Once a globe trotting corporate marketing executive, Marcia Breece lives on the Washington Coast where she enjoys the tranquility, solitude, and inspiration she needs to write, whether it’s the foggy shore at sunrise, bald eagles drifting on the wind, or moon snails excavating the sand at low tide. Marcia has written and published Finding This Place (memoir), Secrets Lost (novel) and she’s working on novel #2.
Marcia helps other self-published authors publish get their books to market, whether in eBook or audio book format. Experience publishing and marketing her own books guided her to this niche market. “It’s a typical grass roots story,” says Marcia. “An author friend asked me to help with his book, then his friend did the same, and so on until I had a group of author clients that needed help with self-publishing and a list of vendors who wanted to help them. I know for sure, if you stay open, what you love to do will find its way to you.”
Finding This Place
By my birthday in December, the day I turned thirty, Matt’s ubiquitous red spots had transformed to ugly black scabs, and his rambunctious little boy behavior had returned. I’d been locked in the house for a month, except for the evening grocery excursions. I wanted to go Christmas shopping, but Paul wouldn’t let me, saying, “It might snow, and anyway, I’d be stuck here without a car.”
For nine years of marriage, I’d tried to do what was expected of me, but in that winter of 1978, the undertow was unbearable. Most days, while the kids were at school, I’d wander into the backyard to lean against a tree in my blue terrycloth bathrobe.
Standing like a blue heron stalking a frog, I privately considered my options. Survival or suicide? Independence or marriage? Divorce or death?
Having survived her first hectic summer as an inn keeper, Morgan settled into the white rocking chair with a mug of hot coffee and Howard draped over her knee. His chin rested on her freckled arm. Weekend guests had checked out, leaving the inn vacant until Friday. She relished the solitude.
The base of the Douglas fir by the driveway measured more than five feet in diameter. Owning an old-growth fir tree and the surrounding property seemed peculiar to Morgan. She felt like a treasured visitor; more caretaker than owner.
Breathing the fresh, fall air, and savoring the deep sense of belonging, Morgan ignored inn keeping duties. Just over the ridge, Hood Canal flowed beyond her sight and the Olympic Mountains stood hidden in the clouds. Still, she felt them. She sipped coffee and watched a bald eagle stretch his talons toward a branch of the Douglas fir. “Sorry, chicken isn’t on the breakfast menu,” she said aloud as if the eagle would understand. Provoked by his attack on a rooster, Morgan had covered the area around the coop with netting to protect her treasured chickens.
Excerpt from audio book: