We’re working on the last part of Gabriel’s Regret: Book One. I’m so excited to release this book. Book 2 will be released at the end of September and will be placed on Amazon for pre-order. More will come every day as we count down to the release, but the date won’t be released until the day before. I know you’re going to love it. Fifteen chapters of excitement – Medlov Style.
Instead of checking in on Facebook, Twitter and Blogs, Latrivia Welch has developed one communication tool to keep you in touch with her and the books that you’ve grown to love. Introducing Latrivia’s Quill Pen. This weekly email goes out to readers and informs them of the following:
If you want a closer look at the work from conception to the day it hits stores, sign up today. Only takes 60 seconds. Don’t worry if you’ve recently signed up to LatriviaWelch.com, then we already have you marked to receive your weekly update. The first e-blast will be sent out this Friday, February 19th . Sign up here.
P.S. For those who like to engage through social media, Latrivia will still post updates on social media platforms.
Happy reading,
The Latrivia Welch Book Team
A READING WARRIOR RETREAT: (BOOK CLUB ROMANTIC MYSTERIES AT THE PROM)
Thursday, October 6, 2016 – October 8, 2016
MEMPHIS, TN
http://memphis.eventful.com/events/reading-warrior-retreat-/E0-001-088431342-2@2016100619
A Reading Warrior Retreat: (Book club Romantic Mysteries at the Prom)
The Following Authors will be attending
Hotel Information and location:
Your registration includes the following
Itinerary
Unless you’re a football fan (guilty as charged), then Sunday’s holiday won’t have much of a draw for you. And if you plan to use your day of doing something outside of watching millionaire’s toss the pig skin, then you might want to consider gobbling up a good HEA.
That’s right. The Grunt 2 is all about Courtney and Brett Black finding their happy ending. You can grab a glass of wine, a cup of coffee or tea, some cookies and a warm blanket and curl up to a military interracial romance (bw/wm) that is filled with a few laughs, a few cries and a few moments of utter victory.
But if you do happen to be watching THE GAME tomorrow, then you might consider topping off the evening after your team wins, with a good read to calm you down.
Only $3.99 for over 300 pages of excitement. If you haven’t read The Grunt, then start there. It’s definitely a fun read and if you like steamy, hot, sexy love scenes, then you’ll love this Grunt especially. Brett Black knows a thing or two about how to make a woman feel special.
But don’t take my word for it. Check it out for yourself. The Grunt and The Grunt 2, part of The Lonely Heart Series. Available for purchase today on Amazon’s Kindle and other select e-book platforms. Also, when you’re done, don’t forget to tell me what you think. Post a review or send me an email to Latrivia@LatriviaWelch.com.
Always my readers’ biggest fan,
Latrivia Welch
No, I’m not happy with what happened in Paris. I’m not happy with what happened in San Bernardino. I’m not happy with 9/11. I’m not happy with the fact that we’re still in war in the Middle East. I’m not happy with the precious American life lost in a war where men and women who didn’t die in war most often came back emotionally damaged and physically mauled.
But I think many others across this country and world are mad too, including most people of the Muslim faith, and most of the civilized nations – yes, even third world nations. Let’s not get all ethnocentric and amnesic here in a country based in not only a beautiful melting pot but also centuries of systematic ethnic oppression. We are in no place to judge. Our very future depends on the ability for us to stick together; to uplift others; to believe in unity. And also, what does that say to all of our patriots who gave their lives in Iraq, Afghanistan and other places in the hope that they were liberating and protecting Muslims? SMH.
I don’t want to get into the usual, “my best friend is Muslim” conversation as to suggest that just because we know someone who is Muslim then that gives us the right to condemn or not to condemn an entire people. What I believe is that regardless of whether you know someone who is Muslim or not, you will not allow yourself to become a hate mongering idiot. Because then, what better would you be than our own enemy? And no one wants to be identified as a Hitler sympathizer, which is what Trump would have you do. He’s basically like “Let’s give them all numbers on the wrist and corral them like cattle.” Are you serious? Are you F*c#ing serious? What about all our Muslim leaders, our doctors, our lawyers, our historians, our military personnel, our first responders, our neighbors…the list goes on to the point where I am exhausted. And you should be too, at the hateful rhetoric.
