Eclectic writer

How She Does It -L. E. Harvey

2012-02-17T05:04:00.000-08:00

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

Not really. Sometimes I'm inspired by a picture or a face. Othertimes a personality trait or life experience will come to me. Sometimes a character in their intirety comes to me. There's no real process for me. I just let them come to me.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

My stories are charcter-driven, so when a character comes, so does the plot. As a write, things will happen that surprise me. The basic plot, however, arrives with the character. They are intertwined for me.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

Yes, I do have a general idea of how each of my stories will end. For me, you can't have a plot without an ending. I don't force it, I want the ending to flow and match the story. Just like the characters come with the plot, so does the ending. I'm very lucky in that my muse is rather thorough! :)

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

I typically choose the settings. The settings are chosen for one reason or another. For example, Imperfect and Impeccable are set in St. Louis because of a reference to the St. Louis Cardinals. Unbreakable Hostage is set in Los Angeles because of my time on the West coast. Loving Her is set in my home town of Philadelphia because I wanted Katie to be a vet student at the University of Penn., where I used to work. So, the locations aren't chosen by chance. It's important for me to have the location fit the characters and the story, so I'm cautious as I choose the locations as well.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Both. I typically start on-line, unless I happen to have a book that references the topic handy. Otherwise, I see what I can find on the internet, including book titles and I go from there. If nothing else, Imperfect and Impeccable taught me that you can never do enough research! :)

Stories of Love Without Boundaries
L. E. Harvey, Author
Author: Loving Her; Unbreakable Hostage; Imperfect; Impeccable

The story behind Moon Pool

2012-02-16T06:18:00.000-08:00

Before the story begins there will be one autographed copy of the Moon Pool given away to one person who comments on this post.

Once upon a time I was asked to write a novella for a publisher whose company has vanished into the atmosphere somewhere. The other members of the anthology were writers I admired so I wrote my story. This publisher was the same one who published Becoming Your Own Critique Partner initially. A second anthology was proposed and Jane was to be one of the authors. I wrote the second story for the anthology and Jane wrote her first. The original concept for this series has been developed years before but had never gone anywhere. Just ideas, never stories. When the first publisher vanished those of us in the first anthology attempted to find another publisher with little success so we put the stories aside.

Then Jane and I sold Becoming Your Own Critique Partner to Zumaya. I'm not sure how out venture came to be but either Liz approached us or we approached her about the three completed stories and the one Jane had planned. Jane and I began the exchange of stories with places to improve or places where things could be added. We sent the four stories to Liz and she accepted them.

The editing process at Zumaya is very different from that at most places. The main problem I had with it was the length of time I needed to sit at the computer and the times when the connection vanished for some arcane reason. I usually sit for no more than a half hour at a time in the computer because sitting for too long stiffens the knees I had replaced.

Moon Pool contains four novellas, two written by Jane and two by myself. They take place either in the past or the present in a resort in the Adirondack mountains of New York and are based on a supposed Indian legend we invented. The story says that on the night of a full moon if one looks in the Moon Pool they will see the person destines to be their mate. Four women who have little room for magic in their lives discover the magic of the Moon Pool.

Writing this was different from doing Becoming since only the editing of the stories was an exchange. Jane and I write in two very different ways. I do drafts and she revises as she goes along. The interesting thing we discovered is that it takes about the same time to complete a story no matter which way is used.

So hopefully you'll enjoy learning how this collection came be be and will enjoy the stories in the Moon Pool.

Wednesday - On Plot - Temptation

2012-02-15T07:59:00.000-08:00

Today Temptation is the plot or plot device to be looked at. Will the main character bite or not? That is the basis of temptation. The direction can either be showing someone constantly rejecting what ever tempts them or accepting the temptation. While resisting can be interesting the character who takes the temptation then must face the consequences of his or her action. This can make for a great story.

Using this device is shown through character development rather than action. Motives and needs are the important directions. This device demands the character change and the change is a great one. Most of the conflict when using temptation as a device is interior. Frequently this is the character against himself rather than vieing with another person, social group or natural disaster.

The hero or heroine's nature needs to be shown as well as the temptation they face. Once they give in and sieze the temptation there should be some gratification. The hero or heroine should revel in the choice they made and think they have won. Then slam them with the consequences. Their attempts to avoid paying for what they have done should show their slide to the bottom and then the decision to change.

These kind of plots or plot devices usually end with the character seeking redemption and atonement for their actions. There may or may not be a happy ending. The moment of redemption can come as the character is facing death.

Tuesday's Inspiration

2012-02-14T06:02:00.000-08:00

Back to reading small essays by writers either famous now or in the past and finding little gems that inspire me. Morris L. West was a writer I remember reading. One thing from his essay that struck me spoke of "the writer's selective process." How right he was with this one. I know that sometimes when rough drafting a story I start writing every event of a character's day. When I go back to look at this scene I often laugh. Why? Because I'm rather bored. Then I stare at what I see and suddenly one of the incidents I've noted is the one that causes a change in the story. Often this is something that gives me a Why or a How. Those pages are torn up and only the moment of a change remains

This moment of change is the one for me because often there are other moments that would produce a change in a different direction. What I've learned from this is one must look at their characters' lives and decide where they are going. Keeping the goal in mind allows you to move the story along. Side trips can be fun but they can also muddy the fictional story a bit.

How do you choose your selective moments? Is there a process you use or do you wait until an incident jumps out and hits you in the eye? Many writers do this by instinct others have to search.

13 February Week Behind and Week Ahead

2012-02-13T06:25:00.000-08:00

Winner of Becoming Your Own Critique Partner is R. Ann Siracusa

Last week was a busy one and one with a unique event. Out chapter HVRWA took part in the first Nook Book signing at the Barnes and Noble store in the Pallisades Mall. There were no physical books being sold only downloads. I believe I sold some books. I don't know for sure abd won't for a long time. I believe the signing was a success since they asked us back for around Mother's Day. Actually I think for the store this was successful for it brought the Nook a lot of attention. Perhaps this will take in other places. I signed a half dozen postcards I printed for the people who circled the title or titles of some of my books on the list they took to the cashier to be given a code for the download. They could take the code home or they could download it right in the store.

As to writing, I'm about a third of the way done with A Surprising Seduction. This isn't bad, especially when I'be been working on it for a little over two weeks. When a book practically writes itself one feels good but also a bit wary. Hopefully this one will please my editor.

This week I'll be plunging ahead and hope to finish what I call the Where draft. Often I forget about placing my characters in anything but a vacuum. I always must go back and add the little touches. Sometimes I go overboard but that's why i have a critique group. They tell me when I've written. Once this book is done I'll be working on a new Mrs. Miller story but that's for a time ahead.

3 blog visit Sunday

2012-02-12T06:59:00.000-08:00

http://qwillery.blogspot.com/2012/02/guest-blog-by-maeve-greyson-draecna.html

http://theconstantpen.blogspot.com/

http://sfrcontests.blogspot

Saturday's Chapter - Smoky Zeidel - On the Choptank Shores

2012-02-11T04:22:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1

June, 1928

At one time, he had loved them.

During the Pennsylvania years his love had been steady as the beacon from the Cape Henlopen Lighthouse, on the Delaware shore where he’d taken them on vacation when she was seven. He’d bought them salt water taffy, and she’d eaten too much and gotten sick. He held her head while she vomited, speaking soothing words and wiping her mouth and forehead with his handkerchief when she was finished.

Their house had echoed with the chattering laughter of little girls playing Annie Oakley, shooting make-believe pistols in the air while riding on his back as he pranced around on all fours, snorting and pawing the floor in so poor an imitation of a real live horse that she had tumbled to the floor in fits of hysterical laughter, nearly getting trampled in the process. He’d feigned wild fury, rearing up, pawing madly at the air, pretend hooves thrashing. Emily had saved her, roping the marauder with a yellow satin sash lasso.

Then Emily died, and Papa didn’t want to play anymore. He’d packed up the family and moved them away from the only home she’d ever known to Maryland and the sandy shores of the Choptank River. Some memories were too painful to live with.

Emily’s memory refused to stay put in its Pennsylvania grave, following them to the ramshackle farm he bought on credit, drifting in and out of their collective unconsciousness like the shifting sands of the Choptank itself, insinuating itself into every corner of their house and their minds. Grace found comfort in her sister’s memory. Mama cried. Papa alternated between cursing God for taking his child from him and burying his nose in his Bible, searching for a divine reason for the tragedy.

God’s answer—Matthew, a golden-haired son; and Miriam, raven-haired and solemn—arrived, red and screaming, at a time when most women Mama’s age were welcoming grandchildren, not babies of their own. Papa celebrated the miracle of their birth with zealous participation in a month-long revival meeting, where he accepted ordination into the ministry with a single dunking in the river. He left the revival the newly appointed pastor of their tiny rural church. Hope springs eternal, Grace once read. Although his religious epiphany turned the playful father into a serious and strict man, at least Papa’s grief had been replaced with hope.

Then came the sickness, riding in on a heat wave, swallowing up young and old alike with the greed of a stray cur. For three days Matthew lay writhing on his cot, dehydrated and delirious, tangling his sturdy legs in the sweat-soaked sheets until, at last, he writhed no more. He died on his fifth birthday. Grace fancied she saw his small spirit dance out the window, hand in hand with Emily. She never felt her sister’s presence in the house again.

Grief is a poison that works its devilry in insidious ways. For Mama, grief meant taking to her bed the day after Matthew’s death, and not leaving it again until, a year later, she was carried out in a pine box. Heart attack, her death certificate read. A broken heart, Grace thought more likely.

Papa’s heart bled with each blow of the hammer as it sealed Mama’s coffin shut; bled as she was lowered into the ground in the cemetery next to Matthew; it bled as he turned to face his two surviving daughters, his face twisted with a bitter confusion of emotions Grace could not read. Grief tore at him like a riptide, drowning the last vestiges of the kind and loving father, leaving in his stead a stranger, cold as the ice floes of winter.

Grace thought of these things as she knelt on the floor, trying to turn up a hem on the dress she was making for her younger sister, taking care to avoid bumping the red welts across the back of Miriam’s knees and calves. She may as well have been fitting the dress on a newborn puppy, Miriam squirmed and wriggled so.

“Hold still, Miriam! I don’t want to stick you with a pin!” Miriam stopped squirming.

Grace pulled out the last two pins, lowered the hem a fraction of an inch, then put the pins back in place. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me last night that Papa hit you? I could have put a poultice on your legs so they wouldn’t bruise so badly.”

Miriam pinked, her eyes pooling. “I was a bad girl. I know I’m not allowed to climb the apple tree but I didn’t think Papa seed me. Papa said God gets angry when I’m a bad girl and that he had to hit me to drive the devil out.” A tear made its escape from the corner of her eye, coursing its way down her cheeks before dropping to the floor.

Grace pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “You are most definitely not a bad girl, Miriam,” she said as she gently dabbed the little girl’s tear-stained face. “Papa was wrong to hit you, do you hear me? Just plain wrong.” She gathered up her pins and tape measure and placed them back in her sewing basket. “Do me a favor though honey, okay? Stay out of the tree unless you ask me first. Just to be sure Papa isn’t around to catch you.”

“Okay. Can I see how my dress looks now?” Miriam hopped down off the stool.

“Sure can. Go look in the mirror.”

Miriam ran over to the large full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the room. “It’s so pretty, Grace!” Miriam jumped up and down, her dark curls bouncing like springs.

“It is, isn’t it?” Grace gave Miriam’s dress a critical look. The dress was the same drab brown worsted fabric as the one Grace was wearing. It had the same high neckline, long sleeves, and formless shape their father demanded they wear to hide their female form. But Miriam’s dress had tiny white and yellow daisies expertly embroidered around the cuffs and neckline.

“It’s the work of the devil.” Luther Harmon’s hulking frame filled the doorway, casting a shadow over his daughters. “No good comes to a woman who dresses as a harlot.”

“For pity’s sake, Papa, I’m not the devil, and she’s not a woman, she’s seven years old, and she’s hardly dressed as a harlot.”

Miriam turned to face her father, beaming. “Papa, I promise I am not a harlot.” Miriam’s smile could melt ice, but it seldom had the same effect on her father. “Grace, what’s a harlot?”

“A wicked woman. I think we’re finished with this hem.” Grace turned Miriam around one last time, giving the hem a final inspection. “Go change your dress now, Miriam. And be careful not to stick yourself on the pins!”

But Miriam had already skipped off down the hall, singing merrily to herself.

“She will not wear that dress, Grace, until those immodest flowers are removed.” Luther towered over his daughter, the disapproval in his eyes magnified by thick spectacles precariously balanced on his bulbous nose. “It is forbidden by our Lord. Women must ‘adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.’ It is so written in Paul’s first letter to Timothy. Look for yourself if you have forgotten your scripture lessons.”

“Sounds to me like it is Paul that forbids it, not our Lord.” Grace picked up a stray pin from the floor. It took every ounce of strength to remain calm when he shouted scripture at her. “It’s only a few flowers. The dress is plain enough.”

Luther shook his fist with rage. “Do not mock the words of the sainted apostles in my presence, young lady!”

Grace eyed him coolly. “ ‘Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.’ Perhaps while you are quoting scripture, you should keep that one in mind. It is so written in the book of Ecclesiastes, if you have forgotten your scripture lessons.”

Luther raised his hand as if to strike his daughter, but Grace held her ground, unafraid. “What are you going to do, hit me, Papa? The way you hit Miriam?” She dodged to the left, avoiding the hand that cut through the air toward her face. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the bruising on her arms and legs? Did you think she wouldn’t tell me you’d beaten her again?”

“It’s of little consequence to me if she told you or not. She disobeyed me, and had to be punished. ‘He that spareth his rod hateth his—’”

“Stop it, Papa. You will not convince me that God sanctions you beating a little girl just because she was sitting in an apple tree.”

Luther lowered his fist. “I hardly think you are in a position to act the authority on the word of God. You are, my dear, nothing but a woman, and as such have no right to any opinion whatsoever.”

Grace was in no mood to get into a theological debate with her father. She changed the subject. “Don’t deny Miriam flowers on her dress, Papa.” She reached out and gently squeezed Luther’s arm. “She’s a little girl. She needs some beauty in her life.”

Luther opened his mouth as if to reply; then, changing his mind, turned abruptly and headed for the door. “I’m going to milk the cows, then pay a visit over to Bessie and Ernie Simms’ place. Their boy Todd’s taken sick with the scarlet fever.” Luther put on his hat. “I’ll be home in two hours. Have my supper ready.” He opened the door, then paused a moment before turning back to face his daughter. “Miriam may wear the dress for play, but not for church.”
He was gone before Grace could respond.

“What was Papa yelling about, Grace?” Miriam crept fearfully back into the living room, clutching her new dress.

“Come here and sit with me, sweet pea.” Grace put down the book she was attempting to read and patted the tatter-worn sofa. Miriam ran over and snuggled close to her sister.

“Was Papa angry?” Miriam persisted.

“Papa was angry, but not at you, sweetheart.” Grace stroked the little girl’s curls. “Papa misses Mama, and sometimes that makes him confused. He yells at me when what he really is upset about is Mama going away.”

“She didn’t go away on purpose. She died.” Miriam’s lip quivered as her brown eyes flooded with tears.

Grace held Miriam close, her own tears a reflection of her sister’s. The bruises on Miriam’s arms were in the perfect shape of a hand, where Luther had squeezed her roughly while yanking her from the apple tree. The welts on her legs looked like stripes on a candy cane, an ugly reminder that Luther favored a riding crop to mete out his interpretation of Divine justice.

Miriam’s sobs faded into soft hiccups, but Grace continued to hold her, humming a quiet tune as the little girl nodded off.

She wished she could find a way to protect Miriam from their father’s verbal and physical assaults. Luther was becoming more unpredictable by the day. Yesterday it was the apple tree. The week before, he’d slapped Miriam across the face when she accidentally knocked over a glass of milk at the breakfast table. Grace had not lied to Miriam when she said Papa’s temper was misdirected anger over Mama’s death. But she suspected more was bothering him, something more insidious. She’d tried to talk to him about it during one of his cheerier moments, but he’d turned on her like a rabid fox. She had not broached the subject again.

She had to get Miriam out of the house.

Once Miriam had cried herself to sleep Grace gently tucked a blanket around her and tiptoed into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Goldie, the family’s ancient German shepherd, thumped her tail in greeting without bothering to get up from where she rested.
Grace patted the dog on the head before turning her attention to preparing dinner.

She flipped on the radio. President Coolidge had declined re-nomination by the Republican Party, the radio announcer droned. Famine was rampant in the Soviet Union.

Opening the icebox, she took out a quart of milk, eggs, and a crock of butter, making a mental note to tell Luther to pick up a fresh ice block in town the next morning. “Chicken and dumplings tonight, Goldie girl,” she said, measuring flour into a large earthenware bowl. “You be good and I’ll see to it you get some.”

Chicken was a rare treat. They could ill afford to slaughter one of the birds from their small flock of laying hens, because selling their eggs and the milk produced by their three Jersey cows provided the family’s only reliable if paltry income. Luther had been the pastor of the Sandy Ridge Brothers of the Holy Word Church for nearly seven years, but the church had been unable to pay his meager salary for the past four of those years. Churches were only as wealthy as their congregants, and like most small churches on Maryland’s eastern shore, Luther’s congregation was made up of poor farmers and day laborers. But Luther had married a young couple from Ridgely on Saturday, and the bridegroom paid him with a fine roasting hen. They had feasted on the bird at Sunday dinner and still had enough left over for Grace to make dinner tonight.

Grace stepped out the back door to see what offerings the kitchen garden might contribute to the evening meal. The sun was making its daily departure in the west, casting a soft peach glow over the land. A soft breeze drifted over the sandy fields, blowing a wisp of her fine blonde hair into her eyes. She brushed it aside as her senses were bombarded with the sweet scent of the mint, rosemary and chives in her garden, mingled with the strong but not unpleasant smell of cow manure from the pasture. A red-winged blackbird perched on the pasture fence, serenading her with an elaborate aria while gulls fussed in the distance.

Grace gathered rosemary and thyme to season the dumplings. Vines snaking around the fence posts resisted only slightly as she pulled a quart of plump green beans from their hiding places beneath the leaves. The yellow pear tomatoes Miriam loved were just beginning to ripen, and Grace added a handful of the tiny treats to her basket. A firm, emerald green cucumber and a sweet pepper completed her selections.

Luther returned home just as Grace finished the dinner preparations. He was whistling as he entered the kitchen, his eyes considerably brighter than when he had left the house a few hours earlier.

“You’re in a fine mood, Papa.” She scooped the steaming chicken and dumplings into a serving bowl. “How are the Simms?”

“Better, much better.” Luther surprised his daughter by taking the heavy bowl from her hands and carrying it to the table for her. “Todd’s fever broke last evening.”

“I’m glad.”

Luther nodded, whistling under his breath once again. “Bessie’s brother Otto was visiting.”

Grace felt the color rise in her face. She grabbed a rag and turned back to the stove, rubbing hard at some imaginary spill and hoping her father had not seen her blush.

“He asked permission to call on you. I have my reservations, Grace. He’s nearly twenty years your senior.”

Grace froze, then slowly turned to face her father. “I’m a woman now, Papa. I’m nineteen years old.”

“Nineteen, yes, not much more than a child yourself.” Luther lowered himself heavily into his chair, and drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the table.

“How can you think that? When Mama was sick, I’m the one who nursed her, and I managed quite well at taking care of you and Miriam at the same time. I still take care of you and Miriam. I’m more like a mother than a sister to her anymore.”

Luther showed no signs of hearing her. Grace busied herself with arranging and rearranging tomatoes in the salad bowl, her heart thumping so wildly she was certain Luther would hear it.

Moments past before Luther spoke again. To Grace, it seemed like hours. “What is your opinion of Otto Singer, Grace?” he asked. “Do you hold him in high regard?”

“Mister Singer is a fine man,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “If he wished to call on me, I would not tell him no.”

Luther stroked his long beard, then let out a sigh. “I have invited him to dine with us tomorrow evening. He may escort you to choir practice after dinner, if that is your wish.”

“Thank you, Papa. I should like that.” Grace wanted to shout out loud for joy, but quickly regained her composure. She didn’t want to behave in an uncomely and childish fashion in front of her father, given his propensity to change his mind at the slightest provocation.

It wasn’t until later that evening, lying alone in her bed, that Grace allowed herself to wonder why Luther was going to allow Otto Singer to call on her. The Papa of old would have embraced the idea of a man like Otto courting his daughter. But the Papa sleeping down the hall, the Papa who beat his youngest daughter in the name of God, never did anything without first calculating the risks and benefits to himself.

The thought filled her with dread.

How She Does It - Smoky Zeidel

2012-02-10T04:27:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I worked as a freelance journalist for years before making the leap to fiction, so I'm well-aware of the Five Ws. "Colonel Mustard murdered Miss Scarlett last Saturday evening in the library with a candlestick after he caught her kissing Professor Plum," tells the who, what, when where, how, and why, and is how a journalist would start off a story about this. Journalism gives the facts, and "how" is a fact--in this case, with the candlestick.

Plot, on the other hand, is what happens in a story. It goes beyond the journalistic approach of "Just the facts, ma'am." Plot embellishes on all five of the Ws and the how as well. Plot would tell about the deep love Colonel Mustard had for Miss Scarlett, how they fell in love, how and why they quarreled, why she cheated on him. It would tell what sent Colonel Mustard over the edge and made him murder the love of his life. If plot didn't embellish like this, you wouldn't have much of a short story or novel. You would have a news story.

I don't take this journalistic approach to writing. I prefer thinking the elements of great fiction are creating a great beginning that grabs the reader in the first few sentences, character development, setting, creating compelling dialogue, mastering point of view, and, yes, creating an interesting and intricate plot. You don't have to be a great journalist to write a novel. You have to be a great fiction writer, have a great imagination, and master these elements I've mentioned--and that just skims the surface. This is one of the reason so many bad books are out there. People think that just because they can create a sentence, they can write a book, and it just isn't so. Writers need to study their craft, just like a great musician has to study his or her craft to create a great piece of music.

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

I pretty much let my characters develop themselves. I create characterization charts with the basic information about them before I start, with things like their hair and eye color, pets, kind of car, etc. Details you can easily forget, and authors do forget. I get really annoyed when I'm reading a book and someone's Honda suddenly turns into a Toyota because the author has forgotten what kind of car their character drives.

But beyond those basic, external traits, I let my story dictate what kind of person the character is. Characters need to grow during a book. They need to learn things about themselves and the characters with whom they interact, and for me, this can only happen if I let them take the lead.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

I normally have a rough idea of what the plot will be to a story, but I like to let the characters take the lead. On the Choptank Shores began as a much different book than the one I ended up with, for example, because I let the characters tell me what their story was. I didn't force them into the wrong story. It's a better book because I listened to what they had to tell me.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

The first scene in On the Choptank Shores is actually the very last scene I wrote. I had to know how the story ended before I could know how it began. So I guess I would rephrase your question and ask, do you know where your story will begin before it ends? I don't know other authors who write this way, but it's what works best for me.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

In both On the Choptank Shores and The Cabin, the settings were dictated by the stories. The former book would not have worked had I placed the characters in aManhattan condo, for example. The peach orchard on the Choptank River in Maryland is the only place this story could have taken place, because the setting was integral to the story. It was like a character in the story. In The Cabin, the story could not have been set any other place than where it is set, on a route for the Underground Railroad. It couldn't have been in Colorado, or Canada, or Great Britain.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Both. Most of my research, though, has come from my experiences. I spent every summer during my childhood at my aunt and uncle's peach orchard that was the setting for On the Choptank Shores. I could use it because I had experienced it. But I had to go to the library to research what sort of undergarments women wore in the 1920s. No bras back then, for example. Women wore bust confiners.

I'm working on two more novels currently, and both evolved from my own experiences one way or another. I find living a full and active life is the best research an author can do.

How It Began - Becoming Your Own Critique Partner

2012-02-09T06:56:00.000-08:00

The first thing to mention here is for those making a comment and leaving a way for me to reach them, an autographed copy of Becoming Your Critique Partner will be given away.

Becoming Your Own Critique Partner is a book about writing mainly geared toward genre fiction. Years ago, Jane Toombs and I attended the first EPICON in Omaha. There we met with other authors who had chosen the electronic way to publishing. The motel was wonderful and cozy for there weren't too many people. One nice thing was the rec room offered complimentary beverages every evening. So Jane and I went from our room to the small bar. We spent time talking to other authors who had chosen to publish electronically. This was the days of books on floppy discs to be read on the computer. When we returned to our room, we sat around talking about what to do next. Jane or I, I'm not sure who mentioned writing a book about writing. Then we began to jot down titles. Some of them were definitely influenced by the liquid libations.

Here are some of the chapter headings. Your Tell Needs Showing about showing not telling.
Listen To The Mocking Bird is about dialogue.
Is Your Black Moment Really Gray -
Can This Plot Be Saved.

This is just a sampling. We divided the 20 chapters between us and decided we would write and exchange the chapters and re-write each other's. I'm not sure now which chapters I started and which Jane did. We started out in a rush but then slowed down. Writing nonfiction is quite different from writing fiction. I had done some ghostwriting and thought this would be a breeze. Not really. Finally we had a finished project and we set out to find a publisher. If I remember the sequence, the first publisher died without putting the book out. The second publisher did produce the book but for some reason though the book sold we never received a cent from that publisher and they vanished into the ether. Though we were without a publisher we did enter the book in the 2003 EPIC award contest and had no thought of winning. We did not prepare a speech and actually managed to say something. Only one of the trophies arrived and Jane and I decided to share it. We did not have to since EPIC had a second trophy made and it sits on my shelf. Then we set out to find another publisher and Liz at Zumaya had loved and admired the book. She took it on and Jane and I added a final chapter.

So this is the story of Becoming Your Own Critique Partner. Will I ever write another nonfiction book. Doubtful. My brain doesn't seem to be wired that way these days.

Wednesday - On Plot - Looking at the Underdog

2012-02-08T07:30:00.000-08:00

Nearly everyone roots for an underdog, While this devise has some similarities to the rivalry kind of element in a plot. There is one major difference. The hero or heroine isn't equal to the villain of the piece. They are for some reason with little power. But we do root for them to win.

When attempting this think of your reader. Play to their emotions. They want the underdog to win and they have little or no love for the villain. Show this character in ways that make your reader angry but not angry enough for them to toss the book aside. Let little grains of hope creep into the underdog's character. This is the good guy and he will win but not before suffering defeat at the hands of the bad guy. Here the rule of three often comes into play. We all know about three strikes and you're out. But using this devise means two strikes and the underdog hits a home run.

When the hero or heroine wins the battle, let the reader feel the triumph and show the underdog triumphant and the villain receiving his due justice.

This kind of devise can be used in other ways as in the man versus nature or man versus society. Just remember the underdog needs to triumph.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Imagination

2012-02-07T06:40:00.000-08:00

Today's Inspiration is about Imagination. While reading an short article by B. J. Chute, this author was discussing things that make an author. One of these was imagination. "Imagination is as necessary to a writer of fiction as web-spinning is to a spider." Not the exact quote but close. This triggered me th think about how often readers have mentionedmy imagination. Where did it come from? I think perhaps the first place where my imagination was honed was during my childhood after I learned to read and discovered words other authors had put on papers. Another was growing up in the days without television. One listened to stories on the radio and had to use their imagination to turn these words into pictures. Today writers use television and the movies to send their imagination on various tracks.

While imagination can't be created it certainly can be developed/ Imagination must be used. Playing the game of "what if" or "what might happen next" is a good way to hone the imagination. Being unafraid to spin stories and situations can help the imagination grow. When writing with imagination, anything is possible.

What about you? Do you send your imagination on strange journeys without worrying where they may go. One of the ways I've found for leting my imagination run wild is when I'm settling down to sleep thinking about the story I'm writing for the one I'd like to tell. Often I fall asleep while in the middle of an adventure. Sometimes, what I've been imagining is so vivid I must get up and jot some notes. Other times I find I've chosen a new direction for the piece of fiction I've been working on. Whatever you do, remember imagination is one of the basic building blocks in making a writer.

6 February - Week Behind and Week Ahead

2012-02-06T07:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a story almost tells itself. I've finished the rough draft of A Surprising Sedcution in probably 10 days or so and this after I tore up nearly two chapters because I hit a dead end. The trick was finding the character to begin the story. Of course there's a lot of the story to continue since by the time I finished the last chapter there were changes to be made in the first few chapters. Some of the scenes surprised me. The hero and the heroine of this sexy novella do not trust each other and especially the hero has made assumptions. You know what that makes him. In the end, he'll come around because how else can you have a romance.

This week I'm into the second draft and that's putting the where and when into the story. After the first draft I often have people operating in a vacuum and need to put touches of their setting and time of year into the story. I am usually so involved with actions and interactions during the rough draft that time and place are ignored. While this time I'm using settings I'm familiar with filling them in will be a bit easier.

