WRITER
AND REALITY WORKING TOGETHER
It's
midsummer, this means that my writing has taken a back seat to my family,
vacations and visitors. Still, I fiddle with my books, look at fellow writers'
blogs, and scheme my September plan of attack. Do you have a plan of attack?
Here's mine.
Mission
Statement: Write books that entertains, inspires, and encourages spouses to hug and kiss each other, parents to laugh
and play with their children, friends
whisper kind words to each other and strangers to exchange pleasantries and
practice charity and goodwill.
The
Five Year Goal: Twenty published novels. Hundreds of blog posts. Travel books.
Market
and Focus: Female audience (except for my brothers and cousins who read my
books) over the age of thirteen. Predominately well educated, older women who
are looking for something to read on the plane or on the beach or who need an
escape. My books are the equivalent of a bath without water—a totally
immersing, relaxing, mood enhancer. My
books are meant to be shared with anyone, including but not limited to,
grandmothers, daughters, priests and yogis.
Competitor
Analysis: Continue to watch and learn from fellow writers by lurking on online
writer forums, groups and blogs. Scrounge good ideas.
Strengths:
(Why I Will Be Successful): Limitless time, discipline and an incredible
imagination. Support from family, friends and writers’ groups.
Obstacles:
Limited budget. Discouragement. False expectations. A profound hatred and fear
of self promotion.
Promotion:
At least one hour a day, five days a week. This entails blogging, querying
review sites, guest posts, newsletters, give-aways, contests, book trailers,
how to guides, sprinkled with a select few personal forays where I actually
have to leave the house and interact with humans.
Writing
Schedule: Four hours a day, five days a week with a weekly goal of 10k words,
drafting. That equates to a first draft
in six to eight weeks, depending on the length of the novel. One month, same
daily schedule, for editing and revisions. Goal: three to four books published
a year. A summer vacation. A Christmas break.
Conclusion:
In a world swimming with entertainment, I will provide wholesome, witty, and
romantic escapism for my family, friends and any who may find me and my books.
And how am I doing so far?
This
year I published:
Beyond the Hollow (January)
Stuck
With You (June)
And
will publish:
Beyond
the Pale (Fall)
The
Witching Well (a novella in a clean romance anthology that will be the
beginning of a time travel romance series.)
Anywhere
Else (a short story in the Hugh Howey Indie Anthology)
Here’s
an excerpt from my work in progress, The Witching Well. (This is not the first scene, but so far, it's pretty close to my favorite.)
Her
body hummed with energy and she grinned in the darkness. She found the rhythmic
motion hypnotic and soothing. The clip-clop of the horses…
Wait.
Horses?
Celia
eye’s popped open. She sat in a carriage. An obese woman draped in satin and
furs sat directly in front of her, snoring, her mouth ajar.
Celia’s
own mouth dropped open. She sat up and took note. Same putrid pink dress. Same
pinchy shoes. But the wedding, Mia, her mom and grandmother? All gone. Replaced
by a grotesque snoring thing wearing a satin tent.
Celia
ran her hands first over the velvet seat cushion, then the burnished wood
walls, and finally the black, smooth drapes. It all felt real.
But
she must be drunk. Or hallucinating. Had she had too much champagne? No. That
drink! That Corban person! He must have put something in her water! But it
looked like water. It tasted like water. Celia ran her tongue over her teeth,
trying to find an after taste, or a hint of something.
She
drew back the curtain and peered into the dark. A brilliant, star studded sky
gazed down on her. No street lights. No lights at all, except for the one
bobbing on the front of the carriage. Leaning forward, she craned to see the
driver, but saw nothing but a horse’s butt and its swishing tail. As if the
animal knew she was watching, and he didn’t appreciate her stare, he lifted his
tail to poop.
Celia
sat back with a humph and crossed her arms over her chest. The putrid pink
dress had a bunchy bodice, giving her a va va voom that, when she first saw it,
made her complain first to Mia and then to grandmother.
“It’s
her wedding,” Grandma Geneva said. “If she wants you to dress like a cat, you
better get used to whiskers.”
And
in the interest in peace in the family and not wanting to upset her mom, Celia
bit her lip about the dress and vowed that when it was her turn to marry she
would do it on the courthouse steps.
And
Mia would have to wear a clown suit.
Complete
with a red nose.
Celia
closed her eyes and let the rhythmic sway of the carriage lull her back to
sleep. When she woke, she’d be at home. In her bed. And she’d never have to
wear this dress again.
Crack!
Celia’s
eyes flew open. She sat up straight and glanced at the woman across from her.
The woman snorted and nestled her double chin into her fur collar. What was
that sound? Was the carriage breaking beneath the woman’s weight?
Crack!
Was
it gun fire? The carriage lurched, stopping so quickly that the portly lady
slid off the seat.
“What
the devil?” the woman moaned, righting herself. She gave Celia a cross look, as
if Celia had knocked her off the bench.
Crack!
“Gunshots!”
the woman hissed. She pursed her lips,
yanked off an enormous emerald necklace and shoved it at Celia. “Hide this.”
Celia
stared stupidly at the jewels. If they were real, she could use them to pay the
lease on the shop! Wishing she had a pocket, her mind scattered over options.
In her bra? No. The stones were too big and the bodice too tight. Not knowing
what else to do, she lifted her skirts and tucked the necklace into her lace
garter. She
patted her skirts back into place just before the door flew open.
“Stand
and deliver!”
Deliver
what? And how could she stand inside of a carriage? Celia, crouched on her
seat. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw nothing but the silvery end of a gun
pointing at her forehead. None of this is real, Celia told herself. It’s the
champagne speaking.
“Come,
come ladies,” the voice spoke again. It sounded familiar. A chill went down her
back.
