As We Were Saying....

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 7

2012-02-28T01:00:00.000-06:00

And we continue our Round Robin Short Story series, "A Delicious Dalliance," with a section from Kimberly Packard.

Read along and let us know what you think, readers!

With her head held high, she stood and pranced out, the ruffles of her yellow sundress bouncing off her knees. Alex would’ve loved this dress.

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

“Bonjour.”

The smoky, sexy voice caressed Seven’s ear. It was a voice that belonged to a Victoria’s Secret model, one that woke up with the right amount of makeup smudge under her eye. The type of voice that sounded like it’s been smoking since it was a teenager but without the stained teeth to prove it. It was also the voice belonging to the owner’s leggy daughter.

“Uh, hi,” Sev said, trying not to imagine Alex curled up alongside his boss’s daughter. “Does Chef Alex Laurent work at this restaurant?”

A boredom-laced “Oui” blew through the line.

“Great, I’d like to make a reservation for tonight.”

“How many?”

“Just one.”

The bombshell paused so long that Sev thought she lost the connection. “I have an opening at eight. But why only one, Chef Laurent’s food is for lovers, do you have one, no?”

Actually, I have two, but that would make for an awkward dinner-time conversation. “Eight is great,” Sev confirmed, ignoring the woman’s suggestion to bring a lover, preferring to meet one there instead. When asked for a name, Saffron came out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She should have given her name as Seven. He would looked at the reservation list and known she was coming. But, she knew why she didn’t. If he knew she was coming, he would have too much time to prepare for the argument she deserved.

*****

Thankfully, Brad was nowhere to be found when she rushed by her apartment after work to prepare for dinner. She showered, shaved and primped in record speed, only slowing down long enough to put serious thought into which little black dress Alex would find most appealing. It was the impulse buy from Paris that won out against the others. The one that she bought in her still post-orgasmic bliss from her night with Alex that even though, at the time, she knew he’d never see her in it, she bought it in hopes that he would. The short dress sashayed mid-thigh and the impossibly tall red heels only accented her tanned, tone calves. Eat your heart out, Chef.

The restaurant was bustling when she arrived. The owner’s daughter barely gave Sev a glance when she checked in and lazily led her to a small, claustrophobic table seated too close to the bathroom. This must be why she got a reservation so easily, no one wanted to sit at the table where the sound of toilets flushing drowned the piped-in Spanish guitar.

Deep breath, Sev. You’re just having a nice dinner by yourself, waiting for the man of your dreams to appear from the kitchen. To ease her nerves, she picked a nice bottle of tempranillo from the menu and let the earthy sweet juice flood her mouth and warm her throat, imagining her whole body relaxing as nectar of the gods radiated from her stomach. With each bite she took that evening, she imagined it to be a nibble on his ear, or a lick on his neck. By the final bite, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to explode from satiation or lust.

“I’d love to meet the chef and compliment him on dinner,” she told her server after he poured her third glass of wine. The young man curtly nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Sev’s eyes fixated on the swinging wooden door as her hands instantly smoothed her hair and her tongued licked away any traces of his food from her lips.

Just as the door to the kitchen swung open, a torso blocked her view. Her angry eyes flicked up, her drunken lips pursed to tell the stranger to get the hell out of her way when her jaw went slack at the sight of Brad standing before her with a single peony in his hand.

“Brad?”

“Sev,” he smiled at her as sweat dotted his pale brow. He knelt down so quickly she reached to catch him, thinking he was passing out, but recoiled at his outstretched hand. “Will you marry me?”

Creating Emotion: The Lifeblood Of Your Story

2012-02-27T00:30:00.001-06:00

It’s our pleasure to welcome Author, Linda Style back to our blog. Linda is the award-winning author of 14 novels published by Harlequin Super Romance. She’s also the co-founder of Bootcamp for Novelists Online where she teaches the advanced level writing courses. With degrees in behavioral science and journalism, Linda has worked as a case manager, a human rights advocate, a program director for mental health services, a management consultant, and as the editor-in-chief for AZ View Magazine. In addition to her novels, Linda has written both fiction and nonfiction for newspapers and magazines. Her books, described by reviewers as emotional, fast-paced stories that keep you riveted to the page, have won several awards, including the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence, the Orange Rose award for Best Book of the Year. Linda was recently featured in a USA Today interview where she talked about her current release, A SOLDIER’S SECRET. If you'd like a more indepth discussion of today's topic, Linda offers it in her Bootcamp for Novelists online course.

~~~

EMOTION: THE LIFEBLOOD OF YOUR STORY

Every human being on this earth experiences emotion. Every human being experiences some kind of emotion all day, every day. It’s part of the human condition.

Your laughter at someone’s joke, your anxiety while getting ready to make a public speech, your anger at a co-worker, your fear that someone will read your story and not like it, your pain at seeing your son or daughter cry because someone said something bad about him, it’s all about emotion.

Think about it. Everything we do in life is related to emotion. You laugh, you cry, you’re elated, you’re ambivalent, you rejoice, you rail at injustice. It’s one big emotional world out there.

It’s no wonder then, that because our books are about people, our stories should be infused with emotion, too. Emotion IS the lifeblood of your story. Emotion creates the richness and depth that makes your story come alive and your characters compelling. Without it, your story will be static. Your characters lifeless.

If you want your stories to succeed, it’s important to understand the dynamics of emotion. For our story purposes, there are three basic components of emotion.

1. Reader Emotion

2. Author Emotion

3. Character Emotion

Let’s look at those one at a time.

READER EMOTION: The first thing you must do in your story on the very first page, and preferably on the first line, is to elicit an emotional reaction from the reader. When a reader has a reaction, he’s experiencing emotion. He’s emotionally involved. When he’s involved, he’s hooked. So, our first job as writers is to create an emotional experience for the reader. How do we do that?

Human beings experience three types of emotional responses:

The first is the VOYEURISTIC response, which comes from curiosity about new information and the relationship between characters. The voyeuristic response is generated by our passions and interests. It’s something that cannot be taught.

The second is the VICARIOUS response, also known as empathy. We feel what the characters feel. It comes from character emotions, which are created by the events the writer has set up.

The third is the VISCERAL response, which is the main reason we pay to go and sit in a dark room for two hours with a bunch of strangers. It’s why we read Stephen King and Dean Koontz. It’s what we feel as a result of reading a book or experiencing what’s on the screen. It’s our immediate physical emotional response. Your technical skills as a writer should create an environment for the reader to experience visceral emotions.

To create this environment, you must appeal directly to the reader’s emotional needs which are:

a. The need for new information

b. The need to bond – to empathize with characters and follow their adventures.

c. The need for conflict resolution – we like to solve problems, take action and deal with conflict and change and triumph over them.

d. The need for completion – to make order out of chaos. We need structure in our lives…and emotionally satisfying endings. We’re only satisfied when issues are resolved and all questions are answered.

If you create a story that caters to these needs, you will engage the reader emotionally.

2. AUTHOR EMOTION:

Have you all heard the phrase: Write the book of your heart? I can’t tell you how many times early on in my writing career I heard that phrase. I also heard: Write what you know. Familiar? I heard those phrases so many times they were almost clichés. Not only did the phrases seem clichéd, the idea seemed really stupid if I was going to write about serial killers. I doubted anyone who wrote about serial killers really knew the subject as well as a serial killer, and the subject certainly wasn’t near and dear to my heart. But then I discovered the reason behind those two almost cliched phrases, and guess what….it’s all about emotion! That’s right.

When we write what we know, it’s more likely that we’re going to put our heart and soul into the book. We have passion about the subject and passion is emotion. Author emotion. If you write without that internal passion, you’re writing empty. You’re writing something that doesn’t mean much to you ... and it will show. Writing without emotion will result in a story that’s like a well-dressed department store mannequin. The dummy is dressed nicely, but it’s not alive. It has no depth. It might be interesting on the surface, but it’s lifeless.

Author emotion contributes not only to the emotional depth of your story, it creates authenticity and helps form your voice and style. When your passion is revealed through your words, you show your readers a bit of who you are. That’s a pretty scary thought for some of us….and probably why so many writers avoid it. We don’t want our families to think that’s how we feel about them…or we think they might be shocked at the love scenes or the language we use. So, we pull back. We’re terrified that people will think our characters are us. Or even worse, maybe they will see us for who we really are. That’s the really scary part.

Reaching deep inside to write with author emotion isn’t an easy thing to do. But we need that passion. We don’t write about our personal experiences per se, but we must draw upon our emotional experiences to create like emotions in our characters. The person on paper is not who we are, but the emotions should be those we know and have felt throughout out lives.

Your story cannot live without emotion and understanding the dynamics -- where emotion comes from and how it’s experienced by the reader -- is just the beginning. Unless you’re one of the gifted few who can write a book on instinct, the next step involves the craft of writing and learning special techniques that help you convey the kind of emotion that makes your story authentic and your characters come to life on the page. It’s the skillful combination of technique and author passion that creates real emotion -- the lifeblood of your story.

~~~

A SOLDIER'S SECRET, January 2012

Marriage? This must be a joke! Natalia Sokoloff has nerves of steel, but when David “Mac” MacAllister proposes marriage, she breaks into a cold sweat. A wife is Mac’s best chance at adopting the son he fathered while on active duty in Iraq. And Natalia is his buddy. Besides, she owes him for saving her life during combat.

So how can she refuse? Especially if this is only temporary—they only need to play house until the adoption is final. Except even that’s far too long and too intimate for Natalia. Because there are some things a girl doesn’t want even her best friend to know.

Buy Linda's book at Amazon, B&N and Harlequin.Harlequin

CINDY A. CHRISTIANSEN SHARES BRAVING THE BLAZE

2012-02-24T00:05:00.207-06:00

About Braving The Blaze...

Single-minded Dean Harward is going to become a veterinarian if it kills him. He’s worked summers as a volunteer wildfire fighter to earn big cash for college. Just his luck, a pyrophobic woman gets assigned to his team. He’s certain she’ll get him killed before he can graduate. Ginger Warby is a walking firestorm as accidents continually spark around her. Or are they accidents? Can Dean keep the flames of desire he reluctantly feels for her under control long enough to keep them and his Yellow Labrador alive?

~~~

Excerpt...

“I know volunteering sounds crazy, but I’ve got to do this.” Ginger Warby locked her fingers together and sat down on her best friend’s floral-print sofa.

Brenda whirled around in bewilderment. “This has got to be the most idiotic thing you’ve ever thought of doing. Why? Why would you even try? I know how terrified you are of fire.” She flopped into the mauve recliner next to Ginger, her face still rumpled in disbelief. “Look at cooking school.”

Ginger took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. So she had flunked out of culinary school. She’d done her best. She couldn’t help it if she couldn’t set her Crepes Suzette…or the Bombe Alaska…or…or the Lobster fra Diavolo on fire. Three little dishes. There’d been plenty of other meals she’d fixed to perfection.

At least she’d managed to get over her fear of gas stoves and barbeque grills while she attended school. She’d made progress. Well, as long as they didn’t have a flare-up of flames. The image of the time her T-bone steaks dripped grease and sent flames roaring up through the grill popped into her mind. She’d gone screaming out of the class as her classmates roared with laughter.

Before she’d chosen culinary art for her career, she should’ve realized where there’s heat, there’s fire. Why did chefs prefer gas stoves to electric anyway? Someone somewhere had to start a new trend.

“You’re afraid of a sparkler, Ging.” Brenda shook her head in skepticism.

“I’ve gotten better though. You just don’t understand.”

“I know my best friend just told me she’s planning to put herself in the middle of the biggest wildfire Utah’s ever seen, but she’s afraid of a match. You’re going from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Somebody has to talk some sense into you.”

How could Ginger explain all of her reasoning? Especially since the death of Brenda’s brother, Barrett, had a lot to do with her decision. Only a week had gone by since his funeral. Ginger hoped she could get over her fear and at the same time understand Barrett’s tragic death.

“I just feel strongly about going, Bren. I really want to face my fears. And besides, they desperately need help on this fire. I’ll just be one of the camp crew, anyway.”

Brenda reached for her hand. “So face your fears. But putting yourself in the middle of a one-hundred thousand acre wildfire is just plain nuts.”

“Could you stop mentioning that?”

“Wildfire, wildfire, wildfire.”

Ginger cringed.

“You can’t even face the word, let alone face the actual fire.” Brenda hit her palm to her forehead. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Barrett, does it?”

Ginger noticed the glassy look in her best friend’s eyes. “No, not really. As I said, they need the help. Let’s talk about you. What’ve you been up to since we last talked?”

“And your hair!” Brenda stared at her with a horrified look. “You cut off all your gorgeous butter-colored hair for a fire? Since we were eight, you swore you’d never cut it.”

“It was always getting in my pots of soup. I’m…I’m glad it’s gone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t want it to catch on fire. I’ll be much safer with my hair short.” She didn’t want her terror to show, so she ducked her head.

“But did you use a scythe to cut it? My gosh, it stands out everywhere.”

“Still not happy with this discussion, Bren,” she returned in frustration.

Brenda clicked her tongue. “I still can’t believe you’re thinking of doing such a crazy thing.”

“Not thinking; I’m doing.”

“Not thinking is right. Daniel doesn’t even want to face that monster.” Brenda sobered. “I don’t want to lose someone else to a fire.”

Ginger’s heart lodged in her throat. “I know, and you won’t. I’ll just be doing camp duty, and you need Daniel here with you and little Darcy. How are things with the two of you?” Ginger asked, still hoping to change the subject.

“Have you talked to Sage yet?” Brenda asked instead.

Ginger sighed. How could her friend manage to bring up every subject she’d been trying to ban from her mind?

“I’m sure he’d want to discuss this plan of yours.” Brenda leaned back in the recliner with a raised brow.

“I…I haven’t seen him since the funeral.” She dug her nails into her thumbs until she couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Sage had gotten over what she’d done years ago. At least he acted like he had forgiven her. She just couldn’t forgive herself.

“What do you think he’s going to say about this?” Brenda crooked her neck, scanning the backyard for her daughter. “I shouldn’t let her outside in all this smoke, but she gets tired of being cooped up. And frankly, I’m not sure the air is any better inside than out no matter what they say on the news.”

“Come on. Let’s talk about something else besides the fire. What’s been going on since we last talked?” Ginger asked.

She knew her friend well enough to know she wouldn’t let the subject drop, but she didn’t want to hear another word about Sage or the Tushar fire. Ginger’s anxiety would explode through the roof if they kept talking about the subject. She already felt like running back to Salt Lake with her tail between her legs.

Convincing herself to come back home for Barrett’s funeral after flunking out at school was bad enough, but volunteering to fight her biggest trepidation on earth stressed her out to the max. She again tried not to think about being seventeen and the events which lead up to her phobia. The images flashed in her mind. Darn. Didn’t want to think about that memory. Could she ever put the experience behind her?

After this wildfire, would she be able to go back to school and face that flambé? Would she get her degree? Would she ever be able to do anything without being frightened? She mentally shook herself. She had to move forward, or otherwise she’d never be able to move on with her life.

“So then Daniel and I took little Darcy to Hogle Zoo, and do you know what she said when she saw the monkeys?” Brenda’s eyes sparkled with love for her little daughter.

Ginger shrugged, but couldn’t manage to control the flashing images of smoke, orange flames and sizzling trees which played over and over in her mind. How could she when smoke already burned her throat like eating suicide chicken wings basted with Tabasco sauce, hot pepper flakes and chopped chilies for garnish. It amazed her that a fire so many miles away could fill Brenda’s house with so much smoke the place looked like they’d landed in the middle of a smoker’s convention.

“Hey, are you listening?” Brenda asked.

“Uh, yeah. Little Darcy is adorable.”

And the story of Darcy and the monkeys was sweet, but Ginger had to admit she didn’t have her full attention on the story. Despite her determination to face her pyrophobia head on, black fear consumed her thoughts. At this point, she wished she’d have stayed in her safe little apartment hundreds of miles away. Being here brought back too many memories. Seeing Brenda made her return especially difficult; she looked too much like her brother. The thought of Barrett’s death made her chicken croissant sandwich from lunch do the funky chicken in her stomach.

How could Barrett have gotten trapped in a fire on his farm? What had sparked the flames? Could it have been equipment like they’d said? A van riding the rim of a blown tire on I-15? Another cigarette thrown from a passing car? There’d been lots of possibilities but no answers. If the police thought the fire looked suspicious, why weren’t they investigating further?

The Tushar fire had everyone’s attention, that’s why. It claimed her thoughts too, but she couldn’t forget about Barrett. Having been more than good friends with him at one time, she unequivocally wanted to know all the circumstances surrounding his death. Unfortunately, what had taken his life happened to be fire, making this all the more difficult for her to confront.

Barrett and Ginger’s brother, Sage, had been best friends. Along with her and Brenda, they had been the awesome foursome through their school years. They’d done everything together. She’d been surprised Sage and Brenda hadn’t married. As for her and Barrett… The thought stung like a thorn pricking her finger picking blackberries on the family farm. More memories she didn’t want to think about right now.

She needed to pay attention to Brenda. She did care about the everyday life of her best friend, but an overwhelming, terrifying dread clogged her brain. She needed to push her phobias aside and listen.

Brenda jumped to her feet and headed toward the kitchen. “I think we could both use a glass of cold iced tea.”

If only they had enough tea to put out the wildfire.

~~~
Contact Cindy at http://www.dragonflyromance.com and http://cadragonfly.blogspot.com

Buy her books at http://www.dragonflyromance.com/books/braving-the-blaze Amazon B&N

Cindy A. Christiansen, an author of sweet romance with comedy, suspense...and dogs has spent the week with us on our blog here in Texas. Her inclusion of dogs in all of her books shows her love for them and she donates time and money to organizations that help abused and abandoned dogs.She lives with her wonderful family and delightful dogs in West Jordan, UT.
Please leave a comment for Cindy and thank you so much for stopping by our blog.

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 6

2012-02-23T01:00:00.001-06:00

And we continue our Round Robin Short Story series, "A Delicious Dalliance," with a section from Bryan Grubbs.

Read along and let us know what you think, readers!

With her head held high, she stood and pranced out, the ruffles of her yellow sundress bouncing off her knees. Alex would’ve loved this dress.

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

“Yes I am aware that you’re trying to cut down on paper. Hurray for you. What I’m asking is for nine little digits of an incoming phone call that happened last Friday night.”

Two hours and thirteen minutes, three transfers and over an hour of jazzy porno music had eaten through Seven’s lunch and was now bringing up indigestion to accompany her frustration. She had stopped off on her way to work to pick up a replacement for her phone. Without the sim-card, she had lost all of her phone numbers.

Funny that she could still remember her best friend’s phone number from the third grade, the number to her parent’s cottage and to the local deli down the street whenever she wanted a sandwich delivered for lunch, but all other numbers were lost to her – especially the one she really wanted.

“That information will be on your statement at the end of the month.”

She let out an audible sigh. She’d done her best to control her temper, but now she was fueled by hunger, frustration, and an over-whelming urge to shove her freshly scuffed Claiborne up some call-center ass. “I don’t want the information at the end of the month. I want the information now.”

There was only humming from the receiver when her assistant, Tony, ducked his immaculate coif through the door.

“Sev, darling? I am so sorry to bother you, but your two-o-clock is here and looking a bit hot under the collar.” The corner of his mouth pulled back dramatically into a grimace.

She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “I’ll be right there.” A tall margarita was the only thing that could extinguish the raging nerves and calm the boiling sea in her bloodstream, but Tony’s flamboyant nature was a close second.

The voice came through the receiver again. “Miss? I’m going to have to transfer you.”

