Victoria’s Promise Pre-Order

I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Victoria’s Promise is now available. The bad news is that it’s only available for pre-order at this time.

I really wanted to have the book ready to go by the end of March, but I don’t want to cheat anyone by pushing it out before it’s completely ready.  I learned that I had made a slight mistake about some of the history mentioned in my book, and I just wanted a couple of extra weeks to clean it up before I release it on April 30.

As a way of apologizing for keeping you all waiting, I’ve listed it at .99 cents during the pre-order and will keep it at that price for a limited time before bumping it up to its regular price of $2.99.

Thank you all for your patience. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure this book is worth the wait!

Happy Summer!

 

You know how sometimes you just feel the need to go back and re-read a book that you’ve read many times before?

That’s where I’ve been lately. I don’t know why, but I recently had to sit down and read Janette Oke’s Love Comes Softly and all its sequels. They are sweet, easy-to-read stories that I discovered during my first pregnancy when I became obsessed with tales of the American Frontier.

I also watched the movies “based on” the first three books in the series and laughed my ass off over some of the worst book-to-movie adaptations in the history of book-to-movie adaptations. Really, Hallmark? Did any of you folks actually read any of the books?

At any rate, re-reading Janette Oke’s books has sent me off on a reading spree of romantic fiction set during that era. I’ve discovered authors like Shanna Hatfield and Annie Boone. I’ve become addicted to the  Cutter’s  Creek and Pendleton Petticoats series.

Now, I don’t know about any of you, but when I discover some new favorites, I tend to go a bit overboard. Housework suffers. I stay up too late at night reading. I get lost in the fictional world I am reading about.

And because I’m a writer, something else happens.

I get inspired.

So .  . . I am writing my first historical fiction. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do but have been afraid to try because I worry that I’m not smart enough to get the historical details right. But if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, I’ve learned that the only way to conquer fear is to face it head-on and tell it to go to hell.

It’s going to be a squeaky-clean romance, without any descriptive sex. Hey, I want to write something my mother-in-law can read without leading to any uncomfortable conversations between us!

Never fear, I’m still finishing up my Beach Haven series, and I plan on continuing to make folks smile with the sequel to Fat, Fifty, and Menopausal. I’m just taking a little detour. So please be patient with me and understand if things stay quiet here for the next few months. I promise, I’m still going strong. I’ve got books to read, books to write, bonfires to attend, and a great big lake to swim in.

What about all of you? What are you reading this summer?

Happy summer, all!

 

 

 

What’s Next?

One thing I’ve learned about being a writer is that my ideas all seem to hit at the same time, usually when I’m buried in one project and struggling toward the finish line. I may be in the middle of a romance novel, flying toward the final chapter, when all of a sudden — BOOM! I get an idea for a great short story. My brain goes, “Hey, what if you wrote about this?”

I could blame it on having ADHD, or I could try to psychoanalyze myself and say it’s a self-destructive urge to distract myself from completing my current project. Or I could whine about it, sort of like I’m doing right now.

But when my project is done and I’m ready to start on something new, I tend to find myself in a completely different situation. I fix a nice hot cup of coffee, put on some comfy clothes, and sit down at the keyboard with every intention of diving headlong into my next idea. I am a writer, I tell myself, and I’m gonna kick some literary butt with this next one!

And then . . . nothing happens.

Nothing.

All of those great ideas that swarmed me a few days or weeks ago? Nowhere to be found. Even though I jotted down notes to remind myself of the fabulousness of everything zooming around inside my head, nothing really grabs me.

Nothing.

That’s where I’ve been for the past several weeks, since I finished Their Love Rekindled. I’ve been floundering along with Love & Destiny, but I’m having a hard time hitting my stride. Just not feeling it.

So I took some time off and did some reading. No writing. I read a lot of romance, of course, because that’s my favorite. Besides, it’s always a good idea to check out the writers in my field. I discovered (and loved!) the works of Cindy Kirk, Staci Stallings, and Gail Gaymer Martin. But I also decided it was time to step out of my comfort zone and read things in genres I don’t usually explore.

