Wake Me Up If I Fell Asleep At the Computer

Bring on the Wassail--Please!

2011-12-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

You know, every year I swear I’m going to get in the Christmas spirit. Really. I’ll decorate earlier, better and I faithfully pledge to take better care of the Christmas tree so that when I pull it down after the New Year it’s not because the Fire Inspector chastised me for crunchy tree needles.
But Christmas seems to fly in and out faster and faster, and after the New Year rings in I’m left to wonder, what did it really mean?
Sure, the economy’s not great, but it’s not the complete inability to satisfy my child’s every Christmas whim that has me on edge.
It’s just a feeling that something’s getting lost along the way. I’m looking for a little peace on earth and good will toward men. That’s really all I desire.
So, once again, I’m going to irritate my spouse when he asks what I want for Christmas because my reply will be—nothing. At least not anything that can be bought and wrapped and placed beneath the tree to be ripped open on Christmas morning.
I want my family around me without the laundry list of gimmes or gots. I want to feel like I’ve made someone else’s holiday better because I could help them in some way.

Last year’s Holiday hangover resulted in the writing of Santa’s Helper, which releases today from The Wild Rose Press. Jack, the hero, is covering a bet he’s lost by ringing a bell and collecting money for charity. Merry, the heroine, is working three jobs to support her and her son—one of them is as a Santa’s elf at the mall. She’s filled with the Christmas spirit and Jack’s not, even though it seems like the opposite should be the case. The attraction is instant, but Jack’s got a secret that could make even Merry say, “Bah, humbug!”
What are the things that put you in the holiday spirit? Leave a comment and I’ll put your name in a drawing for a copy of Santa’s Helper. Drawing will take place Sunday, 12/11 at 10 p.m. Good Luck.
Oh..hey...read the next post and leave a comment there too. You'll be entered in a drawing for my contemporary romance Bittersweet. It released Monday.

Cue the Commercial

2011-12-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

(Me) “Okay, I’ll say right up front, this is an unapologetic promotion for the book I have releasing today. So, if you’re looking for some sage advice it’s probably not here. And I’m sure my more market savvy colleagues would cringe at the way I’m opening this blog post. Okay so scoff…”
(Cue the TV infomercial announcer) “BUT WAIT! There’s more. Stick around through the unabashed promotion and leave a comment for your chance to win a digital copy of BITTERSWEET!”

(Me) “That’s right. Here’s the deal… all you have to do is tell me what you believe makes for a really great romance. What is it that makes you pick up a book and buy it…or in the case of ebooks…what makes you click that “Buy Now” button? Is it the cover? The blurb? The excerpt? Genre?
“Do that, and I’ll enter your name in a drawing at the end of the debut week (12/11). Make sure I have a way to contact you, so I can send you your digital copy.”
(TV infomercial announcer) And, it doesn’t stop there…because Laura has a second…yes, a second book releasing on Wednesday. Come back then for an additional chance to win!”

A gift to All my Followers

2011-11-23T11:45:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving, that uniquely American holiday in which we stop to give thanks for what we have before we rush to the TV to watch parades and football followed by a feeding frenzy, is almost here. For us, it's also the start of the Holiday Season.

Every year, The Wild Rose Press offers a free e-cookbook to its authors and readers. I'm thankful I am able to contribute two recipes to this year's edition. I'd like to pass along those recipes, along with all the wonderful ones contributed by my fellow authors. Take a moment to download it, and you'll see there are some super eats included.

I'm not going to give you a sappy list of things for which I'm thankful other than to say -- my thanks to each and every one of you who's supported my efforts as a writer, either by buying my books or offering me your friendship and advice.

Here's to all of you.

Ghosts? You Bet!

2011-10-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

Ask my mother. She knows. The house where I spent most of my formative years was haunted. I don’t want to sound all woo-woo, but I believe there are some folks who are wired for the weird, and others who aren’t. My dad was in that latter category.
Parts of the house creeped me out for a long time before I even knew my mother had actually seen an apparition inside it. And that was really kind of strange because it wasn’t like it was an old house, something that just screamed haunted. We moved in when it was brand-spanking new.
The family room was at one end of the house at the end of a long hallway that extended almost to the opposite end. Sometimes, after my parents thought I was old enough, they’d leave me for the evening to visit friends down the street. My brothers, all older, would be off doing whatever, so it would be just me and the dog. Grinner liked to lie on the floor, positioned so she could see down the hall. Not me, not at night. Every now and then, she would lift her head with a jerk and just stare down that long, dark hallway.
“Stop it!” I’d whisper, huddled under a blanket on the couch and not really wanting to see if she actually did see something. The dog would give me that over the shoulder glance before she went back to glaring down the hallway. I peeked one night, and no lie, I saw something smoky and floating at the end of the hall. But did I say anything? Hell no. I still didn’t know Mom had actually seen someone sitting in a chair in our family room! Instead I cowered on the couch and hoped our ancient mutt would keep whatever away. She growled, but I was still more frightened of the teasing I’d get from my brothers than of whatever lurked at the end of the hall.
I was always relieved when my parents came home.
In addition to the long hallway, this house had a full basement. Early on, my parents had hired a guy laid off from the Ford Plant in Louisville to finish the basement. That was okay with me. I’d always been spooked by the wooden stairs where someone could reach through and grab my ankle. I figured once those stairs were closed in, like normal stairs should be, everything would be cool.
The problem was, even after the basement was finished, I still got spooked every time I had to go up or down those stairs. They might be carpeted and paneled and look like any other stairs, but I still ran up them like the hounds of hell were hot on my heels, and I never, ever went up or down unless the lights were on.
There was even a bedroom in the basement. My parents had added that so that every one of us kids could have our own room. My brother, Tom, lived there with his black lights, Jimi Hendrix and long hair. He was into a few other things as well, so when he told me he’d seen a pure white hand flash in front of his face one night when he fell asleep watching TV and then woke up, his credibility was just a bit suspect.
Nevertheless, it reinforced my basement phobia.
Most of the time I was okay if I was down there with someone else, or if I could stay on the far side of the basement near the fireplace and the sliding glass door. It was the stairs and the unfinished part of the basement that made my skin crawl.
I truly tried to get over it. I would force myself to go down there for things, make myself stay there, but every time, when it came time to go back up, I felt like someone hovered right behind me, breathing down my neck as I scrambled up the steps.
I have to admit, this went on into my teenage years…way into them. In fact, I believe it was about the time I was cleaning out my stuff in preparation for going away to college that the final incident happened. My mother was big into us periodically going through our junk and getting rid of what we no longer wanted.
There I sat, by myself, and old enough now to poo-poo that niggling shiver of unease, sorting old books, toys and games. By this time, I knew about the lady in the chair. I knew about the hand flashing in front of Tom’s face, but big deal—I was college ready with a year abroad already behind me. Sophisticated, intelligent, getting ready to take the journalistic world by storm.
Right.
That’s when I found the Ouija Board. Remember those things? Cue the dark creature feature type voice: “Use the pointer on the board to communicate with the other side.” Ooooohhhhhh! I’d gotten it for a birthday or Christmas or something years ago, played it a couple of times with my girlfriends down the street while we asked it stupid questions like, “Will I marry Johnny when I grow up?” then put it away and promptly forgot about it.
With a cynical chuckle, I pulled the board and the pointer out. Since no one but me would be operating it, I figured I could debunk the whole idea of someone else having pushed it. I wasn’t going to. I was simply going to rest my fingers lightly on both sides of the pointer as the instructions said. Sitting there cross-legged with the board in front of me and my fingertips just barely touching it, I inhaled and asked, “Is there anyone else down here with me?”
The damn thing moved. Not some little twitch to one side that could have been caused by a quiver in my finger. No. It jerked across the board to “yes.”
When I could finally make myself go back down to the basement again, I packed up the Ouija Board and gave it away. I have never touched one since then.
But I still wonder. Did the people who’ve lived in that house since we moved ever realize they weren’t really alone?

So, bottom line? As much of a realist as I like to believe I am, I absolutely do believe the souls of the departed are sometimes still walking among us. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. Not only will it help me get rid of the shivers still turning my stomach as I recall those memories, it will enter you in a drawing for a copy of any one of my books that you choose as a pdf. I'll let the winner know on November 1st.
Hey, and while you’re at it? Check out this great Halloween blog hop!

Looking for the "Aha!" Moment

2011-10-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

As a teacher, I know that every student isn’t going to get everything I teach the first time it comes out of my mouth. Particularly in English, it seems as though I spend the year guiding students again and again through similar and alternate paths to help them recognize literary concepts. I get that.

Here’s what I don’t get:

Me to the freshmen: “What is the setting for “The Birds”? You know, the story we just read?

Student 1: a farm.

Me: That’s right. In what country was that farm?

Student 2: Georgia?

(Now, I do know my students well enough to understand they are not referring to the former Soviet Republic.)

Me: Wrong side of the ocean.

Student 3: Minnesota?

Me: Noooo. Remember how the story mentions listening to the BBC on the wireless? What city was mentioned in the story?

Student 4: I don’t remember any city.

(I open the book, scan the pages and find the first mention of London.)

Me: Try the bottom of page 54. What city is mentioned there?

Student 1: London.

Me: Right! And what country is that in?

Student 5: France?

Me: (sigh)

Now this exchange went on for quite some time as I continued to lead them through the when…beginning with the fact that no one—gasp—had cell phones and walking them back through history several decades.

How is it, I wonder, that so many students travel this far into our educational system and lack such rudimentary knowledge of the world around them? No wonder they look at me when we try to read material that’s not related to fashion, sports or some musician’s latest hit like I’m speaking Greek.

We’re watching Alfred Hitchcock’s version of “The Birds” which, I might add, has only the concept of attacking birds and the title in common with Du Maurier’s short story, and I would be willing to bet that when I ask them tomorrow what U.S. state it’s set in, no one will say California.

We live in an age of information unlike anything anyone’s ever experienced. As a writer, I am still amazed at how quickly I can locate answers to questions that would have required extensive library research just two decades ago. So it frightens me that all this information is so readily available, and yet it seems like students are becoming more and more myopic and insular about the world around them.

Have they become like the person who dines every evening at the all-you-can-eat buffet? Have they become so overloaded with information they no longer have any desire to find out anything new?

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

2011-09-29T14:59:00.000-07:00

This question’s been bothering me of late for a couple of reasons. I am the parent of a sixteen and a half year old who seems to have no real direction or ambition in life. On any given day, his career ambitions range from police officer to video game designer. With only two years of high school still to go, he’ll be in the job market soon. Like every parent, I’d love to be able to give him a road map, help set his feet on some firm path down which he can tread with the utmost confidence.