This week, on Saturday I'll be participating in a Nook Book signing at the local Barnes and Noble. Hopefully the event will be a success and sales will happen. Besides pens I'm trying to decide what else to take as promotional things. Will see what ideas I evolve as the time comes closer.

3 Blog Visit Sunday

2012-02-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

http://kriswrites.com/2012/02/01/the-business-rusch-the-book-trade/

http://anakaealbach.blogspot.com/

http://obscurekidlitauthors.blogspot.com/

Saturday's Chapter = Windswept Shores - Janice Seagraves

2012-02-04T06:01:00.000-08:00

Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves

BLURB:
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?

EXCERPT:
Breathing hard, she flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She’d thought a vacation to the Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she and Jonathan had faced. She’d been wrong—dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.

She’d felt like a tiny speck of sand last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished her seaweed SOS sign. She’ll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. Her stomach lurched.

Oh, God, it’s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be number twelve. As always, she couldn’t help but wonder if the next one would be Jonathan. He hadn’t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew she’d been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt. Suddenly the “dead body” coughed and rolled over. With a scream, Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

He’s alive!

Biting her lip, she stared down at the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in all directions.

Megan, get control of yourself. Don’t wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.

She patted the side of his face. “Hey, are you okay?” That’s a dumb question. He isn’t okay.

“Hmm?” Gray eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. “G’day.”

“Hello there.” She hated the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.

Abruptly he rolled away from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at her. “Sorry, mate, I swallowed too much sea.” His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which crackled and popped not far from them. “Mite big for a barbie.”

Sitting back on her heels with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him. “My signal fire.”

“Signal for what?”

“Help.”

His accent intrigued her. Was he English or Australian?

“G’darn,” he looked around, “where the bloody hell am I?”

“Don’t know. There’s no one here to ask.” Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Are you from England?”

“Naw,” he rubbed his eyes, “I hail from Sydney, but my port of call these days is Fort Lauderdale.” He blinked up at her. “You?”

Ah, he’s an Aussie. “I’m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim, California,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the surf and the roar from the fire. “Are you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227, too?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now also available at Smashwords, Diesel, All Romance and for the kindle at Amazon.

Janice Seagraves website: http://janiceseagraves.org/

Janice Seagraves main blog: http://ladyjanice.blogspot.com/

Janice Seagraves on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/janice.seagraves

Janice Seagraves facebook author page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Janice-Seagraves-Author/117551164948239

How She Does It - Janice Seagraves

2012-02-03T04:38:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone, my name is Janice Seagraves. I’m a romance writer.

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I’m a panster. My stories are character driven rather than plot driven. I go where my characters lead with slight nudges from me.

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

I write rather organically. My characters come to me in dreams or flashes and then I start writing. Sometimes my muse sends me just a short scene or sometimes an entire chapter. Then as I write my characters tell me who they are.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

It depends on the story. In Windswept Shores I had this idea for quite a while about a couple who find themselves on a deserted island and struggling to survive. I did a lot of research to find where my island should be located. Then I realized the Bahamas would be the perfect place and started writing.

I did a very scientific way of finding the names for my characters—I asked my then teenage daughter who told me Megan and Seth. Teens know all the best names. *grin*

As I wrote my story I learned who my characters were. Megan was easy; she’s from California like me. Seth on the other hand is from Australia and I had to learn how to write his accent which took time, but once I had it down his personality—popped—into existence.

Then Megan didn’t know what he’d say next, and to tell you the truth neither did I.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

Each story is different. Sometimes I do have a vague idea how the story will go and sometimes I don’t, not until I reach the end.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

Windswept Shores is set in the Bahamas. I’ve never been to the Bahamas in my life so I had a whole lot of research to do, but I like research so that wasn’t a problem.

My couple is on a deserted island and they’re basically camping. I’ve been to the beach and I’ve been camping since I was a baby, so I’m well suited to writing that part, no problem.

My editor has been to the Bahamas and said she felt like she was there when she read my book, so I guess I did alright.

4. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Both actually. You can’t always trust what you find online so I also use books to cross reference what I look up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Windswept Shores, now available from Pink petal books.

Thursday's Interview - Renee Simons

2012-02-02T07:03:00.000-08:00

Today;s interview is with a long time critique partner. We won't say how long, but Renee writes some very tense suspense and some really great romances.

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?
I write Romances, but always with an undertone of mystery or intrigue. No matter how hard I try, the dark side creeps in. Must be acharacter flaw.

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?
I think it chose me (see above). I seem to beentranced by the battles between guilt and innocence and the need for my characters to gain justice ina sometimes unjust world.

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?
I wouldn't like to try paranormal,vampires, fantasy or futuristic. My brain just doesn't work along those lines, unlike some of my friends,
like you, who write them so well.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?
Mysteries, some spy stuff and factual books, especially about Native American history and lore.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing,
I started writing when I was in high school, mostly essays and short stories. By college-age, I'd been reading popular historical fiction
by Yerby, Slaughter, et al and tried to write one of my own -- a Bronx, New York kid's version of GWTW. Did loads of research and wrote an outline on index cards. It's at the bottom of a cartonsomewhere. Eventually, I read Rosemary Rogers and wrote a sexy love scene a la her and that
started me on my present road.

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?
That's hard. They're all my babies, my fantasies and myalter egos. I'd say Jordan VanDien from Safe Haven, a woman who battles to overcome a dark past tomake room for love:

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?
Every book contains a villain, created to further the plot, create or increase the shared danger and/or conflict for hero and heroine, bringing
them together for the romantic spark to ignite. Besides, villains are fun.

8. What are you working on now?
A cross-cultural love story that takes place in a New Mexico ghost
town and after that, the story of a writer who finds the man of her dreams in a locket which hashung from a chain around her neck since her sixteenth birthday. And I'm happy to say the Books WeLove, Ltd. is about to publish Eye of the Storm, wherein Michael Stormwalker must prove his innocence as a traitor, despite the desire of Alexandra Mclaren to send him to prison for her fiance's death.

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?
Safe Haven grew from a news story about a construction collapse at a hotel in the Midwest where a walkway failed, injuring and killing many. I changed the locale to Boston, told the story through the eyes of the architect and the womanhired to prove the fault lay with dishonest businessmen.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

"A voice behind Jordan VanDien spoke softly; but with some urgency. At the waming that seemed more like a gentle caress, she turned and watched a tall man with sandy hair approach.

He prodded the soggy ground between them with a long metal rod. 'I told you to move away from the edge.'

'I heard you' she said. 'Mind telling me why?'

'We have a problem with erosion after heavy rain.'

On the beach below, a turbulent surf pounded the shore, legacy of the storm that had swept across Cape Cod Bay during the night.

'Looks solid to me.'

He reached out and stabbed at the ground behind and a little to her left. The pole sank into the earth, breaking off a piece and tumbling it over the edge of the bluff. His brilliant blue eyes turned frosty. 'Satisfied?'

'Yes.' She stepped back. 'Now.'

'Blood galah,' he muttered, and continued to test the ground, though with less disastrous results.

'Just what is a...what did you call it...?'

He turned to her. 'Back home in Australia, we have a bird called a gah-Iah, g-a-I-a-h. It's got pretty feathers and very little common sense.'

'Rudeness is inexcusable.'

'So is stupidity.'

Dolt, she thought."

Wednesday - On Plot - Rivalry

2012-02-01T06:50:00.000-08:00

Rivalry as a plot or an element in the plot of a story can add a layer of tension. Two people vie for the same goal, And they must be two people of equal strength. For one to be weaker would lose the potential tension. Here you have the protagonist and the antagonist battling for a reward only one of them can win. This is a struggle for power. While they both have strengths they do not have to be the same strengths. These strengths can be in opposition and need to be compensating and matching.

Think of a battle of wills and start the story showing the pair in competition where one of them appears to win. Al least for the moment. As one seems to rise, the other will appear to fall. There are moral issues involved such as greed versus generosity.

Next work in a reversal where the man or woman on the bottom rises to the top and the other remains where they were at the end of the first confrontation. Once this is established the time has come for the final confrontation and the protagonist emerges with victory. Then he or she can restore order to their world.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Plot and character

2012-01-31T06:31:00.000-08:00

Been reading an old book of essays by well known writers and finding interesting tidbits. Today's was by Ken Follett. "The object is to have the plot and character fit together like ball and socket." Hard to do but with care it can be done.

I started looking at they way I write. I find the seeds of the plot often help me make choices as to the kind of character I will use for the story. What about you? Or does your choice of character make the decision about the direction of the plot?

For me, it's a combination of the two. The idea for the plot gives me a kick start and I may have some ideas about the direction I choose to go. Then I begin to build the character who might play a rose in the story. As the character takes shape, elements of the plot come into view and there are some changes. Why?

Always my characters become real to me and the plot changes because the character wouldn't do that or go there. Before long, at least for me the plot and the character have joined hands and are off on an adventure seeking a goal they will either reach or not. Though I like happy endings when I write, some stories don't end happily but they do have to reach a satisfactory ending.

So when you're writing, look at your characters and also your plot. Do they fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle?

30 January - Week Behind and week ahead - Sold - Contest winner

2012-01-30T06:48:00.000-08:00

SOLD - The Chosen of Horu contract arrived and I even received a mock up of the new cover and the first round of edits. Book should be out in February.

The winner of Shortcut To Love is Christy. I'll be sending her an email later today for more information. I do hope she doesn't mind that the book isn't self-published.

Last week found me tearing up the first two chapters of my current WIP. The story, not the idea, seemed to be going nowhere. What to do? Putting those chapters away, I spent a day just not doing much writing and a lot of reading. Then the problem unraveled. I had started the story with the wrong character in the lead role. Since this is a novella starting in the right place with the right person is important. Once solved, I started with the heroine. She has the most to gain and the most to lose during the story. While the hero has both gains and losses possible in the story why didn't starting with him work? I'm not sure. All I know is it didn't. The upshot of this is that with the heroine in the start I was able to rough draft the first four chapters. There will need to be revisions and re-writing done to flesh out the story but that will happen in further drafts.

During the coming week I hope to be able to do at least 4 more chapters and there is the possibility that I will manage to complete the rough draft of the story. That would feel amazing. It's short, spicy and fun. The Surprising Seduction is a lot about assumptions. Heard that two of my poems will be in a promo ebook from my publisher - Vanilla Heart.

3 Blog Visit Sunday

2012-01-29T07:37:00.000-08:00

http://janiceseagraves.org/2012/01/23/affect-or-is-it-effect/ This is a good lesson but the Aussie slang also was of interest.
\

http://romancebooksrus.blogspot.com/

http://sapphirephelanspassioncorner.blogspot.com/2012/01/romancing-on-friday-life-lessons-from.html?zx=f4fbebd4185cbf8a

Saturday's Chapter -- Blood on the Roses Robert Hays

2012-01-28T06:04:00.000-08:00

Blood on the Roses

by

Robert Hays

Vanilla Heart Publishing
USA

Copyright 2011 Robert Hay

One will rarely err if extreme actions be ascribed to vanity, ordinary actions to habit,and mean actions to fear.
—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

ONE

THE TENNESSEE BEND Motel squatted on a level strip of land carved into the side of a steep Appalachian ridge like a thin slice pared from a luscious apple. All around it, the trees were well into their September colors, leaves on the tall oaks and hickories ranging from dull browns to brilliant reds and oranges mixed with scattered splotches of lingering summer green. There was a busy highway in front, but it was at the bottom of the slope, some hundred yards distant. It carried traffic heading north from Knoxville and south from Kingsport and was an everyday path for the constant comings and goings of locals.

The ample grounds of the Tennessee Bend posed a stark contrast to its surroundings. There was no formal landscaping. Shortleaf pine and black oak trees appeared to have been planted haphazardly to provide shade for chosen areas of the parking lot, and the only touch of elegance was a rose garden that stretched across the crown of the incline, along the edge of parking spaces adjacent to the front row of motel rooms. The summer roses that welcomed visitors were still vibrant and from inside the lobby, looking down the slope toward the east, the garden made an appealing foreground in a picture-postcard view of Cherokee Lake.

Although only a narrow neck of the lake was visible, the scene was a stunning sample of the region’s ubiquitous natural beauty. The Bays Mountains and the foothills of the Great Smokys lay in the distance, while to the west the forested hills rising behind the motel gave way to the razor-spined, peakless pleats of the picturesque Clinch Mountains, which stretched northward toward the Cumberlands.

Rachel Feigen was tired when she checked into the Tennessee Bend, after the long drive from Baltimore, and unsure where to begin. She already had a deep emotional attachment to this assignment and had come to face it with a sense of dread. This one did not hold much prospect for a pleasant outcome.

Not that Feigen was accustomed to happy endings. She had just spent a grueling three weeks piecing together a story on the effects of the Supreme Court’s Brown v. Board of Education ruling, and was left discouraged if not downright despondent by what she’d found. In the several months since the court had struck down “separate but equal” as a legal basis for racial segregation in the schools, little had been done to implement the court’s decree. This was not what she had hoped to find.

Her disappointment in the investigation’s outcome pleased Bill Skyles, her editor at the Associated Press. Skyles demanded absolute impartiality when his reporters’ work went to print, but he wanted them to understand and feel the impact of their stories.

Her editor was sufficiently impressed with Feigen’s performance on the story to hand her a new assignment that he called the most important one he had. He said it could be her biggest challenge since joining the AP national reporting team and she’d dug into the story just deep enough to see that he was right.

Feigen had barely managed to get three days off. Skyles wanted her to get onto the story immediately. She was eager to tackle this new project, but she had an accumulation of personal things to attend to and she wanted at least one day when she could sleep in and have nothing to do. Reluctantly, Skyles gave in.

Friday was the first of her precious days of freedom. She slept late, took a long, luxurious shower, and had breakfast at lunchtime. Then she called her father in New York. As usual, Judge Max Feigen skipped the pleasantries and got straight to the point.

“Your series on school integration was very perceptive,” he told her. “I’m proud of you, Rachel. But not surprised. I knew you’d make a good journalist.”

“I owe it all to you, Daddy. We grew up thinking the New York Times was the gospel and journalists were the last best hope for the world—after the law, of course. You never even finished your first cup of coffee until you’d read every word of the front section of the Times.”

Her father chuckled. “I still do pretty much the same thing, but it takes me quite a while longer. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. That’s one of the prices of old age, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t imagine how hard it is for me to associate old age with you,” she said. “To me you’re still that stern, uncompromising judge that must have scared the hell out of evil-doers when you wore your robes and then turned into a loveable old softy when you got home to Morrie and me.”

“That was the happiest time of my life, Rachel, but we have to live in the present. It seems like I’ve been retired forever. Your mother and I just rattle around now in this big old empty house.”

There was a clear note of melancholy in his voice. It had been one of her biggest worries that after all the years when he’d put in endless hours to keep up with the law, insisting there was no margin for error in his determination to hand out justice in his courtroom, her father would find retirement difficult. He had told her once that retirement was nothing less than a fast track to senility and he didn’t look forward to it.

“But now you have time to read all those books you never could get to before,” she said, hoping to give him at least a modest shot of encouragement.

“Yes, of course. And I do more reading than these old eyes are up to. But bring me up to date on you. What kind of story are you off on now? Something in-depth like the school integration story?”

“That’s exactly why I called you,” she told him. “Have you heard anything about a missing man from Baltimore named Guy Saillot?”

“I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“Nobody who’s very important, as far as I can tell. But his family is.”

“And so what’s your story?”

“Saillot’s been missing for more than two weeks. He left Baltimore to visit a friend at the University of Tennessee, as I understand it, but he never showed up there. His family is prominent here and the Sun has run a couple of stories on it, but the authorities don’t seem to be pushing it very hard. Anyway, my editor is sending me to look for him.”

“His name sounds French.”

“Yes. His father’s a big shot with the Franco-American Transatlantic Company’s Baltimore office.”

“The University of Tennessee, that’s in Knoxville?”

“Yes.”

Now there was concern in his voice: “There’s a lot going on in the South these days, Rachel. This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it?”

“I don’t see how it could be,” she answered, trying her best to sound confident. “But I’ll call you every few days and let you know what’s happening. Okay?”

“You be sure and do that, angel. And take good care of yourself.”

Feigen felt guilty for not having told her father what she already knew about the Guy Saillot case. But she still held out some slight hope that she was mistaken in her first impressions of Anton Schuler, the FBI agent in charge. There was no way she could have said much without getting into what Schuler had told her, and being as perceptive as he was her father would have picked up on her doubts in an instant.

She also had deliberately avoided mentioning another big thing coming up in her life, one that was much more pleasant. It had been a mantra of the Feigen family for as long as anyone could remember that pride in personal possessions, no matter what they were, was selfish. She would have been embarrassed to let her father know that she was as excited as a little girl at a birthday party because she was about to get her first new car.
Feigen had set her heart on one of the new 1955 Chevrolets the instant she saw the line introduced in a Life magazine advertisement. Her old Plymouth was just about done for and Skyles had recommended she see Mike Sodeman, a salesman he said wouldn’t talk down to her just because she was a woman.

Mike turned out to be an agreeable young man and, true to Skyles’s promise, he began at the outset to talk about things like V-8 engines and horsepower and transmissions and not colors and upholstery fabrics. He helped make her purchase easier than she expected and the car would be ready for her to pick up first thing in the morning.

For now, though, she needed to push aside all thoughts of the new car and her father and Feigen family mantras and whatever, and force herself to refocus on the Guy Saillot story. This meant going back over her notes and looking for any detail she might have missed. Agent Anton Schuler had irritated her to the level that she felt lucky to have any information at all.

It had been clear from the minute she walked into his office that Agent Schuler was not especially concerned about finding this particular missing person. “The FBI has a lot of important things to do,” he told her flatly, “and I’ll give it to you straight. Looking for a queer little Frenchman who probably found a boyfriend and decided to hide out for a while and have fun isn’t real high on our list.”

His attitude had taken Feigen by surprise. It took her a moment to recover and get back on track with the questions she wanted to ask.

“Who was he visiting in Knoxville?”

“We haven’t released that information,” Agent Schuler said matter-of-factly. “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. He says Frenchie never got there.”

“He called him ‘Frenchie’?”

“He may have called him ‘Darling’ for all I know. The point is, we’ve checked him out and his story holds up. He’s not involved.”

Feigen’s patience was at an end. “If Guy Saillot weren’t homosexual, would you assume he’d found a girlfriend and was shacked up somewhere, not worth your time to look for? That’s a pathetic way to operate, Mister Schuler. I’d expect more from the FBI.”

She had left Schuler’s office more angry than she’d been in a very long time.

It took only a few minutes for her to go over her skimpy notes. Guy Saillot was twenty years old. He was a slight man, barely five feet, four inches tall and weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds. He had a sallow complexion, green eyes, and black hair. Nothing on what he might have been wearing, nothing about his habits—except his sexuality. The FBI wasn’t even sure how long the young Frenchman had been missing.

Feigen had no intention of working on her free time, and she had two more days off before she left for Tennessee. But she couldn’t get Guy Saillot out of her mind. When she couldn’t stand it any longer she picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Saillot home for probably the twentieth time. This time there was an answer.

“This is the Saillot residence. Hello.”

Surprised finally to have someone pick up the phone, Feigen fumbled for words. “I’m sorry,” she said, “may I ask who I’m speaking with?”

“This is Marie Saillot.”

“Miss Saillot, or missus, my name is Rachel Feigen. I work for the Associated Press and I’m doing a story about Guy. Are you a member of the family?”

There was a lengthy pause. “I’m Guy’s mother,” the woman said then. “How can I help you, Miss Feigen?”

Feigen was nearly breathless with anticipation. “Missus Saillot, would it be possible for me to come and talk with you? Anything you can tell me about Guy might help us find him. Anything at all. I’ve talked with the police and the FBI, and my editor is sending me to Tennessee to see if I can track down something they may be missing. I truly apologize for intruding on your privacy, but you could be very helpful to us if I could have just a few minutes of your time.”

After another pause, but this time a shorter one, Guy Saillot’s mother consented. Could Feigen come by her house tomorrow afternoon? And please don’t bring a photographer.

Feigen skipped dinner and made a list of questions for tomorrow. There was so much she didn’t know. Marie Saillot obviously was her best hope, yet she felt guilty for invading a mother’s private grief. Surely to have a son missing, a son who apparently had never been in the least bit of trouble, would be as difficult as anything a mother could face. The uncertainty must be terrible. On the one hand Feigen was eager to learn more about Guy Saillot, the person, but on the other she dreaded looking into the eyes of Marie.

She hardly slept that night. She had interviewed people faced with tragedy before, and it always left her with a hurt inside that sometimes lasted for days. This one might be the worst.

In the morning she got up early, eager for her meeting with Marie Saillot and mildly excited about picking up her new car. She had a quick breakfast, then got into her old Plymouth for the last time and drove to Coastal Chevrolet, a much-advertised suburban dealership where it looked like there were dozens of new automobiles on a spacious lot bounded by red and white pennants on tall poles. She was determined to keep her composure and act as if this was all routine and not her first time.

Mike Sodeman hurried out to meet her, welcomed her with a big smile, and said her car was waiting. They went directly to the gleaming BelAir hardtop faux convertible Mike had ordered for her.

On her first visit to the dealer, Feigen had looked at a car like this except that it was two-toned. It had a cream-colored top and red bottom and she told Mike she wanted one just like it except all cream. She’d paid no attention to the interior. When her car came it was bright red inside and she had been very much put out with herself for such a foolish oversight. But now she liked it. Others might find it gaudy, but she preferred to think of it as a flamboyant expression of her good taste.

Mike handed her the keys. She managed to stay calm until she drove off the lot, back onto the highway. In a final gesture of good salesmanship, Mike had tuned the car radio to her favorite station and the metallic notes of Perez Prado’s melodic and cheerful instrumental, “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,” drifted from the speaker. She pumped her fist in the air and shouted, “Yes, Rachel, it’s yours!” So much for the Feigen mantra.

When it came time for her to meet Marie Saillot she was still in high spirits, although it was no longer because of the car. She was at last going to learn more about Guy. Not merely Guy Saillot the missing person, but Guy Saillot the individual human being—this mother’s son. She was barely aware that she was driving a new Chevrolet as she set out for her appointment

Friday - How He Does It - Robert Hays

2012-01-27T05:03:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I agree in general, but with a slight difference. In my years as a newspaper reporter and even more years teaching journalism, I’ve always emphasized the so-called “five Ws and an H.” When we report news—factual information—we often are describing events that already have happened. The city passed a stiff zoning ordinance. There was an accident and someone was hurt. These are the “who,” “what,” “when,” and “where.” The “why” and “how” may be unknown or they may be obvious. In either case, this leaves the emphasis on the first four elements. We strive to tell the reader these, clearly and concisely, right at the beginning. News reports often are one-time stories, so that we never come back to the “why” and “how.” We move on to new stories.

In writing fiction, on the other hand, we have ample time to develop characters and setting. These are the “who” (characters), the “when” and “where” (setting). The “what” could be part of either the setting or the plot, and the “why” and “how” are likely to be integral to the plot. The plot is how we get from the beginning to the end of our story, so that what happens to our characters and why, and how events affect their lives become the story.

1.How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

This is an excellent question, and one I never really thought about before. I don’t have a specific process. I usually have the principal characters in mind when I start writing, then develop them as seems appropriate. I usually do not try to model a character on an actual person or persons, though they may be composites of more than one person I’ve known. The first real exception to this is a character in Blood on the Roses, FBI Agent Charlie Monroe. I wanted him to be a true Southern gentleman and I modeled him after my wife’s great uncle from Columbia, South Carolina. Everything Agent Wilson says or does, I hope, is reasonably close to the way Uncle Frank would have said it or done it and his physical description fits Uncle Frank (who passed away a good many years ago but is still remembered fondly).

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

For me, characters and plot come hand-in-hand. That is, I know when I begin a story who the principal characters are and how the story is going to play out. Sometimes I find I need to add additional characters to help carry the story and flesh out the plot, but I normally expect these to be minor characters. I have been surprised, though, when a “minor” character I like becomes more significant than I had planned. For example, the character Mack Brown in Circles in the Water was added merely to facilitate the plot but became one of my favorite characters.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

I usually know precisely how the story will end. I write a beginning and an ending, then bring the two together. In my four novels, the only exception to this is The Baby River Angel. I knew in a general way how it would end, but I was well into the story before I decided to make Baby Angel a real angel. The alternative—because I wanted her to stay with her new family—would have required some sort of tragedy that separated her from her biological family and I wanted this to be a light-hearted story all the way.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

I’m more comfortable working in settings I know. But this often means researching a place that I haven’t visited for a long while to see how it’s changed. Or I may transport a detailed setting—a house or a room, for example—to a different location. I feel safe in generalizing settings like a cheap motel room or a school classroom, which I can assume will be pretty much the same wherever it is located. I want the reader to be able to “see” the setting very much as I see it. A friend who wrote in-depth personality profiles for the Washington Post carried a camera when he did his interviewing and snapped photos of the setting, then looked back at the pictures when he wrote to make sure he was describing the setting in accurate detail. My hope is to accomplish the same realism.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Both. The Internet is a wonderful resource that allows us to visualize places virtually in a way that is almost as good as visiting them in person. I can get a street view of Paris or a bird’s-eye view of the Alps on my computer screen. However, when it comes to factual data, we have to be careful using Internet sources because we know they often are not reliable. Also, to get a true “feel,” I’m not comfortable until I read about a place or thing. This probably is essential if you are writing an historical novel, in which case I prefer contemporary sources as my reference. When I wanted authentic World War II combat detail for The Life and Death of Lizzie Morris, I turned to actual military battle reports from the U.S. Seventh Army invasion of Sicily and official U.S. Marine Corps histories of the war in Vietnam. As a former newspaper reporter, I enjoy getting into the newspaper library and studying contemporary accounts of events that may fit into my storylines.

Thanks very much for your great questions, and for giving me this opportunity.
Cheers, Robert

The Story Behind - Shortcut To Love - Contest

2012-01-26T07:25:00.000-08:00

Beginning a new and soon to be weekly event on the blog. Usually this is a day of interviews but today's guest never sent her interview and I was looking to start something new there so I thought I'd start with putting up a book each week or in the case of a series and give away an autographed print copy of each book, starting with the publisher with the fewest books.

How did this book come apart. I wanted to write something funny. Not realizing how difficult this was I began with the premise of Zelda who loved Michael who seemed to be going through the alphabet. Where does she fall, at the very end. Then at that time, all my stories were set in the medical world in some fashion I devised the situation. Their childhood encounters were fraught with events that put Michael on the receiving end. I decided Zelda would be the one or most of the time. I was off and running.

Unfortunately the publishers I was trying looked on him as a womanizer and never read much beyond the opening pages. Then I discovered epublishing and somehow I now have maybe the only romance at Clocktower. They're really into science fiction. But they have kept the book and it turned out that what I've really written is a farce. a tongue and cheek look at Medical romances.

Zelda has loved Michael for most of her life, but he seems to be working through the alphabet in his search for a wife. She's a Z and it will be years before he reaches her. Besides, when they're together, strange things happen, usually to him. How can this nurse show the doctor, she's what he ordered to make him complete? The author calls this a "doctor nurse spoof" and we think you'll really enjoy it!

Shortcut To Love by Janet Lane Walters is the best romance novel I’ve read in a long time. Why? Because it has everything I crave when I sit down to read a romance.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?rh=n%3A133140011%2Ck%3AJanet+Lane+Walters+-+Shortcut+To+Love&keywords=Janet+Lane+Walters+-+Shortcut+To+Love&ie=UTF8

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Shortcut-To-Love---Janet-Lane-Walters?keyword=Shortcut+To+Love+-+Janet+Lane+Walters&store=nookstore

Wednesday - About Plot - Puzzles

2012-01-25T07:26:00.000-08:00

A puzzle plot or a device used in writing a book means mystery. Who done it? Who's going to do it? Why did it happen? What happened? Where did it happen? When did it happen? How did it happen?

One of the tricks is to hide the evidence in plain sight. This means clues given to the readers to solve the mystery. The writer is challenging the reader. Can they solve the puzzle before the hero or heroine in the story does? If not can they have one of those "of course" moments and wonder why they didn't see the solution first.

Begin with introducing the characters, and all that goes with this. Let the reader see what they think will happen. Perhaps it will or maybe it won't. From there go into the action of the story, showing the main characters finding clues, some may be true and some false. Following a false lead will add tension. This story can end with the mystery solved, the criminal punished or with an open end leaving the reader to speculate.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Muse or Not

2012-01-24T07:12:00.000-08:00

Reading through an old Writer's Handbook I came upon a short piece by Sidney Sheldon. One part caught my attention. The importance of having a schedule and to sit down and write even if the muse was absent. This calls for organization and setting a certain time to write. This led me to thoughts of the "Muse." I think I'm a writer without one. The story ideas come and I sit down to write. There is no creature on my shoulder telling me what to put down on the paper. I write even on those days when I would rather not.

