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About Robyn Peterman
NYT and USA Today best selling author, Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. She writes snarky, sexy, funny paranormal and snarky, sexy, funny contemporaries.
Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a Yeti cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals.
A former professional actress, with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the south with her family and too many animals to count. Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where she can work in her sweatpants works really well for her.
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Midlife is sheer madness, and the facts of midlife are not taught in school. Unfortunately, some lessons are hellishly hard to learn.
I thought I had it figured out. I was wrong.
Proving I’m the Angel of Mercy is turning into a sh*tshow of epic proportions.
Not too long ago, I was a forty-year-old gal with a stable and boring life ahead of me. Now? Not so much. I have celestial siblings who are no walk in the park. Their decisions can destroy my future.
And of course, my predecessor has given me a month to do the impossible or I’ll lose everything that means anything to me.
Gluing ghosts back together is turning out to be the easiest part of my job.
Fine. If this is my fate, I accept. Nothing is impossible if you believe.
I choose to believe.
With a new job I didn’t apply for and an extended family I didn’t know I had—midlife has become somewhat problematic. Gluing ghosts back together is easy compared to my new celestial occupation.
The Grim Reaper wants to put a ring on it. Tim wants to be a father. Candy Vargo has lost her damn mind and Jennifer thinks we’re all sparkly vampires. I’ve been given an impossible task with catastrophic consequences for failure, but it wouldn’t be my midlife without another crisis.
What’s the saying? When in Crazytown, embrace the insanity or go insane. It’s time to lean into the madness. I’m putting down roots, pulling up my big-girl panties and getting down to business. With one month to succeed, it’s time to grow a bigger pair of lady-balls and play in the big league.
The rules are unclear. However, when it’s a matter of midlife and death, I’m making the rules. And I will win.
Whoever said life begins at forty must have been heavily medicated, drunk, or delusional.
Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good.
But as they say, all good things come to an end. I’d honestly love to know who ’they’ are and rip them a new one.
One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed and breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semi-transparent people has become a side job—deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there. I think they need my help, but since I don’t speak dead, we’re having a few issues.
To add to the heap of trouble, there’s a new dangerously smokin’ hot lawyer at the firm who won't stop giving me the eye. My BFF is
thrilled with her new frozen face, thanks to her plastic surgeon, her alimony check, and the miracle of Botox. And then there’s the little conundrum that I’m becoming way too attached to my ghostly squatters… Like Cher, I'd like to turn back time. Now.
No can do.
Whatever. I have wine, good friends, and an industrial sized box of superglue. What could possibly go wrong?
All in all, it’s shaping up to be a wonderful midlife crisis…
Featuring 19 all new tales spotlighting women forty and over having the time of their midlife.
Those aren't gray hairs, they're strands of glitter letting the world know you're fabulous. So adjust your crown and join us as we celebrate women who are fabulous, over forty, and aged to perfection in this magical paranormal women's fiction romance collection. Includes stories from some of today's top PWF authors, NY Times and USA TODAY bestsellers, as well as new emerging voices in the genre.
Includes 19 brand new never before released stories from:
Mandy M. Roth--Running with the Devil
Michelle M. Pillow--Merely Mortal
Robyn Peterman--My Big Fat Hairy Wedding
Kristen Painter--Code Name: Mockingbird
Yasmine Galenorn--Weaver's Web
Milly Taiden--Surviving Midlife
Renee George--The Age of Inno-Scents
Jenna Rivers--Spell of a Time
Reggi Dupree--Midlife Collision
Shéa MacLeod--Day of the Were-Jackal
Christine Gael--The Bargain
Charise M. Studesville--The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose
Christine Zane Thomas--A Touch of Twilight
Macy Dixon--Midlife Shelf Life
Stephanie Berchiolly--Train Bound to Forty
Bobby Leigh--Snow Hill: Hexed On A Feeling
Jade Greenberg--Magic Takes Manhattan
Aaron M. Cabrera--The Invention of Magic
It’s all fun and games until someone throws a dirty jumper rollup and you lose out in the Cornhole tournament of life.
According to Baba Yoscarybutt, it’s time for me to witch up or step back down into the Cornholio minor leagues. While Cornhole is definitely not my beanbag, I can’t stand to lose.
I don’t want to be the next Baba Yaga. I’m doing just peachy as the Shifter Wanker who heals the clumsy idiots of Assjacket, West Virginia. I love my life. My werewolf mate is hotter than asphalt in August, my twins are adorable, my dad and brother rock, and I have real friends for the first time in my life.
However, when my evil nemesis, Medusa Jones, steps up to throw a floppy bag and steal the title of Future Baba Yaga from me, all bets are off.
I will challenge the nasty piece of work to win back the job I didn’t want in the first place.
With Sassy and Fuc*ing Derrick by my side, I will finally own my destiny. Of course, Fuc*ing Derrick is prone to meltdowns and Sassy is trying to learn Canadian, but one deals with the floppy bags they’ve been dealt and tosses them anyway.
It will be dangerous.
It will be cornfusing.
It will be fashionably disastrous.
It will be televised on the magical Charm Channel.
Whatever. A few four baggers, a couple of woodies, a Bigfoot and spell or two should do the trick.
The future of the magical Universe is on the line and I’m the only one who can save us.
May the Goddess help us all.
Midlife’s a journey. Enjoy the ride. Crisis included.