Okay. Reality check. Not only can I not do that, he also wouldn’t accept it.

The second reason why this question’s been bothering me is I am also a teacher, and over the past few years, I’ve realized how often adults ask this question of kids. So, I started thinking back to my own life and reflecting on how my ambitions have turned out to be kind of circular.
• Six years old – nurse
• Ten years old – teacher
• Twelve – archaeologist
• Thirteen – veterinarian
• Fifteen – artist
• Sixteen – writer
• Seventeen – (Parental pressure being applied) Journalist (foreign correspondent)
• Eighteen – television journalist
• College major – journalism

Now… let’s see how that stacks up with jobs I’ve held (including PT after school stuff)
• working in a horse boarding stable
• sales clerk in a drug store
• dorm cafeteria worker
• accounting clerk in college bookstore
• teaching assistant – German dept. and Journalism School
• Resident Assistant
• Summer replacement reporter/photographer ( two different TV stations)
• Reporter/anchor/producer
• TV News Producer (two different TV stations)
• Executive TV News Producer (two different TV stations)
• Freelance writer/producer
• Working in a horse boarding stable
• Debt collector
• Skip tracer
• TV news producer
• Senior Morning producer
• Freelance producer
• Newspaper reporter
• English teacher (two different schools, so far)
• Romance Writer

So how can I ask my child what he’s thinking about for a career? It looks to me like he’s not the only one trying to figure out what to be when he grows up.

Now, here’s the interesting thing. While the Bureau of Labor Statistics doesn’t keep track of how many times people will change careers in their lifetime (I’m counting about 6 for me if I include returning to a previous career as a change), they have followed younger baby boomers (1957 – 1964) to determine how many jobs they held between the ages of 18 to 44.

Men averaged 11.4
Women average 10.7
Me? – 21 – if I narrow it to full-time jobs only held within that age range: 12.

Not exactly the epitome of career stability, but I do think I’ve finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. ;)
Now, as to my circular ambitions? Well, I figure “mom” takes in nurse, veterinarian, archaeologist and artist. I have treated boo boos on kids, horses, dogs and cats including giving shots to the last three (I let the REAL doctor handle the kid). I have unearthed buried toys – indoors and out – and even made some of those god-awful decorative cookie recipes that look so great in magazines (where most of them should remain) and done countless craft projects at home and at scouts. I am a teacher, and I am actually earning money as a writer.

But it’s the last thing that is truly my passion. If my son can find that, even if it takes him thirty years and countless job changes, then I will be happy.

Could You Shut Your T-shirt?

2011-09-02T04:33:00.000-07:00

Recently, one of the local television stations reported on JC Penney t-shirt that read, “I’m too pretty to do my homework, so my brother does it for me.” (Comma inserted…lol). The shirt raised such a protest, the store pulled it from shelves. Now the debate on the TV station’s Facebook page centers around whether this is okay. I applaud the folks who bring up reasons of free speech and free choice as their rationale for shirts like this being acceptable.

If you wish to purchase and wear a shirt that insults your intelligence and denigrates your worth as anything more than someone’s hood ornament, that’s well within your right and your bad taste. Go for it. America is based on your right to have people laugh at you.

Personally, I don’t want my kid to be a bumper sticker. I don’t want his chest to look like the back end of someone’s beat-up car.

What I continue to wonder about is why so many people feel it necessary to advertise their idiocy on their clothing? A saying that’s been attributed to everyone from Confucius to Mark Twain goes something like this: It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Now, I suppose, we can alter it once more: “It is better to wear a plain shirt and be thought a fool than to scroll it like a banner across your chest and remove all doubt.”

And yes, to the student who came to school wearing the “You Suck” t-shirt, I’d still make you go home. I’d slap some sense in your mama too, given half an opportunity. It’s like wearing a t-shirt that says: “I’d like you to hit me in the face, please.”

Sometimes It's Good to Kick Back and Relax

2011-08-31T18:04:00.000-07:00

In my real life, I teach. Some days are rewarding, Some days are frustrating and some are both. They are always busy. When I worked in television news, each day built to a crescendo that culminated in a newscast, but then the day was over. One thing I can tell you about being an English teacher, the pile of "to be graded" papers constantly renews itself. Rarely is there an occasion when I leave feeling my work is "done."
But I do leave it. Unless it is the direst of emergencies, I do not bring school work home.

Home is for my other work--being a writer. Somewhere in there, I sometimes manage to squeeze mom and wife. Okay, so my son's dinner came from the place with the golden arches tonight, but it was payday, and that was his request.

The one thing I have come to realize is babies and puppies have the right idea. Sometimes you just have to kick back, relax and let it all hang out. LOL.

5 Things to Know about Indie Publishing

2011-08-30T04:06:00.000-07:00

Join me at Decadent Decisions today where I'm blogging about the 5 things you should know before you decide to Indie publish!

Life is Full of Surprises

2011-08-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

I am four days away from a deadline, working through line edits on a novel coming out in December. At the moment, I wish I could pull this particular heroine to life. You see, she’s a veterinarian. Okay, so now you’re wondering: “Why one earth does she need a veterinarian to help with line edits?”

It’s not the line edits, it’s the surprise I got yesterday while I was working on those line edits.

“Mom?” my teenage son calls as he skids around the corner of my bedroom to my office. “You have to come quick. Bramble has puppies in the dog lot.”

Trying to wrap my mind around the fact the dog was still bouncing up and down off furniture just the evening before when she was brought in for dinner and play…trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my husband had checked her and felt nothing…I came back with the classic parental response. “Are you sure?”

Oh, duh.

“Yes! Three. Come ooonnnnn.” That’s teenager speak for: “Get your fingers off the keyboard and back away from the computer.” (I might add he’s actually said something close to that in his best future police officer voice.)

So, out to the dog lot I go. Yes, indeed. Three little spotted puppies. Two dogs and one bitch. Two that will be tri-colored and one that’s black and white…unfortunately, that’s not the bitch. But they are very cute—what puppies aren’t?—and our first time mother is doing a wonderful job. Mama and puppies are now in a towel-lined box inside the house.

So, while this wasn’t a total surprise—i.e. yes, we had her in with our male—here’s what led up to it. I have seen Bramble do nothing but snarl and snap at Digger. I checked her every day when we fed for signs of her coming into heat. Nada. But obviously, at some point, she was—and Digger, the sneaky weasel, managed to do what males do very well. Two weeks ago, I looked at my husband who has lots of experience with dog breeding and said, “Take a look at Bramble. Do you think she’s pregnant or just fat?”

“Fat.”

Still, I had my suspicions. So when he got home Thursday, I mentioned it again. He checked her and couldn’t feel a thing. Now, over the years, my spouse has bred Dobermans and terriers. He worked for a vet at one point in his life. My experience is much more limited, but I do remember Bramble’s mother. She waddled like a duck, looked like those little statues of Buddha, and would never have been able to bounce up and down off all the furniture less than 12 hours before giving birth.

So where’s Digger, the dad, in all this? Well, like a lot of new mothers, Bramble snarls at him anytime he gets close. I remember that feeling. So, at the moment, Diggy is confined to outside. And don’t tell him now, but it looks like separate living quarters from now on.

And I still have four days to finish line edits. Dr. Barlow, where are you when I could use a good vet, even if it's just for moral support?

Oh the Places You’ll Go (Researching a Book)!

2011-07-23T04:26:00.000-07:00

New writers always hear the caveat: Write what you know. I have to admit, I am uncomfortable writing about things I don’t feel I know enough about. Perhaps that’s the years as a journalist coming out in me, I don’t know. Most of the time, I’m able to draw upon my life experiences to help with that. Let’s face it, the older you get, the more varied experiences you have.

Over the years, I’ve been in car accidents, navigated through forests with a compass and a map, slept in houses built before Columbus sailed to America—I’ve even been airlifted off a mountain in Switzerland.

Sailing appears in a couple of my manuscripts. This is something I’ve only done once, so I had to supplement my scanty knowledge with a lot of research, which included watching a lot of how-to videos (yawn) and studying the types and parts of boats. I’ll freely admit, my knowledge is far from perfect and still not where it should be, but so far no one from the yacht club has come knocking at my door to give me a citation for being a nautical numbskull.

But then I came to a story, as yet unpublished, that follows some of the characters that will be introduced in Bittersweet. The heroine of this particular story is a stripper. Well…not only have I not done that (and be thankful for that because I would probably fall off the stage or tell the first guy who tried to tuck something in my G-string what he could do with his fingers before I ripped them from his knuckles)but I’d never even been in a strip club.

So…I turned to my friend the Internet. I researched laws regarding strip clubs for this particular geographic area, read as much as I could about salaries and pay. I watched videos on the Internet, including how-to videos for pole dancing—yes, they’re out there(yawn)—but I was still not quite comfortable with the results because, unlike my one and only sailing foray, I’d not actually been to a strip club.

That’s where my ever helpful research assistant, and in this instance, highly motivated—my husband, comes in. While his checkered past did include personal experience with strip clubs (gasp!), he was more than willing to make the sacrifice by accompanying me to one because, God knows, I wasn’t going anywhere near one alone.

I learned several things:
There aren’t many women, other than employees, in strip clubs.
Men really will walk right up to strange women on stage hoping to have breasts, or other things, flashed in their faces (very closely, I might add).
After the first couple of dances, bare breasts and butts begin to look alike.
No one should try to walk far in the shoes strippers wear.
The whole pole dancing thing requires an amazing amount of upper body strength. The stripper I talked to has biceps to rival most guys.
If you’re a woman in a strip bar—the dancers will be hitting on you instead of your husband. Okay…that was an eww factor, but funny.
Being inside a strip club is like being inside a Casino—no windows, no clocks and an atmosphere where smiling people want to make sure you’re having a good time while they suck the money out of your pockets.

So, in the end, I also learned that my research had been pretty solid. I might go back and tweak a couple of things in my story in order to paint a more vivid word picture, but overall I’d done okay.

I guess if writers have bucket lists, I can say I just checked one item off it.

The Guardian Michel: On Sale Now

2011-07-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

Description: Lilly Evans has a past she's buried from everyone, including herself. From the moment she meets the mysterious Michel de Valois, memories she'd just as soon forget push their way from dream to reality. When she realizes he is a vampire, the horror of her past could pull them apart forever.

Michel recognizes Lilly as soon as he sees her. What he doesn't know is if she can accept the past they share and the vampire he has become. To regain her love and save her very life, he'll have to call on his brothers, The Guardians, for help. In the end, the choice is between Lilly's life and her love. .

Excerpt: Lilly picked up the big zoom lens, loving the weight and feel of it in her hands. There was power there, power to freeze time. Scanning the horizon, she zoomed in on a few gulls, winging, diving and standing still in the wind. She followed one to the surface of the water only to see it abruptly cut its dive short, and with a startled cry, wing up and away.
Something moved in the water several hundred feet offshore. Lilly zoomed in closer and could make out the indistinct form of arms and a head. A swimmer on a day like today? Was the person crazy? Or was someone truly in trouble? Lilly clicked. The swimmer drew closer, but on a path that would intersect the shore north of where she stood. So, not someone in trouble, simply someone who must have a death wish to be swimming with a storm headed in.
As she continued to click, she felt again the sensation of being watched. It was the same tingle she had felt first in Charlevoix and then again as she snapped pictures out in the woods that first day. The urge was overpowering; Lilly wanted to drop the camera and look around. She was being paranoid. She fought the feeling down, unwilling to lose her opportunity, her camera lens glued to the swimmer. As the light changed, she adjusted, and almost before it seemed possible, he rose from the pounding waves as if he were doing no more than emerging from a swimming pool. In surf that would make most adults stagger out of the water, he moved as gracefully as if he walked on dry land.
He shook sleek dark hair like a seal sloughing off water before he pushed it back from his forehead. His body rippled with muscles as if it had been sculpted. Lilly’s hands shook. A sense of familiarity overwhelmed her until she thought: Michelangelo’s David had come to life. Long-limbed and muscular, not an ounce of fat on him, nor a stitch of clothing for that matter, he moved with a grace that was catlike. She continued to click as if hypnotized, hands shaking and breath coming in gasps, and then as she concentrated on framing what she saw in the viewfinder, he turned and looked at her. His expression was unsmiling, not annoyed but searching, and Lilly had the odd feeling that he wasn’t just looking in her direction, he was looking at her.
Her breath stopped. She felt a shock again, almost like recognition, but that couldn’t be. She had never seen this man before in her life. She would have remembered. Oh, yes, she would have remembered this man.

Available now on Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Smashwords

Taking the Step into Indie Publishing

2011-07-20T06:35:00.000-07:00

I've discovered there's a good side and a bad side to having spent years writing without actively seeking publication. I have, as my husband likes to call it, a veritable woodpile of manuscripts. It does mean I have plenty to choose from when it comes to sending things out to publishing houses--and that is a great problem to have.

The bad part is my woodpile is far from silent. I can't get those other manuscripts still waiting out of my head. And I can't get them out fast enough to silence their clamoring. I also realized while working with editors at two different publishing houses at the same time that trying to speed up that process would cost me my sanity. Don't get me wrong. The editors and the publishers are great. I've learned a lot, and they've improved the manuscripts I've given them, along with my own attention to detail. I will continue to send them manuscripts which I hope they will continue to publish, but I also wanted to try something on my own.

The Brotherhood of the Guardians series is that experiment. Call them the knights in shining armor of the vampire world, but these guys break a lot of rules when it comes to vampire mythology. So, if you're a Dracula-style vampire purist you won't be happy with me. However, as a writer, I've found there's only so much control I have over my characters. Please don't call the psych doctors, but it's a little like having people living inside your head. I just tell their stories. So welcome to the world of the vampire accountants. Okay, they're really financial advisors, but they have a real kick-ass side to them too.

In addition to Gabriel (whose story is book #3), there's Michel (pronounced me-shell), Michael, Mikhail, Miguel, Michaly and Mick. OMG--did I really put all those forms of Michael together?? Yes, all forms of the name Michael--one of the Guardian Angels--and the impetus for the series name.

Right now, my plans are focused only on ebooks with this series, but we'll see. In the meantime, I'm still shifting through the woodpile. Depending on how things go...well, who knows.

Time to Slow Down and Smell the Road Kill

2011-07-13T10:38:00.000-07:00

The things I’ve learned from my ailing transmission…
I was having a great Saturday. Really. The Heart of Carolina Romance Writers meeting was great. Everyone had super stories from the RWA national convention in NYC. Virginia Kantra let us hold her RITA, which for those of you who aren’t romance writers is kind of like holding the best actor OSCAR, and the post meeting coffee was filled with great conversation with a great group of ladies.
Then I started home.
My first clue something was seriously amiss was on Wade Avenue when I stepped on the gas. The engine went VROOOOM…and the car went put-put. Not being a stranger to the vagaries of geriatric motor vehicles, my brain said…uh oh…transmission. I hit the cell phone panic button, i.e. I called hubby.
That netted me the helpful advice: 1) check your transmission fluid and 2) if you have any – drive home carefully or alternate 2) if you don’t have any – buy some and drive home carefully.
Thanks, honey.
So here are the 7 things I’ve learned from my ailing transmission:
1. The location of the transmission fluid dipstick is guaranteed to be in the one place where you will get dirty and burned checking it.
2. Even with your hazard lights on, people will still run right up on your rear bumper when you’re doing 45 mph on an interstate as if you are suddenly going to accelerate to NASCAR speed. Hazard. Lights. Flashing. Blinky. Blinky. Something wrong with car. You should pass me.
3. You need to leave earlier for work when you have to drive like one of those older drivers who need a booster seat to see over the steering wheel.
4. Engines running at 3500 rpms to maintain 45 mph get lousy gas mileage.
5. You should check your oil a lot more frequently when your engine’s running like that.
6. If your car takes odd-sized tires or windshield wipers, which usually means the more expensive ones, chances are you’ll experience the same issue with finding a replacement transmission.
7. And finally, the most important thing I’ve learned, road kill stinks a whole lot longer when you’re approaching and passing it at 35 instead of 55.
Sigh.

The Silkie Parents: Part 3

2011-07-12T00:30:00.000-07:00

Catriona has escaped from Camlin, nephew of the Faerie King and the male determined to marry her...

Since his fight with his cousin, Faeran, earlier in the day, Carrick had lurked in the inlet, hoping for some sign of Catriona. A Faerie. He should have known, and it was why he and Faeran had fought. His cousin had seen what she had done that morning and known instantly what she was.

“So she’s a Faerie.” Carrick downplayed it. “What does that matter?”

“There is no love lost between Silkie and Faerie at the moment. You would do well to steer clear.”

When he refused they’d fought, but in the end both had conceded it was a draw.

Now, as dusk descended, Carrick wondered exactly why he still waited. He had seen no sign of her since that morning. He sat on the narrow beach and shoved a hand back through his hair. He knew why he was still there. She hadn’t wanted to leave that morning. The fear in her eyes when her servant mentioned the one named Camlin had shown him that.

Carrick remembered Camlin from his surreptitious visit the day before. Pale-haired and pale-eyed, there was still something dark beneath all that fair coloring, something that repelled Catriona as much as it stirred a fierce protectiveness inside him.

He stood up. This was ridiculous. He should return home, find some pleasure in a willing human female because God knew there were few enough Silkie maids to be had, but he couldn’t get Catriona off his mind.

He clenched his fingers. His hand remembered the feel of her breast against his palm, the subtle and somewhat shy invitation in her eyes. Even as his body hardened at the memory, his senses vibrated.

Someone called to him. It was different than anything he’d experienced before. Unlike the internal clamoring of a human, this call was infinitely quiet and sad, as soft as a whisper breathed on the wind, but no less compelling. Carrick stood. What manner of creature plucked so softly and insistently?

And so nearby?

He walked cautiously along the narrow beach, toward the point where inlet and ocean merged. As he rounded a slight curve in the coastline, he saw her huddled near an outcropping of rock, her long hair tangled.

“Catriona.”

She started, edging back into the shadows of the rocks. “Who? Who is it?”

“Carrick.”

She slumped. As her legs started to give way, he rushed forward to catch her against him. Dirt smeared her face and gown, and a tear marred the bodice.

“Please don’t let him find me,” she whispered.

Anger tightened his face, colored his voice. “The pale one? The one you call Camlin?” When she nodded, he continued, “What did he do to you? Did he touch you?”

“I got away, but he followed. I’ve been hiding.”

His body clamored for him to fulfill his calling, but there was more at work here. He was to make her happy, and at the moment, physical passion was not what she needed. Her skin felt chilled, and the hollow look in her eyes made him wonder if she’d been hiding since this morning.

“Shall I return you to your father?”

“No!” Her panic wrapped around him like a sea snake. “I can’t go back. If I put my father in a position where he must defend me, he’ll lose everything.”

Hysteria shone in her eyes. Carrick wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear. “I’ll look after you, little fish. Will you trust me?”

She nodded. “I do. You’ve already saved my life once.”

“And I’ll take care of you now. I live on an island, so I cannot take you there until my boat arrives in the morning, but there is a cave not far from here. I’ve used it before when I have been here…fishing. It’s warm and dry. There are provisions there so I can give you food. Have you eaten today?”

“No. I came out to you before breakfast, and then…”

He set his arm around her waist. “Do not worry. In just a little while you will feel much better.”
****
Catriona didn’t doubt his word. She trusted him even though she knew nothing about him. He dressed like a beggar, but he was so well-spoken she knew deep in her heart there was far more to him than what she could see.

They reached an area where it was necessary to wade through shallow water, so he swung her easily into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. As she rested her hands on him, she realized how thick and heavily muscled he was across his shoulders and chest—a contrast to most of the Faerie males. Though she had heard rumors of fierce warrior Faeries to the north, she had never seen the ones called the Caellum.

“All right?”

She looked into his strong face with his snapping, dark eyes and beard-shadowed jaw. “If you do not live here, why were you still sitting along the beach?”

He stopped in front of a wide cave entrance right at sea level. “I was waiting for a sight of you.”

His response surprised her, and if she were truthful, frightened her just a little. “Why?”

He started down into the cave entrance. As they continued into what should have been total darkness, Catriona noticed that the water running along the cave’s floor glowed.

“Is this magic?”

Carrick laughed. “No. Purely nature. It lasts for a few hours after sunset, but it wears off. Still, it is a pleasant way to light our path.”

“I could walk, you know.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t set her down, and strangely, Catriona wanted nothing more than to rest her head against his shoulder and close her eyes. Before she could prevent it, she yawned.

“Is my company so boring?”

“Oh no! It is just…I am tired and hungry.”

He stopped to gaze down at her. The shimmering luminescence of the water cast an eerie light over them. “There is a thermal spring where we are going. The water is warm and soothing. I will leave you to bathe there while I gather firewood.”

Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away hoping he would not see. She was never this fragile. Through the deaths of her mother and brother and even now through most of today’s ordeal, she had always been strong.

“Don’t cry. It was your tears just a while ago that called me to you. Now I am here, and I will only be happy if you shed no more of them.”

She smiled shakily at his fanciful words. She had wept only a little by the inlet, and she was certain she’d made no noise. She watched him wonderingly; his strong profile was even stronger than her father’s. She was overcome with the need to know more about him, but hesitant to probe his thoughts.

“Here we are, my beautiful Faerie. There are furs against the wall. The thermal spring is to your left. I’ll light a torch, then leave you to give you time to bathe.”

After he set her on her feet, she touched his arm. “Thank you.”

He smiled at her. “There is a trunk in the back as well. You’ll find a selection of clothing there. Help yourself.”

He lit a torch for her and placed it in a sconce high on the wall. She could see that while primitive, the cave had enough comforts for a night or two.

“Will you be all right?”

Carrick’s question startled her. She smiled a little shakily. “Yes. Thank you.”

He stroked her cheek with a lean, calloused finger. “You will be quite safe here. Bathe. It will soothe away the aches as well as the dirt.”

As the sound of him retreating toward the entrance of the cave faded, Catriona stripped off her torn and dirty gown. In the light from the torch, she saw the faint discoloration on her breasts and the darker bruises on her arms where Camlin had grabbed her. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. Her father would be so nervous, but she dared not try to communicate with him.

“Oh Papa,” she whispered softly. “I wish I could tell you I was all right, but it is so much better for you not to know. Why could I not have been a boy? Then there would be no question of Camlin and his unwanted attentions.”

As soon as she stepped into the thermal pool, Catriona sighed in relief and wonder. It was amazing, warm and just a little bubbly. She sank down on a ledge beneath the surface and simply soaked up the heat. She ducked beneath the surface, scrubbed her hair and her scalp, rubbed gently on the areas where she was scraped and bruised and then simply tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She would rest here for just a moment and enjoy the feelings of peace and security.

The sound of his return woke her, and she realized he deliberately made noise to warn her. In a flash, she scrambled from the water, scampered to the trunk and flung open the lid. To her relief, a large, finely-woven sheet rested on top. Wrapping herself in it was the best she could do before he reached her. Straightening with as much dignity as she could muster, she turned and smiled at him.

He grinned and arched one dark brow. “Fell asleep?”

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes.”

He set down the wood he brought with him and walked in her direction. As he drew close enough to really see her, she could tell from the sudden darkening of his expression when he saw the marks on her arms and shoulders. Dark eyes shifted from the bruises to her face. “He hurt you.”

“I was able to get away. It could have been worse.”

Carrick’s brows drew together. “Any mark he left on you is one mark too many.”

His fingers whispered over the bruises, making her skin tingle in awareness. His gaze followed his fingers, the frown still pulling his brows together, but when he met her gaze again, his expression cleared, and heat filled his dark eyes.

“There is women’s clothing in the chest.” His voice was husky, and Catriona heard the reluctance in it. She didn’t need to read his thoughts to know that at the moment, he was totally and completely aware of her as a woman. And she couldn’t help but respond, her breasts tingling and her lips parting, ready for his touch, his kiss.

But it didn’t come.

He turned away, going to another trunk. After opening the lid, he brought out several tins. She watched him from the corner of her eye as she looked through the trunk to find something that would fit. Finally, she located a thin underdress and a heavier long-sleeved gown to go over it.

“I’m going to change,” she said softly. “If you wouldn’t mind, please keep your back to me.”

“Couldn’t you just use magic?”

“I’m afraid if I do, it would reveal my location.”

“Ah. I know little of Faerie ways, though we are related.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she let the underdress fall so that it covered her to mid-thigh. “Humans and Faeries?”

“No.”

When he said nothing else, she grabbed the gown and drew it around her, closing its loops and buttons and then using a belt to draw it tight around her waist.

When she finished, she draped the damp sheet over the lid of the trunk. “What do you mean no? No, you’re not human?”

Carrick stood. In the close surroundings of the cave, it finally occurred to her how tall and powerful he was.

“I have some dried fish, fruit and oat cakes. Will that be enough to satisfy your appetite? If not, I can catch some fish…”

“Carrick, are you human?”

He set his provisions on a smooth outcropping of stone.

“No.”

She cast around in her mind, trying to remember all of the folklore her father and mother had told her when she was young. While she knew there were many creatures who lived outside of both human and Faerie existence, she had encountered only a few. Those were the creatures who shared their habitat like the brownies who sometimes helped around the house. There were also the wood sprites, and it was them she knew she must thank for the help she received in escaping Camlin.

She thought again of always seeing him around the inlet. Was he a merman? Her father had mentioned there were such creatures. She thought of the seals. “You are a Silkie. Papa has told me of them. He says we were once closely unified, that we are both angels from heaven, only the Silkie landed in the sea when we came to earth.”

“What makes you think I am a Silkie?” His gaze was steady and curious.

“I have only seen you near the sea. And this morning. One minute you were there and when I turned away for just a second, you were gone. I feared something had happened to you because you didn’t surface anywhere, but you didn’t need to, did you?”

“I cannot stay below forever.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “Long enough.”

She bit her lip. “Why are you here now…with me?”

“Why don’t you eat, Catriona. We’ll talk after.”

She took the few steps it needed to reach him, picked up a dried fig and popped it in her mouth. After chewing and swallowing, she looked at him challengingly. “All right. I have eaten. Why are you here with me?”

Irritation flitted across his handsome face, a faint flush following right on its heels, as if he were embarrassed. “I have watched you for a long time.”

“How long?”

He raked a hand through his thick hair. “Years. Since we were children.”

“And yet you never spoke to me.”

“I hoped you would call me, but you never did.”

“But you saved me.”

“I could do nothing else. And now it no longer matters.”

“Why? What has changed?”

“Everything. This evening as you sat by the inlet, Catriona, did you cry?”

She nodded, unsure of where this was going. “Just an instant.”

“The Silkie respond to the tears of certain others. Most often it is humans, but it appears it applies to Faeries as well.” His dark eyes watched her intently. “At least it does with you and me. You’ve called me, and now I must attend you.”

She wrapped her arms across her waist and looked away from him uneasily. “You make it sound like you’re my slave.”

“In a sense, I am. Do you have any idea what it truly means for us if you call to me?”

She shook her head.

“I am bound to you physically and emotionally to make you happy.”

“What do you mean physically?” She glanced at his broad shoulders and narrow hips. With a nervous need to do something, she picked up an oatcake and munched the corner of it.

“I must mate with you.”

When she choked on a piece of the coarse cake, he rapped her on the back. As soon as she could speak again, she questioned. “Right now?”

His dark eyes flared with heat. “If that’s what you wish.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I can wait.”

She lifted her chin. “You could force it. You’re bigger than I am.”

Anger darkened his features. “A Silkie who must force a female doesn’t deserve to keep his pelt. If you are not ready, not willing, then I must wait.”

It was strange, but though he admitted he intended to couple with her, she felt calmed. “Will you eat with me?”

“I must build a fire first. After what you’ve been through, I don’t want you to become chilled.”

He turned to his task, leaving her time to study him. His movements were quick and efficient as if he had done this many times. He squatted to place the wood in a fire pit, his long hair falling forward to hide his face. Catriona swallowed as her gaze ran over the smooth muscles of his back.

“Don’t you feel the cold?”

He glanced her way as he located a box of wooden matches. “Not particularly. Why do you ask?”

She felt the heat in her cheeks. “You don’t seem to wear much in the way of clothing.”

His dark eyes twinkled. “Most Silkie wear only the minimum of clothing. It only gets in the way when we wish to transform.”

She thought of the few times she’d seen him. All he’d worn then were ragged pants. Now she wondered if they’d even been his. “What do you do if you have no clothing to put on?”

He rolled to his feet. As he did so, he brushed his ankle and suddenly was holding a sleek sealskin in his hand. Catriona gasped and he laughed.

“How did you do that?”

“The Faerie are not the only ones who possess magic. The Silkie have their own.”

“May I touch it?”

From the heat in his eyes, she suddenly got the feeling allowing her to touch his pelt meant a whole lot more than simply running her fingers over a hide like that of her horse.

“If you wish.” His tone was casual, but his body was tense. Catriona watched him carefully as she reached out and slid her fingers along the silky hide. When he shivered as if it was his own skin she touched, she snatched her hand back. Heat flooded from her toes to her cheeks. “It’s all right,” he murmured, his cheeks flushed. “I want you to know what I am.”

She swallowed. Once more she reached out and darted a quick look at him. “You feel my touch?”

He nodded, his gaze locked on her fingers where they hovered just above his pelt. “It feels amazing.”

More to come next Tuesday...

Fine-Tune-It Friday: When Spicy Becomes Erotic

2011-07-08T04:27:00.000-07:00

Welcome to what I call Fine-tune-it Fridays… a day to look at some of the skills and techniques in writing, and those necessary to writing spicy and erotic romance.
In fact, that’s the first topic I’m going to tackle. When does spicy become erotic? That line’s grown finer and finer over the years. Having cut my romance teeth on stories that always shut the bedroom door right when it started to get good, it’s difficult to imagine some of the books on shelves in stores now.
Deciding exactly where the line rests, though, is a problem I’ve encountered as an author. Having written what I considered to be simply a very spicy story, my editor asked me to remove some scenes because they were too hot. In the end, it didn’t matter. One scene in the book resulted in its move from simply being spicy to becoming erotic.
So, what was the line in the sand? When I asked, a senior editor explained that if the sex scenes moved the plot forward in some way, i.e. through characterization, increasing tension or resolution of the story, as long as we didn’t get into obvious erotica territory, then that was all right, but if the love scene was sex for sex’s sake, designed solely to titillate the reader? That’s erotic.
Another editor draws a more definite line by saying an erotic romance has sex and the development of the relationship through sex at its core. This may be a clearer definition, but isn’t always entirely accurate. Stick in that gratuitous sex scene and find out what happens (see above), sex certainly wasn’t at the core of that novel’s plot.
Author Sylvia Day defines erotic romance as, “stories written about the development of a romantic relationship through sexual interaction. The sex is an inherent part of the story, character growth, and relationship development, and couldn’t be removed without damaging the storyline.”
As with any romance, Happily Ever After is a requirement, although that too has been stretched to “Happily for now.”
Of course, there are still topics that are off limits for anyone hoping to land a contract with a mainstream publisher: rape, incest, bestiality, necrophilia, for example. Hmm, wonder how everyone justified those zombie romances?
Like every other business, romance writing has trends—like zombies—and the trend in terms of sex has been to throw the covers off and come out into the open. I write hot stories. I like seeing how the hero and heroine interact with each other in what is, let’s face it, all of our most vulnerable moments. Truly making love with a partner requires you to lay yourself bare, literally and figuratively, and it can reveal a lot about the characters in your book.
Does it also entertain? I hope so. That’s the point of writing romantic fiction after all, but the important thing to remember is keeping the romance at the forefront.

Guest Blogging Today

2011-07-05T04:15:00.000-07:00

Noise or quiet? Everyone has different needs and preferences when it comes to writing. Join me today on Rachel Leigh's blog to see what I find out about that need for noise. I'd like to hear what you think too.

Meet the Silkie Parents Continues...

2011-07-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

Cayden and Ciaran Clifton, the heroes of The Silkie's Call and The Silkie's Salvation, have parents who had to fight their own battles to be together. Last Tuesday, I began the story of Carrick and Catriona. This is the next installment:

Catriona grabbed her gown and drew it on. Just as she belted it, a splash behind her made her spin and see Carrick was no longer there. Her worried gaze scanned the water, but there was no sign of him. Before she could wonder at it, Fiona called to her again.

“Hurry, my lady. He is nearly here. Your father is with him.”

With one last glance at the sea, Catriona hurried up the path. Where had he gone? How could he just disappear? She wondered again what he was. She had certainly revealed herself to him, and if either her father or Camlin realized that, there would be hell to pay.

She crested the top of the bank just as her father and Camlin strolled into the clearing. Hiding her sandy feet beneath the hem of her robe, Catriona summoned a smile.

“Good morning, Father, my lord.”

“You are up and about early Lady Catriona.”

“On such a beautiful morning, my lord, how could I resist watching the sun rise over the inlet?”

He glanced frowningly at the group of seals playing around the rocks on the other side. “Beware. The waters contain many dangerous creatures.”

Catriona forced a light laugh. “My lord! You would have me believe the playful pups on those rocks are a danger?”

Camlin’s expression had narrowed on the seals. “Particularly those. They can be quite vicious.”

Catriona looked over her shoulder where several of the seals were squabbling with each other. Even as she watched, two big males flashed teeth at each other and slammed their heavy bodies together. She shivered. Although she’d often watched the seals from the time she was small until now, she had never seen two of the males go after each other in this way. It was more than play. Something about it made her concerns about Carrick surface once more.

“I sought you out, my lady, to see if you wished to ride with me?” Camlin’s voice was too smooth, its insidiousness jangling her nerves.

Catriona’s gaze shifted to her father. “You will be going with us, father?” she inquired, knowing that Fiona would not. Riding was the one activity in which her companion had never excelled and did not wish to take part.

Her father’s smile was just a little forced. “No, daughter. You will be safe with Lord Camlin, and it will give you both a chance to know one another better.”

But she didn’t want to know him better. Didn’t her father understand that? As much as she longed to blurt it out, she didn’t dare. Instead she smiled. “As you wish.”

Left with little choice, she at least rode out on her favorite mare, a large gray so pale she was nearly white. Camlin’s mount was a bay so dark as to be nearly black until you saw it in bright sunlight. The more she tried to stay in the open, the more he urged her toward trails that would take them deep into the woods.

When she tried yet again to steer back toward the rolling meadows, Camlin grasped hold of her horse’s headstall. The mare shied, but he kept his hold firm. When he turned his pale gaze on Catriona, his eyes glittered like shards of glass.

“No more games, my lady. You know I wish to be private with you, to speak with you and get to know you. Why do you evade me?”

Catriona looked pointedly at the hand he still had on her mare’s bridle. “Please turn loose of my horse, my lord.”

A sly look entered his narrow face. “Walk with me.”

This was the king’s nephew. She couldn’t defy him, yet she feared the sway he held over her people and most of all her. She feared what might happen to her father if she refused. She smiled.

“Of course, my lord Camlin.”

He led the way into the woods at the heart of the peninsula on which they lived. It was quiet in the forest, but Catriona knew the woods were alive with all manner of creatures, most of whom were friends to her people. Here, Camlin was the intruder. It gave her some measure of courage until she dared to glance up.

He watched her with such open avarice and lust in his eyes that she nearly stumbled. When he grabbed her elbow to offer support, it was all she could do not to flinch from him.

“Are you all right, my lady?” He sounded solicitous, and oh so correct, but something lurked beneath the surface. She didn’t dare try to read his thoughts. He was much older than she was and would know immediately what she attempted.

“Yes, thank you.”

He smiled, tucking her hand into his elbow. “You must be aware of why I have come to visit.”

She remained silent.

“My uncle, King Urien, desires an alliance with the people along this part of the coast. A marriage between the two of us would accomplish that purpose.”

“And do you always accede to your uncle’s wishes?” She couldn’t resist the question though she knew she shouldn’t ask it.

She felt a slight tensing of the muscles in his arm before he laughed. “I find it is always better to agree to Urien’s wishes. In this case he’s made them pretty plain, both to me and your father.”

She couldn’t mistake the emphasis he put on her father. Feeling as if she were being backed into a corner, Catriona said, “I see.”

“Then you understand the need for us to announce a betrothal?”

Sickness churned in the pit of her stomach. She knew she had to respond, but she simply could not make one word of agreement pass her lips. She nodded miserably and looked away, slowly blinking her eyes to rid them of the tears welling there.

He covered her hand with his free one. Catriona turned her head, realizing with a spurt of dismay that the horses were somewhere behind them, somewhere she couldn’t easily get to her mare.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I was when your father told me what a sheltered upbringing you’ve had. I find innocence such a seductive quality.”
Catriona gently tried to remove her hand from his arm, but his grip firmed.
“Now that we have agreed on a betrothal, I think it is time you left some of this maidenly reticence behind you. I’d like you to call me Camlin, just as I will call you Catriona.”

“As you wish.”

How could she get out of this? Get away? Her feelings of unease increased with every step they took. He led, or rather nearly pulled her, toward a glade surrounded by thick growth. Other than the sounds of birds and insects at work among the trees, it was quiet and more isolated than she should have allowed.

“What I truly wish,” Camlin purred near her ear, “is to see for myself just how sheltered your father has managed to keep you. Are you truly as pure as he would have me believe? As pure as he thinks? Or have you succumbed to some handsome youngling and allowed him to sip the nectar that should be mine alone?”

Catriona’s mouth thinned. This time she pulled her arm away, making no pretense of trying to be nice. “You take too much for granted, my lord.”

“Camlin,” he reminded silkily. “And I take nothing for granted. Our mating is the king’s wish.”

“Well it is not my wish!”

When she would have spun away, Camlin grabbed her upper arm in a biting grip. “That would be foolish. No one defies Urien without paying a price. In your case, your defiance could well cost you your father’s lands. Urien offers a marriage to me. Without that, he can simply take your father’s lands since there is no male to inherit.”

“You would force me?”

The sudden light of lust in his eyes told her much more than his words. “I prefer to think of it as your wisdom in realizing a strategic alliance.”
His gaze swept over her, lingering overlong on her breasts. “I gain a young, beautiful Faerie maiden for a mate, and your father gets to keep his life and his lands. Now, enough talking Catriona. I wish to sample what my obedience to my uncle buys me.”

He pulled her against him and held her fast while his mouth sought hers. When she tried to turn her face away, Camlin’s long fingers grasped her chin, and his mouth ground the soft flesh of her lips against her teeth.

This couldn’t be happening. Catriona wiggled her hands between them and tried to push him away, but he simply captured her fine-boned wrists and twisted them behind her back, holding her immobile with just one of his hands.

“Stop!” she spat at him. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”

“You will.” His teeth gleamed in the shadows of the glade. “And when I’m done we’ll know just how pure you are.”

With his free hand, he grabbed at the front of her gown. Catriona kicked out at him. As he stumbled back, her dress ripped, spilling her breasts to his hot gaze.

“I will have you, and you will say nothing.”

Catriona kicked out again. For just an instant, his grasp loosened enough she was able to spin away. Father forest, Mother earth, help me! She cried out silently. A path opened in front of her. With a lift of her skirts she ran, hearing the rustle and creak of leaves and branches closing behind her and the harsh echo of Camlin’s curses.

She knew the forest couldn’t stand long against Camlin. He was older and more powerful than any magic she might tap, but perhaps he would be delayed enough she might get away. She raced along the path that opened where there had been no tracks before. Breath sobbed in her lungs and her hair streamed behind her. Knowing how vital it was to keep her flight as silent as possible, Catriona stifled the sounds that fought to escape. If she was successful, she promised herself, she would give in to the need to release the fear now strangling her. Farther and farther behind her, she heard the curses and incantations of Camlin’s pursuit.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the woods and its creatures. When weariness forced her to slow down, she realized she had traveled far down the length of the peninsula, away from her father’s home and if she wasn’t careful, to a point where she would run out of options to escape should Camlin continue his pursuit.

She stumbled out of the woods and along a rocky slope. Taking a moment to get her bearings, she whirled in fright as she heard the sounds of horse’s hooves crashing through the forest. He was mounted, and gaining ground. Desperately, she gazed around her, searching for any place to hide she could find.

The crashing grew loud enough, she now heard the frightened blowing and snorting of the animal, no doubt being driven through a forest determined to thwart the pursuit. She stumbled forward and barely suppressed a cry when she tumbled into an opening in the earth in front of her. Her fall ended on dirt with the wind knocked from her. Knowing there was no time to lose, she crawled forward under a heavy lip of earth and curled into the smallest ball she could manage.

“I’m sure she came this way, my lord.”

The horses stopped nearby. Catriona recognized the voice of one of her father’s people.

“Check out that hole.” Camlin’s voice was cold, almost disinterested. “I believe she’s duped us and is even now returning to her father, no doubt with some tale about my cruel treatment of her.”

As footsteps approached, Catriona closed her eyes. It was over. Soft leather booted feet dropped to the earth nearly right next to her. She opened her eyes to find the stable lad who had handed the reins of her mare to her. As their gazes locked for an instant, she silently pleaded with him.

“Anything down there?” Camlin called petulantly.

“No, my lord. It’s nothing but a sink hole. Common enough around here where the limestone beneath is honeycombed.”

“Let’s head back. She is likely already at her father’s dwelling.”