I do wish I could understand what role a muse played in a writer's career. Waiting for some inspiration and writing only when this inspiration is hot wouldn't get much writing done. I've found at times forcing myself to face a segment in a story when I don't feel like writing brings some very good segments.

Yesterday, I began typing in the first chapter of a story and suddenly I realized it was, not all wrong but that the story had begun in the wrong place for the kind of story I intended to tell. Not all of the chapter is lost work, some pieces will be saved and worked into the new beginning. The point here is that I didn't wait to be inspired by a mythical muse but by my knowledge of the characters and the way the story should be told. I also know if I wait for a Muse, I'd never get any writing done.

What about you? Do you write every day or sit and wait for the "Muse" to tap you on the shoulder?

23 January - Week Behind and Week Ahead

2012-01-23T06:16:00.000-08:00

Finished the edits for The Chosen of Horu and sent it off. What really psyched me was the note from the publisher saying she'd revised her schedule so she could read the book. Hopefully I'll hear something soon about it being publishable. That project took the whole week and hopefully I found all the typos etc.

This week I'll be doing the rough draft of a Surprising Seduction. So far the story is blocked in and I'm typing the first chapter in now. Going amazingly well but who knows what will happen next.

3 Blog Visit Sunday

2012-01-22T07:08:00.000-08:00

http://terryodell.blogspot.com/

http://www.rinkworks.com/fnovel/

http://karenselliott.wordpress.com

Saturday's Chapter - Defending Glory - Anne K. Albert

2012-01-21T06:11:00.000-08:00

DEFENDING GLORY, book one of the Piedmont Island Trilogy series by Anne K. Albert is available at Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Defending-Glory-ebook/dp/tags-on-product/B0045JL61E/

Chapter One

Aidan “Mac” McKeown palmed the bullets doctors removed from his right thigh and stared out his office window. Daffodils, tulips, and marsh marigolds lined garden paths beyond the alleyway at the back of the building. The fragrant scent of lilacs sweetened the air. Robins chirped on their endless hunt for worms. It was a perfect Thursday morning in northern Minnesota. The kind his partner would have cherished.

If he were alive.

A true hero and all around good guy, Ben should have been the one to survive the ambush. He had every reason to live. A loving wife. Two adorable children.

Mac’s fist tightened around the spent ammo. If only he could remember what went wrong that day. He had snippets of blurred images, fragments of shouted warnings, but nothing concrete. He woke up in the hospital two days later, and at the grand old age of thirty one learned a valuable lesson. There was no grand scheme. No master plan. And most certainly, no merciful God in heaven.

He tossed the bullets into the middle drawer of his desk. Why rehash the past? If Ben were alive, he’d order Mac to snap out of it and focus on the here and now.

“Pay attention,” Ben would say. “Never let your heart rule your head. It’ll get you every time.”

Exhaling slowly, Mac began to sort through a stack of bills. He divided them into two piles. Those he could pay and those he could not. Topping the former was the rent for the century old, red brick building that housed his office on the ground floor and a small two-bedroom apartment he called home on the second. After that he could pay the minimum amount required on the electric and telephone bills. The rest would have to wait until next month.

Or the month after that.

The recent downturn in the economy affected everyone. The good news was he did not have the added responsibility of a family to take care of, but many of his creditors, local entrepreneurs like himself, did. That bothered Mac. His bills were more than just a bunch of numbers or tallies of services rendered. They were mouths to feed and bodies to clothe. He had to find a solution to his cash flow problem before it became their problem, too.

A warm breeze whooshed through the open office window, whipping the items he’d pinned to a cork bulletin board on the wall opposite his desk. One photograph and accompanying article snipped from the local newspaper caught his attention. Written less than a year earlier to coincide with the grand opening of McKeown General Contracting, it told readers how as a young boy he had worked with his grandfather, a master tradesman in Minneapolis. Fond memories of their fishing trips to Piedmont Island spurred Mac to move north and open his own business.

He had felt so confident then. So certain he’d made the right decision. But with few construction projects on the horizon, and cash so tight he could not afford to paint his company’s name or phone number on the side of his truck to attract future clients, it was doubtful he’d still be in business by the end of summer.

Then what?

The buzzer inside his shop blared. A quick glance at the wall clock provided a spark of hope. 8:00 A.M. on the dot. Someone must need his services to come by so early in the morning. Reaching for his cane, he pushed himself up from the chair, and headed to the front of the building. A couple stood near the counter with their backs toward him.

“Good morning,” he said. “How may I help you?”

They turned to face him and his optimism fizzled. Although he did not recognize the woman, he was acquainted with the man. The pastor’s appearance inside his shop could mean only one thing. They had no desire to save his business. Their only concern was his soul.

* * *

To read more of chapter one of DEFENDING GLORY visit Anne’s website www.AnneKAlbert.com.

Book two of the series, PROTECTING HOPE, will be released by Vanilla Heart Publishing this spring. Serene Piedmont Island seems the perfect place for a workaholic accountant to kill five weeks until she realizes someone’s trying to kill her.

* * *

Friday - How She Does It Anne K. Albert

2012-01-20T05:37:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

The how of a story is indeed a sum of the five Ws. An author tells the story by showing the first five elements, which in turn allows the reader to see, understand and appreciate the how.

How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

I wish I did! I’m a pantser so I begin with an inkling of an idea. It’s never larger than a grain of sand and it’s always clouded in mist! When I begin a story I have no idea who these characters are. It’s very much like meeting a person for the first time. You get a sense you either like them or not, but as to who they really are deep inside, you haven’t a clue. By the end of the first draft, I know a great deal more about the characters. It’s in the revisions and edits that I expand and add layers to their personalities.

Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

Sometimes a character appears first, but usually it’s an event or inciting incident that will forever change this particular person’s life that pops into my head. As I mentioned above, I’m a pantser. I never know from one sentence to the next what is going to happen, so plotting even a scene in advance let alone an entire book is not for me.

However, midway through the first draft I will sometimes complete a GMC chart.

It’s important to me that every character has a reason for being in this book. Whether primary or secondary characters, everyone must have a Goal. It doesn’t necessarily have to relate to the story question, but they have to want to possess or achieve something. This something doesn’t need to be earth shattering. It just has to be of importance to this character. It’s not just enough for them to want something. They have to have a reason for wanting it. This is their Motivation, and that often tells me something about their personality. In fiction as in life, of course, no one achieves what they want without a struggle or having to work for it, and that’s where Conflict comes in. When I understand each person’s GMC, I have a much better idea of how they will react in any situation.

Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

This is a tough question, Janet! I guess my answer would be general because I know in advance that I want all of the loose ends tied up. I also know I want a satisfying ending. It has to feel right to me and to the reader.

Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

I rarely choose settings I personally know, because I sense each story needs a specific locale before I begin to write. Plus, I’ve traveled enough to understand that so many places around the world have similarities and it’s these commonalities that I use when I write.

As for house plans, no. When my characters walk into a building, I see it for the first time through their eyes. I notice the layout, the furniture, the personal details they notice. It’s all very voyeuristic, but it works.

Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

These days it’s all online. If I can’t find it on Google or in Wikipedia or wherever, it’s probably not worth worrying about!

Thanks for featuring me today, Janet. It’s been such fun!

Thursday's Interview - E. Ayers

2012-01-19T06:02:00.000-08:00

Anyone who leaves a comment and emails me (e.ayers at ayersbooks dot com - no spaces) with Ask Me Again in the subject line will be placed in a drawing for a free copy of my upcoming novella Ask Me Again when it is released.

Thank you so much for having me, Janet. It is such an honor to be on your blog. I've always considered you to be a very special mentor and a wonderful author friend.

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

I write contemporary romance with strong mainstream elements. Life is what influences us and I bring that into my writing. It's very slice-of-life, the romantic slice. But I'm toying with the idea of writing some historical novellas.

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

It must have chosen me, about the same way that my characters choose me. Once I started writing contemporary romance, I was hooked.

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

I love to read historical, but I'm panicked about writing it. I'm trying to write a few historical novellas to go with my River City novels.

I admire people like Roberta Gellis. She set the bar so high for today's writers by being accurate, yet she writes wonderful stories. History in school would have been much more fun if we'd been allowed to read Roberta Gellis instead of boring textbooks.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I love a cozy mystery, but I don't stick to one genre. I read to relax and enjoy a little escape from my life. As long as I'm entertained, I'll keep reading the book.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.

Seems like I've always been writing. But about twenty years ago, I got serious about writing novels and wrote several manuscripts for young readers who are good readers. I had no clue how to publish them or even how to submit to a publisher.

A friend's daughter is a romance writer and she convinced me to write romance. After her arm twisting, I wrote one and submitted it to a publisher. That book was rejected, but the editor loved the story. I got the nicest rejection letter. I wasn't certain if I wanted to cry or dance on the ceiling. Then I got to meet that editor-in-chief about a week later in Virginia Beach, Virginia. She spent almost an hour talking to me about my manuscript. I had violated every romance rule. (There were rules for writing romance?) So she marches me over to the wonderful Janet Lane Walters and says, "Teach her to write it correctly because she's very good with the tale."

One treasured, autographed How to be Your Own Critique Partner, a few online classes with the authors of that book, several more classes, lots of workshops, and what feels like a million rewrites of that first rejected manuscript, and Wanting is now a real book and the first in my River City series. It's been a marvelous journey, and I've learned so much along the way.

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

That's a tough question. I think we always fall in love with our characters as we write them. I adore Ari. He's my hero in A Challenge. He works hard to be an alpha, but he's more of a beta. In my mind, he's my best-looking and so far, my warmest and most loving hero.

My favorite heroine is Dallas from A New Beginning. Her blue-streaked hair and odd style show her uniqueness, but it's her personality and perseverance that I admire. She has a fresh quality about her and a vivaciousness that shines through. Talented and intelligent, she needed her hero to set her free.

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

This is a tough question. I'm going to have to say yes. When I started writing, I didn't think about the fact that I had a villain or villains. And since I don't write suspense, I want to say no, but … a villain is a villain. None of them are tying Pauline to the railroad tracks, but a villain can make the hero or heroine's life miserable. We all have one in our life. Either we work with one, live in the neighborhood with one, or worse, he or she is a family member!

I believe that most people are good people. But there are people who don't care about anything other than themselves. They don't care who they hurt to get what they want. And I can't keep them out of my novels.

8. What are you working on now?

Ask Me Again is a novella which will be released before the end of the month. It's undergoing all those last minute things. I'm also polishing my still untitled wounded hero/recluse story which should be released in late February or early March. Plus I have two River City characters begging for keyboard time. My muse so wants to write that story.

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

A Snowy Christmas in Wyoming was released in Nov. and I used the knowledge that I had of a blizzard that hit a friend's ranch in Colorado. That family's daily struggle stayed in my head and came out in A Snowy Christmas in Wyoming. It's not just a Christmas story. It's a tale of finding love, saving a herd, sharing the same family values, and small town prejudices.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Include the opening of the book.

Ask Me Again is a product of my normal matchmaking. I never think in exact terms when characters form. It's all very foggy at first, but then it takes shape. So what would bring a grown man home and force him to telecommute? What kind of a job would he have that would allow him to do such a thing? Why would he come home and not another sibling? All these things roll through my mind until they settle into a realistic, cohesive storyline.

Every family has its own dynamics, every family has its problems, and parents have secrets, too. Unfortunately, most all of us will cope with a dying parent during our lifetime. As we face these kinds of life altering events, our perspectives on our own lives tend to change and it forces us to think about what is important.

Rob Miller's life is on overload! His business is thriving and his life was in fast forward until he is called home to deal with a family crisis. The last thing on his mind is romance, but when he bumps into Torrey Timberlake, he has to re-evaluate his priorities. She might be the best thing to happen to him at the worst of times. Will she be the one to help him pick up the pieces?

Here's the unpolished sneak preview!

~~Chapter One~~

"Mom, I need to stretch my legs. Do you need me to pick up anything from the grocery store?"

"Oh, Robbie, I do need several things. Let me make a list for you," Marion Miller said to her son as she grabbed a sheet of paper from a magnetic pad that hung on the refrigerator door. A minute later, she handed him the list. "I put your favorite cereal on here."

He looked at the name of the chocolate and marshmallow cereal and shook his head. He couldn't believe they still made the sugar-laden puffs that he once ate. "Mom, are you going to eat this? Because I don't eat it anymore."

"Well, son, if you want something else go right ahead and buy it. I want you to be happy while you're here. Let me give you some money for this."

"Don't worry about it, Mom, I've got it covered."

Kissing his mother on the cheek, he strode out the back door, and headed for his car. Rob wanted to tell her exactly what would make him happy, but there was no point, it would only upset her, and she didn't need more stress in her life.

When he reached the supermarket, he grabbed a cart, and examined his mom's list. He intended to do some serious shopping. He went through the produce section picking out a variety of fruits and vegetables.

His mom's list contained several basic items such as coffee and he easily found most of them as he wandered through the aisles. He grinned as he picked the box with the large K that his mother had listed, and then turned his attention to the top shelf where the whole grain cereals were lined up. One promised great taste. He read the list of ingredients and added it to his cart. Squirrel food.

He should have done this when he had first arrived home and not waited three weeks, but he hadn't wanted to hurt his mom's feelings. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a home-cooked meal, but he tried to eat healthy foods, and his mom was feeding him like a growing teen.

Just as he turned to the next aisle, he caught a glimpse of a slender blonde about his age. She looked familiar, but he hadn't even attended a high school reunion, and the names of classmates were escaping him. T...uh. T-T, it begins with a T. It isn't Tammy. Darn it! Why can't I remember?

He told himself to stop worrying about it. Most of the women his age were married with kids. What would he say anyway? 'Hi, remember me? Remember Mrs. Fisch? Wasn't she the worst math teacher?'

He pushed the cart along at a steady clip looking for pasta. I've seen Dan, Bill, and Butt a few times over the years. Who would name their son Butler? Wouldn't they know it would be shortened to Butt when he got to school? And where are they hiding whole grain pasta in this store? Deep in thought, he almost plowed into the blonde.

"Robbie? Robbie Miller?" the woman asked.

"Yes, and I'm very sorry, but I can't remember your name. It starts with a T?"

"Torrey Timberlake. Well, it changed to Snyder, but I changed it back to Timberlake after the divorce. I'm sorry. That's way too much information." She blushed as she stared at him.

Torrey Timberlake? "No, not at all. I guess I haven't seen you since graduation. You look wonderful." Oh, have you changed!

Wednesday - Looking at Revenge

2012-01-18T07:31:00.000-08:00

Revenge plots are intense. Think of Medea or Hamlet. Sometimes just a taste can be used to intensify the story you're telling. Revenge can be an element in a mystery or a suspense story.

For a Revenge plot, a hero and a villain are needed. Plus a victim. Unlike the Rescue kind of plot, the victim is dead. The hero wants to see the villain as dead as the victim. There can also be an act taken by the villain against the hero or heroine. This event can be real or imagined.

When there is a death often the hero is visited by the victim in a dream calling for the hero to avenge him. The focus of this kind of story is on the revenge and not on developing the character or having the character change.

Often this begins with the hero going to the authorities and finding nothing can be done. The villain will get away with what he or she has planned. The hero or heroine then decides to take justice into their own hands.

The hero or heroine must have a moral justification for seeking the revengand must equal the act they are seeking to avenge.

This story ends with a confrontation where the hero or heroine succeeds or fails. Though in the past in Revenge stories, both the hero and the villain are dead, today the hero may remain alive.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Write What You Know

2012-01-17T07:34:00.000-08:00

When I first heard this bit of advice I was puzzled. I thought this would tie me into writing just about the career I was part of. I was a nurse and yes, I began my career writing nurse romances but then I decided to expand my horizons. I wasn't sure that bit of advice would allow me to write mysteries or fantasy, two of the areas I enjoyed reading. So I sat down to think about what it really meant.

What sort of things did I know? One area was that of emotions. I knew about love and hate and myriad other emotions I'd experienced. So the emotions became a way to explore the other areas of writing I wanted to explore.

Because I had been a nurse I understood how other people reacted to news good and bad. I was also a people watcher. It's not that I knew everything about people, their actions and interactions but I knew wnough to expand on these areas.

I had lived in various places and these became part of what I was able to write about. New Your, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Oklahoma, Texas. Small towns, cities, rural areas. I learned I could transplant these to the area where I wanted to write about.

Another place where I knew things was in the use of the senses. Visual effects, tastes, smells, sounds and touch. I could use things I remembered to add to my stories.

So, write what you know but first sit down and think about all the things you know. Write about the things you can change about what you know by expanding or subtracting.

16 January Week Behind and Week Ahead

2012-01-16T07:15:00.000-08:00

Busy week last one with doing the final revisions on The Chosen of Horu. Have done 24 chapters and have a few more to go. Sometimes the small errors make one want to scream and even careful typing doesn't pick them up. Those are words where the letters are the same but the words have such different meanings. Sometimes I wonder if it's possible even with many eyes to catch them all.

This week, I intend to finish the read-through and then get the changes made so I can send this mss. off and begin a new one. Hopefully that will go well especially since I'm aiming at 25,000 to 30,000 words. Then I must begin planning another Mrs. Miller story.

There's been a lot of discussion about SOPA. Though what's being offered in the bill isn't perfect it's better than what we have now. Sure I'd like to see some changes, but I really get tired of finding illegal copies of my books on foreign sites and having the letters asking for them to be taken down ignored.

3 Blog visit Sunday

2012-01-15T04:26:00.001-08:00

http://lit-handyman.livejournal.com/13934.html

http://artistsagainstdigitaltheft.com/

http://bloodredpencil.blogspot.com/2012/01/createspace-ins-and-outs-explained-by.html

Saturday's Chapter - The Traitors Among Us -- SR Claridge

2012-01-14T05:16:00.000-08:00

The Traitors Among Us - SR Claridge

CHAPTER ONE

Angel slid slowly out from under the sheet and lifted herself off his double bed, trying not to make any sudden movements that might wake him. She tiptoed across the hardwood floor, scanning the room for her clothes and pausing each time the floorboards creaked. Last night must have been wilder than she remembered because her clothes were strewn across the room. She was wearing one of his black t-shirts that hung almost to her knees, and her bra was missing in action. She bent down and peeked under the bed. It was possible it could have been kicked under there during their romp. Angel didn‟t remember taking it off, though she was certain it wasn‟t forced off. She‟d been here before, many times, and there was no question she was a willing participant.

Too willing, she scolded herself.

She had been carrying on with Grayson for the past year, and though their relationship was unconventional and probably even unhealthy, she couldn‟t resist him. From the first time he strutted into Tetterbaum‟s pub, which she owned, she was putty in his hands. Thereafter, each time he showed up she followed him home like a bouncing puppy. He was mysterious, alluring and rendered her defenses inoperable with a mere glance from his big brown eyes and dimpled cheeks.

Making it to the bathroom without waking him, Angel exhaled a sigh of relief. She splashed cold water on her face and blotted at the mascara smudged on her cheek. Her brown eyes looked glassy, like she tied one on last night, which was only fair considering she had. Her shoulder length, dark brown hair lay flattened against her head and she ran her fingers through it just above the ears, trying to add volume. It didn‟t work. She finally opted to tuck it behind her ears and let the rest fall messily over her shoulders. Standing back Angel took in her reflection and sighed. “I hope I can sneak out before he sees me,” she mumbled to herself. “Talk about a turn off.”

Angel was certain Grayson would wake up just as good looking as when he went to sleep, though she never stuck around long enough to find out. It wasn‟t because she didn‟t want to behold his manly glory at sunrise; it was because she didn‟t want the awkwardness that comes with the morning after. Everything felt easier at night when inhibitions were compromised by alcohol, expressions were hidden in darkness and there was no particular pressure to talk. At night, in Grayson‟s arms, Angel felt she could become anyone she wanted. She was free and open and that spontaneous excitement was different than anything she‟d ever experienced.

Tiptoeing around the bed she was able to locate her black converse tennis shoes but her bra and black t-shirt that read Tetterbaum‟s Pub were still MIA. She stared at the covers wadded up at the foot of the bed and surmised that her bra and shirt were probably buried in them. Deciding to attempt a quick search and rescue, she knelt down and slid her arm under the black comforter, careful not to touch his legs. Moving to the other side, she slid her arm in again, still nothing.

I’ll have to go home braless and borrow his shirt, she concluded. There were no other feasible options.

As she withdrew her arm, the sheet pulled back slightly and something on his right hip caught her eye. It was a tattoo. She hadn‟t noticed it before, though that wasn‟t hard to believe since she‟d never seen him naked in the light of day. Carefully she lifted the corner of the sheet just enough to view the entire tattoo. It was about two inches long and looked like a scar, like it had been burned into the skin, leaving grooves in his flesh. She‟d never seen anything like it. Angel fought the temptation to let her fingertips explore the grooves. She didn‟t like tattoos, but this one intrigued her and she shuttered, as the possibility it had been branded into his flesh filled her with waves of nausea. Cocking her head to the side, Angel narrowed her eyes and studied it. It was the letter M, but the slanted line on the left that made up the middle of the M contained tiny letters. Angel leaned closer, and silently read the letters engraved down the side. “AVGC.” She repeated the letters in her mind, trying to assign significance to the acronym, but had no idea what it meant.

When Grayson began to stir, Angel froze, holding her breath. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. Her mind chanted and her heart raced. She really didn‟t want him to see how horrible she looked in the morning, not to mention how weird it would be if he opened his eyes and saw her looming over him. When she was certain he was back asleep, she slowly rocked back on her heels, scooted away from the bed and made a beeline for the door.
Their relationship was perfect, she told herself as she drove to her apartment. He didn‟t know where she lived so she didn‟t have to worry about unannounced drop-ins. They‟d never exchanged phone numbers so she didn‟t have to obsess over whether he‟d call the day after sex; nor did she have to carry her phone around hoping for a text. She didn‟t even know his last name. In fact, they knew very little about each other outside of the bedroom. There were no strings, which was exactly what she wanted, or exactly what she tried to convince herself she wanted. The truth was Angel was lonesome. She turned twenty-nine last month and besides the ticking of her biological clock, her heart longed to feel loved.

Angel had experienced her share of typical teenage crushes that lasted a few months, but had only been in love once and it ended badly. His name was Tony and they met as journalism students at the University of Missouri. It was love at first sight. They dated all through school, and after graduation, moved into an apartment together upon returning to Chicago. Shortly after they announced their engagement, Tony changed. As if overnight he grew distant and began to drag his feet about setting an actual wedding date. Finally one night, he dropped the bomb.

The memory of that day was something Angel would like to forget, but it haunted her. He drove her to a place that had become their favorite spot outside the city. The property belonged to a friend of his parents, and Tony was allowed to use it whenever he liked, as long as he cleaned up and locked up. A gravel road led up to the enormous house, which sat a hundred yards from a small lake. The lake was surrounded by trees on all sides and Tony and Angel had gone there many times for romantic getaways, picnics, making-love under the stars and the occasional spontaneous bout of skinny dipping. It was quite possibly Angel‟s favorite place in the entire world, though in all fairness she hadn‟t seen much of the world. Her travels were limited to Illinois and parts of Missouri, with the exception of one trip to New York City when she was five. Tony drove her to this special place to break the news and her heart in one fail swoop. Then he was gone.

She clung to the hope of his return for six months before denial slipped into depression. Angel‟s Great Aunt Olga came to her rescue, forcing her to get out of bed, to eat and shower, to go to work and to find a way to live without him. What made the breakup so painful for Angel was that she never understood why Tony left. All he said was, “we can‟t be together.” He never explained. He never said he didn‟t love her anymore or that she had done something wrong. He just vanished completely from her life.

Getting over Tony had been a long, painful journey that left her heart guarded and unable to risk desertion again.

Since then most nights in Angel‟s life were uneventful. She‟d close up the pub and head home to her apartment in Lincoln Park. When the weather was nice, she walked since it was only a few blocks; but on stormy or snowy days, she was thankful to have her own car, even though owning a car in Chicago was actually more of a hassle and ate up a lot of money in lot fees. Still, it gave her a sense of independence, like she could hop in her car and go anywhere anytime she wanted.

Every night after work, Angel would join her two cats, Midnight and Mo, on the couch for left-over bar food and a round of TV‟s best re-runs. Midnight was solid black and liked to lurk in small, dark places; like under the couch or in a closet. Mo was a social Calico who liked to snuggle. He had a purr so loud it sounded like a motorcycle humming in the distance. After feeding herself and the cats, she‟d fall asleep on the couch, usually thinking about Grayson and wondering when he would show up again.

“Next time he shows up,” she would tell Mo, “I‟m not following him home. I‟m going to play hard-to-get.” She could see Mo didn‟t believe her anymore than she believed herself. He‟d look up with slits of mockery in his eyes, as if to say “who are you kidding,” then go back to bathing himself with his sandpaper tongue. Angel knew Grayson was part of the reason there was no love interest in her life; but she resolved herself to the fact that some form of love, albeit just a physical thing, was better than none at all.

Angel pulled her silver Camry onto the lot and into her reserved spot which cost almost as much monthly rent as her apartment. Turning off the ignition, she sat for a moment, thinking about Grayson‟s tattoo and his nakedness. Her face flushed. How can I date someone else, she interrogated herself, when I know the minute Grayson shows up I’ll dump the other guy for a mere night in Grayson’s bed? It was a fair question. She was stuck.

The aroma of cinnamon pancakes and maple syrup greeted her as she opened her apartment door, momentarily taking her mind off Grayson. She made her way to the kitchen and found great aunt Olga in front of the stove with big pot holder gloves on both hands. Aunt Olga stood four foot ten and was almost as round as she was tall. She had dark gray hair that sat on top her head in little poufy lumps like storm clouds and light brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled. She was seventy but you‟d never know it because her chubby cheeks stretched out her wrinkles and she was as spry as ever; something she attributed to her daily glass of Jack Daniels. “Keeps my mind keen and my intestines clean,” she always said.

Aunt Olga had her own house in the city but showed up at Angels at least three times a week, usually with a bottle of Jack and always with a hidden agenda. For some people the frequent visits may have been invasive, but Angel didn‟t mind. The truth was she didn‟t have many friends of her own. Over the years she had lost touch with high school friends and in college Tony had been her whole life. Now that he was gone she had no one; well, no one except Olga.

Angel gave Aunt Olga a hug from behind. “Mmmm, you make the best cinnamon pancakes in the world,” she said, inhaling in a big whiff.

“You eat up now,” Olga answered, carrying a plate over to the table, “you‟ve got a busy day ahead.”

Angel sat and shoveled in a fork full. “No I don‟t.”

“Angel May,” Olga gasped, “no wonder you don‟t have a man.”

Uh-oh. It was always bad when Olga used her middle name. “What?” She moaned.

“Don‟t talk with your mouth full. No man wants to see that. Close your lips when you chew. You don‟t want him to think you‟re disgusting do you?”

“Who?” Angel blurted, half-chewed pancakes mashing around in clear view.
Olga shook her head in disgust. “Harvey Milligan.”

Angel froze with another fork full half way to her mouth. “Harvey who?”

Aunt Olga snatched the plate from in front of Angel and stormed across the kitchen, to the sink. “I‟m not done with that,” Angel grabbed at the plate.

“You gonna go out with Harvey Milligan this morning?” Olga‟s question was an ultimatum in disguise. Angel watched in wide-eyed horror as she tilted the plate ever so slightly and the pancakes slid towards the disposal.

Olga was a feisty old broad and she didn‟t mind sticking her nose into other people‟s business, no matter the cost. This wasn‟t the first man she‟d found for Angel and she was certain it wouldn‟t be the last. Olga‟s matchmaking skills were sub-par, despite the fact that each time she met a single man she swore to Angel it was fate.

Rodney, the fireman, was the first act of fate. Olga met Rodney when she set her kitchen curtains aflame with an out of control fondue. The oil splattered on the burner and flames shot up three feet high, singeing Olga‟s eyebrows and disintegrating the lace curtains altogether. Rodney was big, strong and not bad looking but he had more muscles than brains. When Angel looked into his eyes it was clear that not only were the lights on and nobody home, but nobody was ever coming home.

The next victim of fate was poor „old Stanley, the dentist. It took the first five minutes of their date for Angel to realize he had the personality of a doorknob.

“I don‟t understand,” Olga wailed when Angel described what a dud Stanley was. “He‟s so witty when he‟s working on my teeth.”

“That‟s not his wit,” Angel explained, “its laughing gas.”

While on one of her exercise kicks, Olga met Manuel, the yoga instructor.

At first, Angel thought Manuel had potential. He had a great body, tan skin, chocolate brown eyes and dark hair that sat perfectly in place. He looked perfect, too perfect, which made perfect sense when Angel found out he was gay.