I finally read the rest of the “Grace” series by M. Lauryl Lewis (and didn’t sleep well for a week afterward). I fell in love with the “Ruby Danger” series by Rickie Blair. I snickered all the way through Essa Alroc’s The Apology, and I got a whole new outlook on historical fiction from Old Fashioned Values by Margaret Brazear. I read One Silent Voice: The Jeannie Singleton Story by Nicole Du Shane, which is a fascinating and disturbing true story despite some really disappointing editing and formatting issues with the book itself.

And the strangest thing happened: my ideas started flowing again. Just not in the direction I had planned.

I didn’t think I was ready to start the fourth book in my Beach Haven series just yet, but apparently I was wrong because it is basically writing itself. I’ve finished almost half of it in less than two weeks. Those of you who have read the series might be surprised to learn that the hero of this one is attorney Ben Jacobs, who is sort of the anti-romance hero. He’s balding, not traditionally handsome, and a classic “nice guy.” I think you’ll all be stunned when you find out who he’s falling in love with!

I know I was.

I’ve never really tried to work on more than one book at a time, and I’m sure it’s not the wisest decision I’ve ever made. But I’ve got another project in the works right now, one that’s not a romance novel. It’s a lot more personal, and I am having perhaps a little bit too much fun with it. I’m calling it Fat, Fifty, and Menopausal.

I’ve thought about subtitling it: I Have No Filters.

It’s all about staring down the spectre of my upcoming fiftieth birthday and finding humor in the fact that I am not where I thought I would be at this point in life. It’s about dealing with hot flashes and saggy boobs and dating after fifty, with a little bit of empty nest anxiety thrown in. I am hoping to reach an audience of women at a similar point in their lives, and give them a reason to laugh even on the days when things seem the darkest.

As some of you know, I am coming out of a very dark period in my own life, and I’m not sure I would have survived these past few years without a sense of humor. Blogging has helped me discover my “voice” and a sense of humor that I never knew I had, so I’m trying to put that experience to good use in this new book.

In the next few months, I’ll share some excerpts from Fat, Fifty, and Menopausal with you all. I’m also working with an artist who is creating some amazing original art for the cover, and I plan on sharing a few sneak peeks at the progress as it all comes together. This is huge for me, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

So that’s where I’m at right now as I face the first “snow day” of the new year. It’s finally a little chilly in my overheated apartment (until the next hot flash, anyway), and my kids are snowed in at their dad’s house. It’s just me, the coffeepot, and my beat-up laptop with the missing keys.

If you’re a writer, how do you handle it when your muse disappears?  Or better yet, when your muse dumps a truckload of ideas on you all at the same time?  I’d love to hear from some of you!

Preview: Their Love Rekindled!

Okay, guys, it’s the home stretch. Their Love Rekindled is going to be released on Friday, November 20!

I am so excited about the way this one has turned out. I even surprised myself with a few of the plot twists. Like the rest of the books in this series, Their Love Rekindled is a standalone story that can be read with or without the others. There are, however, a few familiar names and faces making a cameo appearance or two.

I’m ready to share a sneak peek here, although I am a bit nervous about introducing my new characters to the world. Here’s the book’s description as it will show up on the Amazon page:

Everyone in Beach Haven thought Aaron and Cassie were the perfect couple. Right up until Cassie eloped with Aaron’s best friend, that is.

Now, ten years later, Cassie has been widowed and Aaron is asked to come home and speak at a memorial in her late husband’s honor. He’s got to find a way past his anger and hurt to forgive his old friend, but he doesn’t expect to find that his feelings for Cassie are stronger than ever.

Cassie never expected to see Aaron again, especially since he’s made a life for himself in Texas all these years. She’s got no choice but to keep her distance from him because she knows he’ll never be able to forgive her if he ever finds out the truth she’s been hiding from him. But how can she keep her distance when just seeing him brings back all of the old memories of what they once shared?

Since Chapter One will be available in the “Look Inside” when the book goes live on Amazon, I’ve decided to share a different part. The following scene takes place a few chapters in, when things start to heat up in the kitchen.

***

She whirled. “Why are you here, Aaron?”

“Supper. Your son invited me, remember?”

“No, I mean why are you here in Beach Haven? Why did you come back? And when are you leaving?”

He shrugged. “My sister called me last week and said she needed help taking care of Mom after the surgery and her infection and everything. I took a leave of absence from work and got here as fast as I could, but now . . .”

She waited.