Never knew that life after death was far more dangerous than real life.
Never in my forty years did I think my new normal would be gluing body parts back onto ghosts and hosting a houseful of dead squatters. Thank God for superglue and a strong stomach.
Never thought I’d date the Grim Reaper and that I would be the one to blow it. I mean, how idiotic does one have to be to get dumped by a dude who lives in Hell?
Going about business as usual is not usual in any way. No one is who they seem to be… and to be honest, neither am I. What I’d known to be true has turned out to be myth. The Angels are frightening and the Demons are hot. Wait. I mean not. Who am I kidding? The Grim Reaper is very hot—like a freaking pre-menopausal hot flash hot.
Now I’m in a race against time and all sorts of unsavory supernatural horrors to save my deceased gay husband’s afterlife. And that was a sentence I never thought would leave my lips.
Whatever. I’ll yank up my big girl panties, stock up on wine and lean on my girlfriends as needed. As they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get inebriated… or something like that.
With everything to lose, I have no choice but to grow some lady balls. That I can do. I just hope balls will be enough.
I had planned to live midlife in peace, not in pieces.
Good luck to me…
And the crisis… it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Being forty is supposed to be freaking fabulous not fatal.
Taking on a daunting new job minus the description isn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, even if it was to save a friend. Hopefully, it doesn’t turn out to be the stupidest… or deadliest.
Why can’t things stay the way they were? I love my old job. Supergluing ghosts back together and solving their issues is its own reward. Not to mention, I’m seriously good at it. Although, I must say, I’m ridiculously excited for the new Death Counselor’s arrival in nine months...
Adding to my problems, there are four new angels in town who are riding my butt and judging every move I make. Literally. Who knew destroying one Immortal could cause me so much trouble? If I’m found guilty, I’ll be pushing up daisies.
Luckily, my nutty friends have my back and the Grim Reaper has my heart. What could possibly go wrong?
Nothing is impossible. I am living proof. Let’s just hope I live to prove it.
Midlife’s a bumpy journey. The ride is a freaking rollercoaster. The crisis is real.
With my life back to normal—normal being a very relative word—one would think I’d catch a break.
One would be very wrong.
With an Angel gunning for me and a Demon in my bed, life couldn’t be more complicated. Not to mention, I’m going to have to make a rather large life choice.
Do I want to live forever?
Does anyone? Forever is a very long time.
Whatever. I’ll think about it tomorrow… or next week… or next month. As long as I have my girlfriends, my dogs, a super-sized case of merlot and my deceased squatters, I’m good to go.
My midlife crisis. My rules. If it doesn’t kill me dead first, I plan to have a most excellent midlife crisis.
Going to Hell has never been on my bucket list… until now.
The fact that I can speak that sentence without laughing or losing my mind is absurd. However, my life has veered into a very tricky tale that rivals any of my books.
The villain has been banished. I’ve written her right into an infernal doom. Unfortunately, a few of my very dear friends, fictional and real, have been caught up in the horror story and they’ve taken the trip down under as well.
It’s my fault and I can only see one way out…a plot twist of epic proportions. The fairytale is imploding and my imagination has taken flight.
The ending is murky and the stakes are up to me. There is no other alternative.
If I don’t get this ending right, my happy ever after might become a happy never after.
Get to the root of the problem, of course.
Only I wood get stuck in a tree with the Warlock I love camped out next to it mea-culpa-ing for being a turdwaffle for the last decade.
What should I do about it?
Umm… stay in the tree and enjoy the show.
Location: Assjacket, West Virginia (Who in their right mind named this town?)
Mission: Get out of the tree and dropkick the Warlock who forgot to mention he was in love with me until I was stuck in a tree.
Obstacles: Just about everything… crazy foul mouthed witches, accident-prone shifters and a musical production of Jaws.
The Problem: A vicious Slug shifter who will do anything to ruin my future.
The Solution: With a little luck, a whole bunch of salt, a pinch of magic and the help of my certifiable new buddies, I might just survive long enough to put down some new roots.
And if the journey in the woods gets too crazy? Not a problem. I’ll just branch out and take the psycho-path.
I’ll tell you what. She goes on the sly and conjures up some anchovy-chocolate chunk cookies dipped in hot sauce—that’s what.
Of course my cheating gets complicated when all of the magic in the world goes on the fritz. To solve that particular wrinkle, I’ll have to finally find the source of the lurking evil.
Easier said than done. Maybe if I wasn’t pregnant and starving, I could deal with the nasty old witch who resides in a gingerbread house. Add in carb eating fairies who speak French and three rotund familiars who enjoy defacing property with profane graffiti, and what you get is almost more trouble than I can handle in my baby baking condition.
I’m still not convinced I won’t be giving birth to puppies since the smokin’ hot father of my babies is a werewolf, and NO ONE has given me ANY concrete proof to the contrary. Getting knocked up by the werewolf of my dreams was all kinds of awesome in practice, but the reality of becoming a mother scares me more than Baba Yaga’s horrendous 1980’s wardrobe.
Monstrous decisions with enormous ramifications are best handled with meticulous planning—or in my case—after eating a giant mustard slathered jelly doughnut. Neither of those options is possible at the moment, but since there is no way I’m bringing my children into a magicless world, winging it will just have to work.
Wait… Was that a contraction I just felt?
Goddess help us all…