Seven bit back a response that she found all-too appropriate and tapped the ‘End Call’ button. “Just blow out the candles,” she told herself, taking deep breaths and letting the air escape slowly across the blackened wick in her mind. The wax was just about to drip on Alex’s exposed body when Tony peeped in again.

“Sev! Get that cutie-patootie in high gear! Never leave a good-looking man waiting!”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered, brushing her hands down the folds of her skirt as she walked out the door behind Tony.

*****

Incisors were doing their damage on her bottom lip while eyes locked on to the green Jetta in the parking garage, doing nothing to assist with her failing battle against the bile uprising. What kind of man drives a Jetta anyway? Is that how she was to see herself? Thrown to practicality with surprisingly ample trunk space?

She shook her head, fingers drumming on the friction-worn plastic of the steering wheel, contemplating her next plan of action.

It wasn’t that Brad hadn’t been sweet and managed to charm her in his own way. It was that Seven had come to a realization. She wanted heat. She wanted fire. She wanted steam. She couldn’t make herself settle for sweaty palms. Evenings in on the couch when there were wild nights of irresponsible drinking and dancing still left in her.

Still, the idea of watching those dog-faithful eyes widening with hurt and self-pity was enough to keep her opinions at bay.

Instead of getting out of the car, she gripped the keys still dangling from the ignition and gave them a firm twist. If Alex only had one day off and was working at one of four restaurants tonight, that meant she had a pretty easy way of tracking him down.

Recalling the name of the restaurant she’d seen him standing in front of only a few nights ago, she scrolled through listings until she found the number, highlighted it, and hit dial.

To be continued...

Thanks, Bryan! And now we turn it over to our readers. Please let us know what you think. The next section will be from Kimberly Packard, scheduled to be posted on Tuesday, Feb 28th.

THE NEXT 25 WRITING TIPS FOR YOUR BESTSELLER

2012-02-22T00:05:00.003-06:00

Cindy A. Christiansen, an author of sweet romance with comedy, suspense...and dogs is spending the week with us on our blog here in Texas..Her inclusion of dogs in all of her books shows her love for them and she donates time and money to organizations that help abused and abandoned dogs.She lives with her wonderful family and delightful dogs in West Jordan, UT.

Cindy will appear again on Friday with an excerpt of her newest book. Don't forget to comment at the end of the post.

Here we go with the next 25 writing tips.

TIP #26. Try to eliminate unnecessary words and keep sentences simple and direct. Don't use flowery sentences.

TIP #27. Put notes, emails, newspaper articles, journal entries, letters or diary entries within your manuscript in italics.

TIP #28. Spell out words and avoid abbreviations. If you do use them, spell out the title in the first reference and then use the initials. Example: Federal Bureau of Investigations, FBI.

TIP #29. Italicize sounds and foreign words.

TIP #30. Be careful with dialogue tags to make sure the action tag refers to the person saying the dialogue. Two characters should never speak in same paragraph.

TIP #31. Use more than one of the senses to describe a scene, not just sight.

TIP #32. Even though your manuscript is fiction, make sure your facts are accurate.

TIP #33. Each main character needs at least one internal goal and one external goal.

TIP #34. Each main character needs a long-term goal as well as short-term goals.

TIP #35. For romance, the hero and heroine need some type of relationship conflict as to why they can't be together.

TIP #36. By the end of the book, your main characters should come to some kind of epiphany.

TIP #37. Conflict is what drives your book and makes a reader keep turning pages.

TIP #38. Know all about your characters and their background, even if you don't include all of it in your book.The character's baggage is what drives them to make the decisions they do.

TIP #39. Remember that all characters have secrets.

TIP #40. Emotion is at the heart of a good book and you must clearly give your characters
emotions and explain the reasons for those emotions.

TIP #41. Know exactly what is at stake for your character and what they're willing to do or not do if a situation arises. For example: Would your heroine really shoot a gun? Why or why not. You need to know what motives her to do one or the other. It will usually be something related to a past experience.

TIP #42. Increase the intensity of the character's situation as the plot thickens-whether by their reaction to the event or the severity of the situation.

TIP #43. Your antagonist needs strong goals and motivations. Explain them.

TIP #44. If you have a character that isn't particularly likeable, give him/her a strong, important goal so that the reader can sympathize.

TIP #45. As the author, keep dangers high on your list of goals. This includes physical danger, psychological danger, or emotional danger. Use a combination. Keep time of the essence for your characters.

TIP #46. Know your five W's for every scene you write.

TIP #47. Write each scene from the character's POV who has the most at stake to lose.

TIP #48. Write your query in the same voice as your book. For example: humor - funny. This lets the publisher/agent know you can write from that angle.

TIP #49. Come up with a tight blurb that defines each main character in one or two words that are pertinent to the book and uses the same voice as the book.

