. That’s all fine and dandy but not everyone changes paths so easily. For some of us, it’s a monumental decision.

I used to log onto social media with glee because it was a chance to connect with my readers. However, considering the state of the world right now, even social media brings little joy and I don’t think I’m the only one feeling it. I’m tired of being disappointed by the news (I can’t even bring myself to watch it anymore) and I’m tired of putting out positive energy only to see it lost in a sea of negativity. And no matter how much I try to be a force of light online, it doesn’t seem to translate to book sales or reviews. I feel as if I’ve become everyone’s “favorite author they’ve never read.”

So I tell myself I need to take a break from social media and then I immediately debate the soundness of that decision. After all, if I take a step back, I risk being forgotten altogether. Who will remember my writing if I don’t keep my name “out there?”

I suppose there’s really only one way to find out. My peace of mind has been too rattled. There are so many distractions and not all of them good ones. I think I need to get back to basics and lock myself in a room with this damn book. Every day, the end seems further away.

Venting over. I hope, when I return to social media in full force, that I am once again the bright and shiny being some of you know and love. I want to be that person but until I can recapture a sense of fulfillment and pride in what I do, I need to take some time away. So I’ll be over here, busy with my matches, trying to spark joy. By all means, drop me a line. You’d make my day. I wish you only greatness and happiness and I know you wish the same for me.

Thank you for reading.

Photo via

A journey to England and Scotland.

This week, my family and I returned from a whirlwind trip to London and Edinburgh. Needless to say, we had a terrific time. When you’re a history buff/nerd like I am, it’s hard not to have a good time in those places. Every corner bears witness to another time. Every weathered floorboard makes one wonder who walked there before.

(Remnant of the ancient Roman wall in London, or as it used to be known, Londinium.)

Although it wasn’t planned, this trip ended up being a tribute to some of history’s oddities. We tried very hard to stay away from the tourist traps. We’ve done them all before and love them but we really wanted to explore those hidden gems, the dark nooks and crannies.

Take, for example, the Old Operating Theatre in Southwark. Its strange collection of medical artifacts held our attention for a while.

There are areas in London that appear forgotten, ruined even, and yet the city bears a healthy respect for what has passed. I am always amazed by what has been documented. We were delighted to happen upon the ruins of the Christchurch Greyfriars Garden. On the site of a former Christopher Wren church, a beautiful rose garden now marks the boundaries of this old place of worship.

Scotland had its own share of alluring corners. The city of Edinburgh is full of dark alleys, known to the locals as “closes.” We walked through several. Others appear so lonely you wouldn’t want to stroll their lengths, and certainly not at night.

If you follow me on Instagram, you may remember me mentioning the amazing Priory Church of St. Bartholomew the Great. Founded in 1123, it is a testament to craftsmanship, devotion and beauty. We were able to explore this church in near silence. There were only a few people there at the same time and I truly felt as if I’d slipped into history. With its crumbling walls and gold statue of the flayed St. Bartholomew, it sweeps one away to another time.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. I know I will treasure the memories and the sights. And, if all goes well, some of these oddities will one day make it into a book.

Artemis. Jessica Cale.

by Jessica Cale
Gothic Regency Romance
20,000 words/PG-13
Content warnings: Contains transgender and bisexual characters falling in love, getting married, and enjoying themselves.

Actress Charlotte Halfpenny is in trouble. Pregnant, abandoned by her lover, and out of a job, Charlotte faces eviction two weeks before Christmas. When the reclusive Earl of Somerton makes her an outrageous offer, she has no choice but to accept. Could he be the man of her dreams, or is the nightmare just beginning?


“There are two ways to look at everything.” Charlotte paused for dramatic effect, curling blue fingers over the side of the bridge. “All beginnings are endings in disguise. Place of arrival or means of escape; will I find my end at the bottom, or fall clear through the other side?”

The wind swallowed her famous voice and carried it away, taking the last thing she had of any value. It was the ice in the air that had caused her voice to shake, she reasoned. She was far too cold to feel the fear lurking in her heart, insulated as it was by dread and resignation. It was too dark to see anything but a great growling blackness over the side, but the smell assured her she had reached the right place.

“It’s only a river,” she reassured herself, though the observation brought her little comfort. Ravenous beast or churning waves, it would swallow her just the same. “Would it be better to drown or be devoured?”

She turned to face her audience, but they paid her no mind. Not ten paces away, they shuffled their wings, dark feathers gleaming in the moonlight like polished knives as they pecked at a murky spot beyond. The play had been over perhaps an hour, and now she couldn’t even command the attention of crows.

Her laugh brought a welcome puff of warmth to her lips as she turned toward the river once again. The night was worse than cold, it was merciless, and it carried with it a dampness that seeped into her every pore, chilling her to her bones and invading her weary heart. Perhaps she would freeze before she could drown.