The stable lad looked one more time into Catriona’s eyes as he said, “I’m sure you’re right, my lord.”

Thank you. Catriona mouthed the words, as she clutched the front of her torn gown together. He acknowledged her with the faintest of nods, and then he was clambering up the dirt wall and back out into the sunshine. The sounds of the horses’ hooves thudding on the earth faded, but still she sat curled against the warm, dry earth.

Once she no longer heard any sound, reaction set in. Catriona buried her face on her knees and released a small sob. She felt dirty, inside and out. As slowly as if she were near the end of her life, she crawled to the surface, cautiously peering over the edge. Still afraid he might even now watch her from the woods, she sank back to the bottom of the hole. She would wait until dark.

More to come next Tuesday... Leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Secondary Characters: Adding Substance to Your Storytelling

2011-07-04T06:33:00.000-07:00

Coming from a background in journalism, particularly broadcast journalism, boiling my writing down to basics is second nature. So when I first contemplated the idea of writing a full-length novel, it was a little daunting. How could I possibly write something so long that focused on two characters? Okay, you’re probably asking yourself why I would focus only on two characters. Well…when I looked at submission guidelines for various publishers, the line “secondary characters should be kept to a minimum” or something similar kept popping up. Now for someone who’s kind of a minimalist to begin with, my brain said: hero and heroine on a desert island. No other humans. Okay…ready, set, write. Wrong.

Life isn’t like that. And even in the fictitious world of romance, we need secondary characters because they serve some very important purposes. First and foremost, they help show us more about our main characters. One of the ways in which a writer uses indirect characterization is to reveal a character through what others say about that character and by how the hero and heroine interact with each other and the secondary characters. Does that mean you need a cast of thousands? No, but I think as writers, we also need to give more credit to our readers and what they can and can’t keep straight.

The second way in which secondary characters become useful is in providing additional conflict through subplots. In writing a short story, writers should keep storylines on an extremely narrow focus—few characters, no subplots—but a novel needs more. If as writers, we don’t include subplots, it’s like slapping the burgers and dogs from the 4th of July cookout on the table with no buns, no condiments, and no side dishes. Personally, I like my diet a little varied.

Finally, those secondary characters that pop into stories can end up demanding a story of their own. In the case of Winning Heart, the contemporary romance I have releasing today from Lyrical Press, two of those secondary characters evolved into a secondary romance within the frame of the same novel. (For you bargain seekers—woo hoo! Winning Heart turns into a two for one deal.) Another secondary character ended up getting his own story, Bittersweet, which will come out in December.
So, don’t kiss off those secondary characters. There are a few of them worth taking the time to develop, so when you serve up your writing for readers to consumer, they not only get the entrée, they also get a full course meal.

I invite you to leave a comment, but more importantly, check out the link to Winning Heart today because all this week, it’s 30% off. That’s an incredible deal for a full-length read!

Meet the Silkie Parents: A Free Read of their story

2011-06-28T20:36:00.000-07:00

“Lady Catriona! Come away from the edge of the sea.”

“In a moment. Oh but look at all the seals.” Catriona clapped her hands, laughing as one seal separated itself from the others, shooting along in the clear water of the inlet. The sleek creature leaped and dived almost as if it were showing off.

“My lady, I must insist. Your father is expecting you there when the guests arrive.”

Catriona looked at her long-time companion. “We will go in just a moment Fiona. I know I must, but I can’t help that I have no wish to be tied to the king’s nephew. He is old and I don’t trust him.”

Fiona looked alarmed, her pale green eyes darting nervously as if she expected Catriona would be overheard. “My lady, you must be careful.”

“Have we really sunk that low, Fiona?”

Catriona gazed at the inlet once more, searching for the seal who had played there a moment before, but it was no longer visible. She sighed and started to turn back, but a figure sitting on a rock across the other side of the inlet caught her eye. Cat glanced quickly over her shoulder to see that Fiona was still gazing worriedly back along the path, so she returned to watching the figure on the rock.

Not a seal, but a man. She stepped nearer the edge. He was beautiful. Long dark hair lifted on the breeze. She blushed as she realized his chest was bare, and then her gaze ate him up from his sun-bronzed skin to the sleek muscles. Cat swallowed, glancing once more over her shoulder to see Fiona idly picking wildflowers. Catriona spun back to the see, but her foot slipped. Arms windmilling, she tried desperately to regain her balance. Even as she cried out, she tumbled over the edge of the steep bank and down into the water. Oh blessed mother. She did not even know how to swim.

The water was shockingly cold, so cold she gasped and then began coughing as she thrashed. Panic swirled as the dark water bubbled and foamed around her. Oh please. She did not want to die. She might not want to marry the king’s nephew, but she didn’t want to die to escape her fate. The heavy material of her dress weighed her down, wrapping around her legs and making it impossible for her to push to the surface.

In the distance, she heard screaming, but as she sank below the surface of the water, the sound became muted and distorted. Panic faded as the certainty of death grew. As one replaced the other, Catriona experienced an odd peace. She even imagined seeing the most beautiful man.

Strong arms pulled at her, dragging her by her hair until her face broke the surface. Someone held tightly to her, towing her through the water and then onto a narrow bank along the inlet from where she had stumbled. She felt so sick. Catriona coughed, trying to free her lungs and stomach of the water she’d swallowed. Again, firm hands rolled her to her side and she heaved up the sea water in her belly.

“Come, little fish, you will survive.” The voice was deep and melodious, a soothing song to her ears.

“Die. I am going to die.”

“No, no. Not this day. Soggy you will be, but dead? Not while I breathe.”

She lay still, even her shivering ceased at the certainty she heard in his voice. Catriona looked at her rescuer. It was the man from the rock. How had he reached her so quickly? His eyes were dark, nearly black, and thickly lashed. Looking into them, she felt almost as if she drowned yet again. But this time she would do so willingly. His gaze was intense and it made her look away, her face flushing in embarrassment. She had seen other Faerie males, but they didn’t look like this man. Their hair was lighter, as were their eyes. He was unlike anything she had ever encountered.

“Who are you?” Her voice sounded like a croak to her own ears.

“Carrick.”

It was a hard name, like rocks. It was also not a Faerie name. Where was he from? She started to ask him when Fiona’s frantic voice called, “My lady! Oh my lady! I thought you were dead. Are you all right? You must come. We must go!”

“Must you really?” her rescuer protested “Can you not stay awhile? I could teach you to swim. ‘Tis dangerous to be so close to the water and not be able to swim.”

Learn to swim? She had always wanted to, but few Faeries knew how and seldom if ever went into the ocean. She looked at Carrick again, imagining his hands holding her, guiding her as he taught her. Oh, but she would love that. She snuck another peek at him. He was even handsomer at close range than he had been across the width of the inlet.

“Lady! We must go. Your father!”

She sat up. Carrick held his hand out to her, and then helped her to her feet.

“Your name,” he whispered as she stood. “What is your name?”

Cat glanced to where Fiona hovered nervously several feet away. “Catriona. I will come tomorrow morning, just after sunrise.”

He smiled, white teeth flashing against the sunlight.

As she and her companion hurried along the path back to her father’s dwelling, Fiona kept up a nonstop stream of worried thoughts. “Your father will have our heads. He will turn us into toadstools.”

“Nonsense,” Catriona laughed. “Wait, Fiona. I cannot show up looking as I do. Stop here in the glade. I need just a moment.”

As soon as her companion came to a halt, Catriona flicked her sodden curls back over her shoulders, adjusted her wet skirts and took a deep breath. “Father sun both warm and high, restore my person clean and dry.”

Fiona laughed. “You do that with such ease, Lady, I envy you.”

Catriona fluffed out her now dry skirts then ran a hand over her soft, curling hair. “You have no idea, Fiona. Do not envy me. I fear what I go to face is more than I can bear.”
****
Carrick wanted to follow her. After watching her for weeks always in his seal form, he had risked showing himself. When she lost her balance and plummeted from the high bank, he thought his heart would stop. He dove in, remaining as a human instead of shifting. He couldn’t risk the other woman seeing the change. He’d very nearly regretted that decision when he found her and realized how close she was to giving in to the sea.

Why would she not know how to swim? He had encountered many humans, and those who lived near the sea all swam almost as well as the Silkie in human form. Why not this girl?

Catriona. It was a beautiful name, and the other woman had called her lady. Was she some sort of noble? Did he dare approach her? Carrick’s heart thudded. She stirred something in him he’d never felt before, but she had not called him, and he knew his destiny would be with another Silkie. Though Silkie women were not easy to come by, his standing would assure him a mate. Still…

He thought of her hair, as red as the coral in the southern seas and her eyes, as green as the moss that waved from the rocks along the northern shores. No, she was very definitely not one of the Silkie, but if she called to him, he would be free to take her. He looked along the path where she’d disappeared then back to the ocean. He had nowhere he had to be. There were no prohibitions against him watching a non-Silkie. He looked down at his attire. A pair of human pants that he had found and kept hidden nearby. No shoes, no shirt. Well, he would just have to remain hidden.
****
Catriona stepped onto the veranda of her father’s home. Nestled into the edge of the forest, it blended so well with its surroundings that it was sometimes easy to miss if you were anything other than Faerie. It had always been a place of refuge, a place of comfort and security. She had lived here all of her life with only her father and her companion. An accident had taken her mother away when Cat was just a baby.

As she moved toward her father and the slender man standing near him, Catriona lowered her eyes to help cloak her thoughts. It would do no one any good if Camlin sensed her reluctance was more than just shyness.

“Catriona,” her father called with obvious relief. She was sure he knew of her hesitation and had probably worried she would disappear, but she dared not. She had heard rumors of what happened to some families when they would not bend to the will of the king and his family. “Come greet our guest.”

Still keeping her gaze lowered so as not to meet Lord Camlin’s eyes, she curtsied and held out her hand. “My lord.”

He brought it to his lips, and the wet, sloppy feeling of his mouth against her skin nearly made her snatch her hand back in revulsion. Instead, she smiled and let her gaze skate away as if overcome with shyness.
His laughter jangled her nerves.

“Such demureness.” Camlin’s voice oozed like oil. “Your daughter is a credit to you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” her father responded. “Come, join us for supper.”

Catriona smiled at all the right places, accepted their guest filling her plate for her, but all the while she cringed inside. How soon could she get away? It couldn’t be soon enough. Camlin made her skin crawl, and she had heard from more than one source that his surface cordiality cloaked innate cruelty.