TIP #50. Start promoting before you've sold. Be prepared and ready for when it all hits.

~~~

Good luck with your writing. If there's a tip here that you like or if you have a helpful writing tip let us know. Please come back on Friday when Cindy will share an excerpt of her book BRAVING THE BLAZE.

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 5

2012-02-21T01:00:00.003-06:00

Here's the next section from Jan McSwane in our Round Robin Short Story, "A Delicious Dalliance."

Read along and let us know what you think, readers!

...but the rod, fish, phone and the chance to enjoy one of Alex's favorite hot dogs were already on the bottom Martelle Pond.

"Fichu!" her father said.

"Sh** -- I've lost him again."

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

Seven pulled into her driveway and gave a big sigh of relief. The parking space next to her was empty. Brad’s not here. Good. She turned the brass knob on her front door, pushed it open, and headed for the phone. Do I smell smoke? she wondered. Was Brad here? He had started letting himself in when she wasn't at home, and she resented it. She wished she'd never given him a key to her apartment.

“Dad, I just wanted to let you know I made it home safe and I had a really good time. Thanks for taking me fishing.” Seven left the message and replaced the phone on the receiver. Tomorrow she’d get another cell phone. She couldn’t even call Alex back. The only trace of his number drowned on the bottom of the lake. Back in the boat, she'd decided to show up at Ernie’s, and just hope Alex did the same.

Looking around at items Brad had left in her apartment through the years- a magazine, his favorite glass, cigars- Seven whispered, “I hate this place.” Maybe I can get out of here before Brad shows up, she thought as she hurried to the bathroom.

Minutes later while digging though her purse, she rushed out of the bedroom and bumped into Brad. Gasping, she put her hand to her heart. “You scared me.”

“You’re all dressed up. Where are you off to?” Brad adjusted his glasses and peered into her face.

“Lacey and I are going to lunch,” Seven lied.

“I thought we might have lunch together,” Brad suggested as he limped into the kitchen. Laid out on the counter were two lobsters, already steamed.

Tears welled up in Seven’s eyes as she watched him. Brad was sick—really sick. Or so he thought. Brad professed to have every illness known to man—name it, he had it. Except mental illness—he vehemently denied that.

When Seven met Brad, he was dependable and steady. Now it seemed he was dependent on her. He acted like a little old man—at thirty years old. Sometimes Seven wondered if he really was dying; or maybe even descending into madness. Something just didn’t feel right. He would sneak up on her, listen in on her phone conversations, and sometimes she would see him across the street staring at her office window. And he called all the time, leaving text messages when she wouldn’t answer.

“The lobster looks wonderful, Brad. You go relax and I’ll bring it to you,” she conceded.

Brad smiled and hobbled off. Soon Seven heard the TV.

Tears of disappointment slid down her face. She knew she had to end this relationship. If Brad already needed her this much at this young age, what would he be like years from now? The best thing for Brad would be to throw him back into the dating scene and force him to get better.

Wet-eyed and five minutes later, she handed Brad his lunch on his favorite plate. “Do you need anything else?” she asked.

“I’m good. Are you not eating?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

Brad grabbed Seven’s hand as she was turning to go. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

Seven eased back into her bedroom, letting her fingers linger over the lock. The urge to slam the door and bar it raged through her—if only it could be that easy to get Brad out of her life—but she knew if she locked the door, he would only knock asking, 'Did I do something wrong?' Leaving the door ajar, she sat cross-legged on her bed and stared out the window awash in the rays of the sun. She ran her fingers through her hair like Alex had once done, and used the ends to wipe away her tears.

Red birds chased each other outside her window. They’re beautiful. Thoughts of Alex filled her head. I wonder if he’ll show up at Ernie’s? I wonder how long he'll wait for me? An hour? Two hours? Until closing time?

Seven jumped up. “What am I doing? I decided to go to Ernie’s and that’s what I’m going to do!” Brad had his lunch, and now she hoped there was a gorgeous hunk out there eagerly awaiting her arrival. She looked in the mirror. Can I pull it together? Yes, I can. She washed her face and patted her cheek. “Go get your man,” she said to the girl in the mirror. The girl smiled back and she headed for the door.

“Brad, I’m meeting Lacey.” Seven closed the door before he even had a chance to respond.

When she arrived at Ernie’s she looked for Alex but didn’t see him, so she settled into a table with a view of the parking lot and waited. And waited. And waited. She waited until the servers stared at her with disdain. With her head held high, she stood and pranced out, the ruffles of her yellow sundress bouncing off her knees. Alex would’ve loved this dress.

To be continued...

Thanks, Jan! Readers - Have At It! Let us know what you think. Up next is Bryan Grubbs. The next section will be posted on Thursday, Feb 23rd.

25 AWESOME TIPS FOR YOUR NEXT BESTSELLER

2012-02-20T00:05:00.001-06:00

This week we have a wonderful guest, Cindy A. Christiansen. She writes sweet romance with comedy, suspense...and dogs! She says with over thirty health issues and two autistic children, she struggles to write but finds it cathartic.Her inclusion of dogs in all of her books shows her love for them. In addition, she donates time and money to organizations that help abused and abandoned dogs.

Although she's an LDS author, she finds writing about a character's relationship with God as private as she does bedroom scenes. She chooses to let the moral character of her characters speak for them.She lives with her wonderful family and delightful dogs in West Jordan, UT.

Cindy will appear again on Wednesday with more tips and on Friday with an excerpt of her newest book.

AWESOME TIPS FOR YOUR NEXT BESTSELLER

Below is a list of my top fifty easy tips you should keep in mind as you write your next page-turning bestseller. Even published authors have commented on how helpful these tips are.( The first 25 tips appear today. The second 25 appear on Wednesday of this week) So here we go..

TIP #1. Remember you're writing from your character's POV. No need for "he/she thought."

TIP #2. Don't add a comma before the word "too" at the end of a sentence.

TIP #3. Blond is an adjective to describe a person. Blonde is a noun.

TIP #4. Don't do an information dump all at once about a character. Spread it out and share it through dialogue if possible.

TIP #5. Try not to use "it", "that" or "this" excessively. Describe what "it" is.

TIP #6. Go ahead and use contractions. It sounds better.

TIP #7. When in a character's POV, that character shouldn't describe himself/herself.

TIP #8. Don't over use dashes and don't put a space before or after it.

TIP #9. Try not to start paragraphs with time. For example: The next day... That is telling not showing.

TIP #10. Use only one space after punctuation. If you learned like me to add two spaces, do a "find and replace" when you are done with the book.

TIP #11. Use ellipses to show hesitation or omitted words. For example: "You...you don't mean he...?"

TIP #12. Use an em dash to indicate interruption in dialogue. For example: "I'm going to—"

TIP #13. Use a dash for stammering. For example: "I-I-I didn't know you were here."

TIP #14. Don't use weak words. For example: Her eyes were "really pretty." Instead say: Her eyes sparkled an emerald green. In the first example, you are also telling rather than showing.

TIP #15. Break up really long sentences and paragraphs for easy readability.

TIP #16. Avoid "ly" words, but you don't have to eliminate them entirely.

TIP #17. If you are writing in Third Person and in a character's POV, don't suddenly change and become omniscient. Example: She picked up the letter opener. She didn't know that David had used it kill his brother.

TIP #18. Write in an active voice as if story is currently happening. Backstory can be added, but make sure dialogue and actions are showing and not telling.

TIP #19. Don't head-hop during a scene. If you need to describe how the other person feels, reconsider writing from their POV or start the next scene with their POV.

TIP #20. Use strong words. Try to avoid: sort of, a lot, seemed, slightly, almost, etc. Be definite.

TIP #21. Vary your words so you don't keep repeating the same word or phrase.

TIP #22. Make sure your sentences make sense. For example: While he kissed her, he lit a match. Very hard to do both at the same time. Instead write: He kissed her, and then he lit a match.

TIP #23. Be careful of words you use instead of "said". For example: "Don't do that," he grimaced. You can't grimace words. Instead say: "Don't do that," he said, grimacing.

TIP #24. Search your document for the word "that" and make sure you've used it correctly. You might need to substitute with "which" or "who" or eliminate the word all together.

TIP #25. Try to use other more defining words besides "walked" or "ran." For example: ambled, darted, paced, moseyed, scurried, sprinted, marched, etc.

Good luck with your writing!

Cindy A. Christiansen

Sweet Romance, Comedy, Suspense…and Dogs!

Fly into a good book at: http://www.dragonflyromance.com
Buy Cindy's books from Amazon and B&N and other booksellers.

Do you have a tip that helps your writing? Share it with us.

LOIS WINSTON SHARES DEATH BY KILLER MOP DOLL

2012-02-17T00:04:00.016-06:00

About Lois Winston...

Lois Winston is back to share an excerpt of her newest book Death By Killer Mop Doll, the second book in the series, the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries published by Midnight Ink. Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun, the first book in the series, received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist and was recently nominated for a Readers Choice Award by the Salt Lake City Library System. The new year brings with it the release of, the second book in the series.

Back Cover Blurb...

Overdue bills and constant mother vs. mother-in-law battles at home are bad enough. But crafts editor Anastasia Pollack's stress level is maxed out when she and her fellow American Woman editors get roped into unpaid gigs for a revamped morning TV show. Before the glue is dry on Anastasia's mop dolls, morning TV turns crime drama when the studio is trashed and the producer is murdered. Former co-hosts Vince and Monica—sleazy D-list celebrities—stand out among a lengthy lineup of suspects, all furious over the show's new format. And Anastasia has no clue her snooping has landed her directly in the killer's unforgiving spotlight.

EXCERPT...

Upstairs, the front door slammed with enough force to register a five on the Richter scale. Dust dislodged from the exposed basement rafters and drifted down like polluted snow, settling over the basket of clean laundry I’d been folding. The ensuing shouting, barking, and yowling drowned out my muttered curse of choice and yanked my attention away from the now Dalmatian-spotted white wash.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” squawked Ralph, the Shakespeare-spouting African Grey parrot I’d inherited when Great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle died two years ago. “Henry the Fifth. Act Three, Scene One.” He spread his wings and took flight up the basement stairs to check out the action. I raced after him, eager to prevent World War Three from erupting in my living room.

“Muzzle that abominable creature, or I’ll have the pound haul him away,” shrieked Mama. “He’s traumatizing Catherine the Great.”

“So shove some Prozac down her throat,” said my mother-in-law Lucille. “What the hell are you doing back here? And don’t you ever bother to knock? Just barge right in like you own the place.”

“I have more right to be here than you. This is my daughter’s house, you…you pinko squatter.”

As I hurried through the kitchen, I glanced at the calendar tacked next to the telephone. Mama wasn’t due back from her Caribbean cruise for another three days. Damn it. I needed those three days to steel myself for the inevitable explosive reaction that occurred whenever Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe, my mother and the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, locked horns with Lucille Pollack, my mother-in-law and current president of the Daughters of the October Revolution. I’d been swindled out of seventy-two hours.

By the time I entered the living room, Mama’s and Lucille’s voices had reached glass-shattering decibel range.

“Crazy communist!” yelled Mama. She stood in the middle of the room, cradling Catherine the Great, her corpulent white Persian with an attitude befitting her namesake.

Manifesto, my mother-in-law’s runt of a French bulldog, stood inches from Mama’s Ferrigamos, his bark having switched to growl mode as he glared up at his nemesis. With a hiss and a yowl, Catherine the Great leaped from Mama’s arms. Showing his true cowardly colors, Mephisto, as we always called him behind his back and often to his snout, scampered to safety behind my mother-in-law’s ample girth.

Lucille barreled across the room, waving her cane at Mama. “Reactionary fascist!”

“How dare you threaten me!” Mama defended herself with a French manicured backhand that would have done Chris Everett proud. The cane flew from Lucille’s grasp and landed inches from Mephisto’s nose. Demon dog yelped and dove between Lucille’s orange polyester clad legs.

My mother-in-law’s rage multiplied into Vesuvian proportions. Her wrinkled face deepened from a spotted scarlet to an apoplectic heliotrope. “You did that on purpose!”

Mama jutted her chin at Lucille as she rubbed the palm of her hand. “You started it.”  

“And I’m stopping it.” I stepped between them, spreading my arms to prevent them from ripping each other’s lips off. “Knock it off. Both of you.”  

“It’s her fault,” said Mama. She jabbed a finger at Lucille. Her hand shook with rage, her gold charm bracelet tinkling a dainty minuet totally incompatible with the situation. “And that vicious mongrel of hers. She sic’d him on us the moment we walked through the door.”  

Highly unlikely. “Mephisto’s all bark and bluster, Mama. You should know that by now.”  

“Manifesto!” shrieked Lucille. “How many times do I have to tell you his name is Manifesto?”  

“Whatever,” Mama and I said in unison. It was an old refrain. Mephisto better suited demon dog anyway. Besides, who names a dog after a Communist treatise?  

Behind me, Ralph squawked. I looked over my shoulder and found him perched on the lampshade beside one of the overstuffed easy chairs flanking the bay window. A chair occupied by a cowering stranger, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms hugging his head. I glanced at Mama. Glanced back at the man. “Who’s he?”  

“Oh dear!” Mama raced across the room, flapping her Chanel-suited arms. “Shoo, dirty bird!”  

Ralph ignored her. He doesn’t intimidate easily. Mama was hardly a challenge for a parrot who had spent years successfully defending himself against Aunt Penelope’s mischievous students. “Anastasia, I told you that bird’s a reincarnation of Ivan the Terrible. Do something. He’s attacking my poor Lou.”  

Her Poor Lou? Okay, at least the man had a name and someone in the room knew him. I stretched out my arm and whistled. Ralph took wing, landing in the crook of my elbow. Poor Lou peered through his fingers. Convinced the coast was clear, he lowered his hands and knees and raised his head.  

“Are you all right, dear?” asked Mama, patting his salt and pepper comb-over. “I’m terribly sorry about all this. My daughter never did have the heart to turn away a stray.” She punctuated her statement with a pointed stare, first in Lucille’s direction and then at Ralph.  

Lucille harrumphed.  

Ralph squawked.  

Mephisto bared his teeth and rumbled a growl from the depths of his belly.  

Catherine the Great had lost interest in the family melodrama and dozed, stretched out on the back of the sofa.  

Before Mama could explain Poor Lou’s presence, the front door burst open. Fourteen year-old Nick and sixteen year-old Alex bounded into the living room. “Grandma!” they both exclaimed in unison. They dropped their baseball gear and backpacks on the floor and encircled Mama in a group hug.  

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a cruise?” asked Nick.  

“Who’s this?” asked Alex, nodding toward Poor Lou.  

Poor Lou rose. He wiped his palms on his pinstriped pants legs, cleared his throat, and straightened his skewed paisley tie. “Maybe I should be going, Flora. The driver is waiting.”  

I glanced out the front window. A black limo idled at the curb.  

“Yes, of course.” She walked him to the door without bothering to make introductions. Very odd behavior for my socially correct mother.  

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Poor Lou told Mama.  

She raised her head, batted her eyelashes, and sighed. Poor Lou wrapped his arms around my mother and bent her backwards in a clinch that rivaled the steamiest of Harlequin romance book covers. His eyes smoldered as he met her slightly parted lips. Mama melted into his body.  

I stared at my etiquette-obsessed mother, my jaw flapping down around my knees, and wondered if she had eaten any funny mushrooms on her cruise. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw my two sons gaping with equally bug-eyed expressions. Behind me, Lucille muttered her disgust. Even Ralph registered his amazement with a loud squawk.  

Over Mama’s shoulder, Poor Lou stole an anxious glance toward Ralph, broke the kiss, and darted out the door.  

Mama fluffed her strawberry blonde waves back into place, smoothed the wrinkles from her suit jacket, and offered us the most innocent of expressions as we continued to ogle her. “Is something wrong?” 

“Wrong? Why? Just because my mother was doing the Tonsil Tango with a total stranger?”  

Lucille stooped to retrieve her cane. “I suppose this means that trashy hussy is moving back into my room.”  

“Your room?” asked Mama.  

“Hey, it’s my room!” said Nick.  

Poor Nick. He was none too happy about having to give up his bedroom to his curmudgeon of a grandmother. He didn’t mind the occasional upheaval when Mama came to visit because he knew it was temporary. Besides, the boys and Mama had a great relationship. Lucille was another story. When she moved in with us to recuperate after a hit-and-run accident and subsequent hip surgery, none of us had expected a permanent addition to the household. Then again, I had suffered from quite a few delusions back then.  

Lucille scowled at me. “You should teach those boys some respect. In my day children knew their place.”  

“Don’t you speak to my daughter like that.”  

Lucille scoffed. “Look who’s talking. A fine example you set.”  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Mama.  

“Strumpet.” Lucille pounded her cane once for emphasis, then lumbered from the living room, Mephisto following at her heels. Lucille habitually pronounced judgment with a pounding of her cane, then departed.  

“At least I’m getting some,” Mama called after her. “Unlike a certain jealous Bolshevik who hasn’t experienced an orgasm since Khrushchev ruled the Kremlin.”  

“Mama!”

Nick and Alex grabbed their middles and doubled over in hysterics.  

Mama brushed my indignation aside with a wave of her hand. “For heaven’s sake, Anastasia, I’m a grown woman.”  

“Then act like one. Especially in front of your grandsons.”  

She winked at the boys. “I thought I did. Besides, if they don’t know the facts of life by now, they’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”  

I glanced at my sons, not sure how to interpret the sheepish expression on Alex’s face nor the feigned innocence on Nick’s. After the initial shock of seeing their grandmother in the throws of passion, both seemed quite amused by the drama playing out in our living room. “They know all about the facts of life. What they don’t need is a graphic demonstration from their grandmother.”  

The corners of Mama’s mouth dipped down. “Honestly, Anastasia, just because I’m over sixty doesn’t mean I’m ready for a hearse. When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud, dear?”

I suppose right around the time she morphed from Ms. Manners into Auntie Mame. Other sixty-five year old women might behave this way in front of their daughter and grandsons, but up until today, Mama wasn’t one of them. Was Poor Lou’s last name Svengali?  

Alex spared me from defending myself. “So who’s the stranger dude, Grandma?”  

“Lou isn’t a stranger. He’s my fiancé.”  

“Your what?” Surely I hadn’t heard her correctly. Had some of that rafter dust settled in my ears? “What about Seamus, Mama?”  

“Seamus?”  

“Yes, Seamus. Remember him?”  

Mama heaved one of those sighs reserved for children who need repeated instruction and explanation. “Seamus died, Anastasia. You know that.”  

Of course I knew Seamus had died. He’d suffered a cerebral aneurysm while kissing the Blarney Stone. “But he just died. Three months ago.” Within days of losing my own husband, Mama had lost hers.  

“Well, it’s not like we were married very long. He died on our six-month anniversary. Besides, I’m not Merlin. I don’t grow younger with each passing year.”  

Ample justification for getting herself engaged to a total stranger, no doubt. “Where did you meet him?”  

“On the cruise, of course.”  

“So you’re engaged to a man you’ve known for all of one week?”  

Mama shrugged. “Time is meaningless when soul mates connect.”  

Soul mates? The now-departed Seamus had been soul mate Number Five for Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe. When Mama finally met her maker, she’d have a line of soul mates waiting for her at the Pearly Gates. She’d better hope St. Peter allowed polygamy up in Heaven.

###

Buy Lois's book at: Amazon.com and at her website: http://www.loiswinston.com/booksap2.html

Visit Lois at her website: http://www.loiswinston.com and Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog: http://www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com. You can also follow Lois and Anastasia on Twitter @anasleuth.

Thanks for stopping by. Please leave Lois a comment.

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 4

2012-02-16T01:01:00.005-06:00

Here's the next section from George Talbot in our Round Robin Short Story, "A Delicious Dalliance."

Read along and let us know what you think, readers!

She slid her thumb across the display and placed the device to her ear. "Hello?"

“Seven?” Her stomach flipped. Alex.

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

“I just saw you walking by -- It’s been two years, but not a day goes by I don’t think about you and returning your pen,” he said. “I hope you’re not upset I called.”

“My pen?”

“This is Alex Laurent. We met in Chicago. You loaned me your pen to write down your number. I don’t blame you for not remembering me, but your favorite fountain pen -- that’s a different story. How was Paris?”

Between the background noise of Chauncey’s and La Belle Epoque, Seven and Alex struggled to capsule their past two years. She did leave for an extended stay in Paris the week after their interlude. He’d recently returned from a year in Barcelona, where he mastered the creation of Spanish tapas. In the past eighteen months he’d been voted best chef three times by Food and Wine. Another “Alex darling” came through from Ms. Stiletto Heels’ collagen enhanced lips.

“You sound busy,” Seven said.

“I’m in a cuisine-crisis-central. My boss owns four restaurants. His daughter is managing the newest to open, and tonight she has an absentee head chef.”

“Alex -- Ricky is screwing up the Foie Gras!”

“I’ve got to go save the kitchen. How about lunch on Sunday?”

“Sure. I’m off to see my parents for the weekend, but I’ll be back in town Sunday morning,”

“Sev,” Lacey whispered. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Would a call on Saturday be convenient to set a time and place? In all honesty -- my favorite restaurant on one of my rare days-off is Ernie’s, a greasy dive at the beach with the best chili cheese hot dogs in North America,” Alex said.

“Sounds fine. Call me Saturday.”

“Seven --Who was that?”

“Chill Lacey. I lost my favorite pen, and somebody I know found it. No big deal, I’ll get it back Sunday.”

Seven’s ideal think-things-out getaway was her parents’ cottage in the country. After thirty-five years they were more in love than the day they met. Her father was a captaine in the French army, her mother a lead dancer in Paris’ Moulin Rouge. A year of foreign military duty passed before he was able to see her again.

Saturday morning, there was a knock on Seven’s bedroom door. “Bèbè, do you want to go fishing with your papa?”

“You bet I do.”

The rowboat had a fresh coat of paint as it did every spring. Her father was amused when his daughter checked her phone after each ring with teenager tension, but ignoring the calls, three from Brad and two from Lady Lacey. “Is it me, or does my menue Sev have more fish on the line than she wants?”

Her rod took a hit, but the fish didn’t hook. “That’s a big one mon bèbè -- don’t lose it again. Back off the drag. This one needs space -- an award winner, si très bon!”

The fish hit a second time and hooked. The phone rang. Alex. Seven struggled to manage the rod, the irritated fish and her phone, but the rod, fish, phone and the chance to enjoy one of Alex’s favorite hot dogs were already on the bottom of Martelle Pond.

“Fichu!” her father said.

“Shit -- I’ve lost him again.”

To be continued...

Thanks, George! Readers - Have At It! Let us know what you think. Up next is Jan McSwane. The next section will be posted on Tuesday, Feb 21st.

You Have To Love Something To Persevere

2012-02-15T00:05:00.019-06:00