“No,” Olga gasped at the news, “but he ogles all the ladies.”

“He smiles at the ladies because you‟re all in your seventies and you pay him.”

Olga wasn‟t convinced. “Maybe he didn‟t like you and it was easier to lie than be up front?”

“He‟s not an up front guy. Believe me, he goes in the backdoor.” Angel waited for the metaphor to sink in, and then grinned as Olga giggled like a little girl.

“Oh, that‟s a good one. I‟m gonna have to remember to tell that to Elsa at the hair salon,” Olga snickered.

Then there was Clyde. Angel referred to him as a sweaty clod. He was nice enough, but he took Angel dancing and she had yet to recover from the haunting images of him on the dance floor. He fancied himself an erotic dancer, but his five foot eight, stocky body with a beer gut bouncing up and down, and wet smelly arm pits spoke otherwise. Not to mention the profusion of sweat that dripped from his hairline onto her shoulders. Angel fought her gag reflex when he came off the floor and draped his sweaty pit around her shoulder. She let him have one goodnight kiss, out of sheer pity, then ran inside and brushed her teeth.

Angel watched as Olga tilted the plate slightly higher and one piece of pancake slopped into the sink. “Okay,” she moaned, “you win. I‟ll go out with Harvey Milligan if you give me back my pancakes.”

Olga grinned a big, rounded smile of victory. She waddled over and put the plate back down in front of Angel. “You‟re a mean old sphinx,” Angel said, stuffing pancakes in her mouth.

“How do you think I‟ve lived this long?” She sat down next to Angel and watched her eat. “Hurry. You need to shower and go.”

“Where am I going and who is this Harvey guy?” Angel rolled her eyes, showing how annoyed she was by Olga‟s tactics. She knew Angel couldn‟t resist cinnamon pancakes. It wasn‟t a fair fight.

“Don‟t roll your eyes at your old aunt, it isn‟t proper.” Angel looked over at Olga and crossed her eyes, which made Olga giggle. “You‟re meeting him at the Art Museum at 9:00am.”

“So he‟s another geek.” Angel wasn‟t surprised. Every man Olga lined up for her was a flop. They‟d all been nice, but who wants nice? None of them were manly and strong. Unfortunately, they all had one thing in common, none were Grayson.

“He‟s an accountant dear, very smart with the numbers and loves art. When I told him you used to work at the museum his face lit right up.”

“I haven‟t worked at the museum for years, and I quit that job because I was bored out of my freaking mind.” Angel shoveled in the last bit of pancakes right before Olga snatched her plate and took it to the sink.

“You can‟t be that stranger‟s ho forever,” Olga snapped. Angel didn‟t know whether to laugh at the fact that Olga just used the word ho, or feel offended that she called her one. “You‟re not getting any younger and it‟s time you settle down with a real man.”

Angel rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought, the real man speech. What constituted a real man anyway? Olga disapproved of Grayson because his ways were unconventional. He wasn‟t a come home and meet the family sort of guy; but he was more of a real man than any of the men Olga picked out.

“How do you think it looks being a single lady running a pub in the city all by yourself? You don‟t want a reputation you can‟t live down.”
She hadn‟t thought about her reputation as a single female pub owner.

True, most the night spots were owned by men, but that didn‟t mean a woman couldn‟t run a successful bar business alone. Besides, Tetterbaum‟s Pub was a local icon on the North Side with a fabulous reputation. It was a small pub, but had a quaint charm that drew in both locals and tourists.

The Tetterbaum family opened the pub in 1936, shortly after the end of prohibition, and it has been in the same free-standing, corner brick building ever since. Though the building had undergone several renovations through the years, it had never lost its historic allure. There were rumors that Al Capone himself had a table at Tetterbaum‟s though there were no pictures to confirm the tale, just a plaque that hung over the back booth which read “Capone‟s Corner.” Angel was certain it was all hype to bring in tourists.

“You never should have started working at the old, nasty pub. It‟s no place for a woman.” Olga ranted.

“It‟s one of the classiest pubs in the city and you know it.” Angel scolded and Olga threw up her hands.

Angel wasn‟t backing down because she knew she was right. Tetterbaum‟s Pub served the highest quality bar food on the north side and you couldn‟t find a more unique ambiance.

The walls were red brick with dark wooden beams running up and across the ceiling. The floors were dark wood with a natural gleam that reflected the lights from the tiny yellow lamps that sat on each table. The bar ran the entire length of the dining area and the front of it was over-laid in red brick to match the walls. The top was deep brown mahogany, surrounded by a dark brown leather bumper and tiny inset lights illumed the overhang on the outside of the bar. Each stool was covered in dark brown leather to match the bar bumper and the booths throughout the restaurant; and the stool rungs were shiny gold plated.

Mr. Tetterbaum didn‟t believe in neon bar signs advertising alcohol products. He said, “The liquor speaks for itself and doesn‟t need a flashy sign.” So the back of the bar was simply a large mirror, surrounded by shelves made out of the same mahogany as the bar top. Bottles of every size, shape and color adorned the shelves and tiny yellow spotlights from the ceiling were intricately aimed at each shelf, highlighting their offering. It was a beautiful design, with the dim lighting creating an aura of romance and sophistication. It was unlike any pub Angel had ever seen.

“It‟s still no place for a single woman.” Olga sputtered.

Angel sighed from the mental exhaustion of arguing with Olga. It wasn‟t like running a pub was her dream job. She had wanted to be a journalist, but like so many other things in her life, she just sort of stumbled into owning the pub. After Tony left, Angel started waitressing at Tetterbaum‟s Pub, not because she needed the money but because she needed something to force her out of her apartment every day and keep her mind off Tony. She especially liked working the evening shift because night time hours spent at home by herself were the loneliest. After a few months Mr. Tetterbaum had Andrew train her to become a bartender, a challenge she found fulfilling. It somehow gave her a feeling of control, at least over one tiny aspect of her life.

“They shouldn‟t have sold the pub to you. They should have sold it to a man.” Olga waddled from the sink to the stove to the table, mumbling under her breath.

“That‟s sexist,” Angel argued, raising an eyebrow. “There‟s no reason a woman can‟t run a pub in the city. Besides, the Tetterbaum‟s didn‟t have anyone else to sell it to.”

“Rubbish,” Olga spat. “You mark my words missy,” she shook her finger at Angel, “that pub is bad news.”

“It is a great investment and it gives me a sense of purpose. I was lucky to get it.”

Less than a year after Angel started waitressing at Tetterbaum‟s, Ernest Tetterbaum died of a sudden heart attack and his wife, Mable, offered the pub to Angel.

“I‟ll sell it to you for under half of what it‟s worth,” Mable told Angel with her eyes darting around the pub in frantic bursts, and wringing her hands.

“I‟ve never owned a restaurant before,” Angel told her, but Mable insisted.

“I don‟t want anyone else to have her,” she said of the pub, “you were like the daughter we never had and it should be yours.” She patted Angel on the side of the cheek. “If I didn‟t need the money I‟d give it to you for free.”

Angel used some of the inheritance money from her dad to purchase Tetterbaum‟s. Though he left her a substantial amount, she rarely touched her dad‟s money. She used it to pay for college and to buy her car, but everything else was paid for by income she earned herself. It was important for her to feel independent and self-sufficient. She didn‟t like relying on other people because if fate had taught her anything it was that people inevitably leave. Using her dad‟s money to buy the pub was an investment that she felt would have met with her dad‟s approval. In fact, Angel felt certain that he‟d have made Mable an offer on it had he still been alive.

After Angel purchased the pub, Mable wished her good luck and left. Angel hadn‟t seen or heard from her since.

“Humph,” Olga snorted. “It isn‟t right.”

“That pub has been nothing but good for me.” Angel grinned, thinking about how she met Grayson one week after she officially became the new owner of Tetterbaum‟s. In her mind that was icing on the cake, like a tiny kiss from fate.

“People are starting to talk,” Olga said in a half-whisper.

“Wait a second,” Angel blurted, catching up on the conversation, “Did you call me a ho? I‟m not anyone‟s ho.”

“Well, sure you are dear,” Olga argued. “Whenever he comes to call you go, that‟s a ho. He probably has a ho in every bar across town.” Angel hadn‟t thought about that and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up from sheer irritation.

“He does not,” she scowled.

“How do you know?” Olga stood with her feet squared and her hands on her round, chubby hips. She gawked at Angel, waiting for an answer.

This was getting out of hand. Maybe Olga was right and Grayson did have a girl in every bar across town, but that didn‟t make her a ho. That would make him a ho.

“You‟re wrong about him.” Angel sputtered defensively, all the while searching her vocabulary for a definitive term that would paint her relationship with Grayson in a more positive light. “We‟re friends with benefits.” Olga threw up her hands and Angel felt infuriated. “Maybe he‟s MY ho,” she blurted, raising her right eyebrow slightly. “Did you ever think of that?”

Olga stopped futzing around the kitchen and gasped, “A man ho, now that‟s a different story all together.”

“Yep,” Angel chimed in, feeling vindicated, “he‟s my boy toy and I keep him around to pleasure me until Mr. Right comes along.”

Olga chuckled a raspy laugh; one only years of smoking could produce. “I can‟t wait to tell Elsa you have a man ho.” Olga shuffled around the kitchen. “Maybe I should get me a man ho?”

Angel buried her face in her arms and let them drop onto the kitchen table, exhaling an exasperated sigh. “You‟re killing me.”

How She Does It -- S.R. Claridge

2012-01-13T05:48:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I agree. I usually know the WHO, WHAT, WHEN, and WHERE right off the bat… the WHY and the HOW are the creative part, where I get to dive into the deep, dark corners of my mind and see what scary things I can find. 

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

I usually begin with a basic idea of each character and paint an overall visual image; but my characters don’t really come alive until the story progresses. I spend a great deal of time during the re-writing process going back and adding in character traits and overall depth.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

My main characters are always alive before the plot… but the plot brings out their idiosyncrasies in persona. I may have an idea of where the story will lead, but I never outline it or plot its course. It is more natural for me to allow the characters themselves to play out the scene. Sometimes I am amazed at where it leads and I have to take my fingers off the keyboard and ask myself, “Is that where I really want the story to go?”

In the “Just Call Me Angel” series, which currently consists of three novels (Tetterbaum’s Truth, Traitors Among Us, Russian Uprising), there are many moments when I gasp at what I have just typed and think, “Wow, I did not see that coming!” It is my hope that my readers feel the same.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin?

In a general way or a specific one? I usually have no idea where the story will end. Sometimes I have a general thought about where the story is headed, but it always ends up twisting and turning… so now, I just sit back and enjoy the ride. 

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

Thus far, I have chosen settings that are familiar to me. Missouri, Kansas, Colorado and Chicago. I find it is easier to visualize the places I have been, thus, lending itself to a deeper, more real description for the reader.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Almost all my research is done on-line or in actually visiting a location and taking pictures of it. I rarely use books for research.

Thursday's Interview - Rose Anderson

2012-01-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

First off Janet let me say thank you for having me today. I appreciate your allowing me to introduce myself to your site’s visitors.

At this time, my erotic romances are my books in print. I write across genres or combine elements of several and often have more than one story going at the same time. Occasionally I’ll hop from one to another and back again in the same day. :)

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

Erotic romance most definitely chose me! I’ve spent the past four years writing a rather cerebral contemporary series.

Life changed for me about a year and a half ago when my grown daughter got me thinking about publishing again. Ambient Income was the phrase she’d used after reading about a very successful ebook author who now lives solely on his royalties. It caught my imagination, I liked the idea of Ambient Income. Ambient is such an evocative word. It means to come from all sides. I like the thought of good things coming from all sides!

The time fame for all this mind shift was kind of crazy -- no more than a full week all told. Shortly after my conversation with my daughter, I came across a magazine article stating eReaders were becoming affordable and ebook sales were on the rise. The very next day, I read online that romance was the fastest growing genre, the sub-genre of erotic romance was even more so. That very same week, I heard that many New York Times bestsellers started out in romance. Unbelievably, one morning just a few days later, I got an email from C. Hope Clark, who does Funds for Writers, and read a comment on erotic romance. I threw my hands in the air and surrendered. The Muse spoke to me. In fact, once I understood this inspiration for what it was, I realized she’d been hitting me on the nose for a week!

I figured I’d write erotic romance to break into this business, learn the ropes, and have some idea what the heck I was doing by the time I finished my series. I made a plan, wrote a book, and two books and a full year later I’m about to submit my next erotic romance to my current publisher. Yes, I’ll get back to that series eventually…

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

Because I’m comfortable using words to create worlds, I’d likely try just about all of them. There is one I wouldn’t touch though because it’s just not in me, and that is Horror. I can write chilling, I can write suspense. In a mood, I can write maniacal or matter of fact evil. But I can’t write the depth of cruelty, fear, and suffering found in the Horror genre. Hats off to those authors who can paint with the dark paints. It takes a lot to go outside of yourself, write for the sake of the art, and do so convincingly.

I have touched upon horror in my writing, but I don’t see me doing a whole book of it because I’m an emotional marshmallow. I’m far too sensitive a person who cries at weddings, births, funerals, and occasionally TV commercials. It simply wouldn’t sound believable.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I’m an informational reader for the most part. Oddball that I am, I read encyclopedias like other people read magazines. Once a year I’ll binge, and I mean binge, on fiction -- romance mostly, but I’ll do a run of historical fiction too. My yearly pilgrimage could include titles by the likes of Diana Gabaldon, JK Rowling, Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, among others. When the binge ends, I go back to reading information.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing

I’ve been writing for more than twenty years on and off, but seriously knuckling down for about five. I’m a person who loves learning all kinds of things. You might say my childlike wonder is still pretty much intact. My interest(s) du jour often direct where my mind goes when the Muse says it’s time to write. That being the case, any given day catches me writing across a wide range from one end the spectrum to the other -- everything from early readers and childrens literature to erotic romance (not under the same name!).

After an unrealized bid for the New York publishing houses for my childrens stories more than twenty years ago, life got busy and I really didn’t pursuit getting published after that. I have plans for my other completed books now that I have a better understanding of how this business works. 2012 may see me in print in several genres. Now if I could just figure out how to produce an eight-day week to get my stack to print!

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

My series, the unnamed 5-book, 4-year in the making, as-yet-unfinished, Magnum Opus (affectionately called the MO), has a fabulous family of men and I adore all of them. By far, of all the men who’ve come out of my subconscious to introduce themselves, these guys stay front and center as the best.

Were I to pick from my published works, I’d have to say it would have to be S from Hermes Online. That is one smooth-talking, sensual, sexy man. S and I took part in a character interview a few months ago and he told me even more about himself. I found I liked him even more than when I dreamed him up! That man’s a keeper. On the other hand, it’s so easy to fall in love with these perfect specimens of manhood that rise fully formed from my imagination, I’m sure the hero in my next novel will end up stealing my heart as well. He’s certainly trying to!

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

Ooh. I’ve never really given any thought as to how my bad guys were created. That’s something to think about. To be honest, they kind of sprung from my head like Athena!

My aforementioned series has a villain to remember. This bad guy could be Voldemort’s younger brother. That story’s villain was so developed before I even put him to pen, that I even surprised myself. He’s given me goosebumps on several occasions because he’s not really bad, he’s just being himself.

I suppose in the end, my bad guys are me on some level because if you think about it they’d have to be. How else could I write them into being? Muahahahahaaa! ;)

8. What are you working on now?

I’m finishing the self-editing of book one in a shape-shifter story. I’m less for forty-five pages from writing my pitch letter. Yea! All I’ll say about the topic for now, is it’s based upon a local legend. That in itself is a very curious thing considering it’s about a shape-shifter!

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

Dreamscape is my most recent novel. I got into a conversation with an online friend one day about impossible love stories and that was the spark for this particular story. One of my favorite old black and white movies is The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. In it, Lucy Muir, a nearly destitute widow at the turn of the last century, comes to live seaside in a house that once belonged to a cantankerous old sea dog named Captain Daniel Gregg. He tries to scare her off, but as a woman with few options, she stands firm and holds her ground.

As the story unfolds, the two form an unlikely friendship and tiptoe around an impossible love that culminates at the end of her life when he returns, takes her by the hand, and walks with her into the mist. How romantic is that? To this day I love that story. As a girl, I wanted Mrs. Muir to love Daniel Gregg without thinking twice. I also knew there really was no future in it. When I wrote Dreamscape, I held that unfortunate fact in mind. But the thing is, I like bending scenarios and making them work somehow. :)

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

And just as in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Dreamscape too has a haunted house. But where Mrs. Muir and Captain Gregg sidestepped the love issue because of the poor logistics of loving a ghost, Dr. Jason Bowen and Dr. Elaine O’Keefe’s relationship takes a different turn. I suppose it’s my own way of rewriting the story that so captivated me as a child. I think the best way to sum it up would be to offer the blurb:

Unable to deny his own translucence, Dr. Jason Bowen determines his lack of physical substance could only mean one thing—he’s a ghost. Murdered more than a century before, Jason haunts his house and ponders the treachery that took his life. When Lanie O’Keefe arrives with plans to renovate her newly purchased Victorian mansion, Jason discovers, ghost or not, he’s still very much a man. Despite its derelict condition and haunted reputation, Lanie couldn’t be happier with her new home, but then she has no idea a spirit follows her every move throughout the day and shares her captivating warmth at night. Jason soon discovers he can travel through Lanie’s dreams and finds himself reliving the days before his murder with Lanie by his side. It took one hundred and twenty years for love to find them, but there’s that insurmountable little matter of Jason being dead.
Here’s a bit from the first chapter:

"I"m so excited, Ben, look!” Lanie held out her trembling hand. “I’m shaking all over. I’ve never been inside the gate before.”

Looking up at the massive house with its several boarded windows and shutters barely attached, Ben Danowski turned to her in surprise. “Lanie, are you sayin’ you bought this place without looking inside?”

She laughed lightly. “Pretty reckless, huh?” She went on to explain how she’d loved the old place ever since she was a little girl. While other children called it haunted and broke windows, she’d dreamt it was her house, and now it was. She had yet to go inside but knew by the realtor’s paperwork the house was filled with whatever furnishings Margaret Mason, the last of her family, had left when she died.

What she didn’t mention was she felt she already knew every
inch of the place because her dreams often took her here. She’d seen enough in those dreams that she didn’t need to see the inside before she signed the contract. As both tried to unload the property for nearly twenty-four years, her sight-unseen purchase had surprised and delighted the realtor and the bank president. It didn’t matter if the antiques of her dreams filled the house or if the rooms were empty. All that mattered was the house was hers.

Ben knew while old lady Mason lived, the house had been in pretty good condition and was closed up tight after she died. He told her, “I think you’re going to find the Bowen house is basically sound. Had it been any other house you were buying sight unseen, I’d say you’d bought a Pandora’s Box of trouble.” His father’s good friend Frank Wurley kept an eye on the house through all the years it had sat vacant. Living across the street like he did, Frank made a daily check for broken windows and most often was able to get them replaced within twenty-four hours. He gave up trying to keep up with the regularly vandalized atrium. But more than Lanie’s neighbor, Frank was the president at the First National Bank, which held the Bowen title in trust. They’d discussed the three unusual stipulations in Margaret Mason’s will. The house was never to be rented, and the bank was to use whatever monies necessary from the estate to keep it in livable condition for the next owner, whoever that turned out to be, and for however long it took to sell.

Thanks again for having me Janet. I enjoyed your thought-provoking questions.

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Wednesday - The Great Escape

2012-01-11T06:43:00.000-08:00

When looking at action plots, there's an escape plot. How does this differ from other action plots. The main reason is that the prisoner is no innocent waiting for a rescue. This person who is imprisoned either falsely or not, plans and executes his or her own escape.

Any moral issues are black and white. Shades of gray can muddy the plot and turn it into something different from what the writer intends.

The things that need to be addressed early are the imprisonment and the reasons for this. Perhaps for a crime not committed or the villain putting the main character in confinement. The difference from the rescue sort of plot is that this hero or heroine will plan and execute their own escape. Therefore this character must be a strong one and even a clever one.

There must be several attempts that fail but remember this doesn't make the hero or heroine down. He or she will try again.

These stories end with the escape allowing the hero or heroine to gain control and thwart the villain.

Remember when using this as the basic plot of the story that the two main characters must be strong. If either is weak the story will fall flat.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Ideas

2012-01-10T05:52:00.000-08:00

While thinking about what to inspire me today I stumbled across a comment in a writing book by Meredith andFitzgerald that brought to mind my latest WIP. "All traditional novels begin with an idea that inspires the author to write it."

Ideas so often come before the characters or the plot, at least for me. These ideas aren't very specific and definitely not earth-shattering. I have to look at the ideas and examine them. Sometimes they come in the form of what it. What if there were stones or gems the color of the flames in a fire? Here was the triggering offer for The Temple of Fyre.

Other ideas have come from something read in a book and are mulled around for a long time with a bit added here and there until the story is ready to write. The heroine throws the murder weapon in the Hudson River. This idea rolled around in my head for a long time with bits and pieces coming into view. A house with apartments emerged. Suddenly I knew the owner lived on the second floor, not the ground floor. I had to explore why this happened. Then an incident occurred involving a neighbor and suddenly I was off and running.

Do you begin your stories with ideas. Can you express this idea in a single line. A line that sends your imagination off and running. That's happening to me now.

A man and woman suddenly through a tragedy become joint guardians to an infant. That's the idea and now I must be off to write a story that will be my story. This idea has occurred to me before but in a different form where only the man inherits a pair of babies. So this story will have its differences. I'm off to find those differences and write the story. Now I'll delve into the Who, What, When, Why, Where and the How of this story. To reach this point I needed that rather general idea.

9 January - Behind and Ahead

2012-01-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

Last week was back to normal week and no resolutions made. Did set some goals and am moving forward with them. Have about 20 chapters to finish cleaning up and The Chosen of Horu will be off to the publisher. Did a lot of toying around with A Surprising Seduction and finally think I've got it on the right track. What I brainstormed with a friend has changed in many ways. No surprise there.

This week I'll continue with work on The Chosen and that's a slow progress and the ruler rule. Prited out the chapters and am going over them for those dreaded words that are words but not the right word because of letter reversal. I'll have a sort of chapter synopsis for Surprising and will start blocking in the scenes.

About brain-storming. Always a good thing to do with a friend or two, especially one who knows how your mind works. I've been thinking about how I write and it's not necessarily the character who comes first. Usually more vague than that. What I had was a character's name. Since he's mentioned in one of the other Seduction stories, his name must remain. I also knew he was an attorney. Suddenly and surprisingly I learned his brother and wife had died and left him in joint guardianship of a small child. The child started out to be 18 months but had now become 9 months. Who knows what happens. Did the brainstorming work. Yes, because it set my mind to work on finding the story behind the few details I knew and managed to make this a simpler story to tell.

3 Blog Visit Sunday

2012-01-08T05:29:00.000-08:00

http://www.tinagerow.com/

http://bookwormbags.com/author-information/

http://bwlppspice.blogspot.com/

Saturday's Chapter - Once A Good Girl. Wendy S. Marcus

2012-01-07T05:02:00.000-08:00

Back for day 2! Below is an excerpt from my second Harlequin Medical Romance, Once a Good Girl… available now.

CHAPTER ONE

With a few adept keystrokes, 5E Head nurse Victoria Forley shot next week’s schedule off to the nursing office and closed down her computer. Today she would leave on time. She straightened her already neat desk then scanned her tiny utilitarian office to make sure everything was in its place. The memory of her son’s tear-filled eyes made her heart ache. “Why am I always the last kid picked up from afterschool program?” Jake had asked last night at dinner. “My teacher gets so mad when you’re late.”

Mad enough to put Victoria on parental probation. Three more late pick-ups and Jake would be kicked out of the program. Then what would she do?

Victoria hated that the promotion she’d fought so hard for, a bullet-point in her ten-year plan to provide her son a future filled with opportunities rather than financial constraints, significantly impacted the wide-awake hours they spent together. Although, to be honest, it wasn’t actually the job that was the problem; it was her obsessive compulsive need to achieve perfection at it. To show everyone at Madrin Memorial Hospital who thought a twenty-five-year-old wasn’t experienced enough to be the hospital’s newest head nurse that she was up to the task.

She grabbed her lab coat from the hanger hooked to the back of her door and slipped it on. A final check of her H-shaped unit and she’d be ready to go. Exiting her office, Victoria inhaled the familiar, disinfectant fresh odor of pine and scanned the white walls and floors to assure they were in pristine condition. She closed the lid on a laundry hamper and rolled two unused IV pumps into the clean utility room.

When she crossed over to the hallway of odd-numbered rooms she saw it, sitting quietly outside room 517. A shedding, allergy-inducing, pee-whenever-the-urge-hits golden retriever with a bright red bandana tied around its neck.

So, the elusive Dr. K, oncology rehabilitation specialist extraordinaire finally deigned to put in an appearance on 5E, two hours late for their scheduled meeting. Well, now he’d have to wait for her to make herself available. And she was in no hurry to listen to him spout the merits of his program and, she was sure, begin lobbying for her support to make his dog’s position permanent.

Not likely.

While she was all for an in-house staff member coordinating a multidisciplinary approach to the rehabilitation of cancer patients and administering daily bedside PT to chemo patients too exhausted or too immunosuppressed to attend therapy down in the department, she didn’t see why Dr. K. needed a four-legged companion to do it. Victoria walked past the animal, who didn’t budge from his position, the slight wag of his tail the only indication he’d noticed her. Ok. So it obviously wasn’t a threat to visitors. Still. She was not a fan of unsanitary animals besmirching her unit. Unless it benefited her patients, which is why she’d agreed to hold off on casting her negative vote until after the four-week trial.

“We’ll swing by tomorrow morning,” a male voice said from inside the room. The rich, deep timbre and his words ‘swing by’ caused a jolt of recognition.

Unease sauntered up her spine. It couldn’t be. She looked into the room anyway, had to catch a glimpse to be sure.

A man stood at the foot of the bed two. The blinds closed and the lights off, she could just make out was his height: Tall. Shoulders: Full. Arms: Big. Longish, dark hair curled haphazardly over the tops of his ears, reaching the collar of his lab coat in the back. As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned to face her. An unruly swag of bangs hung on an angle obscuring part of his forehead. Despite his unkempt appearance he was handsome in a rugged, untamed sort of way.

Great. He’d caught her staring.

“Victoria?” the man asked, and started to walk toward her.

That voice. His stride. Please, God. Not him. Victoria felt flash frozen in place. When he emerged from the darkened room into the well-lit hallway, her eyes, the only body part capable of movement, met his. A blue so pale they’d look almost colorless if not for an outer ring of deep ocean blue. Eyes she’d loved and hated in equal measure, familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face, a man’s face with a slightly crooked nose, obviously broken at some point, and strong cheek bones. A scar bisected his right eyebrow another spliced the center of his chin.

But she’d know him anywhere.

Kyle Karlinsky.

Before she could stop it, concern flitted across her mind. What’d happened to him in the nine years he’d been gone? She mentally slapped it back. It didn’t matter, couldn’t have been worse than what she’d been through because of his irresponsible carelessness.

“Victoria?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” He scanned the nametag clipped to the breast pocket of her lab coat. “You’re a nurse?” He hesitated, digested his discovery and with narrowed, taunting eyes asked, “What happened? Couldn’t hack it at Harvard?”

If the above excerpt leaves you with a hankering for more – like I hope it will – a continuation and links for purchase are available on my website http://WendySMarcus.com. One lucky visitor who comments today will win a copy of my book, so be sure to let me know you were here!

Friday - How She Does It - Wendy S. Marcus

2012-01-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I agree. My books typically start off with a character in a particular situation. Then come the questions. Who is she/he? Why is he/she there? What happened before that particular situation? What will happen after? Blend in backstory, goals and motivations and the story grows from that one single scene that popped into my head. Sounds easy, right? It’s not!

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

Sometimes, while perusing the Internet (a favorite pastime of mine) I come across pictures of interesting faces and I print them out. A character can start out a single pair of eyes that caught my attention. For some reason, in every single book I’ve written, both published and unpublished, the hero has had dark hair. I guess that comes from personal preference. For my heroines I haven’t yet had a red head, but I’ve used black, blonde, and brown hair. My heroines have all been around 25 years old. I think I’ll need to start mixing that up! My heroes are all between 28 and 30. All my heroes are tall and muscular. (I do write for Harlequin, after all.) I guess I don’t have a specific process for creating characters. I start with one basic trait and work from there.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

My hero or heroine comes to me first. Then I work through the basic story I’d like to tell (which more often than not changes as I go along.) When I start to write I like to have at least a vague idea of where the story starts, one or two major scenes for the middle, and how it will end.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

For the manuscript I just recently turned into my editor, I had no idea how the story would end until my characters brought me to the end of their story. And let me tell you that was a bit stressful!