Yes, I’m a good Catholic (my faith is my own and my desire is to please only Him), but nearly 1/4th of this world is Muslim. How do you cut 1/4 of the human population out of the conversation of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? To believe that all these people (1.6 billion with a B) want to kill Americans is…paranoid schizophrenia. To suggest that we boot everyone out of our country who doesn’t think like us is un-American. To suggest that we can’t help someone of another faith in their time of need, like Syrian refugees, is STUPID. To condemn those who are giving their lives to fight ISIS is inhumane. To say that these people, HUMANS MIND YOU, have no right to life is immoral. I don’t want any part of that crazy train. And I’m embarrassed that he’s been given a mic to express himself. I thought we normally kept those types in the back room of grandma’s house away from phones and other electronics.
TRUMP IS A STAIN on the political process and the presidential candidacy. End of File.
XOXO and all that jazz,
Latrivia Welch
I was out the other night having drinks with friends and we started down the rabbit hole of what led us to our professions. This of course created buzz around our table and other people quickly pulled from their own tables and joined us. I was three glasses of wine into the conversation when someone asked me a very serious question.
“Why did you choose to write Interracial Romance, specifically bwwm?”
I’ve been asked this before, but the person who asked seemed to be the type that would not take a flippant or even cosmetic answer. They wanted details; they wanted to decide what side of the proverbial black aisle I sat on. Was I a blind assimilator or was I truly making conscious decisions?
Anyone in an interracial relationship, who has interracial children, has a friend from another race knows what I speak of. And I won’t delve too far into that because it’s the subject of a book that I’m writing and I want your responses later. And it would be awesome to also talk abut this great show, Black-ish, that also hits some damn good points about the contemporary African-American experience.
So back to the question…
I cannot lie. I drank the last of my wine before answering. After all, I did not know this person and this could easily go out in left field and with it my growing buzz.
“I’m tired of stereotypes,” I said honestly, when I was done with my Chardonnay.
The raised brow of the individual let me know that they understood what I was saying even if I hadn’t elaborated.
Black women aren’t all money-hungry, poor, uneducated, angry, vengeful, loud and obnoxious as many books would have us portrayed. In fact, we’re quite brilliant.
White men aren’t all rich, powerful, famous, gentle, courageous and classy (with a wink) as books would have them portrayed.
Each person is completely unique and there should be a story for each of us. Now, that’s not going to happen, but it’s great to have a rainbow of stories about bwwm relationships that kill the stereotypes and create new discussion. We deserve that. We deserve to not fit into anyone’s box, not be forced to look a certain way, feel a certain way or be accepted only if we come from a certain background. We need stories that tell a different story, that empower us and that flatter us and that just put us on an equal playing field.
But I’m just one woman with one computer. So tell me WORLD, what do you think?
Onward,
Latrivia Welch
Chapter Three of The Grunt 2 takes you inside a covert USMC Force Recon operation in Afghanistan. From the first word of the chapter, you are there with the six-man team as they leap bravely from an HH-60 Pave Hawk during a HALO (high altitude, low opening)jump. As a civilian, I have never jumped out of a plane, though I’ve wanted to. I have a fascination with the sky and the bird’s ability to soar through the air. I’ve even had dreams of flying in my sleep, which usually leads to me accidentally kicking Shag. But I’ve never, as a core function of my job, been asked to jump from a moving object into the sky and fall thousands of feet (strategically might I ad) to land on the ground without a scratch. It’s pretty epic stuff.
As it turns out Force Recon is spectacular at jumping out of planes. And I could not, in good conscience, write this book without including a little of Recon’s awesomeness in it.
Check out this rough draft excerpt:
Chapter Three
The Grunt 2
Latrivia Nelson ©
Dressed out in full tactical uniforms, camouflage, aviator gloves, go-packs and parachutes the Recon Unit assembled quietly inside of the HH-60 Pave Hawk in preparation for their HALO (high-altitude, low-opening) parachute insertion jump. It was everything that kids across the country dreamt of as they played their video games, and everything wannabe’s lied about when trying to impress women.
However, this was the real shit; there were no video cameras for reality tv, no theme music for a movie, no turning back for sake of life over country.
Standing by the hatch already let down for their departure, Brett looked down the line at his men standing at the ready. Each one of these men were brave and had shown valor in the face of death a hundred times. Joe, Bear, Rusty, Geek and Hound. He would die for either of them, all of them, if needed. But he hoped that their training would prevent the need to make that decision.
Right before they reached their mark, Brett stepped out where he could see his men and made his normal speech. It was the same one every time, but each time it was warranted, needed to remind each man of why he was there, especially when after long months away from home there were more questions than answers.