Every January, there's always someone talking about goals, how to set them, how to identify obstacles to meeting them, how to determine checkpoints on the way to meeting them, and why you don't succeed. Meeting a goal means you get what you're focused on. You need a clarifying vision. Are you focused on what's not working in your life or are you focused on what you can create? Succeed on purpose. There are always reasons for not meeting goals, but the video below certainly high lights the rule for success. It should work with writing.

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 3

2012-02-14T01:00:00.006-06:00

First of all, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Here's the next installment of "A Delicious Dalliance," this section written by GFW Writer member Chrissy Szarek.

As readers, your critique and suggestions for each posting are vital to the writers and for making this fun and a success.

###

Lacey linked her arm around Seven's. "I'm so glad I spotted you. Now I won't have to walk to Chauncey's alone!"

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

He saw her. He actually saw her.

Her heart galloped and stomach plummeted, but Seven let her friend drag her away from the restaurant.

Lacey’s chatter was almost nonsensical in her ear as they walked. Seven was in a daze, Alex the only thing on her mind.

He was here? A chef at a posh restaurant? How long had he been here? Did he think about her as much as she thought about him? Or at all? It was ridiculous, really.

His cologne was the same as it had been that night. His gorgeous face and muscled physique no different. Even from a distance, she still wanted him.

Alex didn’t fight to come to her, didn’t leave the side of that woman. His eyes wide with shock, he went back into his place with little protest. No shouting for her.

Then mixed with now and she could see him staring at her with those dark eyes. Memories flitted like a movie, taking over her thoughts. No, she didn’t want to go over this again. The moment at work had been enough.

Seven wanted to put him out of her mind, her thoughts… her heart?

Her friend tugged on her arm. She met Lacey’s hazel eyes. Her co-worker’s brow was furrowed.

“Did you hear a word I said?”

Heat rushed her cheeks and it took all she had not to look away. They stopped walking and Lacey’s expression went from irritated to concerned.

“Are things that bad with Brad?”

Huh? Oh, Brad. Her boyfriend. The man who should be occupying her thoughts, not a man whose encounter was too short to even categorize him as an “old flame.”

Brad. So different from Alex. Light, where Alex was dark, shorter where Alex was tall. Blue eyes instead of deep pools of midnight. Boring, predictable, where Alex was not. He was a banker, for God’s sake.

Brad, the man she loved? Why was that a question? Why was she unsure after knowing him for five years, being with him for three, about how she felt about him? Why had it changed? The answer was a whisper in the back of her mind. Alex.

“Sev? Are you with me at all?”

Seven swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Yes. Sorry. Things with Brad could be better.” Maybe hedging would shut Lacey up for now.

Lacey smiled, it was slow and teasing. “Could that have something to do with the man outside of the restaurant?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You were staring at him.”

“I was not.” The denial was even pathetic as it hit Seven’s ears. Her cheeks were even hotter.

“Do you know him?”

“No.” Lacey studied her like she was under a microscope. Seven cleared her throat. “I need that drink now.” Or five.

Her friend gave her a long look and then sighed over dramatically. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Yeah right.”

“Let’s go to Chauncey’s, all right?”

“This isn’t over, Sev.” Boy, was it ever. Alex, the conversation, everything. It had to be.

Chauncey’s was saturated with noise and smoke, neither were all that appealing to Seven. They located their co-workers and slid into the oversized booth, exchanging greetings and smiles.

Right before she ordered that much needed drink, her iPhone chirped. She disregarded the text message from Brad. She would talk to him later…or tomorrow.

Becca headed to the bar for refills and offered to get Seven something, thank God. Lacey and Andi were tying to involve her with their men-gazing when her ring tone, not text alert, caught her attention.

She tamped down her irritation at Brad’s obvious impatience. He couldn’t even leave her alone for an hour?

She frowned as she looked down at the screen. The number didn’t register with her. She slid her thumb across the display and placed the device to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Seven?” Her stomach flipped. Alex.

To be continued...

Thanks, Chrissy! Alright, readers... let us know what you think. Up next is George Talbot. The next section will be posted on Thursday, Feb 16th.

LAUGHING IN THE FACE OF DEATH BY LOIS WINSTON

2012-02-13T00:30:00.056-06:00

We're happy to welcome Lois Winston to our blog. She's an award-winning author of romantic suspense, humorous women's fiction, and mystery.

I write humorous amateur sleuth murder mysteries. Some people think that’s an oxymoron. Mysteries are all about finding the heinous people who commit murder and mayhem and bringing them to justice. Serious business, right? Definitely not something to laugh at.

I don’t disagree. However, the classic “fish out of water” story by its very nature is humorous. And what is an amateur sleuth mystery if not a fish out of water story? In my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries, my protagonist is the crafts editor for a women’s magazine. She doesn’t know the first thing about murder and mayhem, yet she finds herself plopped down right in the middle of both. If she were in law enforcement, she’d have a Glock or a .357 Magnum on hand, but as a crafts editor, her tools of the trade include pompoms, felt squares, and chenille stems. Not exactly your average deadly weapons!

The humor in my mysteries comes from how my characters cope with life. I’ve dumped a heap of trouble on Anastasia. In Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun, the first book in the series, she’s just discovered her recently deceased husband gambled away their life’s savings, leaving her deeply in debt with a loan shark breathing down her neck. She’s also stuck with her mother, a woman who believes she descends from Russian royalty, and her curmudgeonly communist mother-in-law, a woman incapable of a kind word for anyone, especially Anastasia. They’re both living under Anastasia’s roof, along with Anastasia’s two teenage sons, a Shakespeare quoting parrot, Catherine the Great Persian cat, and a French bulldog named Manifesto (after the communist treatise of the same name.) Taking polar opposites and throwing them together creates conflict. Zany characters + conflict = humor.

I find it usually helps to have a sense of humor to get through much of what life throws at you, and I try to convey that in the ways my characters approach life. I also prefer to read books that make me laugh, rather than have me constantly checking the locks on all my windows and doors! So when I began writing mysteries, I knew I wanted to write humorous amateur sleuth mysteries, not police procedurals or dark, gritty serial killer fare. I get enough of that reading my daily newspaper and watching the evening news.

Because I believe in the power of laughter, I like making my readers laugh, even if they’re reading about a murder investigation. That’s why when I killed off the fashion editor in Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun, I did so with (duh!) a hot glue gun. My weapon of choice in Death By Killer Mop Doll? A knitting needle. After all, anyone can kill with a Glock or a switchblade. It takes a crafty killer to use a glue gun or a knitting needle.

The problem with writing humor, though, is that you never know if your readership will “get” it. For me, writing humor is the second hardest part of writing a mystery. The first part is creating a story where you keep your reader guessing as to the identity of the villain.

Come back on Friday and read an excerpt of DEATH BY KILLER MOP DOLL.

And in the meantime, please leave Lois a comment..

Winner of A Soldier's Secret

2012-02-12T20:00:00.000-06:00

Congratulations to Ellis Vidler. She is the winner of A Soldier's Secret by Linda Style. Ellis send your name and email address to kfwwriters@gmail.com and we'll forward it on on to Linda.
Thanks so much for your comments.

Linda Style Shares A Soldiers Secret

2012-02-10T00:05:00.072-06:00

About Linda Style...

It’s our pleasure to welcome Author, Linda Style to our blog. Linda is the award-winning author of 14 novels published by Harlequin Super Romance. She’s also the co-founder of Bootcamp for Novelists Online where she teaches the advanced level writing courses. With degrees in behavioral science and journalism, Linda has worked as a case manager, a human rights advocate, a program director for mental health services, a management consultant, and as the editor-in-chief for AZ View Magazine. In addition to her novels, Linda has written both fiction and nonfiction for newspapers and magazines.

Linda loves talking with other writers and frequently speaks at writer’s meetings and conferences. Her books, described by reviewers as emotional, fast-paced stories that keep you riveted to the page, have won several awards, including the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence, the Orange Rose award for Best Book of the Year. Linda was recently featured in a USA Today interview where she talked about her current release, A SOLDIER’S SECRET. Today she's sharing an excerpt with us.

Back Cover Copy...
Natalia Sokoloff is an Iraq war veteran, a former rescue helicopter pilot who has taken her skills into civilian life where she pilots for a search and rescue team in the mountainous areas in Arizona. David (Mac) MacAllister is also an veteran who worked with Natalia in Iraq as a medic and continues to do so at Mountain Air Search and Rescue. They are buddies, good friends. In fact, Mac saved her life in Iraq…and now he needs a favor from her. He needs her to agree to a temporary marriage so he can convince authorities he’s fit to adopt the son he fathered while on active duty in Iraq. But Natalia has wounds from combat that no one can see, and if anyone finds out, she could lose everything she’s worked for. Being around Mac in such an intimate setting, is too close for comfort. But she owes him… She owes him everything. How can she refuse?

Excerpt...

"There at the bottom of the canyon, to the left."

From her pilot's seat in the search and rescue helo, Natalia glanced toward the deep part of the canyon where Mac pointed, but she couldn't see anyone.
Her tactical flight officer and rescue paramedic, David MacAllister, lowered his binoculars and held up four fingers. "Two adults and two children," he said into the mic attached to his helmet.
"Geez. What were they thinking?"
"I doubt they expected an avalanche." Mac glanced at her, then took a swig of coffee from his thermal cup.
"I meant what were they thinking bringing little kids to a place like this? Parents should know better."
"Is that the voice of experience talking?"
"It doesn't take experience as much as common sense."
"Like yours."
Natalia grinned. "Exactly." Mac knew her well. After five years working SAR together, two in Iraq and three with Mountain Air, they weren't just a team, they were best friends, like brother and sister. She doubted she could work so closely with anyone else.
Mac had his flaws, but he was caring and honest to a fault. If he said he was going to do something, he did it. His word was his bond and that meant everything to her. His best asset as a friend was that he knew when she needed space, and gave it to her.
"Yeah. Taking kids into a place you know is dangerous isn't just stupid, it could be considered child abuse," Mac said through thinned lips.
She did a double take. She'd never heard him voice his opinion so emphatically. And even stranger than that, he'd actually agreed with her. "Calling it child abuse might be a little much."
The area could be dangerous, though, and many hikers failed to do their research beforehand. Flash floods were common in the canyons during the monsoons, and though the rain had stopped now, foreboding gray sky and thunderheads the color of gunpowder threatened to unleash more. No one was out of danger, hikers or rescuers.
Invariably, apprehension chipped away at the certainty she needed to feel to complete a successful rescue. Natalia said a quick prayer that they'd reach the victims in time. She knew better than anyone that anything could happen—at any time. The weather was as unpredictable as people.
It wasn't that long ago that a Phoenix news chopper had gone down, killing all inside. No matter how safe the aircraft, or how easy the job seemed, there was always risk involved. One little mistake, one blip of the weather, or even a bird sucked into the chopper blades, could mean disaster.
Earlier this morning, the search and rescue ground team had come in to rappel down the canyon, but with sheer cliffs and boulders in the way, they hadn't been able to reach the family. Now it was up to Natalia and her crew to airlift them out.
Normally, she carried a three-man crew: tactical flight officer, rescue paramedic and herself, the pilot. Today, because it was only a pickup, it was just her and Mac.
"Over there." He gestured again. She spotted the ground guys, and then, making a pass directly over the narrow box canyon, saw the family, trapped by an avalanche of rocks and boulders.
Natalia had flown these canyons hundreds of times, but every rescue was different. As usual, she made a couple of orbits to get a visual on the best place to go in.
"I need to get married," Mac said during the next flyover.
She jerked her head sideways. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious. I need a wife."
"For what? Did you run out of women to sleep with in the greater Sedona area?" As Natalia came around again, focusing on the ground crew, Mac opened his door to watch for the signal.
"I don't sleep around."
"Yeah, and I'm Captain Kirk. Now pay attention. We have people in need here."
For years Mac had spouted off about wanting to be free of responsibility because he'd had to step up and be the man of the house for his mom and four sisters after his dad died.
He had to be joking about the wife.
"There…" Natalia nodded to her right. "I can hover to lower the hoist. Ground said no injuries, so all we need to do is get them up. Their crew will take it from there."
"Great. We'll be in and out, and then maybe you'll find a few minutes to talk to me."
"We're trying to save lives here, MacAllister. Get with the program."
Mac went silent. She didn't look over, but felt the intensity of his gaze.
Her pulse quickened as she zeroed in on the family below, who were jumping up and down and waving their arms like windshield wipers. "Ready the hoist."
Double-checking the equipment, he shot her another sidelong glance. "Sure thing, mein capitan!"
She stiffened at the well-deserved gibe. Joking and needling each other was their antidote to the stress of any rescue. Every moment in the air could mean life or death to someone, including themselves, and over the years they'd developed an irreverent banter that relieved the tension and allowed them to stay on an even keel.
Someone else hearing them might be shocked at the tone and their seemingly callous disregard, but it was necessary. Emotions clouded judgment, and cloudy judgment caused mistakes. In the air, there was no room for mistakes.
She released a sigh. "I'm glad you realize who's in charge." And then, in almost the same breath, she said, "What are those ground guys doing? I can't hover all freaking day."
Then one of the SAR team below waved a flag, directing her to a specific point. She riveted her gaze on the ground crew, depending on them and Mac to guide her into position.
"We're good," he said. "Let's do it."
The first step was to send down the hoist to lower one of the ground guys into the canyon. He'd hook the people in and send them up, usually a couple at a time. Natalia and Mac had worked SAR together for so long the process was one they could do in their sleep. Yet every time was different—and equally dangerous.
Once they started the rescue, there was no bantering, just the business of saving lives, and they both gave it full concentration.
Two hours later, they'd finished and were winging their way back to the Mountain Air SAR office at Love Field in Prescott. The sun had reappeared, steaming hot through the bubble of Plexiglas surrounding them. Natalia shoved her flight helmet up a little. "God, I've never been so tense."
"Nothing a shot of tequila won't fix," Mac shouted from the back, where he was securing the equipment.
The muscles in her shoulders felt like double knots under her skin. She shrugged a few times to relax them. The sunlight magnified through the glass was making her clothes stick to her skin.
Mac came back up front and sat next to her. "You've been tense a lot lately. Maybe you should see a doctor. Find what's really the matter."
Not a chance. Hearing her symptoms, a doctor would ground her immediately. If that happened, she might as well put a bullet in her brain.
But Mac didn't know, and despite herself, she smiled. He couldn't help himself. Fixing other people's lives seemed to be a part of his DNA.
"It's not a problem, Mac, so let's change the subject." As the words left her lips, sweat broke out on her forehead. She sucked in a deep breath, but it felt as if she'd inhaled fire instead of air. Suddenly the chopper was like a sauna. Sweat oozed from her every pore. When she looked at Mac, she realized it was just her.
Her gut seized. No! Not in the air. It was not going to happen! She wouldn't let it. Wiping her face with her shirtsleeve and acting as normal as humanly possible, she drew another breath, then slowly let her lungs collapse. She did it again.
Mac stared at her.
"Just a little tension. I know how to handle it." She pulled herself up and repeated the ritual of rolling her shoulders to get out the kinks—and as she did, she felt the sensation dissipate. She glanced at the controls, her hand still steady on the cyclic, one foot on the antitorque pedal. It was all good.
"Okay," he said, but she could hear the doubt in his voice.
She wiped her face again, and with the airfield thankfully in sight ahead, she said, "We're going in."
Mac folded his arms across his chest. He and Natalia never talked during takeoff and landing, the most dangerous parts of any mission, and she hoped he wouldn't resume the conversation later. If he did, his words would fall on deaf ears.
All she wanted to do was finish the reports for the job and then take a drive to unwind. "Prescott tower, this is Mountain Air Search and Rescue, Hotel Romeo One. Over."
When they were back at the SAR office and had deposited their neon orange vests in the bin, Mac crossed the austere room and stood next to Natalia's metal desk. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. "So," he said. "Can you talk now?"
She picked up the report papers, sat on the desk corner and started reading. "I can always talk. I just open my mouth and—"
He plucked the papers from her hands. "Part of a conversation includes paying attention. Can you do that for just a minute?"
She stared at him briefly, then crossed her arms and narrowed her green eyes. "Well, I guess I better."
He stepped back, out of the line of fire. "Don't look at me like that. I've got a problem and I need your help."
Her eyes widened. "You need—" she placed a hand flat on her chest "—my help? Moi?" He couldn't stop the smile. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." But how the hell could he explain quickly? Today she seemed even more antsy than normal. She didn't like to hang around the airport once a job was over. Neither of them did, preferring to get out and do something to relieve the tension that was common after completing a rescue.
The more dangerous the mission, the more winding down was needed. For him it was a beer and a game of pool with his buddies. Natalia liked to get in her Mustang and take the switchbacks between Sedona and Flagstaff as if she were trying for a NASCAR slot. When she couldn’t do that, she ran as if training for the Boston Marathon. He had to be quick or she’d be outta here.
“Okay,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Spit it out.”

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Linda's book may be purchased from Amazon.com and from Harlequin Romance online.

Don't forget to leave Linda a comment. The winner of her book is announced today.

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 2

2012-02-09T03:02:00.006-06:00

Here's the next installment of "A Delicious Dalliance," this section written by GFW Writer member Jennifer Bennett.

As readers, your critique and suggestions for each posting are vital to the writers and for making this fun and a success.

###

With her hand on her mouth, she gazed down the sidewalk at him, fifty feet away. After two years, there he was.

A Delicious Dalliance, continued...

Seven slid closer, eyeing the distant figure as he disappeared then reappeared between the crowds of city dwellers flowing past him on their way to somewhere. Reason suggested that she ought to doubt herself. After all, she’d only spent a few hours with him and two years had passed since that night. And what were the odds that she would randomly stumble across him on the street? It was hardly likely, but as she got closer she began to panic. Everything about him was familiar. The sharpness of his jaw-line, the shine of his jet black hair … even the swag of his posture as he lazily studied the passing traffic. It WAS Alex. She knew his first name, but that had been the extent of their specific personal divulgences. Seven pulled her sunglasses out of her purse and hid behind them before moving in a bit closer.

Alex was loitering beneath the awning of newly opened fine dining restaurant, La Belle Epoque. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand, examining it intensely and even smelling the tobacco filled end occasionally, but never lighting it. Seven sidled along the building face and pretended not to be watching him. He wore loose dark pants in a faint black and grey checked pattern and a stark white jacket. The faint scent of an expensive cologne wafted off him. Seven pretended to be inspecting the menu posted on an outside marquee, but he didn’t seem to notice her presence.

“Alex darling!” A woman strutted out of the restaurant’s entrance. All legs beneath her clinging black suit, she balanced expertly on a pair of stiletto heels. “Good God Alex!” She grabbed his arm. “What are you doing out here? The kitchen’s a war zone and Jean-Phillip’s just called to say his wife’s having her baby and you KNOW Ricky always burns the risotto. What are we going to do about dinner service?” She had a lilting European accent. Seven wasn’t sure if it was French or Italian; she was horrible with accents.

She chewed her lip as she watched Alex take one last whiff of the cigarette, then he slipped it into his pocket. “It’s fine,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yes Chef,” the woman taunted and rolled her eyes.

Seven didn’t recall Alex mentioning that he was a chef. She’d just assumed that he had been part of the same professional networking event that she’d been attending in Chicago. Watching him now suddenly made her feel voyeuristic, like some bizarre lady stalker, and that thought riled her. This was her city, her street and he was the newcomer. The intruder. If anything she should be furious with him for showing up in front of her out of the blue and throwing her off.

“Seven!” a voice rang out. Seven whirled to find Lacey waving at her further down the street. The kinky curls covering her friend’s head bounced as Lacey jogged closer. “Sev! You’re coming after all?”

Seven cringed and glanced back towards the scene she’d just been watching. Alex had turned and was staring at her in confusion. His lips parted as if he might say something, but the La Belle woman tugged at him, pulling him towards the restaurant entrance and away.

“Who was that?” Lacey hissed conspiratorially when she finally stopped alongside Seven. “God he’s beautiful. Do you know him?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Huh? Oh, I had to stop at the bank.” Lacey linked her arm around Seven’s. “I’m so glad I spotted you. Now I won’t have to walk to Chancey’s alone!”

To be continued...

Thanks, Jennifer! Alright, readers... let us know what you think. And up next is Chrissy Szarek. The next section will be posted on Tuesday, Feb 14th.

Selling Yourself Before You Hit the Streets from Matthew Bryant

2012-02-08T01:05:00.001-06:00

Reading up on all of the agents and editors slated to be attending the DFW Writer's Conference this May, I stumbled across La Vie en Prose, a blog maintained by Meredith Barnes, an associate agent at Lowenstein Associates Inc in New York. It didn't take much clicking through for me to realize that I honestly wish there were more agents out there like her. You'd be doing yourself a disservice to not go by and browse through her archives, or attend a Thursday afternoon session of Ask Agent where she holds a personal Q & A with commenters.

One of the most invaluable bits of information I picked up on her site was the concept of marketing yourself. Whether you've been holding onto a finished manuscript for the past couple of years or you're just now getting the synopsis started, you need to begin considering marketing yourself.

Meredith mentions and several corporate colleagues confirmed that, whether intentional or not, you're probably already marketing yourself. Thanks to a social media age of technology, it doesn't take a private investigator to dig up dirt. Something as harmless as a Facebook post by one of your friends about craziness at happy hour and some incriminating photos bearing your tag are enough to paint a picture of irresponsibility in the eyes of a prospective employer, agent or reader. Like it or not, first impressions are rarely made face-to-face anymore.

But wait! Before you go unplugging your computer from the wall and cowering in some fetal position, rocking back and forth and chanting the Jabberwocky, heed my advice:

