sherylPlease join me today in welcoming Celtic romance author Sheryl Brennan to Mama Writers!  Today she’s going to talk to us about her Mommy Strike.

After thirteen years of working a full time day job, writing part time in an attempt to jump start my career in romance fiction, and being a single mom to three very capable girls ages 13,12, and 8, I decided I was done with being stressed out over the undone chores, mounds of laundry that more often than not contained clean as well as dirty children’s clothes, and all manners of accompanying whining, arguing, bickering, and drama.

Therefore, on February 23rd at 6:45 am in the morning I called my sweet cherubs (NOT) into the dining room and wrote the following words in onyx permanent ink on a crisp snow colored piece of poster board:

KIDS UNFAIR TO MOM! MOM IS ON STRIKE!

I proceeded, through gritted teeth and a joker-like smile to let them know what the strike entailed. With a rigid index finger, I pointed to each of my daughters in succession and proclaimed, “I will no longer, cook, clean, or do laundry for you… you… or you. You can either work on an every man for himself basis or cooperate to get the chores done. You choose.”

I think they thought I was kidding, but this was no early April Fool’s prank. When I came home that evening, I was armed with a new attitude and several 8×10 sheets of copy paper bearing slogans adopted for my cause. With double-sided tape I cheerfully posted them on each and every door of the house.

“Labor unfair to management”
“MOM: It’s who’s NOT making dinner”
“Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother”


The epitome of my signage was a personalized affadavit to the world I proudly hammered into my front yard that read: “Parents of the world unite! Rebecca, Michela, and Areana’s Mom is ON STRIKE. Say no to Housework!”

You can only imagine how many car horn honks I recieved, which made my plight so entirely worth the extra effort. (grin) Operation embarrass the children was a success.

For dinner on the first evening of the strike, the children made themselves spaghetti, then convienently “forgot” to clean up the mess. They further celebrated their new found freedom by going to bed past their bedtime and neglecting the daily chores so harshly put upon them by the enemy— MOM.

Me? I celebrated my lack of stress with a call to my publicist and a nice warm bath, then silently relished in the fact that when the kids would ask why they didn’t have clean underwear for tomorrow I could gleefully reply, “Guess you’ll have to learn how to use the washing machine. I’m on strike.”

To tell you ALL of the funny and not-so-funny things that happened during my hiatus, I would need a weeks worth of blog time, so I’ll skip to the most important part— THE END.

The MOMMY STRIKE lasted a full thirty days. Yup- that’s right, thirty days. You wouldn’t believe how much writing I got done in this time with only having to care, cook, and clean for myself, but the payoff was much bigger than the extra time I gained.

My daughters are now self-sufficient young women with the confidence to back it up. Because of what they learned during the strike, my three cherubs are taking on more responsibility at home. The house is not in immaculate condition, but I no longer have to work a full day and come home to do housework. Each of my girls have a room of the house that is their responsibility during the week and they all do their own laundry, including the bath towels they use. They even learned how to grocery shop on a budget and cook simple meals, so I can call at 4pm and give instructions on what I need them to help get started for dinner.

In short, I’d say the MOMMY STRIKE was a resounding success and HIGHLY recommend it to all my fellow stressed out writing and non-writing moms. Take a look at the payoff…


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The bonus: I feel better giving them their allowance because I know they have earned it and they are learning the true meaning of work ethic.

*****

Sheryl Brennan Historical Romance Author brings the past to awe-inspiring light with her debut book Celtic Sacrifice.  Sheryl is not only an Author, but also a Mother, has a degree in business as well as volunteers her time and expertise.  Sheryl’s writing experience ranges from volunteer journalism and corporate communications for non-profit organizations to web content editing. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, Kentucky Romance Writers, and Louisville Romance Writers. She currently lives in Louisville, Kentucky with her three beautiful daughters.

Why I write:

Have you ever stopped an activity that you REALLY enjoyed doing, then picked it up again one day and asked yourself, “Self, why in the world did we quit doing this?”

That’s exactly what happened to me in July of 2007.

I had just graduated from college with my degree in Business Management. It took me ten years to earn that degree. I should’ve been breathing a sigh of relief. Instead, I felt incomplete. Like a part of my life was still missing.

So, I did the only thing I could to compose my thoughts and figure out why I felt this way. I wrote. Over the course of days, my journal entries went from how I was feeling, to new characters that popped into my head and pleaded for me to tell their stories.

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In six short weeks, I’d completed a historical romance manuscript and was working on the sequel. I wrote during my lunch hours, when I got home from work (in-between homework, dinner, etc.), and from the time the kids went to bed, until sometimes one and two a.m.! The next day, I’d get up and start all over again. On the weekends, I’d sneak in as much writing time as I possibly could. And you know what? I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN HAPPIER.