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

So far all my books have been set in upstate New York because that’s what I know. But I see some research trips to tropical locales in my future!

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Since I write medical romance, research is very important to my books. I want medical conditions and treatments to be realistic so I do my research online – where information is most up to date. But I make sure to check a minimum of three reputable sites to assure my information is correct. I also like to address current issues that I research online like prescription fraud, hoarding, and domestic abuse.

Thank you so much for visiting! Be sure to check out an excerpt from my new Harlequin Medical Romance, Once a Good Girl… here tomorrow where I will be giving away two copies of my book, one to a lucky commenter from today’s post, and another to a lucky commenter tomorrow. To learn more about me please visit my website: http://WendySMarcus.com.

Thursday's Interview - Tina Gerow

2012-01-05T05:18:00.000-08:00

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

As Tina Gerow I write mostly paranormal romantic suspense. As Cassie Ryan I write smoking hot erotic paranormal romance.

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

I grew up reading science fiction, so the paranormal aspect was a natural progression for me. I didn’t really read romance until I was in my late twenties, but once I did, I was hooked, so when I began to write, it was easy for those two things to merge. The suspense part sort of just happened, but I enjoy writing it, so it’s a good fit for me as well. The erotic sort of found me. I heard Audrey LaFehr speak at an RWA conference about how she was starting a new line and needed submissions that were smoking hot in all genres. I immediately went home to try my hand at writing erotic. Nearly a year and a half later, Audrey called me to tell me she really enjoyed my hot writing and could I turn that partial into a three book series. After nearly dropping the phone, I gave the correct answer of “yes” and the rest is history :)

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

I’m pretty open to trying anything new, but I don’t think I’d be good at sweet romances with absolutely no steam in them at all. Even my non erotic books are sensual. I also wouldn’t be a great choice for children’s books or horror. Not because I can’t tone it down, but I don’t enjoy reading those, and if you don’t enjoy reading them, you won’t enjoy writing them and readers won’t enjoy reading what you wrote as those either. I also won’t be writing a historical of any type. I love reading them, but I’m too lazy to research what type of button was used on 1800...lol...

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I love a good historical or a great paranormal romance, or even a good science fiction story. And then I do enjoy anything by Jane Austen.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing,

I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember, but just wasn’t brave enough until my husband told me to “just go do it”. I joined RWA in August of 2003 and wrote my first book, Into a Dangerous Mind in eleven months. By early 2005 it was published and I felt on top of the world. Stone Maiden and Fire Maiden followed quickly and I just never stopped writing. If I won the lottery I would write full time and be the happiest person in the world. I’m published in e and in NY by Kensington and Berkley. My next stop is self publishing and the sky is the limit!

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

That’s like asking me to choose a favorite child – although I do only have one of those...lol. I don’t even have a favorite book – I love them all. I do have a soft spot for Zach and Cassidy who are the hero and heroine of my very first book. But then I do love all of my heroes and heroines who I’ve spent so much time with and they still come and visit and play in my imagination now and then :)

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

Several of my books have villains and I usually take a combination of what I fear most as well as traits of those I’ve met recently that made my skin crawl and turn that into a believable villain. Usually some of my biggest fears tend to transfer over to my hero or heroine, so it’s pretty effortless for me to create a “bad guy” or “bad girl”. And believe it or not, those are some of the most fun characters to write!

8. What are you working on now?

Since Berkely didn’t pick up the last two books in my Sisters of Darkness (succubus) series, I’m going to write those and self publish them. So I’m working on Book 3 in that series – tentatively named Taming the Succubus”

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

My latest release is The Demon and the Succubus which is book 2 of the Sisters of Darkness series. I was watching a show on the Discover Channel about Adam and Eve. They said that Lilith was considered the first Succubus when she tempted Adam and my imagination took off. Can you imagine what it would be like to be the one blamed for the entire fall of man? How would she live and thrive after that? How would she make a place for herself in the world? From there I created the Sisters of Darkness series about 4 succubus in Hell’s version of the Witness relocation program.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

My next release (early January) is called Into a Dangerous Mind and is my very first book I ever wrote. I was talking to someone who is psychic and they were discussing the “mechanics” and my imagination began building the story from there.

Here’s the opening:

She hadn’t dropped a lobster tail down the front of her dress or puked escargot on her date yet. So far so good. Cassidy James stepped out onto a secluded terrace at the Top of the Rock Resort, taking a few minutes away while her date paid the bill. The empty ballroom behind her stood dark and silent, which left the terrace quiet and deserted, a welcome change from the lights and noise of the restaurant below.

Cassidy cringed as the mortification of that long ago date assaulted her. But, she reminded herself, none of those things happened this evening. Tonight, she’d been graceful, cultured and elegant, and the date so far had been intimate and romantic…and the most boring few hours she’d ever spent.
What the hell’s wrong with me?

Trying to ignore that particular question, she breathed deep and let out a little sigh of pleasure. The scent of the desert filled the air, ripe with the monsoon rains she knew would sweep through later that evening. A light breeze toyed with the ends of her shoulder-length auburn curls as she looked out over the glorious Phoenix mountainside—red and ochre in the moonlight.

Resting her forearms on the waist-high terrace railing, she glanced skyward at the gentle explosions of stars, and wondered as she always did, why everyone didn’t live here. Lost in thought, she trembled as Brian stepped close behind her, gently pinning her in. Turning in his arms, she smelled his expensive cologne as he cupped the back of her neck and leaned in ever so slowly for a kiss. She thought about pulling away, but as long as he wasn’t looking for a way to talk her into bed on their second date, she didn’t see the harm in a simple kiss.

His lips brushed across hers gently before he dipped his tongue inside to taste her. Very sweet and pleasant, but nothing that could be mistaken for blood-boiling or passionate. Cassidy relaxed against him and into his touch, enjoying the sensations of being in a man’s arms…and wishing she felt more than she did.

Wednesday - another kind of plot - Rescue

2012-01-04T07:57:00.000-08:00

Here is another action plot where what's happening is more important than who is doing the action. The most imporatnt character in this plot is the hero or heroine. This is the person who attempts the rescue of the victim who is a person who for some reason is a prisoner of the villain. Theis is the second most important person in a rescue story.

When writing this kind of story, the rescuerer and the taker must be of equal strength and have equal motivation. Elements of this are often found in suspense stories. The rescuer must be the one who saves the captive.

This kind of story is usually black and white but shades of gray can add to the suspense. The rescuerer pursues the taker to save the captive. A confrontation between the two is essential and the rescuerer must win. If not this becomes a different kind of story.

Make sure what the taker has stolen be it a person is someone the rescuerer is entitled to have like a child, a lover, a person important to the rescuerer or to the world. Make sure there are numerous interactions between the two. The taker will constantly prevent the rescuerer from obtaining his goal.

The captive is usually the weakest of the three characters in this kind of plot.

Elements of this kind of plot can occur in other kinds of stories and can take place in various ways.

Tuesday's Inspiration

2012-01-03T06:41:00.000-08:00

While looking for things that have inspired me in my writing, I found a quote by Mark Twain. "The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug." Inspiring, yes, and a dilemma I'm facing at the moment. I have a series called an S word and Seduction. I'm getting ready to write the 5th book in the series and until I find that perfect S word I'll have some trouble starting the story. I do know some things about the characters. He is an attorney. She was a free spirit who is settling down. Death and an infant/toddler brings them together. So far so good.

How to find the perfect word since none has popped into my head. I'll turn to another book that has brought inspiration - the thesarus - that's been on my shelf for ages. This book is all about finding the right word. One of the problems is that I love words and sometimes I get so involved in leaping-from word to word here looking at nuances that I quite forget what I'm looking for. I could also look at a dictionary. There are a lot of words there and once again I get involved in jumping from word to word.

How about you? How do you find the right word rather than the almost-right word? Since words are a writer's best friend choosing among the many we read every day can blow one's mind. If we didn't care about words we wouldn't be writers.

2 January - Week behind and week ahead

2012-01-02T05:45:00.000-08:00

Busy, busy last week with house overflowing with children and grandchildren plus my sister. Though I did very little writing, I did manage to squeeze a bit in and so I'm doing the final draft of The Chosen of Horu. This is the draft to remove the typos and the words that have all the right letters in the wrong places form instead of from or one letter wrong like clam instead of clan. Not a fun job but one that is necessary. When one sends a mss. out it should be as clean as possible. That's the aim.

This week besides working on the final draft of this epic, I must write to a publisher and discover if they want the 4th book of a series. It's been with them since August and re-sent in I believe September. If they don't want it, I have a place to send it.

Looking at goals for the year. I'll finish the Chosen of Horu and hopefully do the fifth Seduction story plus a new Mrs. Miller story. About her wedding day and how she leaves before the reception to go to the aid of a friend. Her new husband must follow her. This is the Micro-manager Murder. Love the title, hate that kind of person.

Do you have goals for the year. I don't make resolutions and I try to set goals that are possible to reach.

3 Blog Visit Sunday - Visitors to mine

2012-01-01T05:22:00.000-08:00

The three blogs I'm featuring are ones of people who visited mine during December.

http://www.reneerearden.com/index.html

http://www.authorkari.com/

http://anne-k-albert.blogspot.com/

Saturday's Chapter Healing Hearts Taryn Kincaid

2011-12-31T06:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter One

The wind blew off the sea, moaning and wild, buffeting the man pacing the cliffs.

Hidden by a wall of rock, Emma Whiteside shielded her eyes against the bite of salt spray and continued to watch him, as she did every dawn.
Today, she thought. Today she would approach him at last. Confront him. Give him the royal tongue-lashing he deserved. She had nothing left to lose, after all. And she might not have the opportunity tomorrow. Or ever again.

The things I will say to you, Riverton, will peel the skin from your bones and lay you lower than anything Napoleon’s Grande Armée had to offer.
A small voice nagged Emma from within, the advice reasonable considering her current dire circumstances. Better to seek the man’s aid than chide him. But she snapped her mind closed against the unwanted counsel. The viscount was the last man on earth she’d ever ask for help.

Grief chilled her, numbed her heart, deadened the tender feelings she’d once had for him. Only her need for vengeance broke through her frozen emotions now. She longed to set Riverton in his place, however little effect her words might have on a man so impervious to remorse.

But once again Emma could neither confront him nor beseech him. The evidence of his stiff-necked pride—and her own—continued to hold her back with as much force as if an unseen hand pressed down upon her shoulder. She glared in the man’s direction, as if it were his hand oppressing her.

Fierce gusts punished him, impeding his tortured progress. Pain twisted his handsome features but he confronted the gale without flinching. A tiny chip splintered off from the ice sheath encasing Emma’s heart.
Damn him.

How do you bear it, Riverton? Are you made of stone?

She knew he was not. She saw the agony against which he fought, the stalwart way he pushed himself onward, despite the uneven gait that hampered his progress.

A cold blast of wind whistled past, ripping the hood of Emma’s cloak aside, whipping her hair against her neck. The frigid current stung her eyes, wringing reluctant tears. She blinked the moisture away and rubbed the damp trail from her cheeks.

No tears, she instructed herself. Not for him. Never for him.

Riverton wore no coat or cravat. His linen flapped about him, white shirttails torn from his trousers—an unlikely flag of surrender when he refused to give quarter.

Did you stand so against the French?

Emma could think of no oath dark enough to curse a man so remarkably stoic. She envisioned him in her mind’s eye, saber raised, hastening up and down the lines, shouting at his men to hold: Major Adam Caldwell, Viscount Riverton, at his most courageous.

She shuddered, conjuring the brutal attack that haunted her grimmest moments, the scene clouded by smoke and thunder, blurred by the limits of her grief and imagination. The battle where her twin had fallen, belly pierced by an enemy bayonet.

Michael admired you so, Riverton. I will never stop blaming you. ’Tis time you knew it.

Anger burned within her breast, bright as her love for the viscount once had.

And yet…her gaze swept him again, lingering on the trousers that molded his muscular thighs, the loose shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. ’Twas but the vicious wind that stole her breath, she told herself.

Why was he here? Why had he come now? What was he doing marching about the windswept cliffs so close to the manor when he had not had the decency to call upon her family? He had not answered the letters she’d sent after they’d first learned of Michael’s death at Albuhera. And now, considering her current untenable situation, Riverton’s presence here seemed too cruel a taunt.

Go to him, her inner voice dared again. Ask him for aid. You know he will help you.

Emma straightened and shook her head. She knew no such thing. She did not know this resolute, unyielding man at all anymore. No matter how dire her plight, she would never beg Adam Caldwell for a farthing. She might have little of value left, but she still had her pride. And that pride demanded she read him a scold—if she could only muster the courage to do so.

Emma studied Riverton’s grim, determined face, experienced etched upon the angles like the engraved lines on a printmaker’s plate. She stifled the sigh that threatened to escape her.

What would it be like to be held in this man’s powerful arms, crushed against his hard body? Odd tingles raced down her spine. Nightmares of war may have chased her girlhood dreams but her fascination with Riverton persisted, despite the world-weary air that now settled over him like a cloak.

The viscount planted one booted foot in front of the other and trudged across the rock-strewn ledge mottled with dying chalkgrass and choked with brambles. He clenched his jaw, as if grinding his teeth to bite back the pain.

Grudging respect for the single-minded effort with which he exercised his wounded limb stole over her. Warring emotions wracked her. She fought an urge to run to him, to soothe his knotted brow with her fingertips, stroking the grooved lines of care away. Bittersweet passions swelled and crested until her heart raced. Despite the wretched weather, a surge of heat engulfed her. She flattened her palms against her warming cheeks.

Damn his eyes.

“I am not that silly minx in pigtails anymore and I will not let you do this to me again!”

Emma gripped the embroidered handkerchief she had labored over with the last of her silk thread, never finished when the skein ran out. She forced her fingers to unclench before she tore the fragile muslin square.

How her circumstances had changed since that long-ago garden party!
Twelve years earlier, watching the viscount flirt with young ladies his own age, she’d marched over to him, abuzz with indignation. Throwing back her shoulders and jutting out her chin, she’d tugged on his coattails until he turned and smiled down at her.

“You have succeeded in capturing my complete and undivided attention, Miss Whiteside. Or should I call you ‘general’?”

The startling glint in his blue eyes—a sparkle bright as a shooting star streaking across the midnight sky—thrilled her. She’d ignored his gentle teasing.

“You will wait for me,” she’d ordered him.

He’d dropped to a knee, leaning toward her until mere inches separated his face from hers. A dark eyebrow lifted like an elegant black bird drifting into flight formation.

“What do you mean, poppet?”

“You will wait for me to grow. I will marry you and be your lady.”

He hadn’t laughed. Instead, he’d regarded her with wry solemnity.

“Of course, I will, poppet. You’ve stolen my heart. I will wait for you forever.”

Then he’d straightened, hauling her up with him and swinging her around until she’d shrieked with delight.

How stiff his left leg seemed now, in contrast to the nimble teenager he’d been. He favored it, as if uncertain whether the limb would bear his weight. She tamped down another unbidden flare of compassion.

A man like you will never need bend a knee. But that was too callous a thought, she chided herself, even for a wretched man like Riverton.

Thank God she remained too far away to see his eyes. From the rigid set of his jaw, Emma suspected the horrors of war had doused the ready light that had once shined there. She was certain bleak shadows now dulled their remarkable blue the way a pall of smoke turned day to dusk on the battlefield.

Emma tried to stoke the fast-ebbing fires of her resentment. But the more she watched Riverton’s exhibition of sheer stubborn will, the more she softened, her pangs of longing growing ever more insistent.

Adam Caldwell still possessed the power to make her heart flutter. More so now as a virile man of nine and twenty than he had as a stripling of seventeen.

But she had lost too much. Her twin brother lay in a forgotten grave in Spain, her father had gone missing, and she would be turned out of her childhood home tomorrow.

Then what? How will I save Papa? How will I ever find him? What if she could not secure a position as a governess or paid companion? Would she be forced to make her way in the world on her back? There was so little time left.

Talk to him

Emma shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter around her to block out the persistent carping of the voice of reason. She knew now she was fooling herself. She would never confront the blasted Adam Caldwell. Not to dress him down. Not to ask his aid. But her predicament remained. High time to stop her useless spying on the wretched viscount and seek some other solution to her thorny dilemma.

Chores awaited her at the manor. The muslin torn from her few worn chemises would not block and stitch itself. Perhaps she could never satisfy Papa’s debts by embroidering handkerchiefs to sell at the village linen-draper and haberdasher shop, but at least she could stock the larder until she found a way to rescue Papa and save their home.

Some way other than the one with which Papa’s creditor had presented her.

Emma rose from her hiding place and brushed sand from her hands.

Riverton abruptly stopped pacing. He tilted around and stared straight at her. Emma shrank behind the stone outcropping again. Had he seen her?

Impossible.

But his gaze skewered her like a rapier. He took the decision out of her hands.

“The show is over, madam. I’ve entertained you long enough.”

His deep voice reached her across the windy bluff, affecting her as if he stood close beside her, his hand encircling her wrist and pulling her forward. The rich timbre resonated through her, as intoxicating as sherry. Her hunger flared.

Emma took a gulp of salt-tinged air and emerged from concealment to face him. “We meet again, Miss Whiteside.”

The young woman’s sudden appearance, after she’d remained hidden so long, broadsided Adam like a cannon shot.

He’d sensed her presence but had never actually seen her as anything more than a vague shadow, concealed in the gray mists of dawn as she darted to her secret observation post like a French sharpshooter. He had not placed her. Until now.

Her luminous countenance flooded with surprise as she swayed back against the shelf of rock, covering her mouth with two fingertips. The gesture drew Adam’s attention to her gently parted lips. Kissable lips. Very.

“You did not expect me to know you, Miss Whiteside? You’ve changed a great deal. But I’d know you anywhere.”

Emma dropped her hand and her spine took on the brittle rigidity of iron. Swathed in her cloak, she gazed at him with fierce fire burning in her eyes, as long tendrils of wine-red hair escaped her hood and slashed her cheeks.

“Why have you come, Riverton?” Her tone could have peeled the rind from a lemon. He was not accustomed to such address; even during the war men had leapt to obey his barked commands. This young woman, such a study in contrasts, baffled him. His nostrils flared, like those of a beast aroused by its mate. His blood coursed faster.

Adam flicked his hand toward the steep cliffs and the churning waters that slapped the rocks below. “The air,” he informed her. “I’m taking it.”

“Why not? You’ve taken everything else precious to me.”

What in bloody hell was that supposed to mean? Perhaps he had been tardy in paying his respects to her family. He had bided his time, healing his body, if not his soul, as he gathered his strength and—more recently—collected disturbing information in the village below. But devil take the wench, he was here now. Despite the physical and mental toll his presence on the windswept cliffs cost him.

Her acid words sizzled across the thick scar tissue encasing his heart, burning away all that no longer mattered. And undoubtedly producing the precise opposite of the effect she’d intended. It had been a long time since he’d looked at any woman with interest. But suddenly he hungered to run his hands over Emma’s flawless skin, taste her sweetness and tang on his tongue.

“Not everything precious, surely. I dare say we’d both have remembered that.”

His suggestive words found their mark. Color sprayed her face like a Spanish sunset, arousing him further. She did not pretend to misunderstand him, as a wilier girl would have. With no coy fan to hide behind, her emotions spilled across her expressive face as plainly written as the headlines of a broadsheet.

“I dare say your memory would be as suspect in that regard as in any other, my lord.”

“I’m rather certain the experience would prove unforgettable, madam. For both of us.”

What possessed him to say such outrageous, rag-mannered things to her? Was it the bold way she continued to hold his gaze with eyes the changeable color of a stormy sky? Or the troublesome rumors he’d heard at the local tavern?

“No doubt the war has robbed you of many things, my lord. As it has me.” Her gaze slid to his leg, the walking stick upon which he leaned, the edge of his jaw, where a thin, white scar crawled like a worm. “But despite the depths to which I may have fallen, I have managed retain my manners.”

He deserved nothing less than such a chiding, but he heard only half her rebuke.

“What depths?” he demanded, stepping forward and seizing her chin in his hand. Were the damned rumors true? If not, he’d flay the skin from the back of any man he heard spreading them. He tilted her face and stared into her eyes. “What depths, Emma?” Her color flared hotter and he felt the quickening of her pulse where the side of his hand rested against her throat. But she twisted out of his grasp.

“That is my business. I thank you for your interest in my affairs, my lord, but I shall take care of myself.”

Her cool, sarcastic words tore something within him. What had happened to her father? When last he’d seen George Whiteside, the man had been a complacent country squire, a regular fellow, if occasionally somewhat high in the instep, a man who’d sought the best for his children. Now his son and heir was dead and, if the gossip Adam had heard was correct, Whiteside had taken to drowning his grief, becoming a drunkard and inveterate gambler far out of his league. Was that it? Had Whiteside landed in dun territory, gambling away his daughter’s prospects along with her dowry?

Adam considered the small squares of cloth in his pockets, with their tiny elegant stitches, one of them so horribly stained with blood. Anger akin to the red rage of battle momentarily seized him in its grip, and he wished he had a sparring partner to pummel. But he took a calming breath. If he’d learned nothing else in the last few years, he’d learned the emptiness of violence.

Did Emma have no one to protect her now? What had happened?

“Do not trouble yourself, Riverton,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

Adam frowned. Should he place her under his protection? He had not taken a mistress since before the war. His soul might be dead but he was still a man. A broken, damaged man, perhaps, but one with needs. He had not had a woman in nearly a year—not since before he was wounded at Albuhera. Better to put some distance between them, he thought.

But he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a chit this striking. Had his blasted leg allowed him greater agility, he might have leaped on her then and there, dragging her to the hard earth for a satisfying ravishing.

What the bloody hell was he thinking? He had never in his life done such a thing. Not with the prostitutes and women of easy virtue who followed the drum. Not with the Iberian women whose bodies were pillaged along with their homes. He was not about to start now.

Certainly not with this woman—no matter how plump and kissable her lips. She deserved better than a man with no heart. No matter how far she had fallen. If, in fact, she had.

Adam leaned on his staff and reminded himself he was a gentleman, even if he’d seen things no gentleman should see, and done things no gentleman would do. Things that would haunt him forever. He further reminded himself that the young woman before him—however much she currently resembled a wild-haired, blazing-eyed banshee ripe for his plucking— was a lady, gently reared. Even if her own father had forgotten that.

The honorable Miss Emma Whiteside. Michael Whiteside’s twin.

The corporal’s hair had been light, not this astonishing claret color. And the finely whittled features that seemed to resemble Michael’s at first blush were far different, indeed.

His gaze rested upon cheeks, soft and rounded as plums, that invited the touch of a man’s lips, and then lingered on a sultry mouth shaped for more wicked delights.

The willful, unruly little chit had grown into a diamond of the first water.

Her intriguing gray eyes, silver as a saber, fairly snapped at him, the battle waging in them as intense and wrenching as any Adam had experienced on the Peninsula.

Sparks flew as they stared at each other, like those borne by the clash of Toledo steel.

Emma moistened her lips as if they’d gone dry, the tip of her tongue darting out. Quite different from the calculated flirtations practiced by the fan-wielding ladies of the ton. No artifice here. None at all.
Adam’s cock stirred and his balls tightened. He longed to taste those unschooled lips. He ached to invade her mouth with his own tongue, drawing sweet sighs of pleasure from her as he savored her kisses and seduced her with his.

As if she sensed the direction his thoughts had taken, her gaze travelled to his mouth, making him burn. Mixed emotions marched across her face, ragged as raw recruits.

Adam swallowed, trying to squelch his feverish attraction by recalling a long ago tea—a lifetime ago, it seemed to him—and a young lady’s impertinent proposal. But the feisty woman confronting him was decidedly a woman, all of twenty now, not an impetuous eight-year-old suffering a bout of puppy love. Her eyes flayed him as if only by stripping the skin from his bones would she know any respite from her grief. The starch that straightened her spine held her rigid as the chalk that formed the cliffs upon which they stood.

He dipped his head and stifled his groan. She did not yet know the mission that brought him here. Only the thought of the wretched piece of cambric embroidered with the initials M and W and blotched with her brother’s blood had tempered his irritation when he’d learned the extent of her father’s misdeeds. The man’s worthless paper was popping up all over the county. Adam had sent his batman, Oliver Garrett, on fruitless missions to Whiteside’s favorite haunts, but the squire had not been ferreted out as yet. Now Garrett was searching venues less frolicsome.

Was there some way to shield Emma from what was to come?

Despite her apparent distaste for him, something more than ire animated her. Mutual awareness flared between them like dry kindling under a match. The desire to fan those reluctant embers into flames of passion, blazed through Adam again. His longing grew more intense, more difficult to shake off.

“Why have you come now?” Emma demanded. “I wrote and wrote, after that first brief letter you sent us from the Peninsula. You did not deign to answer.”

“How do you fare, Miss Whiteside?”

“How do you think I fare, my lord? My brother is dead and my father…”

Her voice trailed off and Adam noted her wince. But he decided this was no time for sugar-coated sentiments. Even in London drawing rooms he had never minced his words. And this harsh, windy bluff was hardly a Mayfair salon. Emma Whiteside’s stiff back and unwavering glare convinced him she was made of sturdy stuff.

“Your father is a drunken lout who gambled away property not his to wager,” he finished for her with a tight-lipped lack of diplomacy. “That is why I am here.”

Emma’s hand fluttered to her throat. Did his blunt words shock her? Had she been unaware of what her father had tried to do? “Not his?”

“You did not know?”

“I do not believe you.”

Adam stared at her in disbelief. “I am not in the habit of lying, Miss Whiteside.”

Emma’s posture lost some of its starch and Adam caught a furtive mote in her silvery eyes, before her long lashes descended and her glance slid away. She swiftly regained her composure, tilting her chin with a defiant air as she returned his gaze. He admired her spirit. More than her hen-witted twin had possessed.

“I thought perhaps you had come to apologize for taking my brother from us. For leading him into a battle from which he would not return.”

Adam’s guts wrenched as if she’d stabbed him and then twisted the blade. But he bore her words without comment. What was one more assault upon a heart so bruised and battered it had turned to dust?

The loss of his men would haunt him into eternity, their faces appearing in nightmares that gallons of brandy could not wash away. He punished himself for all of them. Including the foolish Michael Whiteside. Emma did not need to know that her brother’s death had been more senseless than most. But Adam had put off this hard visit long enough.

“Your father’s dissolute nature is not the only reason I’ve come.”

“My father is grief-stricken, my lord. If he has taken to drink, ’tis to ease the ache in his heart. Have you no charity in your soul?”

Adam well understood the oblivion found in spirits. Perhaps the man’s drinking was responsible for his lack of judgment, his indiscriminate play at cards.

“I’ve come, also, to pay my respects.”

“Too little, too late,” Emma muttered, as if to herself.

“Miss Whiteside.” Adam took a step toward her. A nerve-jangling jolt of pain tore through his left leg, setting his teeth on edge. The price he paid. But a precursor, he knew, to the relentless agony that always threatened to lay him low. On occasion, he could overcome the crippling effects of his wounds through sheer force of will. He suspected this morning would not be one of those times. He had pressed himself too hard.

“What is it?” Emma demanded.

“M’leg,” he grated through his clenched jaw.

“Take my arm.”

“No.”

“Have you always been so bloody stubborn?” Her eyes flashed again.

“Some might say.” Such as his father or his equally stubborn batman, Oliver Garrett.

“I don’t remember that about you.”

“The man you remember is gone.”

Emma flinched as if he had struck her but her unwavering gaze held his, challenging him more than any idle wager he’d ever taken up at White’s. “I am sorry to hear that. I quite liked that man. So did my brother.”

Adam’s fingers tightened on his walking stick, and he sucked in a breath. Had it not been for her blasted brother—

He shook his head to repel his dangerous thoughts and muttered a low oath beneath his breath. He refused to shatter the girl’s illusions about the corporal. War had consequences, after all. He’d been Whiteside’s commanding officer. He had no one to blame but himself.

“No one understood why you did it,” she murmured.

He started and then stared at her, his gaze raking over her in a forthright manner, daring her to continue in the face of his displeasure. But she braved his mounting ire and would not be turned from her course.

“You were such a brilliant rogue, cutting so vast a swath through the ton. All the fashionable society ladies and their mamas dangled their lures for you, hoping to bring you up to scratch. All the rakish young men wanted to be you. And when you inexplicably marched off, they…Michael…wanted to follow your lead, as he’d always done. He followed you straight to hell, Riverton. But you returned. And he did not.”

Young Whiteside had taken the king’s shilling because of him? Of course, he had known that, in some dark corner of his soul.

Adam swayed and gripped his stick until his knuckles whitened, as another jangle of pain ripped through him. He would not embarrass himself in front of the stalwart young woman confronting him.

“Take my arm,” she insisted. “Unless…perhaps you are too much man to accept a woman’s support?”