Fiona had joined them as well for the meal, but as always, she remained so much in the background, she could just as well have been one of the wall sconces. By the time Catriona felt she could sneak away, her face hurt from trying to keep her expression under such rigid control.

All she could think about as she ran on whisper light feet to her chamber at the far end of the house was meeting Carrick at the inlet early in the morning.
****
Carrick loved the summer months. Rather than staying aboard the ship he’d inherited from his father, he chose to spend as much time as possible in seal form. What time he did spend as a human was most often in isolated areas, or coming ashore to answer the call of a human female. Though young, he understood the drive among his kind. They were motivated to give sexual pleasure, but it seemed more and more that Silkie males now sought mates among the humans.

He told himself that wasn’t what he was after. He had reminded himself of that as he watched Catriona smile at another man the previous evening. Yet her smile had looked so different than the one she had flashed at him before spinning away earlier.

Carrick had been fascinated by where she lived too. It was unlike any human settlement he had ever seen. An odd feeling of peace permeated the area around her home, both in the forest and the field. And the people looked different too. Not only were they fairer of hair and eye than what he knew, there was such an unhurried air about everything, as if they had all the time in the world.

He wondered about that now as he morphed from seal to man and strode from the ocean. Moving quickly in the gray of early dawn, he located the cut off trousers he had lifted from a human’s laundry line. He had seen men before, clad in swim attire that seemed ludicrous to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to wear anything so humorous. Were it not for fear of offending Catriona, he would simply have dispensed with any clothing at all.

A sound as soft as the brush of water against the shore made him lift his gaze to the top of the steep bank. She picked her way delicately down from the top. Nervousness made him motionless for a moment. Her gown flowed around her, lifting lightly in the barely discernible breeze.

He wanted to hold her, to gather her close and simply press her against the length of him.

“Good morning.” Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper of sound, and still it tingled along his nerve endings.

Unable to resist, he trailed his fingers along the satin sleeve of her gown. “Surely you don’t mean to go into the water in this. It would ruin it.”

She laughed. “I could fix it, but no. I—I have something else beneath.”

He smiled. She was more approachable this morning than she had looked with the other man yesterday. “May I help?”

The glance she gave him held some shyness, but also a laughing flirtatiousness that aroused need like he’d never experienced. Carrick wasn’t used to exercising control. Normally when he was this close to a female, it was because she had called to him. She was ready and wanting, already willing to accept him sexually.

This was a new game.

Her fingers slipped to the belt of her silk covering and he realized it was styled like a robe. As he watched her slender fingers loosen it, his breathing increased. “Let me.”

His voice was no more than a growl. He slipped the robe from her shoulders and folded it, laying it on a rock where the water wouldn’t reach it.
Carrick cleared his throat. “Do you…can you swim at all?”

“No. My father did not wish me to come to the sea. We have pools where I live, but they are not deep.”

He held his hand out. “Come. I’ll hold onto you while you become accustomed to the water. It will be cooler than what you’re used to, but the salt water also makes it easier for you to float.”

He was amazed how easily she placed her trust in him, even holding onto him while he swam with her riding on his back. When he saw her wide-eyed pleasure, Carrick laughed.

She went instantly still, and the shyness once more had her gaze shifting away from him. Unable to resist any longer, Carrick dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.

“Catriona.”

Her arms slipped up over his chest and circled the back of his neck. Sensation exploded through him, arousing him to such a degree he feared he would frighten her. But when he started to back away, she whimpered and clutched more tightly against him.

“Don’t. You want more. I see it.” She pulled his hand down to touch the wet material clinging to the mound of her breasts.

“Cat…” The feel of her cupped in the palm of his hand made his throat go dry; he couldn’t tear his gaze from the darker pink of her nipple visible through the thin, wet material.

The sound of someone above them made him still. With a low growl he shifted his gaze up to see the young woman who’d been with her yesterday.
“You have company.”

Releasing his hand, she tilted her head back. “Fiona. What are you doing here?”

“Lord Camlin. He’s coming!”

Now his growl resonated, and as he turned back to Catriona, he saw her eyes widen with wariness.

“What are you?” Her whisper trembled in the air between them. Even though neither of them had moved, he felt the gap between them widen.

A fluttering at the edge of his own mind set off warning bells for him as well. Eyes narrowing, he dropped his hand and stepped back. “What am I? Perhaps I should ask that same question.”

“Lady! He will be here any moment.”

She muttered words in a language that sounded strangely like the old tongue, yet different, and in an instant her clothing and hair were as dry and clean as when she’d first arrived.

“You’re a Faerie.”

The gaze she turned to him for one more instant was now shuttered and sad. “Goodbye, Carrick of the sea.”

“Don’t!” he protested. “Don’t go to him. You don’t even like him.”
“I have no choice.”

She looked for her gown. With a snarl of frustration, Carrick stripped the pants from his body and leaped back into the sea. With a touch to the leather strip around his neck, he morphed back into a seal and dove, anger driving him deep into the inlet.

(more to come...)

How I met the hero of Winning Heart

2011-06-24T17:58:00.000-07:00

I met Nelson Anderson not too long after Wynter O’Reilly started to work for him. I had gone out with a friend to take a look at a horse one of his amateur owners had for sale. The owner was focused on the hunter ring, but her mount had a mentality much better suited to eventing. Since the owner was on a business trip, Nelson agreed to meet us.

“I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t offer to ride him for you.” He gestured to his cane. “I’m afraid those days are over. Thomas, our trainer, has one of the stable girls getting the gelding ready. We can put another rider up unless you just want to go ahead and get a feel for him?”

My friend grabbed her hard hat from the back seat of her truck. “I’d just as soon see how he works without someone else warming him up first.”

Nelson nodded, the sun glinting off some of the silver in his hair. I wondered why a man as young as he was already had gray streaks through his dark head, but one glance at the cane on which he leaned was reminder enough. As a former journalist, I kept up with area news and remembered his story.

“Laura? Is that you?” I turned at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Wynter? I haven’t seen you in ages. What are…?”

“I work here.” Her glance shifted uneasily to the man behind me. “I was just getting ready to walk the gelding out to the ring. You could come with me and we’ll catch up while your friend talks to Mr. Anderson.”

I studied her from narrowed eyes. I knew she’d disappeared from the Southards and got the distinct feeling she didn’t want Nelson Anderson to know her background. I turned to my host.

“Wynter and I are acquainted. I hope you don’t mind…”

He nodded his head slightly, without smiling. “Not at all. Wynter’s one of our newer employees and a very hard worker.”

I smiled. “Yes. She’s always been that.”

As we drew away from them, I glanced sideways at Wynter. “What are you doing here? Does your mom know?”

Wynter shook her head. “Please. Don’t say anything to her. I’ll get in touch with her soon, I promise. I just… You know Mr. Southard pulled my scholarship.”

“Slime ball.”

“Tell me about it. But you’ll never guess. I’ve gotten into Duke on my own, and I just started classes.”

“That’s great! How’s it going so far?”

“Pretty well.”

As we halted next to the arena, I glanced back at Nelson and my friend whose pace was necessarily slower to accommodate Anderson’s limp. “How’s your boss?”

I was surprised to see Wynter blush. “He’s okay.” She shifted nervously, her glance once more on Anderson. Ahh…a bit of a crush. “I gotta go. I still gotta finish shovelin’ shit.”

“Picking stalls,” I murmured automatically.

“Yeah. Whatever. Listen, You won’t say anything to my mom, will you?”

I shook my head. “That’s your job.”

She handed me the reins and darted back for the barn, with a quick nod to my friend and Anderson.

After horse and rider were in the ring, Anderson glanced at me from his dark blue eyes. “If you don’t mind my asking…how do you know Wynter?”

I laughed. “Fox hunting. The Southards kept the poor kid hopping seven days a week.”

I sensed a certain stiffness in Anderson’s manner. “The Southards are friends of yours?”

I arched a brow. “I’m a writer and a journalist who barely scrapes together a hunt subscription each year. Payton Southard and his wife barely know I breathe. I like it that way.”

He relaxed. “Wynter’s told me enough to know she was lucky to get out of there.”

“She was. I hate she lost her scholarship in the process because she’s brilliant and driven, but getting away from that family’s probably one of the best things that’s happened to her.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and I saw the way he tracked Wynter as she rolled the wheel barrow from the barn to the manure pile. His hand clenched on the head of his cane until his knuckles shown white.

“She’s a great young woman,” I murmured. “All she needs is just a few things to go her way for a change.”

He nodded.

I turned back to the ring. Wow, there was already a lot of tension between those two. They just didn’t know about it.

I’m so glad I got to tell their story. You can find it July 4th: Winning Heart from Lyrical Press.

Laura's Looking for Horse Feed, so I'm Here

2011-06-18T04:14:00.000-07:00

Hi, Laura is out feeding her horses and trying to find something to keep the flies off of them this summer, so she asked me to handle her blog post for her today.
First, let me introduce myself. I’m Wynter O’Reilly. Well, it’s Wynter Anderson now. I still haven’t really gotten used to the fact that I’m now Mrs. Nelson Anderson. What a hoot! It’s a real story of girl from the wrong side of the tracks finding the perfect guy, who just happens to be the CEO of one of the biggest computer electronics firms in the country. And it started off with me shoveling sh…oops, make that manure…in Nelson’s show jumping stable. It took us a while to find our happy ending, but we did—really thanks to Laura.
Let me tell you how we met.
Laura has fox hunted for years, so I met her while I was still working for the Southards in Virginia. She had to give it up for a while, but she’s still hoping to go back to it. Anyway, it’s the horse connection. Even though she’s not really into show jumping herself, she does enjoy watching it—and any horse sport for that matter because she’s been riding since she was six years old. It was seeing all those various characters around different horse venues, plus traveling to events—hers and her stepson’s—that eventually gave her the idea, well, for me.
Nelson and I sure are glad about that, although, it certainly would have been nice if she’d made it a little easier on both of us to get together. I mean, couldn’t she have given me rich parents and a big house? But, I guess not. Then I wouldn’t have Mama, and we probably wouldn’t have met Wythe who’s been like a big brother/surrogate dad to me. Plus, if I hadn’t had it so tough, I’m not sure I would have been so determined to get an education. After all, it was trying to get into Duke that led me to Nelson’s doorstep.
He was a totally different man then. Some people would tell you he was broken. Losing a wife and child the way he did, well it would destroy a lot of people. Not Nelson. In his own way, he’s just as determined as me. Good thing. If he wasn’t, I’m not sure I’d be here now to write this. You can find out more about what happened to us and how we got together July 4th. That’s when Laura’s book Winning Heart comes out from Lyrical Press.
In the meantime, I’ve been telling Laura she needs to take this summer to get back in the saddle again while she’s taking a break from teaching English. Her mares are getting fat and lazy…hint, hint.
LOL…great talking to you all today…you really should get Laura to let more of us show up in her blog. There’s a bunch of our friends—Chris and Anna, Seth and Tessa—anyway, a whole bunch of us that would love to talk to you.