“Mom’s not as bad as they made it sound,” he admitted. “They tricked me. They want me to speak about Mikey at the fundraiser. Mom has this crazy idea that I need to make some kind of peace with his memory. I wasn’t going to do it, to be honest. I planned on getting right back in my car first thing tomorrow and heading back to Texas.”

“Good. Have a safe trip.” She watched the surprised grin pop up on his face, as though there was something funny about her rudeness.

“I said I wasn’t going to do it. Now, I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, don’t. Don’t think about it at all.”

Absently, Aaron picked up a dishtowel and started drying the bowls she had washed. “I don’t want to hate him anymore, Cass,” he finally said. “Or you. You two were my best friends, and I loved you both. I just can’t . . . I can’t get past . . . I feel like I need to stay and say my good-bye to Mikey. I missed his funeral, but I can do this much for him.”

She reached out to take the towel from him, and their hands touched. Her fingertips tingled at the contact.

He was hurting; that much was plain to see. She’d had a year to accept Mikey’s sudden death, but Aaron had somehow managed to avoid dealing with it until now. No matter what had happened between the three of them or how many years had gone by without speaking, the two men had been like brothers. She could see his struggle between grief and anger written clearly on his face.

Without thinking about it, she reached up with her other hand to touch his face. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the warmth of her touch, and she caught her breath as the tingle turned into a jolt of electricity that flared through her entire body.

He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. His body felt warm and firm against hers; she longed to slip her hand inside his shirt and run her fingers across the muscles of his chest, to seek out the familiarity of the body she had once known so well. For an instant, she could almost hear the pounding of the waves and moaning of the foghorn as she remembered again the way their bodies had moved together so long ago in the tiny room of the old North Pier lighthouse.

His lips brushed hers, tentatively at first but growing more insistent. She responded, her tongue meeting his as he pulled her even closer. Their bodies still fit together perfectly, just ast they always had. She could feel his arousal pressed against her and she wanted to feel more of him, even though the logical part of her mind was shouting at her to stop.

Aaron touched her cheek and pulled away suddenly, looking down at the wetness on his fingertips. Embarrassed, she brushed away the tears she hadn’t even realized she had shed.

“Cassie –“ he whispered.

Just then, they both heard Trevor’s footsteps stomping across the room upstairs. The boy was obviously still unhappy about being forced to do his homework, and he was going to let everyone know exactly how he felt about it.

Pull yourself together! She scolded herself. “You need to leave, Aaron. Go back to your mom’s house, and go back to Texas. The fire chief can speak about Miguel at the talent show. You really shouldn’t be here.”

Aaron looked up at the ceiling and then back down at her. The tenderness she had seen in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze that she had never seen before.

“I’ll go back to Mom’s tonight, “ he told her. “But I’m not going back to Texas until I find out if Trevor is my son or not. If I have to get a court order for a paternity test, I will. But one way or another, I’m staying in Beach Haven until I find out the truth.”

Erotica 101

I’ve been struggling all day today to write one of those scenes for my romance novel.  Yes, one of those.   I thought this would be the fun part of writing romantic fiction.  Fun and easy.   After all, I’ve been married for nearly seventeen years and I have three children; it’s safe to say that yes, I’ve had sex.  I know how it works, which parts go where, what makes the good stuff happen.

Write what you know, they tell me.  Well, I’m no sex therapist, but I’m far from being a blushing virgin.

I got this.

So I’m baffled as to why I spent most of the day staring at my computer and blushing myself into a Rosacea flare-up.  I have finally come to the conclusion that I am going to have to write a squeaky clean romance novel, where the sex takes place behind closed doors.  Either that or I’ll end up writing a novel that contains “real” sex scenes.

And that will never get published.

In romance novels, characters say passionate things to each other during the act.  “No man has ever made me feel this way!”  the heroine shrieks at a key moment, and the hero tells her things like, “I’ve wanted to do this to you from the first time our eyes met across the room at that party.”    “I’ll love you forever,” she whispers as they roll over and start again right away.

Conversations like that just don’t happen during real sex.  If there’s any talking at all, it’s usually along the lines of “shhh, don’t wake the kids” or “ow, ow, ow, elbows!”   On a really special night, someone may utter a throaty “No, my left” but there’s no calling out of names or frantic declarations of undying love in the midst of things.  Frankly, there’s just not always enough air in one’s lungs to do all that talking while everything else is going on.