“No one on this plane rang that bell three times in training. No one gave up then. No gives up now. You know why they sent us, devil dogs? It’s because we’re the baddest motherfuckers they could find.”
“Oorah,” the men replied in cadence. Their voices boomed like lightning against the black night as the wind from the open hatch ran across their faces.
Bear, their Irish ginger good ole boy from Alabama, spit his brown snuff out on the floor beside his boot and coughed. It was his normal routine and had not changed since their first op together. It was Bear’s way of saying that he was ready.
Joe made the sign of the cross and rolled his neck. He was ready.
Rusty kissed the picture of his son.
Hound scratched his balls.
Geek stood stoically focused on the hatch.
Each man had a thing, and now was the time to do it.
Brett’s jaw clenched as he moved to the open hatch, the wind pushing and pulling at him like a rag doll. Anticipation coursed through his veins like an angry drug. The veins in his neck protruded as he screamed, “Let’s go to work!”
The twinkling stars and the full moon in the sky looked close enough for the men to reach out and touch them, and the ground so infinite below looked like it was a million miles away while they dwelled somewhere in the middle of this world and the next.
If one had never thought about their mortality before, they thought about it then being as small as ants in a world so vast that it could suck them up before anyone could notice.
Brett stood by the hatch, hitting each man on his back as they plunged out into the night in a free fall.
They looked angelic as they fell, but in fact, they were killers, the whole lot of them, going to do the government’s bidding.
With a nod toward the birdman, Brett prepared in his own way. Checking his gear and his watch, he clasped the sides of the entryway, looked out at the vast world behind him, imagined his family back home, and made the unreturnable leap toward danger.
With his arms splayed wide, he cut through the thin clouds in a perfect arch, feeling his body become one with the air around him. His massive, muscular frame, while formidable on land, dropped through the heavens like penny off a tower.
Balancing himself out, he fell hundreds of feet before he checked his wrist detector and pulled the rip cord on his parachute when he had reached the right altitude.
The parachute exploded violently in the night, giving him a small jolt as he navigated it down.
Brett bent his knees as his boots hit the ground. Dust billowed up around him as he crunched dry soil below him. Releasing himself from the parachute, he pulled his earpieces from inside of his tactical gear as he knelt in a crouched position and looked around.
It was dead silent. No motion. No lights. No people.
“Check in Eagle team,” he said, listening as all the men sounded off. They were all right around him, but with no light, they were nearly impossible to see, save the light coming off some of the men’s tactical watches.
As soon as his voice registered on the radio, the command center back at the base went live. Captain Lawless, who had been leaning on his desk glaring impatiently at the blank wall of monitors, popped up and put his coffee down.
“Eagle four to Nest, we are live. I repeat, Eagle team is live,” Brett said, just below a whisper as the men gathered together, ready to move on the Captain’s command.
“Do we have eyes on our men yet?” Lawless said, looking at his comms specialist.
Staring at the young captain too long was like looking directly into the sun. He was intimidating even when he wasn’t trying. The young man quickly adverted his eyes to the monitor as the black screen in front of them linked to the satellite and produced a night vision picture.
“We are live, sir,” the young man said, typing into his computer.
Lawless turned to his second-in-charge. “Get the general now,” he ordered, taking a wide stance in the middle of the floor and watching the operation from the vest cameras installed on each man. This was what he did best. In this command room, he was a warrior, a strategist and a swift hand for the U. S. Marine Corps. The sudden pride that always overcame him made him want to sing God Bless America, but for now, he’d just settle for kicking some ass.
“Zoom into Eagle four,” Lawless said flatly. He slipped his earpiece on to communicate with the team. “Eagle four, we have eyes. Satellite says you’re good to go. No bogies. Proceed.”
“Copy that,” Brett said, making a knife hand motion for the men to advance toward the house.
Don’t worry. The book is coming soon. Check in regularly for more information on the chapters as they are completed.
Because of the support and love of my mentors, I’ve met many great civil rights leaders in my time. I had the honor of having Dr. Benjamin Hooks as a personal mentor along with Mrs. Francis, who gave me invaluable advise as a young woman that I still hold dear today. Dr. Hooks used to love my granddaddy’s fried fish, and grandpa didn’t mind having me come to South Memphis to pick up some as soon as he fried it and deliver it to Dr. Hooks. I remember Dr. Vasco Smith with his jovial smile and Mrs. Maxine Smith always willing to give me a hug. I remember D’Army Bailey sitting across from me at Four Way Grill, and me praying in the middle of his very enlightening talk – that I didn’t drop fried tomatoes all over my Chanel white blouse and make a mockery of myself. I remember working for the National Civil Rights Museum and President Mandela coming up the stairs at the Peabody and me rushing out to see if he was on his way and running nearly head on into him. All I could say was, “your President Mandela.” And he said, “yes dear but who are you?” I couldn’t speak after that.