Why would you wait to acquire a following until after your book's been published? Who's going to read something that nobody knows about written by a person they've never heard of? Sure your mom'll pick up a copy, maybe even Bob from the office, but if you step into your local bookstore and let it all soak in, are you there to browse the genres? Or do you have something/somebody specific in mind?

Before you go looking up prices for billboard rentals (and don't be ashamed, I've been there too) Consider starting a blog. It's the most natural thing in the world. You're already a writer, you have something to say, otherwise you wouldn't be toiling for hours at a time to hit the end of that next chapter. So get started.

I took this advice recently and was struck with a new thought. Who the heck is gonna find/read this thing? Sure an agent will when I query them, but as Meredith points out, that one lonely comment from my mom isn't going to be especially flattering. This is where other social medias come into play.

Once you've got some decent content on your site(and I mean good reading material, not your personal feelings about cute puppies or road-rage in traffic... unless that's your audience), I started with four posts revolving around writing techniques, a couple short stories from my genre (I know, Mer... it's a no-no) and some scribbles, it's time to hook them in. Invite your Facebook friends, reference a post in a tweet, get some eyes on it and hopefully a few followers and word of mouth.

Next you're going to need a gimmick. Remember how popular poorly animated hamsters dancing to lame looped music were back in the day? Let's dig a little deeper. Contests, give-aways, audience participation – be creative. I personally intend to start up an online comic that is directed by comments from viewers – give some power to my readers and give me a challenge with my other hobby.

Now start making your name known in the blogging community. Comment on other people's posts, get to know a few people, write a guest blog for another site. Be tactful about it, but attracting people to your site won't steal readers, just share them.

Keep up with it. A couple blogs a week, few tweets a day, it should be considered part of the grunt-work of being a professional writer. By the time your book hits the shelves, people will be heading to the stores with your name in mind. Not only that, but they'll feel that they have a connection to you as they read it, creating a more personal experience.

Call us what you will, but writers are entertainers. Without a fan-base, we're just crazy folks who talk to themselves and live half our lives in a fantasy-dreamland.

So here's your challenge. With nearly one week until the next GFWW meeting (Feb 12th), I'd like each of you to complete a meaningful blog, preferably one related to your field of interest. (Ruby, you're off the hook ;) ) If you're not into that, you should at least peruse Meredith Barnes' blog, find a post that really strikes you, and share it on Facebook or twitter. Consider it a 'Thank You' for all the information she's shared with the writing community by way of a little free publicity.

That's it. I'm done. Go infest cyber space.

Matthew Bryant is an English and Art teacher. He is also a member of Greater Fort Worth Writers and is an active member of the GFW Writers critique group. Members of the group will tell you he can pick out redundant words at forty feet and is quite willing to show what paragraphs or sentences are not compelling. He is a husband and father of three beautiful girls, enjoys writing science fiction/ urban fantasy/ horror, sketching, or playing video games in his free time.

Have a question or comment? Let Matthew know by clicking on comments and leaving your question or comments. Also, visit his blog at matthewbryant.blogspot.com

GFW Writers Round Robin Day 1

2012-02-07T00:11:00.071-06:00

The round robin is here.
In order to get the creative mojos flowing and to give you the readers the opportunity to critique and tell the writer how he's doing, let the fun begin!

Here's how it works:
Jeff Bacot, the 'creator' of the idea has written the first 2 pages of our short story (below). Readers comment on and critique the two pages, then the next writer will post 1-2 pages, readers comment and critique, the next writer goes, and so on until we reach a full length short story (roughly 10,000 words).

As readers, your critique and suggestions for each posting are vital to the writers and for making this fun and a success.

So here we go..

A DELICIOUS DALLIANCE

She stared through the thick glass at the shimmering lights and urban order of the city. The night glow of downtown had never paid attention to her, but now reflected her silhouette through the window in the glistening hush of midnight. The stranger stood behind her, his black eyes looking out the window above her head, telegraphing his need to touch her. . He stepped forward slowly, gingerly moving closer. The warmth of his breath whispered across her skin and she could feel the masculine heat of expectation. She waited, wanting.

"Sev."

"The scent of good Scotch and a hint of better cologne teased her senses. He touched her shoulder, slid his finger into her long straight hair and twirled it gently. The soft hair encircled his finger like an evening gown as he lowered it slowly downward. She trembled and closed her eyes. His finger glided down without entangling its silken glow to the small of her back and then the waistline of her jeans. Moving his index finger inside the waist of her jeans, he tucked it in gently and left it there for a moment longer than necessary. His finger continued around her waistline toward the side and stopped at a belt loop below the navel.

"Seven.”

A wisp of air escaped her lips and she felt a tingle from fear, from danger, from longing for this man's proximity. She slowly opened her eyes. The lights outside the window could not illuminate the firing of nerve endings in her spine or blood flow pulsing down through her body. She reached back and touched his leg. The pressure of his lips on her neck increased as he pulled the belt loop and moved inside the front of her jeans. The embrace became a tight clutch of two bodies…
..

“Hey SEVEN!” a knuckle rapped on the plastic cubicle wall. She regained her senses and whipped her head around.

“Huh, uhh, what,” she blurted as she jerked her head around to see her co-worker,Lacey, snapping fingers in her face.

“What the hell are you thinking about? Must be good, whatever it is.”

“ What’s up Lacey?”

"Just thought I would see if you wanna come hang out at Chaunceys. Workday’s over. Wanna come for a few?”

“Oh, I don’t know..”

“You and Brad got plans tonight?”

“No, no plans. Not with Brad anyway.”

“Uh oh. Problems?”

“The usual. After dating for three years, it happens you know. ”

“Well, okay. Call me later if you change your mind.”

“Alright, you guys have fun. See you.”

Saffron Seven Martelle turned around and put her elbows on the desk and dropped her chin into both palms. She went by Seven, the middle name her father gave her because it was his lucky number. Her first name was her mother’s favorite spice. The “you’re a spicey little number, aren’t you” one liner got really old. She did not like either name, but hated being called “Daffy Saffy” enough that she chose the less embarrassing Seven moniker, then shortened it to Sev or Sevie.

Her thoughts returned to the encounter two years ago with the man in her dizzying day dream and she felt her mouth curve into a smile. It was a networking event at a bar and a missed phone call, and a wrong number. She looked at the ringing cell phone sitting on the bar and shook her head. He turned, still just a handsome stranger then, and looked down at the phone, then up at her.

“You’re boyfriend’s calling,” he said, pointing at the phone.

“It’s not my boyfriend,” she replied, an indirect invitation, meaning he was good looking enough for her not to mention she actually had one.

They talked for 45 minutes, the chemistry of attraction mixing between them; a science experiment with plenty of adrenaline, estrogen and testosterone.

She retreated to the restroom. A minute later, he followed. She walked out of the restroom surprised to find him leaning against the hallway wall. She’d nearly bumped into him.

“Hi,” she said

“Hi, yourself.”

The expression on his face stole her breath and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. The touch of his hands on her shoulder sent her pulse skittering and he leaned in closer.. His languid gaze drew her near. . He stood still closer and stared longer. The unwritten rule on personal space/time was “over5/under 6”. She anticipated what was coming. His stare under six inches away wasover 5 seconds long,. It was a question mark at first, the kiss. Then an acknowledgement. Then an affirmation.

The encounter and exchange lasted three hours, but the time passed without them noticing it, clinging to it, or measuring it. There were no plans or expectations in her head for the two years of recurring daydreams and the imagined reunions that followed. The moments spent with this man were a paradox of paradise in her memory, where nothing was wrong and nothing was lost. Mournful regret was not for the indiscretion or the guilt afterwards. It was not the wasted time or the expended affection. There was regret in the brevity of the dalliance; it just ended too soon.

She believed the past could no longer inform her of anything relevant. She was done with it; but it wasn’t done with her. She wanted to justify the encounter, to tear a shred of purpose from it, to make it mean something beyond what it was; a brief encounter with the emotional teeth of a T-Rex. But it was always simple and basic when boiled down to the naked truth; the heat of two bodies, and a mystical carnal longing for a stranger who had not yet been made imperfect by the past.

Seven picked up her things and made her way to the elevator. Maybe I should go have a few drinks. She kept that thought in her head all the way through the lobby of the giant office building, out the glass doors and onto the city sidewalk. She began walking toward Chancey’s after talking herself out of it twice. She stopped at the corner, paused and stood looking in shocked bewilderment. With her hand on her mouth, she gazed down the sidewalk at him, fifty feet away. After two years, there he was.

Now readers, it's your turn! Use that red pencil.

Linda Style:You Can't Fix An Empty Page

2012-02-06T00:05:00.014-06:00

Linda StyleAbout Linda Style…

About Linda Style...

Your book, A Soldier’s Secret, is a romance with a heroine who has a PTSD, a syndrome that affects many soldiers. How much research was involved before you began writing this book?

I did quite a bit of research on PTSD, but with my background in mental health, I was already familiar with the disorder. I also knew someone who had PTSD, so I had some firsthand knowledge. There were really 4 main areas of research for this book, the PTSD, some military and helicopter flight research since my heroine is an Iraq war veteran…and currently a search and rescue helicopter pilot. And because my hero was adopting a child from a foreign country that doesn’t allow that practice, I had to dig deep to find out how that would work. Fortunately, I love to do research. Too much sometimes. I never use all the material I collect, but it helps to know each area as thoroughly as possible.

You’ve been involved with the Wounded Warriors Project and are donating a portion of the profits from your book to them. Could you tell us a little about what this organization does and what you’ve learned from your involvement?

My research brought me into contact with veterans who had suffered with PTSD for years before finally getting any help, and one of the many things I learned is that the issues women veterans face when coming home are unique and have been largely ignored. Studies show that among women vets who’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan, almost 20 percent have been diagnosed with PTSD. And now, with the pullout in Iraq, we can expect the numbers for PTSD in both sexes to rise. I discovered we have a long way to go in providing extended programs and services for our returning soldiers, and was pleased to learn the Wounded Warrior Project does just that. The WWP started as a program to provide comfort items to wounded service members and quickly grew into a complete rehabilitative effort to assist veterans as they recover and transition back to civilian life. The WWP offers a variety of programs and services to help veterans with every type of injury—from the physical to the invisible wounds of war.

On her book and characters…

Could you share a bit about your book and its characters?
A SOLDIER'S SECRET is the third book set in Spirit Creek, Arizona, featuring three women who are best friends. Each woman has her own story, and A SOLDIER’S SECRET, the third book, is Natalia Sokoloff’s story. Natalia is an Iraq war veteran, a former rescue helicopter pilot who has taken her skills into civilian life where she pilots for a search and rescue team in the mountainous areas in Arizona. David (Mac) MacAllister is also an veteran who worked with Natalia in Iraq as a medic and continues to do so at Mountain Air Search and Rescue. They are buddies, good friends. In fact, Mac saved her life in Iraq…and now he needs a favor from her. He needs her to agree to a temporary marriage so he can convince authorities he’s fit to adopt the son he fathered while on active duty in Iraq. But Natalia has wounds from combat that no one can see, and if anyone finds out, she could lose everything she’s worked for. Being around Mac in such an intimate setting, is too close for comfort. But she owes him… She owes him everything. How can she refuse?
At its heart, this is a true love story, but it’s also about some very serious problems facing many of our veterans every day.

If you had to choose, which scene in this novel is your favorite?
That’s a great question, and a difficult one. It’s like asking which book is my favorite. It would be a toss up between the most dramatic/emotionally intense scene…and the most romantic. I think the most romantic scene is one in which Natalia and Mac are slow dancing at a party and must fake being in love. They’ve been friends up until now…pals…buddies, so it’s the first time they’ve ever been so close in such an intimate way, and before long, both have forgotten about acting. Come to think of it, this scene fits both criteria for romance and emotional intensity. J

What inspired you to write romances? I have a degree in journalism so writing romances wasn’t even on my radar at first. But I always liked to write fiction. One of the first fiction pieces I wrote was a Robin Hood in space fantasy. At that time, I was working in behavioral health services and would write in my spare time. I was all over the place, writing everything from children’s stories to poetry, and I saw a tiny blurb in the paper about a new class at the community college on “How to write a romance novel.” On a lark, I took that class and realized romance novels were so much more than I’d imagined. I liked that the stories are character driven, that they can show the power of love…while still empowering women. The rest, as they say….is history!

What are the challenges/rewards?
The biggest challenge is one often mentioned by Nora Roberts. The old “butt in the chair” challenge. It’s takes a disciplined person to consistently sit down and write the necessary pages to meet deadlines. Getting off schedule is too easy, and the results aren’t pretty. It’s called deadline hell. The rewards are many, but when someone tells me my story has changed something in their life, THAT beats everything else. A man in prison wrote me a letter that said reading one of my books moved him so much he vowed to be a better father when he was released from prison. I can’t tell you how much that letter moved me. To know that I can affect someone else’s life in a positive way is the best reward of all.

On her writing process…
Some authors say their stories are ripped right from the headlines. Has an idea for one of your novels ever been sparked by real people and events?
All of them.

When you sit down to write a book, what is the first aspect you focus on? Characterization? Plot?Conflict?

Character…always character.

How do you give your characters the depth and detail necessary for readers to want to cheer them?
The first step is making the character sympathetic and providing a “universal element” (emotional) that readers can relate to and empathize. Empathy is what makes readers care about the character and caring is what keeps readers reading. Creating depth is a whole nuther thing. Depth in a character comes from knowing your characters deepest wants,needs and desires…and their greatest fear. More importantly, you have to know where the wants, needs and fears came from. It’s all a part of a character’s “driving force”... the deep-seated “need” that propels him to do what he does. That’s where the depth comes from. It’s psychological and the character is usually not even aware of it. But the writer must be aware of it…and much more.

What challenge or struggle do you face when you try to build emotional bonds between the characters. I really don’t find it a challenge because I build each character from the ground up and the relationships and bonds develop organically.

What is the best piece of writing advice you ever received?

Find your passion. Write…and keep writing. You can’t fix a blank page.

You also teach writing in your Boot Camp workshops. When is the next workshop scheduled?

My next class is Escalating Consequences…which I believe is one of the most important and helpful classes in the program. It covers dramatic purpose, story escalation and dramatic tension, raising the stakes, raising emotional stakes, dynamic conflict…and much more. I’m also offering a new one-on-one coaching program that I’m very excited about. Information can be found at www.bootcampfornovelists.com

What’s next?

I’m working on a three-book series set in Detroit, tentatively titled STREET LAW. Since Superromance has gone back to the longer format of 85,000 words, I have more room for subplots and deeper character development, so I’m very excited about that.

Thanks so much for taking the time to chat today!

Thank you for inviting me, Ruby. It’s been my pleasure. I love to share and talk with readers and other writers.

Linda’s question to readers.

I would love to know what draws you into a book…after the cover, the blurb, and the first page. What is it that captivates you and keeps you reading?

You can learn more about Linda and her books at her website www.LindaStyle.com. You can also follow her on Twitter@LindaStyle_ or Facebook www.facebook.com/LindaStyle

Please leave a comment for Linda and don’t forget to leave your email address in order to be entered into the contest for her book.

The Winner of Colorado Dawn Is....

2012-02-03T22:38:00.000-06:00

The winner of COLORADO DAWN is Martha Lawson. Martha, Kaki Warner will be in touch with you by email.
Thanks so much for visiting our blog and for commenting on Kaki's post.

Greater Fort Worth Writers

Kaki Warner Shares Colorado Dawn

2012-02-03T00:05:00.005-06:00

Kaki Warner

About Kaki Warner...
In between her years as a mother, teacher, commercial artist, reluctant collection agent and surly secretary, Kaki fooled around with writing. Then, in 2008, after twenty-five years of procrastination, she sent her first (and only) manuscript out into world. That book, PIECES OF SKY, was published by Berkley in January 2010. Today, she has five books in print, a RITA on her mantle, and two RITA Finalist pins on her collar. But here’s the thing; all this wonderfulness happened AFTER she went on Social Security. (Some of us are just late bloomers, apparently). So take a note from her. Never give up. Ever.
Today, although they’ll always be Texans at heart (and proud graduates of UT), she and her husband are happily retired on a mountaintop in Washington doing whatever they feel like doing—which in her case is writing, enjoying the wildlife, and watching her husband do the cooking for a change.

About Colorado Dawn...
After only three letters and one visit during her six-year marriage to a Scottish cavalry officer, Maddie Wallace decides to build a life without him. Accepting an assignment from a London periodical to photograph the West from a female perspective, she sails from England, determined to build a new life as an independent woman.

After injury ends his military career, Angus Wallace returns home to find his wife gone, his family decimated by fever, and himself next in line to an earldom. His new mission is clear: find his wife and sire heirs. His search takes him across an ocean and half a continent, but he finally tracks her to Heartbreak Creek, Colorado. There, his biggest challenge awaits—convincing his headstrong wife to return home as his viscountess.

Amid statehood struggles, claim-jumping, and railroad disputes, their passionate battle rages…until word comes that Angus has become the earl. Now they must decide between a life in the mountains of Colorado or in the glittering ballrooms of London…and between duty and desire.

Excerpt...
Lister House, outside London

September 1868

Maddie turned the key in the lock at her parent’s small stone cottage, paused for a moment to gather her courage, then opened the door and stepped inside.

Silence greeted her. That oppressive kind of silence that came when a house has been left empty too long and the life and energy once trapped within its walls was slowly draining away. A fanciful notion. But funerals always made her melancholy.

Still wearing her coat and clutching her reticule in cold, numb fingers, she walked slowly through the rooms.

Everything looked the same, like a tintype frozen in time—her mother’s bonnet draped over the arm of the settee, the same array of photographs lining the walls, a book left open on the table beside her father’s chair. Even the air smelled familiar—a subtle blend of old smoke with a hint of her father’s pipe tobacco and her mother’s sachet. But beneath it, barely detectable, hung the damp mustiness of an empty house and the beginnings of decay.

And they had only been dead a week.

In the kitchen, she dropped her reticule on the table and stripped off her coat and gloves. Moving by rote, she set a fire in the cook stove and lit the lamp sitting on the table, then went through the rituals of preparing tea. Once she had the kettle heating and the tea caddy and sugar bowl on the table, she set out her mother’s favorite cup, a napkin, and a spoon.

Then she sat down in her father’s chair, dropped her head onto her folded arms, and wept.

An hour later, she was still sitting there, her tears long spent, nursing her third cup of tea and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

Her parents were dead. Her marriage was a failure. She would probably never have children or a home of her own. Even this house would have to be sold to cover the cost of her parents’ funerals. With no other family and no resources, her future stretched bleak and empty ahead of her.

So what was she to do? Go back to Scotland? To a father-in-law who couldn’t abide the English, and a mother-in-law who rarely left her room? Angus’s sister, Glynnis, was so busy running the Kirkwell lands she had little time for a husband, much less a friend, and his two older brothers were so involved with their own pursuits they were rarely at home, and when they were, they called her the English girl because they couldn’t remember her name. With her husband gone years on end, what reason had she to go back?

She looked down at the heavy signet ring Angus had given her before he rode off to rejoin his cavalry regiment almost a year and a half ago. She hadn’t seen him since. In almost four years of marriage, he had written her two letters and visited her once. Four years, languishing at the family’s remote Highland estate, the unwanted English bride of a Scottish earl’s son, while he played soldier in Ireland.

She had given up her dreams for that?

She almost yanked the ring off her finger and threw it across the room. But she hadn’t the energy for even that. After her hurried dash across half of England to get to the funeral on time, then standing in the icy drizzle as Vicar Collins presided over the small graveside service for her parents this afternoon, she was so emotionally drained just lifting her teacup took an effort of will.

It was all rather meaningless, anyway, if the target of her ire wasn’t even there to make note of it.

Beyond the window, the wind huffed and moaned. Tiny pellets of sleet rattled against the window panes. Gusts sent drafts back down the stovepipe to burp puffs of smoke into the still air.

Perhaps he had died. That’s what soldiers did, especially rash, high-spirited cavalrymen who took needless risks. But she had always thought Angus Wallace was too big, too headstrong, too fearless to die. Besides, if something had happened to him, his family would have been notified—if not his wife, then surely his father, the Earl of Kirkwell.

If not dead, then what?

Utterly indifferent.

The realization left her breathless with despair.

Fearing another onslaught of tears, she looked around the room, seeking distraction. Her gaze fell on the framed photograph hanging beside the door that led into the parlor. A calmness came over her as she studied the smiling faces of her parents, remembering that last holiday at Brighton, and how Papa had cajoled her mother into donning one of those scandalous bathing costumes and testing the waters. Maddie had tried to make them sit still all afternoon. Finally, when they stopped to rest on the wall overlooking the beach, she saw her chance.

It was one of her first attempts at portraiture, and a poor one at that. Blurred lines, misplaced shadows, shoddy composition—all marks of a novice photographer. But it was her favorite, because there was more to it than just an image on paper. For the first time she had captured not just form, but emotion. There was a story behind those smiling faces. She had seen it, and coaxed it out of the shadows, and trapped it in tintype for all the years to come.

