Guest Spotlight: Liz FlahertyPieces of Blue by Liz Flaherty
Published by Annessa Ink Publishing on July 1, 2024
Genres: Contemp Romance
Format: eBook
Buy on Amazon

For all of her adult life, loner Maggie North has worked for bestselling author Trilby Winterroad, first as his typist, then as his assistant, and finally as his ghost writer. Throughout her first marriage, widowhood, remarriage, and divorce from an abusive husband, Trilby was the constant in her life.
When he dies, she inherits not only his dachshund, Chloe, but a house she didn’t know existed on a lake she’d never heard of. On her first visit, she falls in love with both the house and the lake. Within a few weeks, she’s met most of the 85 inhabitants of Harper Loch and surprisingly, become a part of the tiny community. Her life expands as does a new kind of relationship with her friend Sam Eldridge. She finally feels not only at home, but safe.
Until her ex-husband is released from prison. The fragile threads of her new life begin to fray, and that feeling of safety is about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

Sometimes when you’re a writer, the words flow. They pour out of you like a waterfall. The words are easy and beautiful. And sometimes, the words are like pulling teeth. Your creative part of your brain doesn’t want to help. You’re essentially staring at a blank page and wondering what to do with it. Reading my friend’s experience made me feel like I’m not the only one in this boat. So, today, my Got Fiction besties, I want to introduce you to my friend Liz Flaherty. Her books are lovely, and her words are warm. Give her a big Got Fiction welcome!

I had the first line.

Trilby died. 

That was all I had. 

I was at a what now stage in my writing career. I didn’t want to throw in the towel, but I wasn’t getting anywhere in the industry I loved, either. Everything had changed faster than I could begin to keep up with it, I couldn’t write fast anymore, my memory was…a mess.

However, I could…and can…still whine with the best of them.

And there was this line that sat at the top of a blank page for a long time. 

Trilby died.

After a few months, I typed Chapter 1 above that line. Made the page look better. Didn’t make me feel all that much better, but appearances do help. That’s why God invented mascara and lipstick.

I had some rejections, a few books that weren’t selling well, my writing life was just kind of…meh. We all have times like that, right?

But then I typed a few more lines…and then a few more pages…and somehow in there, the story of Maggie Wallace North and Pieces of Blue became a labor of love. 

I hope you love it, too.

You can pre-order it at Books2Read for July 1 release from Annessa Ink Publishing. 


The drive took me farther into the country than I’d ever been—at least that I could remember. While the temperature didn’t drop, the wind did increase, blowing snow from the roadsides across in front of me in gusty swirls of white. I was surprised that Gladys, the elegant voice of my GPS, didn’t sound either confused or disdainful even when it took me three tries to see the little green sign that indicated Harper Loch Road.

Canopied by naked February trees and lined with animal-tracked snowbanks, the road was one and a half lanes wide. I hoped it would be wider when there was no snow, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It was hilly, with serpentine curves that reminded me of a Chutes and Ladders game board minus the ladders. Gladys didn’t enlighten me as to how far it was to the lake itself, and two miles in, I was starting to wonder if it was all a bad joke. 

Trilby had been the master of bad jokes.

A barnwood sign at the side of the road encouraged me to Keep Right! I inched over, flinching when the snowbank brushed the side of my car, my pride and joy. Chloe looked my way, wide eyed.

Apparently, it was a popular meeting spot on the road, because I met a pickup immediately, going at least twice as fast as I was. The driver waved cheerfully and missed me by what I was certain was the hair’s breadth Trilby used to insist was purple prose if used in a book. I would have waved back, but my hands, white knuckled, didn’t want to let go of the steering wheel.

“Trilby,” I said, “what in the hell were you thinking?”


Liz Flaherty has spent the past several years enjoying not working a day job, making terrible crafts, and writing stories in which the people aren’t young, brilliant, or even beautiful. She’s decided (and has to re-decide most every day) that the definition of success is having a good time. Along with her husband of lo, these many years, kids, grands, friends, and the occasional cat, she’s doing just that.

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