Adam snorted. “I suddenly recall a bossy little girl who ordered me about as if she had a perfect right to,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “That much, madam, has not changed.”

A hint of English rose splashed Emma’s cheeks. Adam could not allow himself a moment to appreciate the pretty blush—or to acknowledge that he was actually enjoying this absurd banter with her in the midst of his increasing discomfort. But something about Miss Emma Whiteside—something apart from her striking looks and his immediate physical attraction—caused his blood to race and all his senses to go on alert.

He shut his eyes and ground his back teeth, hoping to ward off the worst of the attack he knew was coming—at least until he could whistle Champion back to his side and swing himself into the saddle.

But his strenuous exercise and the harsh weather, combined with his horrific memories of combat, blasted him like an explosion of enemy artillery. Thunderbolts lanced his leg, flooding him with agony so intense he nearly doubled over. He felt the blood drain from his face and he staggered.

Emma leaped forward to support him. Concern replaced the belligerence in her eyes, darkened to gunmetal-gray.

“This will not do, Riverton. You must lean on me.”

“Still the bossy little harridan.”

She sighed and reached for his forearm. The brush of her fingertips sent a coil of shock through him more stunning than the waves of searing fire radiating from his leg. He’d anticipated that pain. But he had not expected the soothing glow generated by the touch of Emma’s hand or the warmth flowing through his linen sleeve. His reluctance to accept her help evaporated.

Nor was Emma unaffected by the contact, he decided. He heard the small hitch when she inhaled, the low huff of breath she expelled with an odd little choking sound. The slightest of tremors shook the fingers that gripped him.

Despite his misery, Adam remained completely aware of her clasping his arm as if her slight frame could prevent a man of his size from toppling. Though wracked by pain, his body still hummed with arousal.

Adam inhaled. The scent of her hair reminded him of the tart fruit of the Portuguese strawberry tree, used to make potent aguardente de medronho. He’d often drunk himself senseless on the powerful brandy, trying to numb his physical agony as well as the hollow ache that gnawed the dry bone of his heart.

Now, pondering his reaction to the dauntless Emma Whiteside—and hers to him—he decided he might benefit from the more restorative tonic of her touch. This girl rejuvenated his exhausted spirit more than any forced march over the cliffs helped to rehabilitate his leg.

He slid his arm around her waist, dragging her closer. She fit comfortably against his side, as if she

How She Does It - Taryn Kincaid

2011-12-30T05:30:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I take this any way I can get this. Then I run.

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

They spring forth from the demented recesses of my brain like Athena fully formed and armed from Zeus' brow. Say, would you like to buy some shares in the Brooklyn Bridge?

My heroes are tall, dark & handsome hunks. My heroines are, unfortunately, usually necesssary. My heroes are exciting creatures, with full-blown back stories, occasionally damaged or surly. I try my best to give my heroines something to do, other than merely look good. I don't always succeed in this. I feed them Vitamin D with Calcium to strengthen their backbones. If they are snappish and snarky, so much the better.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

Given the foregoing, I guess I have to say "A." I picture them in a little scene-like snippet and meander off with them. A heroine I like a lot already, starts off by kicking the naked and sleeping hero in his ribcage with the toe of her boot. She then looses a lot of magical and mechanical gadgetry on him. I really enjoy it when the heroine has something to do. Other than, you know, look good --as I think I already mentioned. If all she's going to do is whine, I want to shove her under a bus. As soon as humanly possible. Or kick her to the curb. (If I was still coming to your house on Tuesday nights, you would probably notice that this is overwritten and there's quite a bit of mixed metaphor and repetition. I guess we know by now that this is "how I do it.")

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

Oh, hell, no. Never, ever, ever. Okay, maybe once.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

Hmm, let's see. Considering I segue from the salt cliffs of Regency England (HEALING HEARTS) to the Underworld (Aidon & Surfer Dude & Cloud Boy & Co.) and back, I would have to say, "settings I know." Don't you agree?

(I mean, honestly, even my erotic paranormal, SLEEPY HOLLOW DREAMS, set in a real village about a five-minute drive from my real office, bears absolutely no resemblance to the real Village of Sleepy Hollow, NY. Which I've actually been to. Many times. Okay, well, maybe the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery scene was semi-realistic. Bwahahahahahahah.)

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

Research? What the frak is research?

Taryn Kincaid
Healing Hearts
Sleepy Hollow Dreams

Thursday's non- Interview - Contest winners

2011-12-29T05:35:00.000-08:00

Once again , There's no interview but I'm letting the people who won books in my blog contest just which book they won and finding where I should send it. For some people I have their real names and others I just have their screen names. But here goes. I'll be emailing each later for a snail mail address. May take a couple of days. I am recovering from an overdose of family.

Susan Leech - Murder and Mint Tea

Moon Pie - Requiem Murder

Ann K. Albert - The Midas Murders

Mannouchka - The Temple of Fyre

Charmaine - Obsessions

Patsy -- The Quest For The White Jewel

Fingershankins - Whispers Out Of Yesteryear

Renee Reardon - Healwoman - Dark Moon

Kari Thomas A Double Opposition

Garysue - All Our Yesterdays

Wednesday - On Plot - The Great Chase

2011-12-28T06:19:00.000-08:00

Th kind of plot looked at today involves a chase. Good guy versus bad guy. We see this a lot in many action adventure stories. The hero/heroine may be chasing the villain or the opposite could occur. There are a number of points to remember when deciding to use a pursuit or chase plot.

The chase is more important than the people involved in the chase. Characters in this kind of story may have personalities and be interesting but the chase is the most important part of the story. Think Sherlock Holmes.

There must be a real threat that the character being chased may be caught. No danger, no fun. Many times elements of the chase plot find their way for a segment in other types of stories.

The person doing the chasing be he or she be villain or hero/heroine must have a good chance of catching their quarry. If not the reader will wonder what's the point of the story. A lot of almost captures brings an element of danger and excitement into the story.

The story and the characters should be unique, engaging and stimulating. Think of a roller coaster ride with twists and turns heading to the top and then the dive down. Scenes like this will be needed.

Try to make your characters and situations not the standard stock characters. Give the people unique quirks and the places they are chased through.

Aim for a small area. The smaller the area of the chase the more tension will grow. A single building, a small town, an island.

When writing this kind of story during your planning make sure you set the ground rules for the chase, establish the stakes and have a motivating incident. For example the spy is stealing a secret in a large office building, the hero comes into the action. The fate of the world is in his hands. The hero will win or the spy will escape. The choice is yours. Just remember to keep the scenes moving rapidly with those roller coaster highs, the swoops down and the build up to the next high.

Whether you use this as the main plot or use elements of this in another plot remember to keep the characters moving and the near hits and misses plausible.

Tuesday's Inspiration - People

2011-12-27T07:41:00.000-08:00

Today I've been thinking about people who have inspired me to write. To write you must be a reader.

When I was a very young child, my grandfather used to read to me. He would put his finger under each word as he read. When I was three, I began to read back to him. From him I learned the love of books. He also taught me to observe people when we were out at interesting places like the circus and the zoo or just walking about.

My father was the next one. There were always books in the house and we were encouraged to read. I'm afraid I was the one of the children who wanted to read every book on the shelves. In third grade I wrote a book report on Anna Karenina and horrified the teacher for two reasons. One bacause I read the book and the other because I wrote an alternate ending.
My father confronted the teacher and said "She can read any book on the shelves of my house. Did she understand what she read." The teacher had to agree. About changing the ending, he thought that was cool. When I published my first book, he read every word and he showed the book to everyone whether they were interested or not.

There was a teacher in school and I don't remember her name but she encouraged my writing and thought I should go to college for journalism. I did not do this but as a nurse many of my patients became inspirations for the characters in the books I write today.

The last inspirations are my grandchildren. They are found at various ages in many of my stories. Just bits and pieces of them. I remember using the oldest twice in one story. As the stubborn funny two year old and as the bright seven year old. They are the characters in my YA fantasy series. Not every part of them but their personalities come through.

Who were your inspirations to write? Think outside the box when you're looking to identify them.

26 December - Ahead and Behind

2011-12-26T05:08:00.000-08:00

Last week saw not too much writing done but I did manage to clean up 15 of 33 chapters of The Warrior of Bast in the final draft. The last 18 chapters will take a bit since I really have to rewrite several sections of each and then do a read to make sure I included everything that should be changed. I'm sure after the first of the year this will progress rapidly.

This week I'd like to clean up at least four more chapters. Sometimes this is hard since I have family visitors and they do like to talk. Sometimes joyful things throw one off schedule but these times do not last and one looks back on those times with good feelings and the memories help.

My pet peeve today could be thieves of intellectual property since I've been stolen from several times but it's not. It's about publishers who totally ignore the questions their authors send them for months. I've decided after the first of the year I'll write one more note and then if not I'll see about taking the final book of a series elsewhere and maybe even book 1 and 2 that could be out of contract. Hurts to do this but it may be the only way to see them placed where they should be. Five months is too much time to wait for a response.

3 Blog Visit Sunday Three Friends blogs

2011-12-25T07:26:00.001-08:00

http://jenniferprobst.com/blog/

http://heatherthurmeier.com/

http://www.plotmonkeys.com/

Saturday's Chapter - Bedhead Shoshanna Evers

2011-12-24T05:32:00.000-08:00

BEDHEAD is an Ellora’s Cave erotic romance novella, part of the multi-author Skin Deep Series.

Here’s a blurb and the beginning of the book!

Bedhead is a book in the Skin Deep series.

Michele Peterson is young, pretty, healthy…and bald. Being a woman with alopecia isn’t easy—not only do strangers treat her as if she’s a cancer patient, but hiding her bald head under a wig is hard on her sex life. Michele can’t shower with a lover or feel his hands tangled in her hair in the throes of passion. So at the age of twenty-six, she remains a virgin. Then a generous benefactor agrees to finance hair transplant surgery. Just in time too, because Michele thinks she’s met The One.

Andrew Calhoun doesn’t understand why the incredible woman he’s falling for is so distant—pulling away just as he thinks they’re making a connection. When he discovers her secret, he’ll have to make her realize that bald really is beautiful—before she goes through a potentially dangerous cosmetic surgery just for his sake. And the best way to make her feel desirable…is in bed.

By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
An Excerpt From: BEDHEAD Copyright © SHOSHANNA EVERS, 2011
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

Chapter One

Michele Peterson looked up at the ceiling fan, which seemed to just waft the stifling hot air around her tiny one-bedroom apartment rather than do its job. Beads of perspiration covered her upper lip, and she knew without glancing in the mirror that her face was bright pink, flushed with heat.

“I need a beer,” she announced to no one.

An image of an icy cold bottle settled into her mind, straight out of a beer commercial. Snow-capped mountains and whatnot. Michele sighed with pleasure at the thought. All right—she’d have to make herself decent to go out, even if she just went down to 107th and Broadway to the corner market.
She grabbed the heavy blonde wig off the mannequin head and pulled it on, the scratchy weight of it already making her feel about twenty degrees hotter. She may as well be wearing a wool hat in the middle of a New York summer.

The synthetic wig’s bangs hung low across her forehead, hiding the fact that her eyebrows, like her eyelashes and the hair on her head, were almost completely gone. Her hair had fallen out a few months after her seventh birthday and, after running a bunch of tests that proved she was completely healthy, her doctors gave her and her mom the diagnosis—alopecia areata. Not much she could do about it, though god knows they both tried. Almost twenty years later, and her hair had never grown back to its former glory. Some bits stuck out of her head in patches—short crinkly hairs, almost like the scant hair she was too embarrassed to have a bikini-waxer remove.

I can’t go outside without the damn wig. When she went out bald, everyone treated her as if she were a cancer patient or something. As if she were sick and suffering through chemotherapy. Perhaps if she'd lost her hair from chemo she'd be able to look at her lack of hair as a battle scar from a war she'd fought and won. She wished she could go back in time and make child-Michele a T-shirt that said I’m not sick—I’m bald. And then another T-shirt that said If you’re reading this shirt, Congratulations—you’re not staring at my head.

Michele sighed. If she ever had a kid with alopecia, she’d make her snarky shirts at one of those design-your-own-shirt places online. Not like that would ever happen. She’d need to have sex to have a kid, and what man would want to screw a bald chick? A twenty-six-year-old virgin bald chick. That was just bad mojo right there.

Brushing the wig into place, she grabbed her keys and walked down the four flights to the street. Just for now she decided to forgo the false eyelashes she usually applied, although her lashless eyes also made her look, well…off, somehow. At least to her.

The dirty city air outside hit her thick and heavy, covering her body with a fine layer of yuck she’d have to shower off later. She walked toward the corner market, barely noticing the other people brushing past her on the crowded sidewalk.

“Hi, Mr. Patel,” she called as she stepped into the store.

The owner smiled and waved back before returning his attention to the long line of customers. Michele went straight to the refrigerated wall stocked with beer and milk and grabbed a six-pack of Amstel Light. A tall guy—with a thick head of gorgeous brown hair—reached over next to her and grabbed the same thing.

“Great minds think alike,” he said, smiling at her.

He had a five-o’clock shadow despite looking as if he’d shaved that morning. Lucky bastard. He was probably covered in hair. He wore a simple T-shirt but an expensive watch, an enticing combination.

She smiled back at him. He’s cute. But she wasn’t wearing her eyelashes. She looked awful. Turning away, she took a deep breath. Chill out.

“Oh, yuck,” the cute guy exclaimed. “That couldn’t feel good on your head.”

Oh. My. God.

She turned back to him, horrified. Usually people had at least some semblance of manners and didn’t point out the wig.
Holy fucking shit.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

“The air conditioner,” the guy said, pointing straight up above them. “It looked like it dripped nasty runoff water right on your head. You didn’t feel that?”

Michele reached up and patted the top of her wig experimentally. Wet.
“Eww,” she said, laughing nervously.

Of course she couldn’t feel anything falling on the wig, it wasn’t really her scalp or her hair. But he didn’t know that.

He pulled out a clean handkerchief and reached out to touch her head.

“No!” she cried, pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” the guy said, taking a step back. He put his hands in the air, like I surrender. “I just moved here from Ohio—I keep forgetting that New Yorkers don’t want to talk to strangers.”

“What? That’s not true. I don’t want you…groping me, that’s all.” He’d hardly been groping her, and now she felt a bit silly.

“Of course,” he said, looking suitably embarrassed, although he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. “I’m Andrew Calhoun, by the way. I swear I’m not as weird as I seem.”

Michele laughed. “I believe you. I’m Michele.” She stuck her hand out and he gripped it, his hand large and surprisingly cool compared to her heated, sweaty palm. Maybe from holding the beer.

“So, are you a native New Yorker?” Andrew asked. “You’ve got a bit of an accent.”

“Really? This is nothing compared to some of my friends,” she said. “But yeah, born and raised.” She hefted her six-pack and joined the long line of customers waiting for Mr. Patel to ring them up.

Andrew stood behind her, holding his beer and a bag of chips.
“Long line,” he commented.

“Uh huh.”

“You know, there’s a bar across the street,” he said. “I mean, of course you know. You live here. You think it’s air-conditioned?”

“Should be,” she said. Could the hot guy be flirting with her?

“Can I buy you a drink? I bet we’ll get served ten minutes before this guy ever gets to us.”

He just asked her out. Definitely. Even though she wasn’t wearing her eyelashes and she had nasty runoff water on her wig. Should she go? No, definitely not. Well, what the hell. This kind of thing didn’t happen every day…or any day, really. “Sure!”

Too desperate. Chill.

Shrugging as if she didn’t really care too much either way, she took his six-pack and set it next to hers back in the fridge area of the store.

They walked out together, and Michele wanted everyone to see her with the cute guy—to know they were going to get a drink together. Look at me, Mr. Patel, she thought. She’d been shopping there for two years, but never with a guy.

Someday I’m gonna come in here and buy condoms from behind the counter. And I won’t even blush.

She sighed. Yeah, right.

Andrew’s large hand touched the small of her back, gently guiding her off the curb and across the street. She reveled in his touch, feeling the heat of his hand through her light tank top.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the blissfully air-conditioned bar. Andrew led her to the bar, where a few guys sat entranced by a game on the overhead television.

“Two Amstel Lights,” Andrew asked the bartender and patted an empty barstool. She sat, balancing precariously on the wobbly seat, but Andrew just stood there next to her, leaning his elbow on the bar counter. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “This is the first Sunday I’ve had in New York since I finished unpacking stuff.”

“Wow, you really are fresh off the bus,” she said, laughing.

“Yeah. Don’t mug me.” He grinned and slipped a tip to the bartender when their drinks showed up, thick drops of cold condensation on the bottle. “Just like a beer commercial,” he said, taking a long gulp.

“I was just thinking that!” she said, doing the same and, remembering what he’d said earlier added, “Great minds think alike.”

“Oh, this is weird. I was just thinking that.”

She giggled, feeling tipsy even though she’d barely drunk half her beer.

“Sorry I groped you before. It’s not my style.”

“Oh come on, you didn’t really grope me and you know it,” Michele said. “I just get uncomfortable when someone grabs at my head.”

“Why?”

Um. Really?

Did Andrew really not recognize she wore a wig? That she had no eyelashes or eyebrows?

Tell him. You have to tell him or it’s just wrong.

And if she didn’t, when he found out he’d feel as though she lied to him.
Just tell him now and get it over with.

But sitting there in the dim bar, feeling desirable for the first time in a long time, she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him that under the wig, she was bald.

If only I had hair.

If she had her own real hair she could finally feel comfortable having sex with a man, she just knew it. She even wrote an email to the Durban Trust to see if she could be a beneficiary of one of their generous cosmetic surgery grants. She attached a picture of herself without the wig on and everything, and told the truth for the first time in writing—that she needed hair so she could lose her virginity. Feel a man’s hands tangled in her hair, tugging on her ponytail, smoothing the sweat-covered strands from her forehead after a night of lusty sex.

She must’ve scared the hell out of them because the Trust retained a psychotherapist who called and gave her a phone consultation about the whole thing. That was two weeks ago, and she never heard from them again. She’d avoided checking on the status of her query because she really didn’t feel like hearing the rejection. And she certainly couldn’t afford to pay for hair transplant surgery on her own.

So if this was her only chance to feel beautiful, right now in this bar with this hot guy, then she had to just go for it.

Michele shrugged and took another sip of her beer to avoid answering Andrew’s question about why she didn’t want him going near her head. Why wasn’t she over this by now? Twenty years of being bald hadn’t really gotten easier with time. Especially when she met someone new. The woman who won Miss Delaware that time—she has alopecia too, Michele reminded herself. She’s not ashamed to go out bald or with a wig, she feels beautiful either way.

Andrew gazed into her eyes and all her thoughts of wigs and baldness and feeling uncomfortable dissolved. “You’re gorgeous,” he said.

Michele laughed. “Okay, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“I’m serious. And you have such beautiful long hair. I love blondes.”

Michele felt her excitement wash away as suddenly as if he had dumped a whole bucket of water on her.

“I said something wrong,” he said, reaching out for her hand as she turned to get off the barstool. “I’m sorry, I put my foot in my mouth. You probably get hit on all the time. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Is this guy blind or what?

“No, you didn’t upset me,” she lied. “I just realized what time it was. I have to go. Thanks for the beer.”

She slid off the barstool, flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile, and walked outside. The thick city heat hit her and she took a shaky breath. She really had to talk to her landlord about the broken air-conditioning. If it hadn’t been so hot in her apartment, she’d never have come out and met Andrew—and never gotten her hopes up for nothing.

“Hey!”

Michele turned at Andrew’s voice behind her.

“Here’s my card,” he said, handing her a white business card. Andrew Calhoun, Advertising Executive, it read.

So he knew all about the importance of packaging and image. And he liked blondes.

“Thanks,” she said, plucking the card from his hand. The walk light hadn’t changed yet but Michele just wanted to get away so he wouldn’t see her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She stepped into the street, a yellow cab honking as she came within inches of its tires.

She half walked, half ran all the way back to her four-story walk-up with the broken air conditioner. Bolting the door behind her, Michele sat on the threadbare couch in the middle of the apartment and fought back tears of frustration.

If I had hair, this wouldn’t have happened, she though miserably. They’d still be at the bar, talking, flirting and maybe getting a little tipsy. Then she’d invite him back to her place and they’d f-ck each other silly.
She tore the wig off her head, relishing in the feel of air on her sweaty scalp. Grime from the runoff water that had fallen on her wig coated a few of the synthetic strands. She stood with a sigh and carried the wig to the sink, where she washed and combed it before setting it back on the mannequin head.

He loves blondes. God she was a moron. Why’d she even accept Andrew’s invitation in the first place? She’d already known where it would go—nowhere. It certainly wouldn’t have ended up in bed, which was where she most wanted to see Andrew.

An image of his impressive physique showing through his T-shirt flitted through her mind. She should have just told him she was bald immediately, as soon as the water hit her head. She could’ve just said, “Oh, I didn’t notice the nasty water hitting my head because this is a wig. Obviously.” But apparently it hadn’t been so obvious to Andrew.

She should call him and explain herself. Maybe he’d still want to see her, just as friends. He was new to Manhattan, after all. Pulling his now sweat-rumpled business card out of her pocket, she sighed. Now or never.

Checking the number on the card carefully, she sent a text that took ten minutes to word properly but that she hoped sounded off-the-cuff.

Sorry bout that, no hard feelings? -Michele

He texted back quickly.

No prob, drinks tonight, same bar @ 8p?

Whoa. Okay. No, wait. She had to work tomorrow. But…all the other customer service reps came into the office hungover on Monday mornings. Why shouldn’t she? It was about time she got a life. It’s not as though she had to do brain surgery.

Just one more text to tell him the truth.

I’m not really blonde, this is a wig. I’m bald.

But she couldn’t hit send. Sighing, she pressed erase and wrote See you at 8.
* * * * *
The sun started to go down as she got ready to go out with Andrew. Michele carefully applied her false eyelashes, which looked pretty natural all things considered. With a fine-point smudge-proof eyebrow pencil, she drew on eyebrows and then let her long-banged wig cover them. Not bad. She just hoped he didn’t try to touch her hair when they kissed.

Yup, she’d already decided to kiss him. All she wanted was a taste of him, really, before he found out the truth and she went from being his date to his platonic friend.

She walked slowly down the street to the bar, relishing the break from the stifling heat in the mild summer night air. Andrew was already waiting at the bar, nursing something amber-colored on the rocks.
He stood when she stepped through the door.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, smiling.

Damn, he looked hot. He’d changed into a dark, fitted button-down shirt and jeans that probably cost him two hundred bucks.

“Sure.” Michele smiled back and resisted the urge to smooth her wig, not wanting to draw attention to it.

“I promise not to hit on you again,” he said, “since that seemed to have the opposite effect I meant it to have this afternoon. But can I at least buy you a drink?”

Michele laughed and nodded. “I’m in the mood for a frozen margarita.”

The bartender handed her the frosty drink a few moments later and she took a big sip, trying to gain some liquid courage.

“You don’t have to worry about hitting on me,” she told Andrew, resting her hand on his knee. “I won’t mind.”

Andrew chuckled and placed his hand over hers. His looked so huge compared to hers. She lifted his hand and pressed hers flat against it, sizing up the difference.

“Big ugly hands, I know,” he said.

“No, these are great hands.”

“I got a paper cut today on a cardboard box when I was getting them all ready for recycling,” he said, pointing to a red mark on the side of his palm.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch.”

With the ice broken, Michele was amazed at how quickly they both got into the groove of conversation. The next half hour flew by.

This guy was so sweet—certainly nicer and funnier than any guy she’d ever gone out with before. Not that she had much experience in the dating department. She giggled to herself, the tequila in the frozen margarita making her feel especially easygoing.

She asked him all sorts of questions about advertising, both to keep the conversation flowing and to ascertain just how important he thought looks were. He seemed passionate about his career, and he didn’t even seem bothered by her rather lame job as a telephone customer service representative.

“I’m taking some time off to reevaluate my priorities,” she said, even though he hadn’t asked. For some reason she always felt she had to defend living a non-workaholic lifestyle.

“That sounds awesome.” He took a sip of his drink. “I did the same thing before I went to grad school.”

“Really?” He seemed so pulled together, she couldn’t imagine him working a dead-end job while he sorted through his options.

“Really. It’s worth it.” He smiled and then pulled her hand toward him so she was only an inch away from his face. “If I kiss you will you run away again?”

This is it.

Her taste before it all fell apart. She shook her head and kissed him, reveling in the softness of his lips and the roughness of his cheek against hers. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and she welcomed it, tasting scotch.

He touched her face, cradling it, and it felt so…right. So nice that she even forgot to be worried about his hands being so close to her wig.
And then he tangled his hands in her wig, probably thinking it was her hair. She gasped against his mouth as she felt the wig shift back across her forehead and pulled away quickly.

“Shit,” Andrew said. “I did something wrong again. Was it slipping you the tongue? Too soon?”

Michele straightened her wig discreetly. “No, not too soon.”

Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him!

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Instead, she stood and kissed him fiercely, grabbing his hands so they’d stay out off her head and pulling them tight around her waist.

“Come back to my place,” he murmured against her lips.

No way. Yes way. No way. “Okay. Yes.”

They walked out of the bar holding hands. Could she really do this? She’d just met Andrew. She made it this far without ever having sex—could she really go through with it tonight?

Buy BEDHEAD at Ellora’s Cave or wherever ebooks are

How She Does It - Shoshanna Evers

2011-12-23T05:06:00.000-08:00

. We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

I rarely plot things out. Usually I start writing and get to know my characters as they reveal themselves to me. I also don’t plot ahead of time anymore because when I do, my characters do what they want anyway!

2. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

When I create characters I don’t really have a specific process, or if I do then I’m not aware of it. I mainly just start writing and then by the end of the manuscript, I know the character well enough to be able to go back in and edit and chop out stuff that the character would never do, say, or think.

3. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

Characters come before plot and I don’t sketch out the plot – the characters develop the route to the end. I’m very much a pantser.

4. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

Yes, I always know how the story will end, but only because I write romance and that means that no matter what, the hero and heroine will be together by the end of the book. I usually don’t know other details, like how they’ll get there. That’s part of the fun of writing for me J

5. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

Most of my books take place in NYC, Los Angeles, or upstate NY, since that’s where I’ve lived. I’m moving to Florida so you can bet that some future books will be set there! I often just make up the interior settings, loosely basing them on places I’ve seen in real life or in the movies. A few of my books required real research for the settings. For example, I’ve never flown on a private jet, but they seem to crop up in my books sometimes. So I’ve read the brochures (online) for the jets and looked at the pictures and go from there.

6. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

I do most of my research online, but I love to read so I often will buy books for research purposes. I read 99 percent ebooks, and maybe one percent paper. I also consider reading in my genre (erotic romance) to be research, because that’s market research and it’s valuable in helping me stay current.

Thanks for having me, Janet!

Thursday - Not an Interview- Ist chapter A Sudden Seduction

2011-12-22T05:16:00.000-08:00

Usually in Thursday I have an interview going but today I'm featuring the first chapter of my latest release. A Sudden Seduction which puts not ever wanting to marry Matt Blakefield against the woman he insulted when they were teens. Now he must make amends.

A SUDDEN SEDUCTION

Chapter 1

“You’re next.”

Matt Blakefield choked on the piece of wedding cake he’d been about to swallow. “Not in a million years.”

His gaze slid around the table in the inn’s dining room spearing each couple with a glare. Friends and family had gathered to celebrate this morning’s marriage of his brother to the mother of his recently discovered son. Since the nine-year-old was the only other unattached male present, Matt knew the whispered remark had been addressed to him.

“I have a friend,” one of his sisters said.

The other grinned. “She’d be perfect.”

“No sale.” Matt dropped the napkin on the table.

“Remember the curse.” Mark grinned. “None of us has escaped.”

Time to hit the road. With this decision made, as though in answer to his desire, Matt’s cell phone vibrated. Salvation.

He answered. “Matt here…You did…Great news…I’m on my way…Yeah today…Doesn’t matter.”

As if he’d stay here where plans he wanted no part of were being laid. He’d been present for the important event. There was no reason for him to linger and a huge need to escape. Although the meeting with the Good Magazine Group’s investigator wasn’t until Monday morning, Matt seized the opportunity. “Have to leave. Have information on this year’s make-over house for Good Livin’.”

“On the weekend?” His father, CEO of the magazine group and recently married to his teenage sweetheart, arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah. It’s the Smiton house. You know the one I intend to use as the project for showing people how to convert a house from energy sucking to energy efficient. Jules has a line on the owner. I want the contract signed so we can start work.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “If there’s a problem find another house. Who knows what condition the Smiton’s house is in? No one has lived there for years.”

“I checked. The place is sound.”

“Find a house where the owners are in residence. They’ll appreciate the free upgrade.”