Perhaps she could do that again.

That notion burst into her head, half formed and elusive. But it grew with every heartbeat until it filled her mind. Dare she?

For the next two days, as she set her parent’s house to rights and packed away their things, that thought dogged her footsteps like a lost cat.

It was absurd. So far beyond reason and practicality it wasn’t worth pursuing. Yet, after her third restless night, she surrendered to the lure of possibility and resolutely climbed the stairs to the attic where her photographs and equipment were stored, determined to at least give it a try.

The Scottish had a saying: “Be happy while you’re living, for you’ll be a long time dead.” And Maddie intended to be happy. She deserved it, Angus Wallace be damned.

The next afternoon, she was sitting before Mr. Reginald Farnsworth Chesterfield’s desk at The Illustrated London News nervously clasping her gloved hands in her lap and growing more convinced by the moment that grief had robbed her of her senses.

Daughters of baronets and wives of third sons to earls did not seek employment. They did not set up shop, or peddle their wares, or go into business, especially such a male-dominated business as photography. They stayed at home and tatted and traded vague reminiscences about their absent husbands and childless, empty lives until God finally took pity and allowed them to die.

“Hmm,” the gray-haired publisher said as he pulled another photograph from the portfolio she had brought for his perusal.

Hmm? What did that mean?

She tried not to fidget. A chance. That’s all she wanted. She would work for a pittance—or at least enough to keep her parent’s house so she would have someplace to live. She would even take an assignment on speculation, just to prove she could do it.

Minutes ticked by. Maddie’s confidence dwindled to quivery jelly. After almost a half hour of silence, she was on the verge of snatching up her portfolio and fleeing the building.

This was all a horrid mistake. It was time to accept her fate and go back to Northbridge, and learn to speak Gaelic and eat haggis without gagging.

“I had to look at them one more time,” Mr. Chesterfield finally said as he slid the photographs and cartes de visite back into the heavy canvas folder. “Just to be sure.”

Maddie tried to keep her breathing even.

After tying the closure tabs, he tipped back his swivel chair and studied the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought, the forefinger and thumb of his right hand idly plucking at the gray hairs sprouting from his top lip. “It’s a rather forward-thinking notion,” he mused, more to himself than to her. “Revolutionary. Still . . . It just might just work.”

Abruptly he swiveled around and stared at her across his desk. “Have you seen the photographs of Matthew Brady?” he demanded. “Those he took in America during their recent rebellion?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice sounded like a mouse squeak, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “They are most evocative.” Astounding. Haunting. Compelling. Everything she wished her photographs could be.

“And those of William Jackson,” he pressed. “And Tim O’Sullivan?”

“The ones of the American West? They’re fascinating. Each image seems to tell a tale all its own.”

“Yes!” The elderly man beamed, showing small, crooked teeth beneath his gray muttonchops. “But they only present one side of the story, don’t you see.”

Maddie didn’t but nodded politely, her fixed smile starting to wobble. “One side.”

“The male side, as it were.”

“Ah. The male side.” She wondered if he was insane. And what he would do if she cast up her accounts on his desk. Perhaps she should leave before she did.

“But to see it from a whole new perspective, that’s the challenge. That would certainly catch your eye, would it not?”

“Indeed.” Clearly insane.

“Of course it would! So what do you think, madam?”

Maddie felt that thickness in her throat again. “About what, sir?”

“The female perspective!”

“Well . . . insomuch as it’s the only one I have, I rather like it.”

He gave a sudden bark of laughter that made her jump. “You misunderstand. I’m asking if you would like to travel to America, Mrs. Wallace, and photograph the West from the female perspective.”

Maddie was too astounded to respond. America?

“I have been wanting to send an expeditionary photographer over there for some time.” His voice grew more enthusiastic with every word. “But a woman! Now that would be unheard of. Revolutionary!” He startled her anew by slapping the flat of his hand down on her closed portfolio. “You have the talent for it, madam. But have you the will? What say you?”

She couldn’t say anything. Her tongue wouldn’t work.

“I would advance you travel expenses,” he added before she could form a response. “And those of your husband, of course, as I assume he will be accompanying you.”

“I . . . ah . . .”

“Unless you think he might object? Shall I contact him directly? I realize this is highly unusual, but if he—”

“There is no he,” Maddie blurted out, astounded by her own audacity and the lie she was about to tell. But how could she not do it? A new start. A new life. A whole new country, even. “That is to say, I’m”—forgive me, Angus—“a widow.”

“A widow?” The idea seemed to delight him. “Well, then, there’s nothing to hold you back, is there?”

“Not a thing.” And for all intents and purposes, she truly was a widow. Angus had left her in spirit almost two years ago. This physical parting was simply the final step in accepting the death of her marriage so she could begin a new life without him.

“Excellent. I’ll book passage for . . . shall we say, two weeks? That should give you time to gather what equipment and supplies you’ll need. Have the bills sent to my office.” He smiled, all but rubbing his hands together in glee. “Any questions?”

Dozens of them. Thousands. “No.”

“Excellent! Then we’re agreed.” Hopping up, he held out his hand.

Maddie rose on shaky legs and placed her fingers in his, hoping he didn’t feel the tremors in her hand. “Agreed.”

And as simply as that, it was done.

Two weeks to pack, put the house up for sale, restock her supplies, and send a note to Northbridge to inform them of her plans in case Angus ever inquired about her absence.

America. Just the thought of it made her giddy.

Heartbreak Creek, Colorado Territory

September 1870

The Fifth Viscount of Ashby—or Ash, as his new London friends called him—rode slowly down the muddy street, Tricks padding wearily at his side, his rough coat dripping rain and mud.

A sad place, Heartbreak Creek. Judging by the faded store shingles hanging over the warped boardwalk, and the hulking structure perched on the bluffs above the canyon that sheltered the town, it had once been a prosperous mining community. But now the machinery sat silent, the mine dark, and few people walked past the unpainted wooden buildings with their sagging roofs and boarded storefronts. It looked no different from dozen other wee villages he’d ridden through in the last months.

He had seen worse in Ireland—which would probably never recover from the devastation of the potato famine—and in Scotland, where the Clearances had left a trail of empty huts and overflowing graveyards across his beloved Highlands. But it was always disturbing to see a town die.

Yet, despite the obvious decline, there were still signs of life in Heartbreak Creek. Two wagons stood in front of the Mercantile, Feed, and Mining Supplies store, and the hotel looked freshly painted and bore a fine new sign over the front doors. But without steady commerce from mining, timber, or the railroads, the town would soon die.

So why had she come to such a bleak place? To hide from him? He had once been a forward rider with the Rifles of the Light Division, and a man never forgot training like that. Dinna she realize that no matter where she went or how far she ran, he could still find her? She had led him a merry chase, so she had. The lass was as elusive as peat smoke, but he sensed that finally after twenty months of searching, he was getting close.

Reining in at the rail in front of the hotel, he stiffly dismounted, twisting as little as possible as he swung down. For the last hour, pain had been gnawing at his left side like the starving hounds of hell, and he knew he would pay a high price for riding so long in the rain. Cold dampness always made his slow-healing wound ache—the crossing had been a bluidy nightmare, made worse by the constant pitch and roll of the ship. But the dizziness had eased once he’d stepped onto solid ground in Boston Harbor, and he hadna suffered a single headache in well over a month.

“Stay,” he ordered Tricks as he looped Lurch’s reins over the rail.

The dog grinned up at him, tongue lolling, his bushy brows spiky with rain and clumps of mud.

“I mean it. You’re bluidy filthy, so you are. And since you willna allow a bath, you’ll stay out here. That’s an order.”

Ignoring the animal’s pitiful whines, Ash stepped through the double front doors and was pleased to see that Heartbreak Creek Hotel was as dapper inside as it was out. Dark paneling gleamed. Lush green plants rose out of tall clay urns. There were no patches or stains on the upholstered chairs gathered around a tufted hassock, and no dusty cobwebs dangling from the sparkling chandelier. Even the bald spot atop the head of the old man at the front desk looked polished, and the brass clasps on the braces worn by the freckled bellboy posted inside the doors would have satisfied the most demanding sergeant.

A well-run establishment. Ash nodded in approval.

“Hidy,” the clerk said as Ash crossed to the front desk. “Help you?”

“Aye. I need a room. One with a big bed.”

The old man’s grin showed a lack of teeth, and those that remained were marred by rusty stains. “Planning a party, are you?”

Ash looked at him.

The grin faded. “All our beds are the same size.”

“Then one without a foot rail.”

The clerk gazed past Ash’s shoulder. His faded blue eyes widened. “Great Godamighty! What is that thing?”

Ash dinna have to guess what had caught the old man’s attention. “A wolfhound. The room?”

Still staring toward the door, the elderly fellow said, “Dogs—assuming that hulking beast is a dog and not a starving, long-tailed bear—ain’t allowed inside.”

“I told him that but he dinna listen. You’re welcome to give it a go.”

Whirling, the old man fled through the open doors into what appeared to be the dining area. “Miss Hathaway! You better come quick!”

Bollocks. Ash felt a gob of mud hit his ear and turned to glare at Tricks, who was slinging water and mud in a ten-foot arc as he wagged his long, thin tail. “Now look what you’ve done,” he accused. “I should sell you to the Chinamen, so I should.”

“Sir!” A woman marched out of the dining area, the clerk hot on her heels. A blond woman, with eyes as green as Ireland and a look on her pretty face that would send the devil into retreat.

“Animals are not allowed in this establishment.” She waved a hand at the double doors. “Take him outside immediately!”

“He willna stay there without me.”

“Then I’ll bid you good day, as well.”

The old man snickered.

Ash sighed. “I’ve come a long way, so I have, and I’m in desperate need of a warm, dry room. One with a long bed, so my feet willna hang off the end. Can you make an exception this one time?”

Her pretty eyes narrowed in suspicion. “A long way from where?”

“Scotland.”

“I told you he wasn’t from around here,” the clerk muttered.

“Yancey, I’ll handle this!”

But Ash could see his answer had startled her, and he wondered why.

“What is your name, sir?” she asked.

“Ashby.”

“That’s it? No first name?”

Ash shrugged. “Some call me lord.”

Understanding came quickly—the woman was blade sharp. “Lord Ashby? Is that a joke?”

“Regretfully, no. I’ll pay double,” he added to distract her.

“Why are you here? In Heartbreak Creek?”

“I’m seeking a woman.”

The clerk snorted. “Aren’t we all.”

With a hiss of exasperation, she whirled on the old man. “Yancey, please assist Miriam upstairs. Billy”—she waved to the freckled boy watching with wide-eyed interest from his post by the front door—“fetch Sheriff Brodie, if you will. Now.”

After the boy dashed out the front door and Yancey stomped up the staircase that rose along the wall separating the lobby from the dining room, she returned her attention to Ash. “What woman?”

Ash frowned, put off by the challenge in her tone. Not many would dare. Especially a female. But he had no wish to sleep on the ground again tonight, so he kept his tone pleasant. “Madeline Wallace.”

“Why?”

“I have news of her family.”

“What news?”

Bugger this. He started toward the door.

“Ah . . . double, you say?”

He stopped, debated, then thinking of the cold dampness that awaited him if he left, turned back. “Aye. But the bed canna have a foot rail.”

“You’ll bathe your dog?”

Ash thought of the last attempt. “Aye. If you have four stout men to aid me.”

“You can bathe him in the trough around back. I’ll send out Yancey and Billy with drying rags.” Her green eyes flicked over him. “You may use the tub in the washroom off the kitchen. But not the dog. And we don’t have stables here, so you’ll have to take your horse to the livery on the edge of town.”

It took Yancey, Billy, and two lengths of rope to get Tricks into the trough, but the deed was done without loss of limb. When Ash left the washroom an hour later, clean and freshly dressed with his pouting and mostly clean wolfhound at his heels, he found a man leaning against the wall beside the door, working at his nails with a penknife. By his expression when he saw Ash, it was apparent he had been waiting for him.

“Heard you were looking for Maddie Wallace,” the man said, studying Ash through dark eyes from beneath the brim of his black flat-crowned hat. He was even taller than Ash and solidly built, and he would have carried an air of authority even without the sheriff’s badge pinned to his vest.

Ash nodded. “I am.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Ash did, so he dinna respond. Tricks plopped onto his belly by Ash’s boot, his rangy body taking up most of the hallway, and began licking the dampness from his front legs.

“Impressive dog,” the man said as he folded the penknife. “Is he as dangerous as he looks?”

“Not to me.”

The sheriff nodded and slipped the penknife into his pocket. Bending down, he let Tricks sniff his open hand, then gently stroked the knobby head.

Ash was surprised. Like most of his breed, Tricks was standoffish with strangers. By accepting the sheriff so readily, it only confirmed Ash’s assessment of the man. A reasonable fellow who wore his position well.

The sheriff straightened. “See that table in the back corner?” He pointed across the hall to the open door that led into the dining room. “The one with the ladies?”

Ash followed his direction and saw the blond woman seated with a dark-skinned woman and a pregnant sandy-haired woman. All three were staring their way. And frowning. “Aye, I see them.”

“The blond is Lucinda Hathaway,” the sheriff explained in a friendly tone. “Owns the hotel. Yankee. Smart. Carries a pepperbox pistol. Far as I know, she hasn’t killed anyone with it. The dark-skinned woman is Prudence Lincoln. She lives at the school the ladies set up for ex-slaves and anyone else who wants to come learn. Whether she likes it or not, she’s under the protection of a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Ever heard of them?”

Ash had. He’d never seen one, but he’d heard of their legendary fierceness in battle and admired them for it. He was Scottish, after all. But right now he was less curious about Indians than why the sheriff was telling him all this.

“Now that blue-eyed beauty,” the man went on, his voice softening as he looked at the sandy-haired woman. “She’s Edwina Brodie. She might fool some with her southern charm, but she’s pretty handy with a shovel and once even faced down a mountain lion with a bucket of salad greens. And if that’s not enough to give a man pause . . .” Swinging his gaze back to Ash, he gave him a hard look. “There’s me.”

Ash heard the challenge but gave no reaction. “And who are you?”

The sheriff touched the tips of two fingers to the brim of his hat. “Declan Brodie. I’m temporary sheriff here at Heartbreak Creek. And her husband.”

The warning was clear, although Ash had no idea why Sheriff Brodie had issued it. Maddie Wallace was the woman he had come to see, not these females. “Why temporary?” he asked.

“Because I’m a rancher,” Brodie explained, which explained nothing. “As you can see,” he went on, glancing back toward the women, “the ladies are upset. It’s not good when they get upset.”

“Which of us is in trouble?” Ash asked, although he had a fair idea.

Brodie flashed white teeth in a crooked grin that changed his austere face to one that women might find handsome. “Hell, I’ve got four kids and a pregnant wife. I’m always in trouble. But this time, it’s you.”

“What have I done?”

“That depends.” No longer smiling, the sheriff stepped toward Ash.

Immediately Tricks rose.

The sheriff paused, looked from the dog to Ash, but came no closer. He showed no menace, yet Ash sensed an unbendable resolve within the man. He respected that, since it was a trait they had in common.

“Why are you looking for Maddie?” Brodie asked again.

That was the second time the sheriff had casually used the shortened version of Madeline’s name. Ash dinna like the sound of it on another man’s tongue. “As I told the Hathaway woman, I have news of her family,” he said stiffly. “Is she here?”

Brodie remained silent. Ash suspected he was being assessed by the lawman, and although he dinna like it, he withstood it without showing his growing irritation.

The women continued to watch them and whisper quietly amongst themselves. Ash could feel the censure in their eyes and wondered what he’d done to cause it.

“She’s off making pictures,” the sheriff finally said. “Should be back in a week or so, then she’ll be leaving again for the big meeting up in Denver.”

“Meeting about what?”

“Political thing. Statehood. Delegates are coming from all over the territory. Promises to be quite a gathering.”

“She’s a delegate?” That surprised him. Despite her father’s leanings, she had showed no interest in politics before. But then, that she was here instead of Scotland where she belonged showed how little he knew her.

“No, I am. Part of the job. Or so I’ve been told.”

Ash heard the disgust in the man’s voice and guessed the sheriff wasna excited about the trip. But he’d heard enough to know this was the woman he sought, and his natural impatience caused him to speak more sharply than he intended. “I canna wait another week. Where is she now?”

The sheriff reared his head back and subjected Ash to another lengthy assessment.

Ash was weary of it. “It’s important that I speak to her.”

“You’ll not hurt her?”

“I dinna hurt women.”

After more scrutiny, the sheriff sighed, as if he’d come to a decision he might later regret. “She headed up to the Alamosa a month ago.”

“The Alamosa?”

“Alamosa River. Things are hopping up there since the strikes.”

Brodie must have seen Ash’s confusion. “Gold strikes,” he clarified. “Miners are pouring in from all over. She wanted to document it. Photograph it. She’s a photographer. Didn’t you know that?”

Of course Ash knew. It was through her photographs that he had tracked her this far. But he thought the woman had more sense than to go haring off to a place as dangerous as a wide-open mining town. “She dinna go alone, did she?”

“She’s got Wall-eyed Willy with her, not that he’d be much protection.”

Bluidy hell.

“You going after her?”

“Aye. I’m going after her.”

###

Kaki Warners books may be purchased at amazon.com and Barnes and Noble or from any bookseller.

If you liked Kaki's gift to us, please leave a comment.

Resolutions Rehab

2012-02-01T00:05:00.018-06:00

This is a great article on how Jerry Seinfeld keeps productive. It's a way to start over and rehab those New Year's Resolutions thanks to Pepper Phillips and the Writers Store.

Don't Break The Chain-Jerry Seinfeld's Method For Creative Success

When it comes to making New Year's resolutions, we writers aren't exactly the norm.
Most people resolve to lose weight, dreaming of the day they can hold up their "fat jeans," as if in a weight-loss commercial. We want to hold up a few freshly printed scripts and know we've created something tangible.
Others might hope to finish their first triathlon this year. We hope to finish a screenplay, a one-hour pilot, and a half-hour comedy spec.
This year, I'm gonna write more. It's a popular resolution amongst our crowd. It's a great goal, but it's vague.
Then again, maybe some of us promised to write every day. That's even better.
But just like hitting a plateau at the gym, we sometimes lose the steam that once powered a new and exciting story idea. We take one day off, which turns into two days off; eventually, we find ourselves opening up a document only to realize it hasn't been touched in two weeks - or more.
Let's say you do write most of the time, but you take one or two days off each week for any number of reasons. That's still a lot of writing. But consider this: at the end of the year, that's roughly 10 weeks, or 2.5 months' worth of days that you didn't write anything.
That's where Jerry Seinfeld's productivity tip "Don't Break the Chain" comes in.
Years ago, when software developer Brad Isaac was performing stand-up at open mic nights, he received his best advice ever from the already-famous comedian.
Seinfeld explained his method for success: each January, he hangs a large year-at-a-glance calendar on his wall and, for every day he writes new material, he has the exquisite pleasure that can only come from drawing a big red "X" over that day.
Drawing those Xs got to be pretty fun and rewarding, so he kept doing it. Eventually, he began to create a chain of red Xs.
The idea was to never break that chain. Read the rest of the article here http://bit.ly/xofYoD

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750 Words
This is another site that helps you to keep up your productivity. The idea is to write 750 words (3 pages) before you do anything else. No reading email, talking on the phone, or any other distracting activity until you're finished the 3 pages.

It was inspired by The Artist's Way called morning pages. Morning pages are three pages of writing done every day, typically encouraged to be in "long hand", typically done in the morning, that can be about anything and everything that comes into your head. It's about getting it all out of your head, and is not supposed to be edited or censored in any way. The idea is that if you can get in the habit of writing three pages a day, that it will help clear your mind and get the ideas flowing for the rest of the day. Unlike many of the other exercises in that book, I found that this one actually worked and was really really useful.
For more information go to 750words.com

What are your ideas for increasing productivity and staying motivated to write?

Kaki Warner-Naturally I Had To Look It Up!

2012-01-30T00:05:00.000-06:00

It's our pleasure to welcome former Texas native Kaki Warner to our blog. In between her years as a mother, teacher, commercial artist, reluctant collection agent and surly secretary, Kaki fooled around with writing. Then, in 2008, after twenty-five years of procrastination, she sent her first (and only) manuscript out into world. That book, PIECES OF SKY, was published by Berkley in January 2010. Today, she has five books in print, a RITA on her mantle, and two RITA Finalist pins on her collar. But here’s the thing; all this wonderfulness happened AFTER she went on Social Security. (Some of us are just late bloomers, apparently). So take a note from her. Never give up. Ever.
Today, although they’ll always be Texans at heart (and proud graduates of UT), she and her husband are happily retired on a mountaintop in Washington doing whatever they feel like doing—which in her case is writing, enjoying the wildlife, and watching her husband do the cooking for a change. Kaki is very generously giving a copy of COLORADA DAWN to one lucky commenter. So sorry but this is for US residents only.

Thanks, Ruby, for inviting me to share with you the exciting world of research.

Actually, it can be a pain. Especially if you’re up against a deadline and are easily distracted.
There I was, doing research for the Blood Rose Trilogy (about 3 brothers struggling to save their ranch in New Mexico during the 1870s), reading up on pepperbox pistols versus double derringers when an odd word caught my eye. Epizootic. Hmmm…

I remembered my grandmother used that word to scare us kids away from something we were about to touch, eat, drink, poke at with a stick, or whatever. “Ya’ll quit that,” she’d yell out the screen door. “That thing’ll give you the epizootic.” At the time, I thought it was some sort of digestive disturbance—the word just has that kind of sound, doesn’t it?

Naturally, I had to look it up.

Not only is there such a word (any rapidly spreading ailment that strikes a single species), there was also something called The Great Epizootic of 1872, which struck only horses. Ga-zillions of them. So many that the entire transportation system of the US was brought to a standstill. Cargo ships went unloaded, deliveries stopped, locomotives ran out of coal, fires when unchecked without horses to pull the water wagons, and out West, Indian wars were fought on foot. By the time the epidemic ended, four million horses were dead, with urban areas being the hardest hit because of overcrowding in downtown horse hotels. Wait. Horse hotels? Hmmm…

Naturally, I had to look it up.

Four stories or more, with an outside ramp up to each level, where open stalls stood side by side. Having raised horses, I can promise they’re the most inefficient food processors on the planet. Feed a flake of hay, shovel twice that in residuals. I won’t even mention the flies or stink. I’d think they’d have to build a slaughterhouse next door just to sweeten the air. And did they stall mares next to stallions? If so, how did they keep unwanted fraternization from taking place after lights out? It isn’t like they had floor monitors passing out horse condoms. Or did they? Hmmm…