The bridge was as famous as she was, a dubious honor. The fastest way between London and the poorest boroughs to the south, the city’s whores frequently threw themselves off of it as they returned home from long days servicing the wealthier streets in rented gowns and sagging feathers. It got them all, in the end. Perhaps it was not the easiest way to go, but it was there. Living the way they did, all that silver had to look tempting from time to time.

What was an actress but a whore? Her father, a playwright, loved his quill to distraction but had nothing but disdain for the painted players who brought his words to life. The last time she had spoken to him, he’d asked her that very question and Charlotte, in her wisdom, had asked him why he had married one.

“Prescient as ever, Father,” she addressed his memory, straddling the railing of the bridge, the only barrier between her sort and their inevitable end. She didn’t want to die, but what choice did she have? Cast out by her lover and sacked by her theater, she had no family, no income, no future. All she had was an expanding belly and a week to vacate her ex-lover’s rooms.

“A week until Christmas,” she muttered. “Prick.”

She didn’t kid herself she’d be able to get back onstage after the baby came. After ten good years of drawing crowds, she was already being replaced by younger, fresher women, actresses from the country who couldn’t enunciate if she took their jaws into her own hands and moved their lips herself, but didn’t London love a new face? She’d passed for twenty-two for years now, but it was only a matter of time until someone remembered she’d been nineteen ten years ago. Christ.

Before long, she’d be little more than a buttock broker’s bunter. If her child survived, it would be destined for the workhouse.

That was not something she could abide.

“Wesley Thomas Cheltenham Sneed,” she seethed, searching her overdeveloped imagination for a curse befitting the man who had abandoned her, noble by birth if not character.

She let out a long sigh. There was no point to it.

She had met his betrothed. He deserved precisely what he was getting.

The sound of wheels popping over the stones startled her and she gripped the edge, struggling to keep her balance. Oddly enough, she didn’t much care for the idea of falling in.

She clung to her perch as the coach passed, hoping the darkness would shield her from prying eyes. What would it matter if they saw her, really? She was just another Drury Lane Vestal succumbing to the inevitable, after all.

Her jaw clenched in protest at her morose line of thought. She didn’t really believe that, did she?

The wheels stopped.

“Miss Halfpenny?”

Charlotte turned as she heard her name.

The coach was old and cumbersome but meticulously maintained, set high above the street on wheels the size of card tables. Unadorned but for a coat of lacquer, it was dark as the team of blacks that idled before it. The door stood open and a man leaned out, his youthful appearance illuminated by the glass-encased lantern swinging from a hook on the side.

He regarded her with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and terror. “Might I be of assistance?”

Clean shaven and slight of form, she might have mistaken him for a boy, albeit a remarkably pretty one. His hair was short and neat, dark as his horses. His jaw was angular and his mouth more serious than generous, but his eyes were bright and pale. She never forgot a face. She tried to place his.

“Somerton.” She smiled as the name came to her. She was face to face with the reclusive Earl of Somerton.

He alighted from the coach and approached her as though she were a frightened animal. “Please, will you come down from there?”

His voice was mellow, sweet, and very expensive. It sounded like tea with the Queen. He held out his hand.

She took it with only a moment’s hesitation and he visibly relaxed as she climbed down. He was taller than she would have guessed and elegant as a dancer, not a thread out of place on his immaculate suit. Even his cravat looked as though he’d just tied it.

There was something odd about him, but she couldn’t quite place it. He was unlike any man she had ever been near, too composed, too perfect. “You’re freezing,” he observed, the vapor of his breath the only cloud in the night. “May I escort you home?”

She shivered, remembering her unfortunate circumstances. “I don’t have a home anymore.”

His eyebrows drew together in concern, or perhaps distaste. “Then I suppose you shall have to come to mine.”

Charlotte blinked, taken aback. “With all due respect, Lord Somerton, if you’re looking for a poke, you can piss off. You’re a handsome bloke, but I’ve had quite a day.”

The only hint that he had heard her was the slight widening of his eyes.

They were silver, just like the river.

He cleared his throat. “I meant no disrespect, Miss Halfpenny, only it is very cold and I hate to think of you out here on your own. Would you consent to joining me for supper? I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not touch you.”

She looked him over, seeking signs of good character in the shine of his boots and the fit of his coat. His character may be questionable, but his tailor was a damned genius. He was leaner than most and held himself with a grace that was both authoritative and arresting in its beauty. It was his eyes that drew her gaze once again. She saw no ill-intent there, but a sort of quiet desperation that mirrored her own.

He was lonely.

Her heart began to thaw even as her mind warned her against accompanying strange noblemen back their homes in the night. A man of Somerton’s standing could drown her himself in sight of the King and half of Parliament and never get done for it.

She shrugged off her foreboding. There’s no harm in it. You were about to drown yourself, remember?

“You wouldn’t mind? Your wife isn’t likely to welcome an actress to her table.”