Matt groaned. “And spend hours listening to complaints about being inconvenienced or hearing about changes that won’t work.” Matt pushed to his feet. What he didn’t say was that he planned to buy and live in the house.

He kissed his new sister-in-law. “Let Mark spoil you and Davey. My brother has a few years of making up to do.”

Matt strode to the coatroom to retrieve his leather jacket and helmet. He’d planned to hang out here until tomorrow but not with the schemes buzzing in the ladies’ heads. He leaned over the counter, kissed the middle-aged woman’s cheek and dropped a ten spot in the tip dish.

He dashed out the door and down the steps to the parking lot and his bike. As the engine roared to life the relatives gathered and protests began.
So much for a quick escape. He braced for the arguments.

“Stay,” his new sister-in-law called. “You can have one of the cabins all to yourself.”

“We won’t bother you. I promise,” his step-mother said.

She wouldn’t but her promise didn’t include his sisters. “Another time.”

“Matt, it’s going to rain.” The voices of four females rose in a chorus.

“I won’t melt.” He slipped on his helmet. With a spray of gravel he headed to the road.

Exit Matthew, fleeing a bunch of women intent on ending his bachelor state.
What about his father, brother and his sisters’ fiancés. He bet the guys envied his freedom.

“You’re next.” Had someone said that or was it his imagination?

He waved. “Not today. Not this year. Maybe never.” The engine’s roar drowned any comments.

Visions of being followed by a parade of match-makers crowded his thoughts. Instead of heading for the interstate he decided to cross from Vermont into upstate New York. Exploring new territory was a perfect ending to his escape.

Once they’d found the perfect mate, why did happy couples believe every bachelor should be part of a twosome? He wasn’t ready to take a wife or enter a long term situation. He enjoyed his single state and found pleasure with a variety of women. Granted there’d been a dry spell lately—not his fault. He hadn’t met a woman who’d tempted him for even a night.

As he sped along the serpentine roads, a misting rain began. Moments after crossing into New York the storm turned earnest. Water fell in wind-driven gusts. Thunder rumbled like a mad drummer played a kettledrum. Lightning streaked across the sky in a brilliant display. Although the time was late afternoon the darkness spoke of night.

Time to find a motel, bed and breakfast or a rustic inn with a room for the night.

He reached a crossroads and paused to read the signs. The nearest town was fifty miles away. He dug out his cell. No service. He wiped the face plate of his helmet and chose a road. The headlights cast a tunnel through the gloom. Shadows impinged on the narrow band of light. He sent the bike down the road. Off on an adventure, hopefully with a dry room at the end of the road.

* * * *

Cassie Moore stared at the bubbles rising in the flute of champagne. The ephemeral globules vanished like yesterday’s dreams. Rain pounded on the roof of the cabin in upstate New York. She’d borrowed the refuge from the senior partner of the cardiology group. The secluded area offered an escape from the second most humiliating day of her life. Memories of the first had emerged and resisted her attempts to cram them in a box labeled “gone but not forgotten.” Dark streaks from that day stained her thoughts.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning cracked. The gloom matched her mood. Emotions roiled and changed with each sound. She refused to release the tears hovering on the threshold. The snap of wood in the fireplace threatened to spark the anger she held inside. She raised the glass.

“Here’s to a long engagement makes sense. Let’s drink to waiting for the residency to be completed. A toast to being established in a medical practice first. Here’s to tonight’s bridal shower and the absent bride-who-was-to-be. Raise your glass to the fiancé who married the office nurse on his regular Thursday off.”

She chugged the champagne in a single swallow and tossed the flute engraved with his name into the flames. A flare of color and a loud crack made her chuckle at herself. So much for melodrama.

The buzz from the wine failed to raise her flagging spirits or elevate her self-esteem. What was wrong with her? Thoughts tumbled over each other. A father who hadn’t wanted her or her mother, a first love turned into a teenage prank, a fiancé who chose another woman. Had she loved Tim? She’d never said the words to him. Had being married ruled her choice?

Cassie turned from the fire. She sliced the negative thoughts and shoved them into that box. Shower, comfy clothes, chocolate and a movie chosen to provide an excuse for tears were next on the agenda.

She hurried to the bathroom, turned the shower on and stepped beneath the hot spray. A short steam-filled time later with a towel wrapped around her body she scurried to the bedroom she’d chosen for her stay. She opened the suitcase she’d grabbed on the way out of the apartment.

“No.” A groan followed. She’d brought the bag she’d packed for the wedding night, the plane trip to Hawaii and the first day on the island.
With a shrug she slipped on the sheer nightgown and short silk robe and wished for her fleecy one. At least the slacks and sweater she’d worn today could be donned tomorrow when she searched for a store to buy a few things. She lifted a white lace bra and bikini and a red satin set. She did have underwear. For tonight the green afghan on the couch could provide warmth.

When Cassie reached the main room she popped the movie into place, filled the second flute with champagne and selected a truffle. As she savored the rich chocolate she draped the afghan over her shoulders and reached for the remote.

The opening music of the movie was drowned by a rumble of thunder. A loud noise caused her to jump. Had lightning struck nearby? She crossed to the window and turned on the yard light.

A heap on the ground caught her attention. A movement made her realize someone lay there. She grabbed a yellow slicker from a hook near the door, slipped on her sneakers and opened the door.

Moments later she clattered down the steps. Rain pelted her. She ran toward the figure. A closer look showed a man wearing a helmet and leather jacket. A motorcycle rested against the lone pine beside the driveway.
Cassie crouched and felt for a carotid pulse. The steady beat against her fingers reassured her. When she grasped his shoulder he groaned. Her breath escaped on a sigh. She needed to see if any bones had been broken and get him out of the storm. While she was a doctor, hearts not bones were her specialty.

“Where do you hurt?”

He groaned. “Everywhere.”

“Can you move your arms and legs?”

He complied. This time his groan was louder and deeper.

“Try to sit up.”

Slowly he eased into a sitting position. “My bike.”

Cassie choked back a laugh. How like a man? “Before you worry about that you need to get out of the rain and be checked for other injuries. Can you stand?”

“Probably.”

With her help he stood and swayed. He clutched Cassie's shoulders. They nearly fell but she steadied him.

“Easy.” She put an arm around his waist. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Don’t think so. Had the breath knocked out. A bit stunned.” He drew a breath. “Must have been a deer.”

“What?”

“The thing on the road. Big. Dark. Saw the creature in a flash of lightning. Couldn’t stop.”

Cassie peered toward the road. If he’d broadsided a deer the animal would be seen the road. There was no large heap visible. The motorcycle had crashed into the pine tree where the road curved. Had he been more than stunned? Was he drunk? Was she a fool for taking a stranger into the cabin?
She could leave him at her car and run inside for her keys. They could drive to town. Except, she wasn’t dressed for going to town or for entertaining a guest.

“Where are we going?”

“To the cabin so I can check you for injuries.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

His deep voice held a quality that sent heat rushing through her veins. She faltered. Why the reaction? With all that had happened recently she should avoid thinking of any man as attractive until she recovered from the pain of Tim’s rejection.

She helped the stranger through the driving rain to the roofed porch. The protection from the steady downpour was welcome. She opened the door. They stepped inside. Water beaded on her slicker and his leather jacket. Pools gathered on the slate foyer floor.

She shivered. “Cold.”

“Makes two of us.”

Cassie released her hold on his waist and dragged a wooden chair from the kitchen area of the main room. “Sit.” She wished for her medical bag so she could do a complete assessment but the bag was at her apartment. There was no way to check his blood pressure but his pulse had been strong and steady. For the rest of the exam she would improvise.

“What year is it?” She began the questions to check his mental status. “Where are you?”

“Why the grilling?”

“To make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you a doctor?” She strode to the kitchen and found a flashlight. “Take the helmet off. I need to check your eyes.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“No, a doctor.”

When she turned he’d removed his jacket and helmet. Her mouth gaped. A moment of recognition studded her. No! Couldn’t be, But he was. Blond with blue eyes. Handsome. The class jock. Her first crush.

Cassie gulped a breath. So much for a complete physical. There was no way she could examine his body. She shone the light in one eye and then the other. “Pupils equal and reactive. That’s good. No concussion. You’ll be sore and develop bruises. You were lucky to have escaped serious injuries.”

He bent and pulled off his boots. “A hot shower will help.”

She studied his soaked slacks. Granted there was a dryer but she feared they would shrink. “I doubt there’s anything here for you to wear,”

He straightened. “I’ve clothes.” He reached for the boots.

“Where are you going?”

“To my bike. The saddlebag has clothes. Also I need to see the damage.”

She shook her head. “Not a good idea. I’d worry about you falling.” She dashed to the door. “I’ll go.”

Cassie stepped outside and sloshed to the lone pine and the bike. After removing the saddlebag, knowing he would ask, she studied the bike. The front tire was blown and she thought the frame might be twisted. She carried the bag to the cabin.

She had a house guest—a stranger who belonged to her past. She paused beside her car. If she had the keys she could leave. Knowing who he was had stirred memories of that day and also of the nights she’d dreamed of him.

If she took the only transportation what would he do? The motorcycle wouldn’t run. He would be stranded. Town was five miles away—a long walk.
As she dashed to the cabin she recalled what she knew about him. She’d had a major crush on the football star. So had most of the girls at school. He’d always seemed nice until the day she’d listened to a pair of cheerleaders and followed their advice. His laughter and rejection had hurt. Unfortunately what he’d said had been true.

Cassie stood on the porch. With those memories so clear how could she face him? But did he know who she was and would he remember that dreadful day? Though remnants remained she wasn’t that geek now. She could manage. She opened the door.

He rose.

Cassie swallowed. His shoulders seemed broader without the jacket and his chest more muscular than she remembered. She shoved the saddlebag into his hands.

“Aren’t you going to take off your coat?”

Her face flamed. “No.” She scooted past him. “Bathroom’s this way.”

As soon as the door closed behind him she bolted to the bedroom. She removed the raincoat and searched for other clothes. Would have to be something she’d packed for the flight to Hawaii. Silk dress or shorts and a knit top? The clothes she’d worn today were intended for tomorrow’s shopping trip. She chose the shorts. Thank heavens the cabin had central heat.

Wednesday - On Plot - The Adventure Plot

2011-12-21T05:48:00.000-08:00

Thisis a plot I've used many times and sometiems I think I'm writing a quest story but it's really an adventure story. What is the difference? In an Adventure plot, the character or characters leave home. That's the same as the Quest story. So what are the differences.

In a Quest story while the character is searching for a person, place or thing, he may or may not find it. What he finds is a change within himself. During an Adventure plot, the central character goes looking for an object and he finds that object. There is no change in his nature. He's the same person going into the story as he is when coming out.

In an Adventure plot, the hourney is more important than the person. The character or characters leave their place of comfort for new and different places. They spend time moving through new and perhaps exotic climes. The fortune is found in these distant places rather than at the place where they began the journey. Someone or something sends the character or characters off on their journey. This is no search for self as the Quest story might be. The motivation of the character doesn't change as the story progresses and each new adventure is faced. There can be a romance between pairs of the characters.

Some authors will combine the two types. But they are writers who either know the rules by studying or by instinct. So as you sit down to write, if you're trying to decide on a plot, look at the two similar plots and decide which you're going to write. Know the differences as well as the similarities.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Romance - Austen and Tolstoy

2011-12-20T04:55:00.000-08:00

This is the last of the main genres that I write in though in romance I take many twists and turns. Thinking back on who really inspired to write romances two authors came to mind. I'm not sure exactly why but I read both of these authors when I was rather young. Anna Karenina in third grade and nearly got suspended from school since the teacher thought this was not a book a child should be reading. My father asked the teacher if I had understood what I was reading. She had to admit I had since I wanted to change the ending of the book. Jane Austen came in my teen years and my English teachers were glad that I read these books.

One is Jane Austen. I have read everyone of her books several times except Pride and Prejudice which I've re-read at least a dozen times. I've found the subtle touches of the developing romances in this book and her other ones to be fascinating. I think her character development is excellent. I don't write like her but her books sowed seeds for me.

Leo Tolstoy is the other. What I was fascinated in his stories was the scope, not to mention the casts of characters, In many of my books I tend to have casts of , perhaps, not thousands but hundreds. In a romance this can create a problem since romances tend to be one man and one woman stories. But from his writings I learned is that every story needs as many characters as it takes to tell the story.

So here we have it. I'm sure there are others but these two are ones I read before I ever decided to write romance or any other genre.

19 December - Week ahead and Week behind

2011-12-19T07:47:00.000-08:00

Today is cookie baking day. Not as many as I did years ago but a few. I don't have the patience or the time these days. As to the writing Finished draft 5 of The Chosen of Horu and will finish the sixth by the end of the year. Then it's the final check through and then ship it off to the publisher. Hopefully by the middle of the year. Life does tend to intrude in a writer's life.

Can't wait to start the next story this one features Tony, a attorney who misses his best friend's wedding. Takes place at the same time as A Sudden Seduction. Not sure of the title yet. He's going to run into the twin sister of his brother's wife and think she's his dead sister-in-law. There is a child to become a bone of contention. This will all work out as I start. By the way he introduced his brother to the wife and had also fallen in love with her.

Not much to say today since the timer's buzzing I'd better head to the kitchen.

3 Blog Visit Sunday

2011-12-18T05:42:00.001-08:00

http://chellecordero.com/ contest

http://sisters-in-crime-sinc.blogspot.com/ interesting things

http://dreamvoyagers.blogspot.com/ neat story

Saturday's Chapter - Summer's Song - Allie Boniface

2011-12-17T05:36:00.000-08:00

And the first chapter of Summer's Song:

Summer stared at the solid silver container holding her father’s remains. Funny. She’d always pictured someone’s ashes preserved in some kind of fancy urn. Something sculpted or carved. Something meaningful. Dignified. Instead, Hope Memorial Services, following Ronald Thompson’s wishes, had sealed his remains in a six-by-eight-inch metal box, which now sat in the center of Joe Bernstein’s desk.

She pushed the rest of her father’s life into a large manila envelope and slid back her chair. “I’m finished.”

“You’re sure you don’t—”

“Joe.” She held up one hand, fingers ringless and well manicured. “No. I don’t need anything else.” Except to get out of Pine Point as soon as possible. She smoothed her suit jacket and brushed the ridge of the engraved business card holder deep in her pocket.

Summer Thompson, Chief Curator, Bay City Museum of History. Knowing the words were there, close to her skin, brought relief. She could do this. After a brief look at the house and a meeting or two with a local realtor, she could hop a plane back home to San Francisco. Within the museum walls, her world made sense.

She could catalog the lives of other people and draw conclusions about long-gone civilizations. She could organize press conferences, plan exhibit openings, and design educational seminars for the local schoolchildren.

Outside those walls? She lost her voice. She lost her grip. She couldn’t puzzle together the last decade or fit together the fragments of her own life. And she damn well couldn’t say the word father or utter the word dad. Ronald Thompson hadn’t been one to her in over ten years. She pulled out her cell phone to check her messages.

“Actually, there’s something else we have to talk about before you go.”

“Sorry?” She pulled her attention back to Joseph Bernstein, the elderly,
craggy-faced lawyer she’d known since childhood.

“I know you’re planning on selling the place—”

“Of course I am. I don’t know why he left it to me in the first place.” My
father did what? Willed me the McCready estate? She’d grown dizzy with the news, now almost a week old. Kids in town called the three-story mansion haunted and avoided it on their way to school. Teenagers broke into it, leaving empty beer cans and used condoms on its dusty floors. Adults ignored it, driving by its thick hedgerow without so much as a glance at the craggy black rooftop that speared the sky. Now it belonged to her, in a nightmare she had yet to awaken from.

“…but that isn’t going to be as easy as you might think.”

“Selling it? Why not?” She glanced through the paperwork on the desk between them. “Is there some kind of lien? A problem with the property?” Please, God, no.

“Not really.” He waited a moment before continuing. “But there’s an old
farmhouse on the back acre that your father rented out. Family’s been living there for a couple of years now.”

She put her phone away again. “You’re kidding me. So if I sell, I’m a schmuck who’s throwing someone out of their home.”

“Just wanted you to know.”

“Well, can I sell it with some kind of contingency? Let the renters stay on?”

“Sure, you could talk to the realtor about that. Might make it harder to find a buyer, though.”

Great. Summer shifted in her chair.

“Mac Herbert’s doing the repairs on the place,” Joe said after a pause. “You remember him? Went to school around the same time as you.”

She nodded.

“He’s got a young guy, new in town, helping him out. Damian Knight. He and his family are the ones renting the farmhouse.”

“Wait—they’re still working on the house? Who’s paying them?” She hadn’t
expected the place to be in the throes of renovation.

“Your father made arrangements. Left a checking account with enough money to cover materials and labor.”

“Really?” Every day revealed a new surprise, another piece of information she didn’t know about her father. One week, and she was already exhausted with the effort of trying to make sense of them.

The white-haired man leaned forward on his elbows. “You want ’em to stop? We can list the place as is.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—I guess I’ll have to go out and see before I say one way or the other.” She knew nothing about selling houses or about
renovations that might or might not make a difference to potential buyers. One more thing to think about. Terrific.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to do a memorial service, or…”

“No.” What on earth would she say to people? Who would come to such a thing? She hadn’t spoken to her father in ten years, since the accident. Everyone in town knew that. If they came, they’d only stare. “He’s the one who chose cremation,” she added. No headstone in the local cemetery, even though—

She stopped the thought before it could turn into something ugly. Don’t come back here, Ronald Thompson had grunted into the phone years ago. No reason.

Don’t want to see ya. So she hadn’t. “No service,” she repeated.

Joe reached over and squeezed her hand. He still wore the thick gold ring she remembered, encrusted with his initials and those of Yale Law School.

“Sweetheart, don’t rush. Take some time to think things through.” He paused. “I’m worried about you.”

Summer lifted her purse onto her shoulder. “Don’t be.” The manila envelope went into her briefcase. She adjusted the clip holding her midnight-black hair away from her face, then tucked the box of ashes under one arm.

He tented his fingers together. “How long’re you staying?”

“I’m not sure. A few days, I guess. I’ll go look at the house now, do what I need to tomorrow. Can’t stay any longer than a week.” She had museum exhibits coming in. A fundraising meeting the following Tuesday and an interview with the local paper the Thursday after that.

She couldn’t put the rest of her life on hold just because her father had chosen June fifteenth to die.

June fifteenth. Tears rose in her eyes before she could stop them. God, the irony of it might have just about killed her if she’d let herself think about it for longer than a few seconds.

“You’ll call me before you leave?”

Summer paused, one hand on the door. “You know I’m too old for you to worry about, right?”

The sixty-year-old rose, all knees and elbows inside a navy suit that hung the wrong way on his angular frame. “Never. Your father—”

Is dead, she wanted to say. She squared her shoulders. And I don’t feel any sadder today than I did all those years ago, when he sent me away from Pine Point. For a moment, an eighteen-year-old with flyaway hair, bright blue eyes and a stomach full of grief reared up in her memory.

“I’ll call you later,” she said instead, before Joe could say anything about finding serenity or forgiving or remembering the good times. She had gotten enough pity and prayers from the flower arrangements and sympathy cards that arrived in the mail. She thought she’d about drown in other people’s tears.

Death erased things, she wanted to tell all the well-wishers. It didn’t preserve them, and it sure didn’t peel back the edges of ten years of pain so you could examine it all over again. Death, expected or not, allowed people to move on. In fact, it forces us to. Why was she the only one who understood that?

She leaned on the heavy glass door of the Bernstein, Lowery and Samuels law office and gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to walk down Pine Point’s Main Street to the corner lot where she’d parked her rental car. She didn’t want her designer heels to catch in the cracked sidewalk by Evie’s Parlor, where the tree roots always came up, and she didn’t want to get caught at the only red light in town while Ollie at the corner station pumped gas and whistled at her.

But neither could she stay in this office one more minute. Outside, at least, the sunlight might blind her enough to keep the ghosts from taking up residence inside her head again.



Mac pulled his arm across his forehead, already damp with exertion. “She’s
coming to check out the house. I heard last night.”

“Who is?”

“Summer Thompson. Ron’s daughter.”

Ah, the new owner. Damian leaned against the porch railing and scratched his head. “Guess you owe me twenty bucks, then.”

Mac grinned. “Yeah. You called it right.”

“I knew she would. No one’d be able to sell a place without even lookin’ at it.”

He stuck his hammer into his tool belt, slung low across hiswaist. “What’s she like?”

Mac took a long pull on his soda and thought for a minute. Lunch lay scattered on the steps around them, and he eyed a second sandwich before answering.

“Christ, it’s been a long time…”

“Not that long. And this town isn’t that big. I’m betting you remember
something.”

“It’s been ten years. Long enough. Lotta people have come and gone.”

“You went to school with her, though, right?”

Mac nodded and reached for another can of soda. He cocked his head. “Actually, she was pretty cute back then.”

“Yeah?”

“Kept to herself a lot, but yeah. Hot body, pretty face… Hey, quit hogging the chips.” He grabbed the bag from beside Damian and dumped the crumbs into his mouth.

“Why’d she leave town?”

Mac busied himself with collecting cans and tossing them into a cardboard box. “Long story.”

“C’mon. Fill me in.”

The burly man shrugged. “Her little brother died in a car accident, week or so after she graduated from high school. Boyfriend was driving.” He shook his head.

“Damn awful thing. Her father sent her off to live with an aunt somewhere near Chicago. She never came back after that.”

Damian whistled. “Guess I’m surprised she bothered now.”

Mac stood with a grunt, one hand on his lower back. “Be too bad if she decides to sell the place, huh?”

“Why?”

He stared. “You know that house of yours is part of her property, right?”

Damian dug one heel into the ground. Shit. How had he forgotten? The farmhouse was a rental because they didn’t have the money to buy a place outright. They never had. And his mother had just finished decorating it the way she liked. He slammed the porch step with a fist and swore aloud.

“Maybe she’ll divide the property, sell the farmhouse to you.”

“Yeah.” And maybe pigs would get up on their hind legs and dance.

“Sorry, man.” Mac clapped a hand onto Damian’s shoulder. “Not a done deal,
though. Talk to her when she gets here.” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “If it doesn’t work out, I got a cousin with a couple of rental places over in Silver Valley. You want her number, lemme know.”

Damian nodded without answering. Despite the sun that scattered its rays over everything in sight, the afternoon had turned glum. He glanced over his shoulder at the mountains that rose just beyond the roofline of the McCready house.

About fifty miles west of the New York-Massachusetts border, Pine Point hovered at the base of the Adirondack Mountains. To most people, it was only an exit off the interstate, a stop halfway between Albany and Syracuse where you could get some gas or a burger before continuing on to more interesting destinations.

According to the locals, Pine Point got too much snow in the winter and not enough sun in the summer. Nine thousand people, give or take, made their blue-collar lives here, and about the only thing they seemed to like about the place were the ridges that surrounded it and caught the light at sundown.

Damian didn’t care about any of that. He only knew that Pine Point had given his mother and sister a place to escape, a chance for a new life, and for that he’d been grateful. Now it looked as though the ground beneath them was about to be pulled away once more.

**********

Thanks again,
Allie

How She Does It -- Allie Boniface

2011-12-16T04:14:00.000-08:00

We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?

For me the Why is usually one of the driving factors in creating fiction. The other elements definitely come into play, but I try to continually ask “Why is my hero/heroine doing this? What’s his/her motivation?” Focusing on that question usually helps me through stumbling blocks, as well as helps to reveal character traits I didn’t consciously plan from the start. As my characters react to situations, the plot unfolds.

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

a. I usually have a general idea about my main characters when I start thinking about a new project, but I do like to spend some time getting to know them before I jump into writing the book. I used to use pretty extensive character charts, but I’ve gotten away from those. Now I just sketch out some basics: physical appearance, background/family history, past hurts, and how I want the character to change by the end of the book. That’s usually enough to get me started.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

a. I used to plot and plan a lot more when I first started writing. I think I have gotten more comfortable in letting my plotlines develop as I write, now. I do usually have a general idea of where I want the plot to go, from beginning to end, but my characters ALWAYS take me on twists and turns that I didn’t predict!

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

a. I usually have a pretty specific idea of how the story will end when I begin. I think if I didn’t know where I wanted the story to go, and especially how I wanted the characters to change, I wouldn’t have enough to build a plotline upon. I read once that Stephen King has written entire books based on nothing more than a single image in his mind, when he begins. That’s definitely not me!

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

a. All of the books I’ve written to date are based on settings I know, either places I’ve actually been or fictional settings created from familiar places in my life. I travel a lot, and I write contemporary romance set in this world and time, so I love drawing upon the variety of small towns and big cities I’ve seen.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

a. Online. I have the bad habit of writing in one screen while I have an Internet browser open in another, so anytime I need to look something up, it’s literally there at my fingertips.

Thursday's Interview - Shirley Martin

2011-12-15T04:51:00.000-08:00

Though I've never met Shirley in person we have known each other for a number of years since we once write for the same publisher.

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

I started writing historicals, then branched out to paranormal and fantasy.

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

I guess you would say both. I enjoy history, reading and writing about it. But paranormal and fantasy have such a wide range that I got interested in those, also.

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

I enjoy reading mysteries but I wouldn't want to try writing one. Wouldn't write horror, either.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I love reading fantasy, esp. Terry Brooks and Terry Goodkind. Also, I read many Amish novels.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing,

Janet, like you, I'm from Pittsburgh but live in Birmingham, Alabama now. I'm a widow with two grown sons. One son passed away a few years ago. I enjoy reading and walking. I've been writing for over twenty years.

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

Do you know, I get so immersed in all of my characters. I fall in love with all of my heroes.

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

Villains in my fantasy romances and in one of my vampire romances, "One More Tomorrow." Moloch is an evil vampire who tries to separate the vampire hero, Galan, from his lover, Stephanie.

8. What are you working on now?

I stopped writing several years ago for personal reasons.

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

My last romance is "The Princess and the Curse." I have a book of Celtic fairy tales, and several of my ideas have come from that. The entire fantasy realm is rich with ideas.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

"The Princess and the Curse" came from my book of Celtic fairy tales. It's about a fisherman who loved to tell tall tales. He liked to brag about places he's never seen and things he's never done. When a stranger challenges him to go on a journey to a faraway country he's never heard of, he knows he can't refuse.

Nolan Tremaine smiled as he strolled the cobblestone streets of his village of Baile Beag, headed for the White Ship Tavern, for he enjoyed whiskey, women, and a good time, not always in that order. Part of having a good time was relating his travels as a fisherman, and if he embellished his tales a little, so what? No one could call him a liar; he merely exaggerated a bit.

Passing a fabric store and a shoe repair shop, he reached the tavern, where a few men stood outside, talking about the weather and their crops. He exchanged greetings, since everyone knew him here in the village. He pulled at the heavy oaken door and stepped into the crowded room, filled mostly with men but also several women, all talking and laughing, drinking ale or whiskey. A few patrons were eating a late meal of mutton, boiled cabbage, and oat bread, apparently oblivious to the smoke of countless pipes that hung over the room like a fog. Nolan found an empty table and drew out a chair, smiling and nodding to the others he knew, which included just about everyone in the room. Aware that the evening was young and hopeful that others would soon join him, he didn’t mind sitting by himself for a short while, as long as he had company later. He loved people, whether friends or strangers.

He ordered a shot of whiskey from Betha, the pretty, buxom barmaid whose favors he’d enjoyed more than once. She brushed his hand as she took his order, and when she returned a few minutes later, she bent low, giving him a good glimpse of what she had to offer, as if he could forget! He hoped this evening would bring more than a glass of whiskey.

The door opened and a stranger stepped into the room, a tall man whose blond sun-bleached hair glinted gold under the lamplight. He had a commanding mien about him, like one accustomed to giving orders. He peered around the room, his gaze settling on Nolan.

“Mind if I join you?” the stranger asked as he reached Nolan’s table and pulled out a chair.

Nolan inclined his head. “Happy to have you. Don’t like sitting by myself.”

“Neither do I.” The stranger sat down and caught the barmaid’s attention, gesturing toward Nolan’s whiskey glass. Soon he joined him in a drink. “So tell me,” the stranger said, “how do you spend your days?”

Nolan grinned. “I see you’re a stranger in this village. Everyone knows I’m a fisherman. Got the biggest catch today you’d ever want to see. Why, I caught so many fish in my net, I feared my boat would sink.”

Wednesday - Plots - Quests

2011-12-14T09:14:00.000-08:00

One grand thing about Plot is there are so many of them. How is this possible? That old thing called variations on a theme. Once one knows the rules they can find their own way to vary the rules and come up with something, whisle not new but they have put their own spin.

Quests are one of my favorite plot devices. This can be used in many genres. Simply put a quest plot involves a search for a person, place or thing. There also has to be a parallel between the person's motivation and intent to the object being sought. In The Henge Betrayed Flight- the characters are sent away from their home to find a teacher.