Naturally, I had to look that up, too.

No, they didn’t have floor monitors or horse condoms. But they did have human condoms, patented in 1844 by Charles Goodyear and marketed a few years later as Dr. Power’s French Preventatives. And they were actually made of vulcanized rubber. Which is probably where that expression “laying rubber” originated. Or did it? Hmmm…

You see why I struggle with deadlines.

Mostly, I bring it on myself. Remember PIECES OF SKY? Book 1 of the Blood Rose Trilogy? 2011 Rita winner? No? Well, read it. You’ll like it, I promise. Anyway, I decided for authenticity and since it’s set in New Mexico, I should include some Spanish-speaking characters. So I dredged up the few Spanish words I know (mostly food items), augmented that with a Spanish-English dictionary, had a friend supply a substantial dirty word list, and typed away.

Book 2, OPEN COUNTRY. Same characters, fewer dirty Spanish words, but then this crabby Scotsman shows up with an entirely different accent and speech pattern and some weird phrases of his own. Yet that wasn’t as hard as studying up on medical procedures back then without nauseating myself. But I persevered, because I’m that kind of person.

Book 3, CHASING THE SUN. Some Spanish, a little Scots Gaelic, and just for the helluvit, national monetary problems and Catholic nun stuff. (Those folks have a lot of rules. Just so you know). But I was learning.

Or so I thought.

Then I start the next trilogy—The Runaway Brides—about four women heading West in 1870 to start new lives but get more than they bargained for when they’re stranded in a dying Colorado mining town. Four women. How hard could that be? But for variety, I decided to give each of them different backgrounds, voices, and speech patterns.

Enter the cast from Book 1, HEARTBREAK CREEK: a Southern princess and her half-black half-sister (not too hard, since I’m sorta from Louisiana), an Englishwoman (I’d done an Englishwoman before, so that wasn’t too hard, either), a Yankee (not bad, since they’re all over the place), and…wait for it…a Cheyenne Dog Soldier! YEA! So now I have to study up on them (a tough group for sure), the Sun Dance Ceremony (Gads!) and the language itself (do you know how many vowels those guys use? In a six letter word there might be three in a row: Haaahe (hello). Try saying that three times without laughing).

But then in Book2, COLORADO DAWN, I entered a whole new realm of insanity by adding photography (really dangerous back then—as in blow off your fingers and set your hair on fire), issues with Colorado statehood, railroads, PLUS a Scottish cavalryman, which necessitated research on the British peerage, military stuff, Scotch-Irish-Gaelic dialects and creating an entire new dirty word list. I could be a sailor, I swear. Heck, I should just write gibberish and call it a whole new language.

Research. A pain, but still fascinating stuff. Unless you’re in a rush, or are easily distracted.

As readers, do you enjoy all the little research tidbits, or do you find them distracting?

Leave a comment and you’ll be entered to win a copy of my latest release, COLORADO DAWN. And for summaries and excerpts of all my books, visit me at http://www.kakiwarner.com/

Adios, Ta-ta, Slan, nestaevavoomatse, and bye ya’ll. Thanks for having me visit today.

Darynda Jones Shares Third Grave Dead Ahead

2012-01-27T00:05:00.067-06:00

About Darynda Jones...

Winner of the 2009 Golden Heart® for Best Paranormal Romance for her manuscript FIRST GRAVE ON THE RIGHT, Darynda was born spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike. After the Golden Heart final, she landed an amazing agent and sold to St. Martin's Press in a three-book deal.THIRD GRAVE DEAD AHEAD is the third book in the series and will be released January 31, 2012. Darynda lives in New Mexico, with her husband of more than 25 years and two beautiful sons, aka the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. She can be found at www.daryndajones.com.

Back Cover Blurb....

Charley Davidson—grim reaper extraordinaire, private investigator . . . meh—is practicing her profession under the influence, caffeine and copious amounts of it, due to an extreme desire to induce insomnia. Every time she closes her eyes, Reyes Farrow, the part-human, part-supermodel son of Satan, is there. Only thing is, he’s a tad peeved. She did bind for all eternity, so it’s hard blame him. But 13 days without a wink is bound to bring out the crazy in a girl. So when she accepts a missing persons case, she discovers that her focus is sketchy at best. But a woman’s life hangs in the balance, and Charley fights her ADD tendencies to find her. In the meantime, Reyes is back in prison and none too happy about it...so Charley thinks, until she is carjacked by the dark-haired rake, who swears the very man he went to prison for killing is not only alive, but close by. And he wants Charley to find him. Together with the help of her fashion-impaired receptionist, Charley sets out to bring the bad guys to justice and to single-handedly make bloodshot, sleep deprived eyes the newest fashion trend. Too bad she has to deal with a narcissistic doctor, a curmudgeonly father, and a motorcycle gang hell-bent on murder, all while searching for the deadliest, most violent man she’s ever met. Unfortunately, he finds Charley first.

Excerpt...

Chapter One
Death comes to those who wait.

And to those who don’t. So either way…

—Charlotte Jean Davidson, Grim Reaper

There was a dead clown sitting in my living room. Since I wasn’t particularly fond of clowns, and it was way too early for anything coherent to come out of my mouth, I pretended not to notice him. Instead, I let a loud yawn overtake me and was headed toward my kitchen when I was hit by a jolt of panic. Since nothing screamed awkward like greeting the dead in my birthday suit, I glanced down to make sure my girl parts hadn’t been compromised. Fortunately, I had on a white tank and pair of plaid bottoms. My girls, also known as Danger and Will Robinson, were safe.

I mentally made the sign of the cross as I padded through my humble abode. Trying not to draw attention. Wondering if the dead clown, with his gaze following my every move, had noticed me. My apartment was a comfy cross between a storage room full of pillows and a broom closet, so it wasn’t a long journey. Nor an especially enlightening one. Though I did come to a rather morbid conclusion in those few fleeting seconds. Better a dead clown in my apartment than a live one.

My name is Charlotte Davidson. Charley to some, Charlotte the Harlot to others, but that was mostly in middle school. I was born with a decent set of curves, a healthy respect for the male anatomy, and a slightly disturbing addiction to brown edibles. Other than that—and the fact that I’d also been born the grim reaper—I was about as normal as a surly girl with a private investigator’s license could be.

I strode toward Mr. Coffee with lust in my eyes. We’d had a thing for quite some time now, Mr. Coffee and I, and there was just enough of him left for one more cup. No need to make a fresh pot, to get him all hot and bothered. I popped the cup into the microwave, set it to nuke anything unfortunate enough to be caught within its grasp for 30 seconds, then raided my fridge for sustenance. Eating would keep me awake for at least another five minutes, and my one goal in life for the past couple of weeks was to stay awake at all costs. The alternative was exhausting.

After an epic search, I finally found something neither green nor fuzzy. It was a hotlink. I named it Peter, mostly because I liked naming things and partly because it seemed like the right thing to do. As soon as my java was piping hot popped him into the microwave. Hopefully the radioactive environment would sterilize Peter. No need to have little Peters running around, wreaking havoc.

As I stood contemplating world peace, the exorbitant price of designer underwear and what life would be like without guacamole, Peter beeped. I wrapped him in stale bread and ate him whilst loading my coffee up with enough imitation product to make it a health hazard. After a long draw, I plodded to my overstuffed sofa, sank into it and looked at the dead clown. He was sitting in the club chair that cattycornered my sofa, waiting patiently for me to acknowledge him.

“You know, I’m not really fond of clowns,” I said after taking another sip.

Seeing a dead person in my living room was hardly a surprise. Apparently, I was super duper bright, like the glowing lens of a lighthouse in a storm. The departed who didn’t cross when they died could see me from anywhere on Earth and, if they so chose, could cross through me to get to the other side. That was pretty much the grim reaper gig in a nutshell. No scythes. No collecting souls. No ferrying the departed across a lake day in and day out, which would probably get old.

“I get that a lot,” the clown said. He seemed younger than I’d originally suspected, perhaps 25, but his voice was rough from too many cigarettes and late nights. The image conflicted with the bright mural on his face and curly red hair on his head. His saving grace was the lack of a big red nose. I seriously hated those, especially the squeaky kind. The rest I could handle.

“So, you got a story?”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to cross.”

I blinked in surprise, absorbed his statement, then asked, “You just want to cross?”

“If that’s okay.”

“That’s more than okay,” I said with a snort. No messages to love ones left behind. No solving his murder. No hunting down some memento he’d left for his children in a place where no one in his right mind would ever think to look. These situations had all the creamy goodness of piece-of-cake without the added calories.

He started toward me then. I didn’t get up, didn’t think I could manage it—the coffee had yet to kick in—but he didn’t seem to mind. I noticed as he stepped forward that he wore a ragged pair of jeans and his sneakers had been painted with magic marker.

“Wait,” he said, pausing midstride.

No.

He scratched his head, a completely unconscious act from his previous life. “Can you get messages to people?”

Damn. The bane of my existence. “Um, no. Sorry. Have you tried Western Union?”

“Seriously?” he asked, not buying it for a minute. And it was on sale, even.

I dragged in a long, deep breath and tossed an arm over my forehead to show how much I didn’t want to be his messenger then peeked out from under my lashes. He stood there, waiting, clearly unimpressed.

“Fine,” I said, giving in. “I’ll type a note or something.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just go to Super Dog right down the street and talk to a girl named Jenny. Tell her Ronald said to bite me.”

I scanned his clown getup, the reds and yellows of his hoodie. “Your name is Ronald?”

With a grin, he said, “The irony is not lost on me, I promise.” He stepped through before I could question him on the bite me part of his comment.

When people crossed, I could see their lives. I could tell if they’d been happy, what their favorite color was, the names of their pets growing up. I let my lids drift shut and waited. He smelled like grease paint and iodine and coconut shampoo. He’d been in the hospital waiting for a heart transplant. While there, he decided to make himself useful, so he dressed up like a different clown everyday and visited the kids in pediatrics. Each day he’d have a new name, something funny like Rodeo Ron or Captain Boxer Shorts, and each day they had to guess what it was from his voiceless clues. He couldn’t talk well near the end, and while gesturing was difficult and left him exhausted, he felt it was better than freaking out the kids with his gravelly voice. He died just hours before a heart had been found. Despite my original assumption, he’d never smoked a day in his life.

And he loved a girl named Jenny who smelled like baby oil and sold hot dogs to put herself through college. Jenny would be the part of this whole grim reaper gig I hated most. The people-left-behind part. I could feel their hearts contract with grief. I could feel their lungs fight for air. I could feel the sting of tears behind their eyes at losing someone they loved, someone they were sure they couldn’t live without.

I sucked in a sharp breath and pulled myself back to the present. Ronald was a cool guy. I’d have to look him up when my time was up, see how his eternity was going. I sank further into the sofa cushions and took a long draw of coffee, absorbing the caffeine, letting it spark and reawaken my brain cells.

Glancing at my Looney Tunes wall clock, I bit back the despair I felt at finding it was only 3:35. I had hours to go before dawn. It was easier to stay awake during the day. Night was so calm and relaxing. But I couldn’t let myself fall under. I’d managed to dodge sleep like it was an ex-boyfriend with herpes for almost two weeks straight. And when I didn’t, I paid the price.

The mere thought of that price gave me unwanted butterflies in my nether regions. I pushed it from my mind as heat from the sultry night wafted around me like a heavy vapor, seeping into my skin, suffocating any thoughts of comfort. Utterly annoyed, I sat up, pushed a dampened strand of hair out of my face, and made my way to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water would help, and wondering how the heck the night got so sultry. It was freaking November. Maybe global warming had amped up its game. Or a solar flare had pushed its way through the magnetosphere and was cooking us all alive. That would suck.

Just as I reached for the light switch, wondering if I should buy sunscreen, a sharp stab of arousal sparked in my lower abdomen. I gasped in surprise and grabbed the doorjamb for balance.

This was so not happening. Not again.

I glanced at the faucet longingly. Water would set things right. Couple of splashes and I’d be back to my normal curmudgeonly self in no time. I flipped the switch, but the overhead just flickered as though gasping for air then died out. I flipped again. And again, before giving up. Mostly because the definition of insanity came to mind.

The wiring in my apartment demoted the term code violation to an understatement. Thankfully, I had a nightlight. It cast a soft glow in the bathroom, allowing just enough illumination for me to maneuver my way to the sink without stubbing anything vital. I stepped to the mirror and squinted, trying to syphon every last atom of light the universe had to offer out of the atmosphere. It didn’t help. My image was nothing more than a shadow, a ghost-like apparition, barely existing.

I stood there contemplating that fact when a ripple of desire gripped me again, seizing me with fierce, delicious claws, trembling through me so hard I had to clamp my jaw shut. I clutched onto the vanity as the fervor bathed me in a sensuous heat I couldn’t fend off. It seeped inside me, lured me to the edge, led me to the dark side. Hungrily, I parted my lips and parted my legs and gave it room to grow. And grow it did. It built up strength and power, its tendrils pushing into me, swirling and pulsing in my abdomen.

My knees buckled, and I shifted my weight to my palms as the pressure grew more intense, forcing me to fight for every breath I took. Then the sound of another’s breath mingled with my own, and I glanced up into the mirror.

Reyes Alexander Farrow—the part-human, part-supermodel son of Satan—materialized behind me, his powerful shoulders glistening as steam rose around him, giving the impression he’d just come from hell. He hadn’t, of course. He’d escaped from hell centuries ago and was currently pissed as hell at me for binding his incorporeal body to his physical one. But that knowledge did little to lessen the effect.

I blinked to see him more clearly. “What are you doing here?”

He lowered his head, his dark eyes piercing me with an angry glare. The butthead. It was my bathroom.

But I’d bound him. I’d bound his incorporeal body to his physical one. How was he even there? How could he be?

“You summoned me,” he said, his deep voice tight with animosity.

I shook my head. “That’s impossible.”

He reached an arm over my shoulder and braced his hand against the wall in front of me. To tower. To dominate. To make sure I knew I was trapped. His lean body pressed against my backside as he braced the other hand against the wall to my right, completely imprisoning me.

His hard gaze locked onto mine. “Is it impossible because you bound me like a dog to a chain?”

Oh, yeah. He was definitely pissed. “You left me no choice,” I said, my voice quivering, not nearly as confident as I’d hoped.

He lowered his head until his mouth was at my ear. “And you leave me none.” His features darkened. His eyes narrowed as he stared at me in the mirror from underneath his thick lashes, hooded with passion.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He was so beautiful, so masculine. When he wrapped an arm around me, slid his hand down the front of my panties, I grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” I said between ragged breaths. “I still don’t understand how you’re here.”

“I told you, you summoned me.” His fingers worked their way between my legs despite my best efforts, and I gasped aloud when they dipped inside. “You always summon me. You’ve always had the power to call me whenever you want or need me, Dutch. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”

I fought the delicious sensations spiking in my abdomen with each stroke of his fingers. Fought to grasp the meaning of his airy words. “No, you’ve always come to me when I needed you. When I was in danger.” And he had. Growing up, he’d always been there any time my life was threatened.

His breath fanned across my cheek, the heat emanating off him scorching as his mouth sought the pulse point at my throat. “It’s always been you.”

He was wrong. He had to be. The idea that I could summon him, that I’d always summoned him, was unfathomable. I didn’t even know what he was until very recently. I was afraid of him, in fact. He was a dark being made of smoke and shadows, and the last thing I wanted was to be in his presence. How could I have summoned him? What he proposed was impossible.

“But as long as I’m here….” He let that statement linger as he locked me against him and pushed down my bottoms and underwear in one smooth movement. Then he let the slightest grin lift one corner of his beautiful mouth, nudged my legs apart, and entered me in one long thrust. I gasped aloud, and the swirling that had begun only moments before grew to hurricane strength in an instant. I clamped one hand around his wrist at my throat, the other onto his steely buttocks, pulling him deeper, clawing for release.

I kept my eyes open, watching him in the mirror, studying his reaction. The slight parting of his lips. The furrowing of his brow. The fall of his lashes.

“Dutch,” he said in his smooth, deep voice, as though helpless against what he was about to do. His jaw locked together as his climax neared. He lifted one of my legs onto the vanity and pushed into me, burying himself over and over, the act almost violent, coaxing me with each thrust, with each powerful stroke.

And with each stroke, the current inside me surged with more potency, his erection filling a need so deep, so visceral, it consumed every inch of my being. The raw yearning that lingered in the distance rushed forward to pool between my legs. It swelled like a tide, milking me, coaxing me ever closer.

My fingernails dug into his wrist, suddenly remembering he didn’t want to be there. Not with me. Not after what I’d done. “Reyes, wait.”

I felt it the moment it seized him, felt it quake and convulse through his body, and in an instant an explosion burst and shot through me, sending a sharp sting of pleasure ricocheting against my bones, coursing through my veins, searing my flesh with a scalding ecstasy.

And then the world came crashing in as the violence of an orgasm splitting me in two jolted me from a fitful sleep. The dying remnants of a scream echoed in the room, and I knew instantly it was my own reaction to the climax. I forced myself to pause, to catch my breath, to unclench my fists from around the coffee cup that had emptied its contents in my lap. Luckily, there wasn’t much left. I put the cup on a side table then I fell back onto the sofa and threw an arm over my forehead to wait out the familiar storm trembling through my body.

Three times in one week. Within seconds of closing my eyes, he’d be there, waiting, watching, angry and seductive.

I glanced at the clock again. The last time I’d looked, it really did say 3:35. Now it said 3:38. Three minutes. I’d closed my eyes three minutes ago.

With an exhausted sigh, I realized it was my own fault. I’d let myself drift.

Maybe this was Reyes’s way of making me pay for what I’d done. He’d always been able to leave his body, to become incorporeal and wreak all kinds of havoc on humanity. Not that he actually wreaked havoc, but he could’ve had he wanted to. Now, he was stuck in his body. A minor indiscretion if you asked me, and when I bound him, a necessary one.

But now he was back to haunting my dreams. At least when he’d entered my dreams before, I actually got some sleep between rounds of hide and seek and tug of war. Now, I close my eyes for a second and he’s there in the most intense way possible. As long as I’m asleep, we’re going at it like rabbits on a bunny farm.

And the worst part of the whole thing lay in the fact that he really was pissed as hell at me. As a result, he had no desire to be there. He was angry, consumed with rage, and yet oh, so passionate, like he couldn’t help himself. Like he couldn’t control the heat coursing through him, the hunger in his veins. I couldn’t exactly control myself either, so I knew how he felt.

But I’d summoned him? Impossible. How could I have summoned him growing up? Like that time I was four and I was almost kidnapped by a convicted child molester? I didn’t even know what he was. I’d been scared of him.

Just then I heard my front door crash open and decided it was time to clean up anyway. Coffee never felt as good on the outside.

“What? Where are you?” I heard my neighbor who moonlighted as my receptionist and best friend say as she stumbled into my apartment. Cookie’s short black hair stuck out in all kinds of socially unacceptable directions. And she wore wrinkled pajamas, striped in alternating blues and yellows that fit tight around her robust middle half with long red socks that bunched around her ankles. She was such a challenge.

“I’m here,” I said, hoisting myself off the sofa. “Everything’s okay.”

“But you screamed.” Alarmed, she scanned the area.

“We really need to sound proof these walls.” She lived right across the hall and could apparently hear a feather drop in my kitchen.

After taking a moment to catch her breath, she leveled a cold stare on me. “Charley, damn it.”

“You know, I get called that a lot,” I said, padding toward the bathroom, “but Charley Damn It’s not really my name.”

She stepped toward my bookcase and braced herself with one hand while the other tried to still her beating heart. Then she glared. It was funny. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, she noticed the plethora of empty coffee cups scattered about the place. Then she glared again. It was still funny.

“Have you been drinking all night?”

I disappeared into the bathroom, came back with a toothbrush in my mouth, then pointed toward the front door with raised brows. “Break and enter much?”

She stepped around me and closed the door. “We need to talk.”

Uh-oh. Scolding time. She’d been scolding me everyday for a week. At first, I could lie about my lack of sleep and she’d fall for it, but she started suspecting insomnia when I began seeing purple elephants in the air vents at the office. I knew I shouldn’t have asked her about them. I thought maybe she’d redecorated.

I went to my bedroom and changed into a fresh pair of PJs, then asked, “Want coffee?” as I headed that way.

“It’s three thirty in the morning.”

“Okay. Want coffee?”

“No. Sit down.” When I paused mid-stride and raised my brows in questions, she set a stubborn tilt to her jaw. “I told you, we need to talk.”

“Does this have anything to do with that mustache I drew on you while you were sleeping the other night?” I eased back onto the sofa, keeping a wary eye on her, just in case.

“No. This has to do with drugs.”

My jaw fell open. I almost lost my toothbrush. “You’re on drugs?”

She pressed her mouth together. “No. You are.”

“I’m on drugs?” I asked, stunned. I had no idea.

“Charley,” Cookie said, her voice sympathetic, “how long has it been since you’ve slept?”

With a loud sigh that bordered on a whine, I counted on my fingers. “Around thirteen days, give or take.”

Her eyes widened with shock. After she let that sink in, she asked, “And you’re not on anything?”

I took the toothbrush out of my mouth. “Besides Crest?”

“Then how are you doing it?” She leaned forward, her brows glued together in concern. “How are you not sleeping for days at a time?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t close my eyes.”

“Charley, that’s impossible. And probably dangerous.”

“Not at all,” I assured her. “I’m drinking lots of coffee. And I hardly ever fall asleep while driving.”

“Oh, my gosh.” She let her head drop into her palm.

I popped the toothbrush back into my mouth with a smile. People like Cookie were hard to come by. Stalwart. Loyal. Easy to punk. “Hon, I’m not like you, remember?”

She focused on me again. “You’re still human. Just because you heal really fast and can see the departed and you have this uncanny ability to convince the most mundane of persons to try to kill you—”

“But he’s so mad at me, Cook.” I lowered my head, the sadness of my situation creeping up on me.

She stopped and absorbed my statement before commenting. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”

“Kay. Need coffee first.”

“It’s three thirty in the morning.”

Ten minutes later we both had a cup of coffee a la fresco, and I was in the middle of describing my dreams—if one could call them that—to a starry-eyed divorcee with lust in her loins. She already knew about my binding Reyes to his physical body, but she didn’t know about the dreams. Not entirely. I’d just told her about my most recent encounter with god Reyes, a being forged in the fires of hell, created from beauty and sin and fused together with the blistering heat of sensuality.