It had been nearly twenty years since I put on my writer’s hat, but in that short period, my world came into focus. This was what I’d been missing. So now, I’m making up for lost time. The ideas and characters just keep coming: from the American South, Ireland, Wales, and Italy. I’ll be writing a tale for each, and I’d love to share them with you.

Visit Sheryl at www.sherylbrennan.com

Do you believe in destiny? Are you convinced that a higher power is guiding your steps, or are you a firm believer that your future is what you make of it? Would you beg your family to take up arms for your freedom so that you could be with the man you loved or would you allow yourself to be a living sacrifice for the greater good of your people?

CELTIC SACRIFICE is a historical paranormal romance set in Ireland and Wales.

*** Read the Excerpt! ***


He laughed, heartily, at my announcement. “Betrothed,” his laughter continued to reverberate within the pavilion. “Is such a thing possible with an Irish woman, fickle as they are with their hearts? Betrothed? My wayward lady, I must thank you for the most substantial humor I have had in a twelve-month.”

“I see no humor in anything I have said to you.“

“Patrick… I am called Patrick.”

“Your name means little to me as I do not plan to see you again.”

He crouched near Rionach, speaking just loud enough for me to hear. “Is she always this obstinate, good mother?”

She nodded profusely at his questioning. By the gods. My own grandmother seemed to be enjoying playing into his hand.

“Pray, tell me, what is her name?”

My blood was beginning to simmer at his blatant disrespect. “My given name is no business of yours.”

“I would know from who I am purchasing a liniment to aid in the recovery of the muscles of my men. They appear to be overexerting themselves during the games, attempting to impress the many beautiful lasses at this year’s faire.”

I stomped to the shelf containing the clove oil, retrieving one of the larger bottles. If he intended to make a purchase, I would make sure it hit his purse rather heavily for my trouble.

Laying the container roughly into his hand I hissed, “You purchase from the clan O’Connor. That bottle in your hand will cost you two silver coins.”

He reached into the leather purse attached to his belt to draw out the payment. He hesitated briefly, jingling the coins within his grasp. “Good mother, would you allow me to escort your granddaughter through the faire this evening for two more coins?”

Now he went too far with his arrogance and his money!

“My attentions are not for sale! You offend me by offering money to my family as though I were a girl for hire.”

“A wager then?” He placed the two silver pieces into Rionach’s hand for the oil, then paced the room. His eyes came to rest on Glaisne’s rapier tied to my side. “Do you know how to wield that weapon at your waist?”

“It is not for decoration, of that I can assure you.”

Déahglán taught me how to use rapier and dagger when I was eight. Until he went to foster with the O’Neill, I was his favorite sparring partner.

“What say you, good mother? Two coins to the victor in a battle of wills.” Patrick began to circle me like a hawk hunting its prey. “We cross blades… with corked tips mind you…if you best me, you earn the two silver coins and I will not grace your tent again for the entire fortnight. If, however, it is my talent that is superior to yours… you accompany me to the faire and I spend my two coins showing you the sights of the most spectacular faire in all Ireland.”

Of my talents with the rapier, I had no doubt. He stood nearly two heads taller than me, so my height would also be a benefit. With my shorter arm length, I would be able to sneak within and under his reach for a quick and easy defeat. I looked to Rionach to see if she opposed the wager. Her unrelenting smile hinted to me otherwise. “I accept your wager.”

“Ceana!”

After remaining silent for the length of the conversation, it was at that moment my grandmother opposed? Could she not have intervened before I accepted the challenge?

“Do not worry, good mother, I will ensure no blemish will come to her skin by my hand. On that, you have my word as a soldier and a gentleman.”

He paused his circling only long enough to bid me instruction. “Let us commence at dusk on the edge of the forest beyond your tents. Your men can bear witness and judgment to the wager.”

Wonderful. Now I would have to admit to Chullain the results of my actions. Why did I not let his words just fall on deaf ears? I glowered as he exited the tent.

In a split second he emerged again, stopping at the entrance full of confidence and ego. “I will be wearing blue this evening, fair Ceana… will you dress to match? I understand it is a tradition for ladies and their escorts to dress in similar colors at the faire.”

He chuckled at his own jest as he exited once more. I went to the shelves to rearrange the bottles of clove oil, taking care to move each one as loudly as I possibly could in my anger. I could not wait to wipe the roguish grin off of his face.

Rionach shook her head as she scolded me. “I do believe you may be outmatched, Ceana.”

I could not believe what I was hearing, from my own flesh and blood, who sat idly by as this overconfident ruffian orchestrated the entire scene.

“I am as good as any man with rapier and dagger, grandmother.”

“That may be true, but when a soldier sets his mind upon a maiden, it would take the strength of Lugh himself to overcome him.”

Rionach giggled and I began to wonder if perhaps she knew more than she was letting on. I still could not place his accent, which left me feeling quite uneasy, but one thing was clear; I must do everything within my power to claim victory.

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