During the quest the character or characters must cover a lot of terriroty for the search will lead them to various settings but this can't just be a random wandering. While it may seem to be casual, the questor must have a plan. While writing The Henge Betrayed - Flight, my four characters wander from their home to a large town to find this teacher who will show them how to use their affinities for the elements.

Generally the character starts out from home and ends up where they started. In the case of Flight, since this was a four book adventure they don't return home but finding no teacher decide to fins a Refuge.

During the quest the character must change. By the time the four book series ends in Confrontation the characters are older and have learned how to use their affinities.

What the character or characters in a quest story find during the search learn knowledge or wisdom. This is a maturing process. In the Henge Betrayed series the young people learn about themselves and about the world around them. They are able to face and defeat evil.

Quest stories always start with an incident that sends the haracter on the search. There will be other characters they meet. Some will be traveling companions and others chance meets. Make sure your character and reader understand why they have set off to find this person, place or thing. In the end the character will either succeed or fail to complete the quest. What the chaaracter or characters discover may be different or not from what sent them on the quest.

Elements of the quest story may find their way into other kind of plots or the quest story may contain bits of other kind of plots.

Tuesday's Inspirations - Mystery - Doyle, Reinhart, Christie, Keene

2011-12-13T05:36:00.000-08:00

Back on the right day. Besides fantasy, I also write mysteries and I decided to look at those who inspired me to write in this field. There are modern writers of mysteries who I enjoy, but I'm looking at those whose books I read years ago.

Carolyn Keene - not necessarily a single person but she wrote the Nancy Drew series and I read every one of those many years ago. What I find interesting is my granddaughters at ages 12 and 7 are reading the more modern versions. Will they grow up to write mysteries, who knows.

Arthur Conan Doyle is another writer of mysteries. My father turned me on to him when I was about 9 or 10. These books were kind of puzzles and sometimes didn't make sense but the atmosphere was wonderful.

Agatha Christie was a mystery writer I stumbled on during my teenage years and I devoured them. When I decided to write mysteries I went out and found as many of her books as I could read. Her Miss Marple was my favorite of her characters and I liked the small town approach. In some ways that found its way into my writing since I chose a small town.

The final one was Mary Roberts Reinhart, a fellow nurse and Pittsburgher. I read her mysteries with interest especially since a nurse was the starring character. Perhaps this was where Katherine Miller arose.

If you write mysteries who influenced you when you were a child to write mysteries?

12 December - Week Behind and week ahead, Contest

2011-12-12T07:21:00.000-08:00

Contest rules - 27 book giveaway. Print and autographed.
1. Visit the blog.
2. Leave a comment.
3. Leave how you can be reached.
4. If you have one of my books you'd like write it down. No promises since only one of each of my books is being given away.
5. U.S. and Canada only.

Am being pulled between writing and Christmas preparations since I'm being descended upon by a swarm of children and grandchildren. Last week didn't get as much writing done as I wanted but I did manage to get three chapters to the nearly complete. That means there will only be three to do. Then the final two drafts. One of those is the proofing. Must make this story as perfect as I can since little editing will be done.

This week I'll be switching between cleaning, writing and at the end of the week decorating. Love Christmas decorations and they brighten the house so much. Goal is to finish the three chapters of draft 5 and begin draft 6 clearing up all the little bits left over or where I need to look up names or places from the book before.

Do I have a peeve this week. There's the ongoing one about thieves of intellectual property. Bothers me a lot and there doesn't seem to be anything to do to stop these people from taking what they want. Many are in other countries but it's the ones here who really anger me. My feeling is if you can't afford to buy a book and you cn't find it at the library then you shouldn't worry about reading it. There are a lot of books out there. Why do you have to steal and take money from writers. They remind me of cockroaches slithering through the darkness and taking what they want. Enough.

3 Blog visit Sunday

2011-12-11T05:18:00.000-08:00

http://tobecomeawriter.wordpress.com/ articles on writing

http://makeminemystery.blogspot.com/2011/12/please-welcome-mystery-author-frank.html

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com/ Science fiction and fantasy

Saturday's Chapter The Taste of Magic by Gina Rosavin

2011-12-10T03:48:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE
A sense of anticipation hummed through Adrian du Lac as he stepped into the enchanter’s house. He hadn’t visited Dimitri’s residence in many years. While curious about his loyal servant’s home, only tonight had he found a compelling enough reason.
Dimitri’s daughter.

The small villa was well lit, and from appearances, the party had been underway for several hours. The rooms echoed with music and the laughter of the guests, some of them clearly soused. The air, heavy with the metallic aroma of wine, the pungent spicy foods on the buffet table, neared overpowering. Adrian stared with disdain as two small boys ran by, screaming like banshees. Someone jostled him from behind. What was he doing here? The place was too crowded and these witches multiplied like rabbits. Just as he decided to make a hasty exit, Dimitri spotted him from across the room.

“Adrian, come in.” The tall, dark enchanter’s booming voice carried through the noise. “Welcome to my home.” Dimitri wore the traditional dress of his clan. This evening’s turquoise and gold vest and loose‐fitting shirt were clearly celebratory. A broad smile crossed Dimitri’s swarthy face as he cut through the crowd.

Adrian waited impatiently for the other man to reach him. Why had Dimitri insisted on dressing in his peasant costume? Adrian was used to seeing the enchanter in modern business attire, much like he wore this evening.

Guests stopped Dimitri more than once as he approached, increasing Adrian’s frustration. The sooner the niceties were spoken, the sooner he could leave. A sharp laugh pierced his hearing, and he winced. He needed to hunt, and longed for the cool night air instead of this overheated, noisy cottage.

“Good evening, Dimitri. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Without you, du Lac, there would be nothing to celebrate. My beautiful Katerina is home from the United States, and she will be a successful businessman, ah, woman.” The man laughed, pride in his daughter evident in his dark eyes.

Ah yes, the reason why he was here in the first place. Adrian remembered the girl and the first night he had seen her. The night he’d been so wounded he’d needed the enchanter’s help to survive. She’d been barely twelve, too young to be left on her own. She watched him, dark eyes filled with apprehension, but kept herself hidden behind a book the whole time Dimitri and his wife had tended him. Adrian recalled feeling her curious gaze. Even now the sensation seemed strangely intense. There had been an awareness in her eyes. She’d understood his pain that night, though he quickly forgot the notion during the agonizing healing methods the enchanter and his wife had used. Dimitri had bragged of how smart his daughter was, and how he needed money to send her away to school.

“Yes, and if you hadn’t saved me from that…vampire hunter, I would not be here to enjoy your hospitality.” He recalled the deal he’d proposed that fateful night. The long‐awaited payoff was at hand.

“It was good fortune I found you when I did.”

“Yes.” Adrian nodded and met the man’s gaze steadily. “For all of us. In many ways.”

“You gave my daughter an education. For that alone, I am eternally in your debt.”

“Yes, never forget, Dimitri.” He smiled. “My associates kept me apprised of her remarkable achievements. Dean’s list every semester, internships at the most prestigious companies, graduating second in her class at Harvard.” Dimitri grinned. “I told you she was intelligent.”

“First would have been better.” Adrian took a moment’s pleasure in seeing some light fade from Dimitri’s eyes before continuing. “Nevertheless, I am impressed. She will go far in the business world. I only regret she has declined my offer of a position at du Lac Enterprises.”

“I am sorry. I tried…”

He held up his hand. “Do not worry. It is her choice. She has chosen a fine company. KNT Communications is poised for an exciting future. Perhaps someday.” Someday sooner than she thought. He smiled. The foolish girl had accepted a position at Kuraskia’s largest communications company, unaware he’d been setting up a takeover of the corporation for quite some time. In a matter of weeks, the conglomerate would beg him to buy them out. And Katerina would be his employee, regardless of her choice.

The girl would prove useful with her intelligence and education, a worthy asset to du Lac Enterprises. With her powerful untapped magic also at his disposal, he would be unstoppable. Knowing she’d be here was the only reason he had agreed to come to this gathering.

Dimitri chattered on. Adrian glanced absently at his watch, and scanned the crowd. His wandering gaze stopped when he spotted the woman directly across the room, watching him with bold, dark eyes. She dressed differently than the other women, not in the long pleated skirts and puffy sleeved blouses they wore. She had on a simple maroon sheath, and matching long jacket. And though he had only the recollection of her as a child, he knew with sudden clarity this was Katerina.

For the first time in centuries, he was awed. The fire in her dark eyes called to him, almost as strongly as did her blood. His gaze caught hers, held it for several moments. With a slow, purposeful stride, she made her way toward him, and he couldn’t hold back his smile.

She radiated confidence, intelligence. Her gaze left his to casually peruse him, then returned to his face. A hint of a smile played on her full lips. Her ebony hair hung in thick curls around her shoulders, framing her face, giving her a wild, exotic look.

Finally, she stood before him, her ebony eyes boring into his. “Mr. du Lac, I suppose I should say thank you.”

“Katerina, how you’ve…changed. Please, call me Adrian.” He let his gaze wander over her once more, surprised by the sudden thickness in his throat.

Her smile broadened. “Very well, Adrian. I’m surprised to see you here. But I’m glad for the chance to thank you personally for all you’ve done.”

She was indebted to him, though he hadn’t needed the reminder. Perhaps he could use her obligation to his advantage. In the space of a single heartbeat, his plans changed. All he knew was he needed to keep this woman by his side, no matter what it took. What he previously considered a necessary task had become a tantalizing challenge. He could persuade her to his will easily enough, he supposed. Surely she knew what he was. He had to tread with care, as she was not a woman easily taken advantage of.
At least, not by mortal men. That realization excited him.

He heard her heart pounding in her chest. She was nervous. He reached out and clasped one of her hands. She was warm, and the pulse in her wrist jumped erratically.

“Katerina, you’ve done remarkably well. Your intelligence and creativity is what brought you this far.”

“Yes, but you paid the bills.”

“Katerina!” Dimitri sharply interjected. “Papa, please.”

“Dimitri, don’t fret.” Adrian never took his gaze from Katerina. “It was the least I could do for your father. Consider it a debt repaid.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, their inky depths hardening to coal, but her smile remained. “I’m afraid I can’t. You will be reimbursed. I will not have my family indebted any further. Consider this a down payment.”

She thrust a paper into his hand. Startled, he perused the check briefly, then looked at her again. He searched her eyes, and found a resistance which surprised him. He hadn’t expected this. It certainly required him to re‐think his tactics. The lure of the challenge she presented fired his blood. “What is this?”

“The first payment on the loan you made my family. You’ll have the rest by the end of the year.”

“Loan? I made no loan. There is nothing to pay.”

Dimitri stared at the check in shock and sputtered, “Katerina, what are you doing? This is not your place, and you show Monsieur du Lac no respect, after all he’s done for you!”

She waved her father’s protests away. “Papa, my education cost a lot of money. Since I’m the one who benefits, it’s my place to take care of this.”

Adrian held up his hand. “Dimitri, I admire your daughter’s determination. It is refreshing to see someone so young take such responsibility. However, Katerina, there is nothing to take care of.” He took her hand and lifted it, slowly opening her curled fingers. He laid the check in her palm, holding it there with the slightest pressure. Her heat burned him through the paper.

She made a noise of protest, and he smiled reassuringly as he gazed into her eyes. He was not above using a little persuasion to put an end to this ridiculous discussion. He held her gaze, and felt her will slowly turn toward him. “Katerina, we will not speak of this further. This is a celebration, and I would like to enjoy it with you.”

Her gaze warmed, and a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re right. We can talk about it another time. Come, have a drink.” She took his arm. He allowed her to pull him along with her. Perhaps this party would not be so bad after all.
***
Adrian responded to the buzz of the intercom. “What is it now?” “Katerina Romanov is here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.” Adrian tossed the file onto the desk. “Send her in.” He smiled. Just the distraction he needed from the morning’s work. He glanced down at his tie and straightened it. Just because he had no reflection didn’t mean he would settle for his appearance as less than perfect.

The double doors of his office opened. She stepped into the room. Amazed at how easily she could leave him speechless, he rose. Her sheer beauty was like nothing he had ever seen before, even dressed in the severe gray suit which hid her charms. Her dark eyes hinted at a limitless fire. He wanted to taste those full lips. At that moment, he knew the longing he’d felt the other night was more than a fleeting notion, and he had to have her.

Not as a vampire, but as a man. He wanted her in his bed.

“Katerina, what a pleasant surprise.”

She tore her gaze from his for a moment, a heartbeat, but enough to reveal her nervousness. “We have some business to discuss.”

Adrian shrugged. “We do? I was not aware…”

“I owe you for my education. And I intend to see the money returned, with interest.”

Adrian waved toward a chair. “Please, I thought we’d settled this.” Once she had taken her seat, he sat.

She shook her head. He wished her hair was unbound, as it had been the other night. What had gotten into him? He was not comfortable with the way these strange thoughts came upon him so suddenly, and at any time.
The lack of control was unfamiliar. And unwelcome.

“We settled nothing, du Lac. I will not have my family used by you any longer.”

He shrugged. Anticipating what was coming, he played along. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know what you are.”

That knowledge would make her seduction more difficult, but he was up for the extra challenge. “Really? And what would that be, Kat?”

He felt a twinge of satisfaction at the way she flinched. She leaned forward. “No one calls me Kat. My name is Katerina.”

He decided then and there he wouldn’t call her anything else. “You were saying…Kat?” A sense of triumph swept over him when she didn’t respond to the deliberate taunt. Her eyes flashed with annoyance before she once again composed herself. Subduing her fiery nature was clearly a struggle. Perhaps here was a way to get to her. He forced himself to focus on her words.

“Mr. du Lac, I’m determined to see every penny you spent on me is repaid. Then you will release my father from your service. Though he receives a substantial salary from du Lac Enterprises, I know his actual duties are not managing your Financial Advisory department.”

“You believe so? Your father has contributed to much of du Lac Enterprises’ profits in the last fifteen years. His particular…skills are greatly needed, and appreciated, by the company.”

“Skills? Don’t you mean his magic, his ability to cast good fortune your way?” “Your father is a valuable asset. I assure you, should he choose to…depart his position, I would not oppose him.” He knew Dimitri would never retire, would always remain loyal, despite whatever arrangements Adrian might make with Katerina.

She arched an eyebrow, her lips pursed in annoyance. “Really? Then you deny you use him for…unethical dealings.”

He smiled, but let no emotion show. She was smart. He wouldn’t be able to outwit her as easily as he’d anticipated, not without taking her blood. How much did she know about her father’s responsibilities? “Kat, I am shocked you would accuse me of such things. Your father chooses to work for me. If you object, I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong man. You should speak with him.”

“I already have.” She opened her briefcase and took out a large envelope.

Disappointed, he realized he’d half‐hoped she would pull out a stake or a bottle of holy water. Such a confrontation would have been exhilarating. Instead, she placed the envelope in front of him.

“Since you wouldn’t accept my check the other night, consider this a down payment on my father’s freedom.”

He opened the envelope and peered inside. Three folders. He removed them and glanced at the names of several major international corporations before tossing them to the desk.

“Really, Kat, what am I supposed to do with these?”

She stiffened at his continued use of the nickname, but again did not protest. “I scrimped and saved any extra money not used on living expenses the past few years. What I saved, I invested. And made some wise choices, as you’ll see. I’d say it’s enough to cover boarding school through the high school years.”

He arched an eyebrow and nodded. “I’m impressed. But really, you should share this with your family.”

“No, it’s for you. You’ll have the rest by the end of the year. You can suggest to my father he take an early retirement. Then, I want your word you’ll leave my family alone.”

He stood and walked around the desk, stopping beside her chair. He leaned over her. “You are very brave to make such demands. Now, I have a demand of my own.”

Katerina stared at him, hoping she still maintained her outward bravado. Truth be told, she was terrified. She had no magic like her parents to protect her. He could destroy her in an instant for her boldness, but it was a risk she had to take.

At the same time, the man was devilishly handsome, and she couldn’t deny his sensual appeal. Even long ago, when she’d barely been past her twelfth birthday, she’d noticed. The memories were clear, etched in her mind as if it had happened yesterday. He’d come to her parents’ home, and soon afterward, she’d been sent off to school.

Now, after years of adolescent recollections and imaginings about what it would be like to face him, she was in his office, and he leaned over her, his mouth beside her ear. The spice in his cologne intoxicated her. How could she act like a cold‐hearted businesswoman when he was so near? No man had ever affected her like this before. But he was no ordinary man. What was he going to ask of her?

“You will have dinner with me tonight.”

No, she couldn’t! Even as she shook her head, her mind screamed to accept.

His fingers slid along her jaw and turned her to face him. His touch was cool, but ignited sparks of fire within her. She met his crystal blue gaze, willing her heart to stop pounding so hard.

“Yes, Kat. We will dine together at my castle.”

She couldn’t resist. His hypnotic voice echoed in her mind, his words laced with a hint of some strange accent, and an almost medieval manner of speaking. How old was he, anyway? Even as the thought fluttered through, she found herself nodding in response. All rational thought had fled. The only thing she wanted was to hear him speak again in his silky voice, which caused delightful vibrations in her belly.

“I’ll send a car for you. Be ready at seven.”

She nodded again and stood, her gaze still locked with his. “I’ll be ready.” He turned away, and she felt as though she’d been suddenly released from some sort of restraint. With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the door. Her legs felt strangely unsteady. She prayed she wouldn’t trip in front of him as they made their way to the door. She paused and turned back to him, her mind jumbled with confusion. What had just happened?

“I…”

He placed a finger on her lips. The touch made her knees weaken. “I’ll see you tonight. We’ll discuss my other terms then.” Then she stood outside his office, aware his assistant watched her with curiosity. She cleared her throat and strode to the elevator, conscious of the fact she had not gotten him to agree to anything.

Friday - How She Does It with Gina Rosavin

2011-12-09T05:49:00.000-08:00

A friend and fellow critique partner. A woman of many names and talents.

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?

My characters very often are inspired not only by people I know or admire, but also by other fictional characters – a lot of times, there'll be something a specific character in a TV show or movie does or says that sparks the creative juices. Some tossed off line of dialogues, or a simple expression will spur that whole “What if?” thing in my head. It’s nothing very regimented, just sort of train-of-thought brainstorming. I’ll jot down a few ideas as to who the character is – whether it be their emotional makeup, or their physical appearance. Once I have the basics set (though they are always subject to change), then I start thinking about who would make the best partner for that character. Sometimes that character is inspired in a similar fashion, other times, it's just someone in a certain situation or with a certain problem that works well with my initial character. By this time, I’ve moved to my spreadsheet, where I use multiple worksheets to track the details such as character’s physical traits, personality traits and interests, and scene and plot ideas.

2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

Characters definitely come first. All of my ideas spring from that. But I don’t have any set routine, other than my spreadsheet. I have general ideas as to what the plot will be, but often it’s barely a sketch. While I do keep that worksheet with plot and scene ideas, often those are only bare bones, and the plot is very fluid as the story progresses. There are often surprises too – like in my current WIP, when a was working on a scene, and all of a sudden, my hero had not only a deceased wife, but a toddler son as well. I never originally planned for that, but it just fit perfectly and gave the character more depth as far as his internal goals.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

I usually do have some sort of idea how it should wrap up – getting to that point is a different story. But most of the time, I know exactly what the last scene should be. Sometimes it’s only a vague idea, other times, a very specific and detailed scene. I've even been known to write that scene before I actually finish the book, especially in those cases where the scene is specific. Usually, though, the final version of the scene changes as the story progresses. Sometimes, that last scene ends up being the penultimate scene or there might be several more after it. It depends on how the story has progressed. Occasionally, that ending gets tossed altogether because it doesn’t work anymore based on plot changes I make throughout the story.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

I like to use setting I know, but put my own personal twist on them. For instance, the Magiste books take place in New Orleans, a city I love. But I changed it up enough to make it a slightly alternate reality. Or, as in the case of The Taste of Magic, I made up my own country, but based on a real one. In my sci-fi story, we’re in a place I haven’t been in a very long time – the mountains of Pennsylvania. And other than the fact that my hero comes from another galaxy, it’s real PA, not an alternate.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

I research everywhere and every way I can – but mostly online, which can be tricky, since there is so much mis-information on the web. But I’ve found some reliable places over the years that I count as my “go-to” sites. I I find books that fit what I need to know, I buy them. I have quite an extensive library of all sorts of books. I just wish I had more bookcases so they’d be better organized! Most of them are dog-eared, or tagged for the places where I need specific information, and I've even highlighted and written in several of them. The bulk of my library consists of books on Edward I and the 12th and 13th centuries in England and Scotland, one of my favorite time periods. I also have lots of books on witchcraft, magic and fantasy. Those are fun to read because they can spur more ideas.

Thursday's Interview - Melinda Clayton

2011-12-08T05:33:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the opportunity! Here you go:

1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

I suppose the existing genre that best fits my writing is contemporary fiction, but a friend jokes that I need to establish a new genre, something like, "psychological fiction." I like for my characters to face obstacles and make tough choices.

2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

It chose me, definitely. I have a background in mental health, and I love to explore the motivations behind the choices we make. I also love to read books that make me question what I might do if I found myself in a situation like that of the protagonist. I can't imagine writing any other way.

3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

I don't think it's that I wouldn't like to try other specific genres so much as it's that I don't think I have the right skillset. Romance, fantasy - both are popular genres that I unfortunately don't seem to have an ability to write to.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I love Barbara Kingsolver, Anita Shreve, Anna Quindlen. Jodi Picoult is another one, as is Elizabeth Berg. These authors are some of my favorites for their character and plot development.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.

I’m an odd combination of psychotherapist and writer. I’ve always wanted to write, so several years ago I began writing on multiple online writing sites. From those, I began selling a variety of articles to print and online magazines on mostly mental health related topics. From that, I decided to branch out to short stories, and then a novel seemed the next logical step.

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

Without a doubt, Billy May Platte from Appalachian Justice is my favorite character. I know it’s a cliché, but I really felt haunted by her during the writing process. We spent a lot of time together and she was very real to me.

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

There are most definitely villains in my books. The villains in Appalachian Justice are a composition comprised of the traits of many perpetrators of abuse I’ve met in real life through my therapy practice. They’re quite anti-social and narcissistic, with very little conscience or ability to empathize. The villain in Return to Crutcher Mountain was a fun one to write. I can’t say too much about it because I hope the ending catches people off guard.

8. What are you working on now?

I’m currently working on my third novel, which is also set mainly in Cedar Hollow, West Virginia but is the story of a different family. It’s tentatively entitled Entangled Thorns, from a verse in the book of Nahum in the Hebrew Bible. It’s full of family secrets, personal demons, and tough questions and choices.

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

My latest release was Return to Crutcher Mountain, and it’s actually a sequel to Appalachian Justice. I had not originally planned to write a sequel; Billy May’s story had been told. But people were worried about Jessie, the young girl Billy May rescued in Appalachian Justice. They wanted to know if she turned out okay. Return to Crutcher Mountain was written to answer some of those questions.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

I’m hoping to have Entangled Thorns ready for publication by Christmas this year, but as you know, the story will only unfold as quickly as it chooses to unfold. Both Appalachian Justice and Return to Crutcher Mountain make reference to the Pritchett family, the local moonshiners. I thought it would be fun to explore the family on a deeper level. Upon reading the first few chapters one of my beta-readers commented, “I see you’ve returned to the dark side. I like it.” And I suppose I have. Entangled Thorns is the story of a family ripped apart by tragedy. In order to make peace, they must uncover the dark secrets of their past. The opening:

Chapter 1

Beth Pritchett Sloan

The sun fades away in the west and I pour myself a second glass of Kendall Jackson Ventner’s Reserve, a pricier chardonnay than my usual selection. We usually save the good stuff for company, but it’s been a rough day. The bottle is slick with sweat, the chill long since faded. This does not bother me; as quickly as I’ll be emptying the bottle, it’s hardly worth rousing myself to trek to the refrigerator between glasses. I’ll drink it warm.

Replacing the bottle on the marbled windowsill with a satisfying thunk, I settle back into my overstuffed chair. It isn’t a comfortable chair, chosen more for looks than functionality, but it’s the only one that affords me the view I want. I have to crane my neck to the left and peer between the sprawling houses across the street, but if I angle my head just so, I can get a glimpse of the western sky.

Vaguely, I wonder when the sunsets became so muted. Dull pink, dirty yellow, in the distance the colors are smeared across the dingy Memphis sky like a stain, and I have a fleeting memory of tattered clothing hanging from a line, blowing in the wind. The air is wet and heavy, dripping with the stifling humidity that rolls across town from the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. The window fogs in front of me, the droplets creating rivulets on the steamy glass. In my current state of mind, the whole world appears to be weeping.

The flaming sunsets of my childhood had stretched across the West Virginia mountaintops as if painted by God himself, the hellfire and brimstone God preached about by Reverend Hudson down at the Cedar Hollow Baptist Church. There are a few things I miss from my childhood, and the sunsets are one of them.

My family, however, is not. The letter in my lap lays like a weight across my thighs, wiping out any comfort I may have found from the wine. With the exception of my sister, I haven’t seen my family of origin in nearly twenty-seven years, not since Luke died. And now this.

Thanks again - just let me know if you need anything else.

Melinda

Wednesday - On Plot - Characters - Two, Three or Many

2011-12-07T06:00:00.000-08:00

When casting the main characters for a story having two main characters can be limiting. Having a cast of a thousand main characters can be daunting. Plot depends on interactions. With two main characters the interactions are limited. For the purpose here, we'll call these two hero and heroine, What you have to work with is - How does the hero interact with the heroine and how the heroine interacts with the hero.

Add a third and we'll call this the villain and the number of interactions increases. Hero with heroine. Heroine with hero. Hero with villain. Villain with hero. Heroine with villain. Villain with heroine. This can add a depth to the story. Now the character labeled as villain doesn't have to be a bad person. His or her interactions just have to act in a counter fashion to one of the main characters.

Then we get into those kind of stories where there are many main characters. Tolstoy does this in most of his novels. This can be confusing and also one of the characters can be lost for a time and when they re-enter the action this may seem forced.

There's nothing that says a writer must stick to two, three or hundreds of people in their stories. Plot is really based on how people interact with each other.

6 December - Last Week and this week

2011-12-06T05:38:00.000-08:00

I'll put it down to having two grandchildren for the afternoon. At ages 3 and 5 they have more energy than I do. Also put it down to remembering the influences others had on my writing and my eagerness to let others know how they inspired me. So this week days have been reversed. I could also blame getting ready for Christmas. Then there's also age.

Last week, I reached the end of the fifth draft and am well into the sixth draft of The Chosen of Horu. The book is finally coming together as I first imagined it. The hero is finding being in a strange time forcing growth and belief in things he believed impossible. The heroine has not yet learned her lesson, but she will and soon. For she has acted rashly again and is not a prisoner of one of the bad guys of the story.

This week I will make her face what she must elarn to be the ruler of a land at the side of the hero. Then they will end their quest and finally the restrictions against their becoming one will be ended. So within a few weeks this story will be done. For me it will be on to the next.

Question for those who read this. Do you work on one story at a time or can you be working on pieces of several at once. I tried to do this once and found I needed to explore one world, one group of characters until their story ended before going on to the next. But I also learned there could be some planning on the next in my head but not on paper.

Monday's Inspiration -- 3 Women writers, Norton, Bradley, McCaffrey

2011-12-05T05:43:00.000-08:00

This is a little bit different from the regular posts about inspiration but the death of Anne McCaffrey made me think of the three writers who inspired me in different ways and that's in research. I don't write like them but elements of what they've written have crept into my own writing.

I've been collecting Andre Norton since the 1950's and have most of her books on my shelves. I do enjoy fantasy and science fiction but her book "Shadow Hawk" sent me off to do research on Ancient Egypt and the Hyksos. My interest in this timein history have triggered off several of my books. All Our Yesterdays and The Warrior of Bast plus my current WIP. The Chosen of Horu.

The influence of Marion Zimmer Bradley was slightly different. Though I have many of her books, the ones that really made me think and research are the Darkover series with their use of ESP in various forms. When I read the first one I began researching the subject and have many books on the subject and these powers have found their way into many of my stories.

Anne McCaffrey's inspiration came in the form of dragons. While there have never been dragons on Earth, there should have been. After reading her books on dragons I began researching the various mythologies on the creatures from the wonderful to the eerie. I've written few stories about dragons but The Dragons of Fyre and The Amber Dragon have found a way into the stories I've written.

So this week's inspiration is for these three women who had a great influence on the science fantasy and fiction world and on mine. Do you ever think of the writers who have influenced you. For me there are others as well. I've been reading for a long, long time.

3 Blog visit Sunday

2011-12-04T07:40:00.001-08:00

http://cluculzwriter.blogspot.com/

http://goteroticromance.blogspot.com/ Does reviews

http://booksake.blogspot.com/ Another review site