I fanned myself and refocused on her.

“He was actually—”

“Yep,” I said.

“And he put your leg—?”

“Yep. I think for ease of access.”

“Oh, my.” A hand floated up to cover her heart.

“Yep again. But that’s the cool part. The orgasmic part. The part where he touches me and kisses me and strokes me in the most amazing places.”

“He kissed you?”

“Well, no, not this morning,” I said, shaking my head. “But sometimes he does. Strange thing is, he doesn’t want to be there. He doesn’t want to be with me. And yet, the minute I close my eyes, there he is. Fierce. Sexy. Pissed as hell.”

“But he actually lifted your leg—”

“Cookie,” I said, grabbing her arm and forcing her back to me, “you have to get past that part.”

“Right.” She blinked and shook her head. “Right, sorry. Well, I can certainly see why you don’t want to experience that kind of trauma night after night.”

“But I don’t get any actual rest. I swear I’m more exhausted when I wake up, like, three minutes later. And he’s just so mad at me.”

“Well, you did bind him for all eternity.”

I sighed. “Surely it’s not for all eternity. I mean, I can fix this.” I decided to leave out the part where I’d already tried to unbind him and failed miserably. “I’ll figure out how to unbind him, don’t you think?”

“Me?” she asked, balking at the very idea. “This is your world, hon. I’m just an innocent bystander.” She looked at my Looney Tunes clock.

As usual, my selfless concern for my fellow man amazed me. “You need to get back to bed,” I said, taking her cup and heading for the kitchen. “You can get in a good two hours before you have to get Amber up for school.” Amber was Cookie’s twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter.

“I just drank a cup of coffee.”

“Like that ever stopped you,” I said with a snort.

“True.” She stood and headed for the door. “Oh, I meant to tell you, Garrett called. He might have a case for you. Said he’d get in touch this morning.”

Garrett Swopes was a bond enforcement agent whose dark skin made the silver in his eyes glisten every time he smiled, a feature most women found attractive. I just found him annoying. We’d weathered some rough times, he and I, like when he accidently found out about my otherworldly status and decided to have me committed.

For the most part, he was okay. For the rest, he could bite me. But as a skip tracer, he was phenomenal and came in super duper handy at times.

“A case, huh?” That sounded intriguing. And slightly more profitable than sitting around twiddling my thumbs. “Maybe I’ll just run over there and talk to him about it in person.”

She stopped halfway out the door and looked back at me. “It’s a quarter past four.”

A huge smile slid across my face.

Her own expression turned dreamy again. “Can I come?”

“No.” I pushed her out the door. “You have to get some sleep. Somebody has to be sane during regular office hours, and it’s not going to be me, missy.”
                                                              #

A little over 15 minutes later, as I stood knocking on Garrett Swopes’s door in my Juicy Coutuer pajamas and pink bunny slippers, I realized I may have died on the way over. I was so tired I could no longer feel life flowing through me. My fingers were numb. My lips were swollen. And my eyelids had dried to the consistency of sandpaper, their sole purpose to irritate and drive the will to survive right out of me.

Yep, I was most likely dead.

I knocked again as a shiver rippled down my spine, hoping somewhere in the back of my mind that my probable deadness wouldn’t keep me from performing my supernatural duty, which was basically to stand there while dead people who didn’t cross immediately after their deaths crossed through me. But as the only grim reaper this side of forever, I provided an invaluable service for society. For humanity. For the world!

The door swung open and a grumpy skip tracer named Garrett stood glowering at me with a fury I found difficult to describe, which meant I probably hadn’t died after all. He looked like he had a hangover. When hung over, Garrett could barely see elephants, much less the departed. He managed to growl a question from between his clenched teeth. “What?”

“I need ibuprofen,” I said, my voice distant and unattractive.

“You need therapy.” It was amazing how easily I could understand him considering he had yet to unclench his teeth.

“I need ibuprofen,” I said with a frown, in case he didn’t hear me the first time. “I’m not kidding.”

“I’m not either.”

“But I wasn’t kidding first.”

With a loud sigh, he stood back and motioned me inside the bat cave. I looked down at my bunny slippers, silently begging them to hop forward, when Garrett curled his fingers into my Juicies and eased me inside.

It helped. With the momentum I’d gained, I padded across his carpet straight to his kitchen cabinets, flipping light switches along the way.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asked.

“Not especially. Where are your over-the-counter drugs?” I’d recently developed a headache. Possibly when I hit that telephone pole on the way over.

Garrett’s bachelor pad was much tidier than I’d expected. Lots of tans and blacks. I rummaged through cabinet after cabinet in search of his drug stash. Instead I found glasses. Plates. Bowls. Okay.

He stopped short behind me. “What are you looking for again?”

I paused long enough to glare. “You can’t be this slow.”

He did that thing where he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. It gave me a chance to size him up. Mussed dark hair in need of a trim. Thick stubble along his jaw also in need of a trim. Manly chest hair also in need—

“Oh, my god!” I said, throwing my hands over my eyes and hurtling my body against the counter.

“What?”

“You’re naked.”

“I’m not naked.”

“I’m blind.”

“You’re not blind. I’m wearing pants.”

“Oh.” That was embarrassing.

He shifted his stance in impatience. “Would you like me to put on a shirt?”

“Too late. Scarred for life.” I had to tease him a little. He was so grouchy at 4:30 in the morning. I went back to scouring his cabinets.

“Seriously, what are you looking for?”

“Painkillers,” I said, feeling my way past a military issue canteen and a package of Oreos. Oreos just happen to fall under the category of brown edibles. I popped one in my mouth and continued my noble quest.

“You came all the way over here for painkillers?”

I gave him a second once over while crunching. Other than the bullet wounds he now sported on his chest and shoulder from when I almost got him killed a couple weeks ago, he had good skin, healthy eyelashes, six-pack abs. Cookie may have been onto something. “No, I came over here to talk to you,” I said, swallowing hard. “I just happen to need painkillers at this moment in time. They in the bathroom?” I headed that way.

“I ran out,” he said, blocking my path, clearly hiding something.

“But you’re a bond enforcement agent.”

His brows snapped together. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Come on, Swopes,” I said, my voice sharp with accusation, “I know you track down drug dealers when you’re not watching Debbie Does Dallas. You have access to all kinds of drugs. You can’t tell me you don’t pocket a little crack here, a few prescription-strength Motrin there.”

After scrubbing his face with his fingers, he strolled to a small dining room table, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Isn’t your sister a psychiatrist?”

I stepped into his bedroom and switched on the light. Besides the rumpled bed and clothes strewn about the room, it wasn’t bad. I hit the dresser first.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” Garrett called out. “I might have a case for you.”

That was exactly why I’d gone over, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m not cleaning out your truck in search of some mysteriously lost object again, Swopes. I caught on.”

“No, a real case,” he said, a smile in his voice, “through a friend of a friend. Seems this guy’s wife went missing about a week ago and he’s looking for a good PI.”

“So why send him to me?” I asked, stumped.

“Are you finished in there?”

I’d just gone through his nightstands and was headed for the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. “Just about. Your choice of porn is more eclectic than I thought it would be.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Who’s a doctor?” Nothing of use in his medicine cabinet. Absolutely nothing. Unless non-drowsy allergy medication could be considered a painkiller.

“The guy whose wife is missing.”

“Oh, right.”

Who on planet Earth didn’t have aspirin in the house? My head ached, for heaven’s sake. I’d nodded off on the way over to Garrett’s place and veered into oncoming traffic. The honking horns and flashing lights had me believing I’d been abducted by aliens. Thank goodness a well-placed telephone pole put a stop to that nonsense. I needed stronger coffee to keep me awake. Or maybe something else entirely. Something industrial.

I peeked around the door and asked, “Do you keep syringes of adrenaline on hand?”

“There are special programs for people like you.”

In a moment of sheer terror, I realized I couldn’t feel my brain. It was just there a minute ago. Maybe I really was dead. “Do I look dead to you?”

“Does your sister have an afterhours emergency number?”

“You’re not helping,” I said, making sure the disgust in my voice was unmistakable. “You would suck as a customer service representative.”

He unfolded himself from the chair and headed for the fridge. “Want a beer?”

I shuffled to the table and stole his seat. “Seriously?”

A brow arched into a shrug as he twisted the cap off a bottle.

“No, thank you. Alcohol is a depressant. I need these lids to stay open for days.” I pointed to them for visual confirmation.

“Why?” he asked after a long swig.

“Because when they’re closed, he’s there.”

“God?” Garrett guessed.

“Reyes.”

Garrett’s jaw pressed shut. Probably because he wasn’t horridly fond of Reyes or our unconventional relationship. Then again, nobody ever said consorting with the son of Satan would be easy. He set the beer on the counter and strode to his room, his movements suddenly sharp, exact. I watched him disappear—he had a nice tapering thing going on—and reappear almost instantly with shirt and boots in hand. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“I came in Misery.”

“Exactly, and I think you’ve caused enough.”

“No, my Jeep. Misery? Remember her?” Sometimes people found it odd that I’d named my cherry red Jeep Wrangler Misery, but Gertie just didn’t seem to fit. “She’ll be upset if I just leave her here on a strange side street. Alone. Injured.”

He looked back at me, startled. “You wrecked your Jeep?”

I had to think about that one. “I can’t be entirely certain. There was a telephone pole, screeching tires, the strong possibility of alien life. It all happened so fast.”

“Seriously. I need your sister’s number.” He shrugged into the shirt as he hunted down his keys.

“Desperate much? Besides, you’re not my sister’s type.”

After Garrett escorted me to his truck none-too-gently, he climbed into the driver’s side and brought the vehicle to life with a roar. The engine sounded pretty good, too. I gazed out the window as we swam through Albuquerque, the night thick with an almost impenetrable darkness. The tranquil serenity didn’t help my current predicament. My scratchy lids were like lead and grew heavier and heavier with every minute that passed. Every second. Despite the discomfort, I fought with all my strength to keep them open, because this was better than the alternative: Reyes Farrow being drawn into my dreams against either of our wills, like an invisible force pulled him toward me every time I closed my eyes. And once inside my head, all of our anger and inhibitions washed away into a sea of sensuality where mouths scorched and hands explored. Which sucked because we were both quite annoyed with each other.

But for him to say that I’d summoned him just didn’t make sense. I’d have to look into that one.

“How long have you been awake?”

I blinked back to Garrett and looked at my watch. Or, well, my wrist where my watch would have been had I remembered it. “Um, about thirteen days.”

He seemed to still beside me. I couldn’t be sure though. I was drifting in and out of reality, if the little girl with the kitchen knife on his hood was any indication. I suppose she could have been a departed, but they rarely rode on hoods.

“Look, I realize you’re different than the average human,” Garrett said, his tone guarded, “but thirteen days without sleep can’t be good for anyone, not even you.”

“Probably not. Did you buy a new hood ornament?”

He glanced at his hood. “No.”

“This doctor have a name?”

He reached across my lap into the glove box and pulled out a card. “Here’s his info. He’s supposed to go to your office this morning if you make it in.”

Dr. Nathan Yost. “I’ll make it in. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Nope. He’s an asshole. But everyone else on planet Earth seems to worship him.”

“Alrighty, then.” I tried to stuff the card into a pocket then realized I didn’t have any. “Hey, I left my bag in Misery.”

Garrett shook his head. “The things you say, Charles. Oh, I keep meaning to tell you, I’ve been working on a special list of things one should never say to the grim reaper.”

I chuckled. “I have so many comebacks to that, I don’t think I can pick just one.”

“I’ll start at the bottom,” he said with a grin. “Are you ready?”

I drew in a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Okay, number five, I’m dead tired.”

“So, it’s not a particularly long list.”

“Do you want to hear the list or not?” he asked as we pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.

“I’m weighing my options. This list could either be a revelation of apocalyptic proportions or a complete waste of my limited brain fuel. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you the rest when you’re in a better mood. It’ll make it more suspenseful.”

“Good idea,” I said with a thumbs up. Suspenseful my ass. More like annoying.

“Nobody recognizes true talent anymore.” He escorted me upstairs. “Are you going to get some sleep?” he asked as I inched the door closed between us, leaving him in the hallway.

“Not if I can help it.” At least he’d been of some use to me. I’d made it through another hour without sleep.

Just as I closed the door and turned toward the coffee pot, he reopened it, muttered, “Lock this,” then closed it again.

I trudged back and locked the door to my humble abode only to hear keys jiggling in the lock about two seconds later. Either that, or I’d fallen asleep standing up again. Since Reyes hadn’t appeared to offer me an earth-shattering climax, probably not.

Cookie burst in, strode right past me and headed straight for the coffee pot. “Did you talk to Garrett?”

I followed her. “Yep. I think there was a clown in my apartment this morning.”

“Are my pajamas that bad?” she asked, surveying the PJs she still wore. “So, what’d he say?”

“No.” I blinked back to her. “A dead clown.”

“Oh. Like a departed?”

“Yes.”

“Is he gone?” she asked, glancing around in concern.

“Yes. He crossed.”

“Well, that explains the clown comment. I just thought you were being a smart ass.”

That trip made me super sleepy. Maybe I really did need a shot of adrenaline. “Hey, I thought you were going back to bed.”

“I was, but visions of sugar plums kept dancing through my head. Sugar plums of the male variety, if you know what I mean. Speaking of which,” she said, taking a long draw on her java, “was Garrett naked?”

“Why would Garrett be naked?” I asked, carefully placing a frown on my face to camouflage the giggle bubbling up inside.

“I was just wondering if he sleeps naked.”

“I have no idea if he sleeps naked. He would hardly answer the door that way.”

She nodded in thought. “That’s a good point. Oh, crap, I have to get Amber up for school.”

“Okay, I need a shower anyway. I still smell like coffee. And I need to run by Super Dog sometime today. Don’t let me forget.” I headed for the bathroom.

“You got it. Oh,” Cookie said, pausing at the door, “I meant to tell you, I borrowed a can of coffee from the office.”

I stopped and hit her with my best glower of astonished disappointment. “You stole a can of coffee from the office?”

“I borrowed a can of coffee from the office. I’ll buy another with my next paycheck.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Charley . . . ”

“Just kidding. Don’t worry about it,” I said with a wave of my hand. “It’s not like I pay for the stuff.”

She had started out the door but stopped again. “What?”

“The coffee. I don’t actually pay for it.”

“Where do you get it?”

“I swipe it from Dad’s storeroom.” When she flashed me a look of shock and disapproval, mostly disapproval, I held up my hands and did the timeout gesture. “Hold up there, missy. I solved cases for that man for years. The least he can do is provide me with cup o’ Joe every now and then.”

My dad had been a detective with the Albuquerque Police Department and I’d been helping him solve crimes since I was five. For some reason, it’s a lot easier to solve crimes when you can ask the victim who did it. While my dad retired a few years ago, I still did the same for my Uncle Bob, also a detective with APD.

“You steal our coffee from your dad?”

“Yep.”

“I drink stolen coffee?”

“On a daily basis. Do you remember that morning about a month ago when we were out of coffee and then that guy came in with a gun and tried to kill me, and Reyes materialized out of nowhere and sliced his spine in half with that ginormous sword he keeps tucked under his robe, and Uncle Bob came with all those cops, and my dad started questioning the whole spinal cord thing?”

After a long moment, she said, “Barely,” her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, I needed a cup of coffee after that near-death experience like you would not believe, and we didn’t have any. So I took a can out of Dad’s storeroom.”

“Charley,” she said, looking around as if someone were listening, “you can’t just steal your dad’s coffee.”

“Cook, at that moment in time I would have sold my body for a mocha latte.”

She nodded in understanding. “I can certainly see why you did it that one time, but you can’t keep doing it.”

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to steal, but not me?”

“I wasn’t stealing. I was borrowing.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bonnie. Say hey to Clyde for me.”

With a loud sigh, she headed out the door again. Just before I closed the bathroom door, I called out to her, “By the way, he answered the door shirtless.”

After a loud gasp, she said, “Thank you.”
                                                                 ###

Thank you for stopping by today. Have a comment for Darynda? Join in the conversation.
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GFW Writers Do The Round Robin February 7th

2012-01-25T00:05:00.006-06:00

Image: iStockphoto

GFW Writers is sponsoring a round robin short story.
In order to get the creative mojos flowing (and who doesn't need more practice at creativity), and to give you the readers the opportunity to critique and tell the writer how he's doing, let the fun begin!

Here's how it works:
Jeff Bacot, the 'creator' of the idea will write the first 2 pages of our short story and will post on February 7th. The readers comment on and critique the two pages then the next writer will post 1-2 pages, readers comment and critique, the next writer goes, and so on until we reach a full length short story (roughly 12,000 words).

As readers, your critique and suggestions for each posting are vital to the writers and for making this fun and a success.

The title of this Round Robin Short Story is:

"A Delicious Dalliance"

Time's A Funny Thing by Jeff Turner

2012-01-23T00:05:00.004-06:00

Time’s A Funny Thing
This will be the final chapter in my third book “Notes To My Kids”. It closes the story and repeats some of the themes I write about in the book. I did something similar in “Days Remembered” with “Do You Remember?”. The notes in this book are written to my kids “Roger” and “Jane” – I use these names for them in my other books.

Photo courtesy of http://www.imdb.com/.

To Roger and Jane…
When you two were small children the movie “Always” came out. It still is one of my personal favorites. In it Pete, an air tanker pilot, played by Richard Dreyfus , gets killed in an accident. In the afterlife the guardian angel “Hap”, played by Audrey Hepburn, tries to guide him to final peace and acceptance of his fate.
In one scene he and Hap travel back and forth in time where he sees his past. While they sit in a forest Hap tells the temporally confused Pete “…time’s a funny thing…”.

Indeed it is. I think you’ll see.

Jane, Roger came over to see me the day you went back to Galveston. On New Year’s Eve day we went to eat at a Russian restaurant in Arlington. On the way we went through east Fort Worth where we used to live. And in a short time we went back and forth in time like Pete did in the movie.

After going down Loop 820, we exited at Brentwood Stair Road and drove down past the Kolache Shop, Little Tykes day care, and the bank building where your mom once worked. As we moved down Brentwood, we talked about Best Mart, the convenience store. We always stopped there for gas, beer, and snacks before we went to the New Park a little north of there. We spent a lot of time at the playground or looking at the horses in the pasture next to it. The horses are no longer there; the pasture that they once grazed in is now a field of houses.

We turned down Sandy Lane and around us were 1960’s era brick veneer homes surrounded by oak trees which looked much like they did when we lived there. We took a left onto Monterrey Drive. Similar to what we saw on Sandy, the houses seemed to be the same. Memories surfaced as we drove past the homes of our former neighbors like the Simpsons, the Jeffries – whose kids you played with, or Mrs. Shaw who was always in a bad mood.

Then we were in front of our old home. The big trees were still there, bigger than before, but the house was mostly the same. . The dormers still faced the front yard from your old rooms upstairs and the big tree in the middle of the back yard still cast its branches over the yard. The big bay window by the front door also looked the same. How many times did we peer through its glass to see what was outside? The owners had painted the red brick a medium gray but that was the only obvious change. And next to it there was Jess and Madge’s old house which really did look unchanged. At that moment I could see us there with Jess on a warm summer day. A grandfather, he would smile at you two and ask what you had been doing at school. While these things happened over 20 years ago it seemed we were still there, as if time had stood still.

Coming back to the present we turned around and drove further down Sandy finding the Old Park. The playground equipment that you two once scurried over was new. The trees remained along with the ball field and at the north end of the park was our old backyard fence. The second story of the house and the big tree on the back property line still looked above its top. The year could have been 1985 or 1995 and it would have looked the same.

Next, we continued south on Sandy and drove past the cemetery, where Lee Harvey Oswald lies in his unmarked grave. Nothing much had changed, the same houses, buildings, and trees still stood guard along the street where they had always been.

We drove on to Arlington and turned on to Lancaster to the east beside the railroad tracks, past unchanged areas of trees and pastures.. About the only new things were the gas wells in the fields. The leafless but timeless post oaks were still there, reaching quietly upward around the new well heads and tanks.

When we arrived in Arlington we drove past the Campo Verde restaurant where we used to eat. I wondered if the food was as good as it was in the past. On the outside it looked the same as if nearly twenty years hadn’t passed. And as we neared the Russian place I saw another restaurant we’d frequented: Jo-Ed’s Bomber which made northeastern style sub sandwiches. It, too, was seemingly unchanged. All enhanced our love of togetherness and good food. We laughed a lot back then.

After we ate at the Russian place, we went by a house on Bowen Road that your mom and I considered buying. We didn’t because it had a foundation leak in the garage. The neighborhood around it, like the old east side, hadn’t changed much. Time had passed but you could not tell that just by driving through the area. That day was a trip down the Memory Lane seeing what once was the fabric of our lives. On the way to eat lunch we saw a big slice of our past in a couple of hours. Just as Pete saw his life go back and forth before his eyes in that short scene in “Always”, we saw a big part of our lives go by as we drove down those once frequently travelled roads.

So Hap was right you see, time is a funny thing. Things and places change and sometimes they don’t, even though decades have flown past. Though the world and time has moved on, at least it still is in our memories. Hence, they should not be forgotten, but should be tucked away in our hearts and minds to be revisited from time to time. When we go back to see our old haunts, we see where we came from and recall important events from our lives one more time.

Maybe that is why I write my books. Recording the past helps me make drives like we did that day. In that way, the memory of our time together as a family will go down time’s own long road and be remembered by you, and hopefully one day by your own family and kids. Then you can tell them time’s a funny thing just like Hap told Pete.

Jeff has published two books, the story of a marriage before divorce and another after divorce, Notes To Stephanie: Middle Aged Love Letters and life Stories and Notes To Stephanie, Days Remembered. His current WIP is titled Notes To My Kids: Little Stories About Grown Up Kids. When he is not writing he is involved in I-T Projects and loves cooking.