6/6: Aimee Laine : http://www.aimeelaine.com/blog
6/8: Lyla Dune : http://lyladune.com/blog.html
6/10: Carol Strickland : http://carolastrickland.blogspot.com/
6/12: Amy Corwin : http://amycorwin.blogspot.com/
6/14: Lilly Gayle : http://www.lillygayleromance.blogspot.com/
6/16: Rebekkah Niles : http://juturnafaerthing.blogspot.com/
6/18: Laura Browning : http://www.laurabrowningbooks.blogspot.com/
6/20: Andris Bear : http://andrisbear.wordpress.com/
6/22: Marcia Colette : http://marciacolette.wordpress.com/
6/24: Nancy Badger : http://www.nancylennea-inlove.blogspot.com
6/26: Sarah Mäkelä : http://blog.sarahmakela.com
6/28: Jennifer Harrington : http://www.romanceadventures.blogspot.com/
6/30: Scott Berger : http://romanticadventurestories.wordpress.com/

Contest Today!

2011-05-01T05:50:00.000-07:00

It's May Day. The weather here is beautiful, and I'm in the mood to give something away. So...check out my author fan page on Facebook: Laura Browning Author -- click to "like" the page, and I'll put your name into a drawing for a free copy of my book, The Silkie's Call.

2011-04-12T16:12:00.000-07:00

Here's the opening scene from my latest book on sale from The Wild Rose Press Wilder Catalog: "He's feeding her!" the maid whispered as she popped back into the kitchen with the salad plates and paused next to where Keeley was finishing dessert. "And she's already giving him the look."
“Too bad I didn’t prepare peas, so he could retrieve them from her cleavage.” Keeley scowled and turned back to spread a glaze of sweet, dark chocolate over the gateau. It hadn’t turned out quite as she’d hoped, but it would have to do. She didn’t have time to prepare another dessert. Besides, by the time lover boy got to the last course, he’d be more interested in screwing his dinner partner than tasting Keeley’s cake. With the glaze done, she peeked through a crack in the hall door to see her employer leaning attentively toward a busty blonde. The bimbo giggled as he fed her a piece of meat. It was more than obvious from the heated looks she gave him it was an entirely different piece of meat sparking her interest.
Keeley frowned. That was no way to appreciate the veal she’d prepared. She huffed. Another excellent meal would go to waste while half the staff watched him work his magic on his latest date. Women seemed to fall over him like he held them in
some sort of thrall. For his part, he usually looked like he could care less. The least he could do was eat the meal off his date’s naked stomach, maybe lick
the gateau off her…
Jeez! Keeley ignored the tingle in her breasts and between her legs watching Ciaran Clifton usually caused. Why the hell did he have to be so good-looking? Why the hell did she work for him? Granddad. That was why. The job gave her enough money and freedom she could care for him at home. That was what mattered. He’d lived within
sight of Long Island Sound his entire life. She couldn’t ask him to change that. He was having a tough time with the chemotherapy this go round.
Keeley stalked back to the kitchen. All she wanted to do was get home. Granddad needed her. For once she wished Clifton would hurry with his dinner and his seduction so she could leave. She was tired of the long dinner table conversations that seemed to her at least like he was busy getting information instead of sex. It disturbed her enough thinking about him that way; she certainly didn’t need the evening to drag on for hours.
She cleaned the kitchen, her movements automatic and efficient. While the dishwasher was quietly humming, she started a pot of coffee. On a tray she put sugar, cream, spoons, napkins and cups.
“They’re ready for dessert.” The maid updated her. It was like play by play at a soccer game. He’s already got one hand all the way up her thigh and the other’s slipping the strap of her dress off her shoulder. He scores!

It's a Book not a Baby!

2010-09-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

Just try telling that to an author. So, here are the top ten ways in which having a book published is like having a baby.
#10. Coming up with a title is almost as involved as naming a child.
#9. And you thought getting a due date from the OB was hard...
#8. Creating a book idea is nearly as fun as creating a kid. (Yes, honey, just nearly.)
#7. Edits and Revisions are like the last miserable month of pregnancy.
#6. You're just as excited showing off your cover art as you were those first ultrasound pictures.
#5. Creating an author website's a lot like decorating the nursery.
#4. Like diapers, promotional items never come in just the right sized package for the right price.
#3. Spending hours and hours sitting glued to a computer is just as devastating to your figure as pregnancy.
#2. Your spouse and children will complain you're spending too much time with the book and ignoring them.
and #1. When the release date arrives, the book's coming whether you're ready or not.

But you know what, when it's all said and done, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything in the world. So I guess it really is like having a child.

Confessions of a Pantser

2010-08-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, for those of you who don't know what a pantser is (and I'd been doing it for years before I had a label for it), we're the writers who shudder at the idea of plot charts, detailed character sketches and reams of paper devoted to mapping out your story. My stomach's starting to knot just thinking about it. I prefer to let things flow. Unfortunately, life sometimes intrudes on that free flow of creative juices. It can be as simple as needing to stop to fix dinner, or more complicated -- like when an idea is really cooking and you also have information to complete and email back to two editors from two different publishing houses regarding stories that are not the current WIP.

Yes, that's a good problem to have. But it's still an issue for a pantser. Just look in my files at the stories that stalled. But if I'm ever going to get my write-it-while-it's-hot mentality wrapped around the business of making money writing books, then I have to figure this out. I actually believe I've hit on the correct way to approach this. Unfortunately the lure of the "want to" is still outstripping the call of the "need to."

I think (because I haven't actually tested it yet) it boils down to -- God forbid -- organizing my time. Whoo...I'm getting that knot in my stomach again. I need to put the needs as the first thing I get out of the way before the characters in the WIP demand my attention. Easier said than done.

But I'm open for ideas from any fellow pantsers out there who suffer from this dilemma.

Are you a morning person?

2010-07-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

My mom used to tell us, "Shh, your father hasn't had his coffee yet." We all knew we were to tiptoe around until he did. Of course, I was usually the only one tip-toeing since my brothers weren't as geared to getting up at the crack of dawn. I didn't understand the apparent paradox of my father being an early-riser (so to me, a morning person), but not wanting to communicate with anyone.

Now I get it.

I've never been a late sleeper, but even before I developed the coffee habit, I was already developing the same pattern as my dad. I like to get up early, but I don't really need company. There's a quiet quality to early morning that I need. It's a time to center myself and mentally recharge. It's a chance to ease into the day. Before marriage and a family, that was easy to do. I spent the time in the barn with my horse. Feeding, picking out a stall, grooming and riding. I did them all before work. To me, those were peaceful activities that gave me a chance to recharge.

So if you run into me somewhere early in the day and I'm slow to say "Good morning," it's not because I'm having a bad day -- I'm just still in the morning zone. Stomp your foot and munch some hay -- I might even smile then.

The Importance of Being Flexible

2010-06-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

My mother just sent me a cartoon by Dave Coverly that reminded me very humorously what it means to be a writer, not just of fiction, but in any sense of the word. It shows a poor, hapless author sitting across the desk of an editor who is obviously reviewing her work. He says, "We loved all the words in your manuscript, but we were wondering if you could maybe put them in a completely different order."

Whether it is a news story, a script for a corporate video, or a manuscript, it isn't easy to have someone make changes to what I've written. After all, I labored and sweated and agonized over whatever it is that I wrote. It should be perfect. I want it to be perfect. I want my editor, reader or viewer to find it equally perfect.

And that so often is not the case.

Many years ago, when I began in television news with my cocky "I'm a Mizzou Journalism Grad" tattooed all over my ego, it led to some explosive outbursts of artistic temperament. (Translate that into kicked trash cans and arm cleared desktops and you'll get the picture.) My first lesson in biting my tongue and making changes was in writing to please a client when I worked on my first corporate video. I believe it was draft 10 of the script that finally gained approval... After all, if I didn't please them, I didn't get paid. Starvation is an incredible motivator in the art of flexibility.

In television news, deadlines often inhibit just how much perfection can be attained. "Just crank it out" is a common refrain. But working under deadlines did teach me to write fast and write right, if not always as poetically as I would like. Having the opportunity over the years to write and produce several specials and documentaries was the dessert after a steady diet of meat and vegetables.

Now, writing fiction, I have that luxury to take my time, to find just the right word, to rework a sentence or a scene until it flows as I like it. And guess what? It's still not perfect. But I now know that I can change what I've written. I am capable of it, and I'm willing to do it. And God bless the technology that now makes that infinitely easier than the days of typewriters and carbons!

But can flexibility go too far? Yes. The cartoon is a prime example of that. While I like to take the attitude that I can make almost any change for which an editor asks, there are times when I believe I must stand up for my characters. (Okay, yes, they are make believe people I have created from my own imagination, but they do take on a life and personality of their own). If I feel that a change is fundamentally in opposition to how a reader would expect this character to act, then I must defend my writing. Flexibility should work both ways. It is the give and take between an editor and an author that I believe results in the best product possible.

So ultimately, the important thing to remember is to be flexible, but not breakable.

Writing Amid Chaos

2010-03-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

When I left television news at the end of 2004, I was burned out and ready to do something else. At the time, there was also little I could find to appreciate about my years as a journalist. Now I know better.

Writing anywhere with anything going on. That is the first skill for which I can thank my career as a reporter and producer. It doesn't matter what's going on in the background, I can still crank it out. I've written on my laptop during baseball and soccer practices. I regularly write in a house where the TV vies with the video gaming system to drown each other out. Add to that the cumulative noise of two cats, a Jack Russell, two lovebirds and a teenage son and you have a vision of what I mean.

Being able to tune everything out so you can concentrate. Hmm. See above.

Writing quickly. Thanks Mizzou J-School. I can crank out pages as prolifically as guppies can reproduce. And now thanks to deadlines measured in weeks rather than minutes, I can actually go back and reread and fix what I don't like. That's the most amazing thing to me.

Finally, getting a great ringside seat on human nature. Over my years as a reporter and producer I have run the gamut in terms of what I've covered and the people I've talked to. I've listened to stories that were heart-warming, gut-wrenching or just downright bizarre -- and they all make wonderful fodder for turning fact into fiction.