Recently, I met the founder of Black Enterprise, Mr. Earl Graves. We walked and talked for a while. He was impressed by my little publishing house, and insisted that I had promise. I was in shock how much he reminded me of my grandpa and instantly felt a connection. Mary Robinson, the first female president of Ireland, was also very kind. She and I walked through Bountiful Blessings after she was caught up on a call with UN. She told me I simply had to visit Ireland. After meeting her, I knew that I had to as well.
My list is long and distinguished. I’ve met so many, and I remember them all. I either met them because of LeMoyne-Owen College, Howard and Beverly Robertson or Deidre Malone. My mentors pushed me…always pushed me…still push me. Since I was a skinny 18-year old girl, they have opened doors for me that would have remained closed otherwise. They have introduced me to giants because they were giants themselves.
I still remember meeting Mr. Julian Bond. The first time was at the National Civil Rights Museum when I was around 20. Then, I was heading up credentialing for the NAACP 2009 National Conference in Cincinnati and we were preparing for the Obama/McCain speeches and Mr. Bond came around the office. He wanted to see what we were up to. We had been working early mornings and late nights. Deidre thought it was good for both Tonya and I to do this on our own. She was training us. She was right. It was great work, hard work, great experience.
Tonya and I wanted pictures. Mr. Bond was busy, terribly busy. But he didn’t mind stopping long enough for us to talk. He wanted to know how we were enjoying ourselves and if we were working too hard. He had time enough to listen to me recount my experience with him in Memphis. He smiled and listened and three days later when he saw me again, he said, “hello Latrivia.” Thousands of people, thousands of stories and he never forgot my name.
When I came home from Cincinnati, my life was changed. Deidre just laughed. “It’s good for you,” she said. She still is always grooming me, even until this day. She had met him many times before and knew how great he was, but I was on fire and brand new to such a movement.
For the very young people (and I have many who read my books and my blog and I know they are under 18 – naughty teens), I want you to know why this man was so important.
Julian Bond was no rapper, baller or actor. He was an activist, a game-changer. Horace Julian Bond was an American social activist and leader in the Civil Rights Movement, politician, professor, and writer.
Born in Nashville, TN on January 14, 1940 – only 200 miles from Memphis- Julian Bond became a civil rights activist while in college. In 1965, he was elected to Georgia’s state legislature, but his opposition to the war in Vietnam meant that it would take a U.S. Supreme Court ruling for him to be allowed to take his seat. Bond later served as the head of the Southern Poverty Law Center and of the NAACP.
“Julian helped inspire an entire generation of young people, students, black and white,” Rep. John Lewis, D-Ga., said Sunday. “He spent so much time speaking on college campuses, telling the story of the movement. He was so smart, so gifted, so articulate and he had a way of getting to people, to students, to young people and he succeeded.” http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2015/08/16/civil-rights-activist-julian-bond-dies/31809385/
Bond died on August 15, 2015 at the age of 75, but his legacy will live on.
When you read a book, you want to identify with the woman. When you read an Interracial Romance (bw/wm), you expect to identify. All of us can’t be supermodels, millionaires or even a size 2 (I like being curvaceous), but we can all see the strength of a character or be motivated by that strength in a book.
My readers have taught me through their feedback over the years that they demand strength. When I first wrote Ivy’s Twisted Vine, a part of exploring what it was like to be an impressionable young woman was writing about Ivy’s weaknesses, but The World in Reverse was clearly about her strengths.
I’m committed to showing African-American women in a strong positive light through my books. Strong heroines are not just wanted, in this day and age, they are needed. Even in our entertainment and imagination, we must visualize ourselves as pillars of strength. Now, does that mean that you can’t be loving, caring, warm and even have moments of weakness? No, that would you inhuman.
However, I will say that if we are to project an image of strength into the media, we have to start in books. We have to damage/destroy the negative stereotypes of African-American women by re-writing ourselves.
Latrivia Welch
Author Latrivia Welch Official Blog 