“I’m not married, and you’re most welcome. Indeed, I would be honored to have you as my guest. I am a great admirer of your work.”

Charlotte blushed at the compliment. Somerton had seen her? “I do not have the most spotless of reputations. I would not wish to cause you dishonor.”

He raised a dark brow playfully. “My household is very good at keeping secrets.”

Something about the way he said this made her want learn them all.

“I would be delighted to join you, Lord Somerton.”

His smile was a mystery, a shadow on the face of the moon.

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Under the Full Blooded Moon. Diane Saxon.

Under the Full Blooded Moon


Since he lost his father and his childhood at the age of ten to a witch’s curse, cynical journalist Stuart Caldwell has searched the world in his quest to find the key to his family’s centuries-old curse.

What he finds when he lands on the Scottish island of Breggar is far from what he expects. Instead of a battle to the death with the cruel enchantress he believes resides there, Stuart finds he’s the one in the firing line, and the target is his heart.



Kilchoan, Mainland Scotland 1672

Swathes of wet hair clung and tangled around her face in a heavy curtain, enough to obscure her view as another spasm seized her. Pain far worse than she’d ever imagined wrenched through her, and clutched deep into her belly to tear at her insides.

Pride refused to allow her to cry out.

As she surfaced, she snatched another lungful of air. The frigid waters chilled her to the bone, sending a fresh rash of shudders through her between each painful contraction.

The villagers crowded closer, faces twisted with fear and rage. People she’d known all her life, people she loved. Women she’d tended in childbirth, and men whose wounds she’d healed.

The sentiment turned vicious as the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon rose in the darkened sky.

After a full day of her tied to the ducking stool, their disgust in her was palpable at not obtaining the confession they sought.

How could she confess to something that wasn’t true?

She’d never consorted with the devil.

Hysteria driven, they leaned in closer to scream their blood lust.

“Kill the witch, kill the witch.” The terror of the moment was overcome with something far more important.

Another stab of pain seized her body, forcing her to contort once again, but she pried open her eyes and met his frigid, slate-gray gaze across the wide expanse of water.

Tall and regal in his gentleman’s finery, there was no trace of the passionate lover she knew so well. His handsome features were carved into a cold mask.

He could say something. In silent entreaty, she begged him to intervene. He could save her.

He chose not to. Instead, he took hold of his pregnant wife’s hand and turned away to stare up at the night sky.

Her heart died long before her body.

Tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks to streak through the slime of mud coating her skin as she sucked deep breaths into her lungs, ready for the next duck of the stool into the stinking, fetid depths of the river. She knew it was all in vain.

Death was upon her.

Moya drew on her last ounce of strength and concentrated. Every muscle in her body contracted as she bore down to push, while her power waned. The ducking stool plunged once again, to submerge her into the icy depths and steal her breath away. The burn in her chest spread while she held the air in her lungs for as long as she could, but it was pointless. She closed her eyes and forced her muscles to relax. Her body floated a little above the stool. The ropes stretched in the cold and the wet. Moya raised her hips high, and her attention never wavered as she remained centered on this last, essential feat.

Little effort was required to weave the curse, for any witch knew a curse did not need to be spoken aloud. Instead, she focused the last of her energy to accomplish her final deed.

Eyes wide again, she stared up through the dark murkiness of the water, into the night sky, where blood smothered the full moon and spread its tendrils out to blur beneath the overpowering cast of light.

She recognized her death written in the blood. Death and rebirth. She took cold comfort in the knowledge her curse had worked.

Agony clenched her body. She drew her lips back from her teeth and expelled the final, desperate clutch of air she held in her lungs. In a wild, frenzied scream, distorted by the bubbles, the sound carried to the surface. Ice froze the blood in her veins to numb her mind and dull the pain as she expelled the bairn from her womb in a cloud of thick mucus and crimson blood. It bloomed through the dark waters while her child spewed into the evil world.

The heat of her own blood stroked a tender warmth over her frozen hands in farewell as Moya floated, lifeless, to the surface.

The full moon, obscured by a blood-soaked cloud, transformed the land into a desolation of deep shadows and dark craters while the scarlet waters around Moya turned inky black as it bubbled and steamed in the chill of the Scottish night.

With proof of the witch’s existence, their screams pierced the dark as the villagers fled to hide behind closed doors and deny the wrongdoing they’d taken part in that night.

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About the Author

Diane Saxon lives in the Shropshire countryside with her tall, dark, handsome husband, two gorgeous daughters, a Dalmatian, a one-eyed kitten, a ginger cat, six chickens and a black Labrador called Beau, whose name has been borrowed for her hero in For Heaven’s Cakes.

After working for years in a demanding job, on-call and travelling great distances, Diane gave it all up when her husband said, “follow that dream”.

Having been hidden all too long, her characters have burst forth demanding plot lines of their own and she’s found the more she lets them, the more they’re inclined to run wild.