Sort of like jogging and carrying on a conversation at the same time.

Besides, I don’t know about the romantic heroines in those novels, but I just can’t focus on that many things at one time.  Forming words takes thought processes that I may not have right then.  If I stop everything to try to form intelligible words at crucial moments, I’m likely to forget what’s going on and simply end up in a conversation.  I’m easily distracted.

Real people have conversations before and after.  Not during.

Sex in those novels is always so pretty.  Bodies fit perfectly with no fat parts making slap-slap noises against other fat parts.  Nobody ever gets an inner-thigh leg cramp or whacks their head against the headboard, and God forbid those perfect bodies emit any juicy squelching sounds when parts start working in tandem.

In romance novels, the sheets have always just been changed.  Hotel bedding never has bedbugs.  Couples can romp on a beach in the pounding surf without making mental comparisons to sandpaper grades.  Sex can last for hours and hours, moving from the kitchen table to the bedroom floor to the shower stall and then finish up in the neighbor’s begonias, after which they just happen to have the right ingredients on hand for one of them to whip up a five-course gourmet breakfast while the other showers.

Seriously, don’t these people ever have to get up for work in the morning?

I’m not trying to criticize the entire genre of romantic fiction.  On the contrary, I love reading romance novels and I’m doing my best to write them.  But I have to wonder:  am I the only one who reads them for the love story and not the naughty bits?  Or am I like the man who claims to buy Playboy for the articles?

Paperback Writer

Is it a bad thing to admit that I write romance novels?

I’ve read the classics.  I majored in English and have studied the works of everyone from Aristophanes to Baudelaire to Whitman and Tennyson.  I struggled through Hardy and Lawrence and earned a grudging respect for Hawthorne’s ability to fill multiple pages with one endless sentence that somehow remained grammatically correct (see how I did that?).  I can discuss Twain and Poe the way some people talk about this week’s bargains at Wal-Mart.

But sometimes . . .  I just want to feel good.

Romance novels are all about the guaranteed happy ending.  Real life can be a little short on those. Romance in the real world is less about roses and moonlit escapades, and more about figuring out whose turn it is to pick up the kids after school.  Real life marriages deal with adultery and abuse, debt and divorce.  Seriously, when was the last time anyone jetted off to Greece for a weekend of passionate sex on a warm sandy beach?

I don’t want to read about people like me.  I have enough of my own unsolvable problems without reading about someone else’s.  Sometimes I just want to escape into a tidy 50,000-word universe where everyone’s troubles are wrapped up by the power of true love.  I know it’s not realistic.  I also know it’s not realistic to think I’ll ever fit into size 14 jeans again, but that doesn’t stop me from keeping a pair in my drawer.

When I was hurt in 2011, I had months to do nothing but read.  I vowed to keep my mind alert by tackling some of the biggies I hadn’t attempted yet, like Tolstoy.  I also devoured modern classics by authors like Piccoult and Lehane.  I even read some of the oldies-but-goodies I had somehow missed:  Anne of Green Gables.  Pollyanna.  Salmon of a Doubt.

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed most of them.  I don’t regret the time spent reading them.

But as I sat there in a brace from stem to stern, realizing every day just how much of my life I was never going to get back, I lost my desire to read things that were good for me.  I just wanted to go somewhere else for a while.  Somewhere that could make me forget all of the things I will never do again.  Somewhere that constant pain becomes a nagging afterthought rather than a primary focus.   A place where people recover from car accidents and go on to lead a better, fuller life thanks to the perfect love of that one special person.

Sometimes real life drops a maple tree on your car and your romantic hero sits by your hospital bed or brings you stool softeners instead of flowers.  He reads warning labels on your prescriptions rather than love poems in your honor.  Instead of donning an elegant gown and flitting off to some gala ball, you wear a hospital gown and celebrate taking three steps with a walker.  You swallow Norco and Flexeril, not champagne and strawberries.  And you figure out ways to make love despite broken necks and exhaustion and fear and the sheer ugliness of real life.

I understand that romance novels don’t reflect real life, and that every escape into one must involve a return to reality.  But so what?  I could drink to escape; I could abuse my pain meds.  I could lose myself in a wallow of self pity and chocolate.  Instead, I choose to escape temporarily into a world where everyone gets what they want and the good guys always win.

What’s so bad about that?