The
man stepped out of the shadows and his gaze met hers, but not an ounce of
recognition glistened in his eyes. She thought she knew him, but since a mask
hid half his face she couldn’t be sure.
“My lady.” He swept his arms in a low bow.
“Who
are you?” Celia gave the gun another glance. It looked real enough.
He
lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his lips, a slow and lazy smile, but
continued to point the gun at her forehead.
The
emeralds pinched her thighs. She couldn’t look at them. She couldn’t adjust
them. She couldn’t call his attention to them in anyway.
His
gaze traveled over her horrid pink dress and stopped at her mid-thigh, as if he
could see through the layers of sateen and frilly slip to the garter smashing
the emeralds against her leg.
“May
I be of assistance?” Again, that trill of recognition tingled over Celia. She
knew him. Somehow.
She
shook her head, knowing she couldn’t touch him. If she touched him and he was
real, tangible, then she would…well, she didn’t know what she would do. Nothing
like this had ever happened to her before.
“Are
you mute?” he asked, cocking his head at her. His grin deepened. “Or is my
charm rendering you speechless?”
“Have
you considered that maybe I’m put off by the gun you’re holding to my head?”
“Ah,
so you can speak after all. Pity that. I do love a quiet woman.” He placed his
hand on his heart. “Please, my dears, join me.”
But
Celia refused to budge, and since her companion stood behind her they stayed in
the coach. She stood, staring at his mouth—the only part of his face she could
see—other than his eyes. She found his eyes and lips hypnotizing. Her gaze
traveled from one feature to the next, wondering which one she liked the most.
He’s
a highway man! Her inner voice of reason told her. And a figment of your
imagination!
“I’m
sure you understand this is not a social call.” His gaze flicked over Celia
and rested on her va va voom bodice. “Not entirely. Although I do enjoy mixing
business and pleasure.”
“Where’s
Eddie?” the woman barked over Celia’s shoulder. “What have you done with
Eddie?”
The
woman leaned over Celia’s back, and Celia’s foot caught on the door’s lip. She
would have tumbled and fell if the highway man hadn’t shot out his arm to
steady her. His hand tightened around her and in one fluid movement, he lifted her
out of the carriage and placed her on the ground.
She
stood, breathless and warm from his sudden, brief contact. Her breath came in
ragged huffs.
A
snapping twig drew her attention to three men standing in the shadows. They
stood as silent and watchful as the trees. All three had weapons drawn.
“Where’s
Eddie?” the woman barked out.
“Have
you hurt the driver?” Celia asked, her voice catching in her throat.
The
highway man flicked his head toward a cluster of trees. “He’s unharmed, except
for, perhaps his ego.”
“What
is your name?” the woman whispered.
“My
name?” Celia asked.
“Not
your name, you goat head! I know your name.”
Celia
wondered what her name might be, or her role, or position. Was she a maid? A
paid companion? A relation? She shivered, and told herself that she needed to
wake. This dream had gone on too long already. She should have woken as soon as
she saw the gun. That’s what normally would have happened. Nightmares typically
ended with a major scare.
She
tried pinching herself. It hurt, but not enough to wake her.
The
woman fixed her attention on the highway man. “Who are you?”
“Why
would he tell you that?” Celia asked, a little stung at being called a goat
head.
The
man chuckled. “You do not need my name, but I need your valuables.”
Quiet
descended and Celia noticed for the first time the clamor of crickets, a
hooting owl, and a nearby tumbling river. Country night sounds, usually masked
by the roar of constant traffic on the parkway.
He
waved his gun at the woman. “That ring, if you please.”
Celia
watched, wondering what the woman would do.
Slowly,
the woman climbed from the coach.
The horses stamped their feet impatiently, and
shook their reins. For a second, Celia thought about jumping on a horse and
riding away. But then she remembered that she knew nothing about horses and
getting one loose from the carriage might be tricky. Besides, even if it wasn’t
real, that gun looked like an actual gun, which meant that the bullet might
possibly feel real, and she didn’t like pain—real or imaginary.
The
woman drew the ring off her finger. “I have a reticule in the carriage,” she
told the man. “If you’d like, I’ll give it to you.”
The
man snorted a laugh. “Not likely.” He waved the gun at one of the henchmen, his
gaze never leaving the two women. “Search the carriage. Tell me if you find any
hidden pistols.”
Celia
slid a quick glance at the woman, wondering if she was cunning or just stupid.
The
second man passed by. He smelled unwashed and earthy. The woman reached out and
shoved Celia into him. “Take her!”
The
man stumbled under Celia’s sudden weight, but the highway man caught her in his
arms. One arm drew her to him and held her close. She felt safe there, although
she knew that she shouldn’t.
“Hold
her hostage! Kill her if you must!” The woman clambered into the coach, and
slammed the door.
Celia
fought to breathe. She knew she had to leave, she knew that staying pressed up
against the strange and dangerous man was stupid. He had his hand on her belly,
his fingers splayed across her. He smelled of cloves and when he spoke, his
breath warmed her.
“That
was most unkind,” he said, sounding surprised and disapproving.
The
second man scrambled after the woman, and flung open the door. Amid the
screams, the carriage rocked back and forth.
“I
won’t harm you,” the highway man whispered, his lips brushing against her hair.
Celia
glanced at the gun. In the moonlight it looked very real and very lethal.
Almost as devastating as the man holding her in his arms.
He
shifted, bringing her in front of him. In one quick moment, he captured her
lips.
Celia’s
knees buckled. Her thoughts raced back to all those Regency romance novels of
her grandmother’s that she had read as a girl. Georgette someone. Hideous,
Horrendous, no, Heyer. Yes, that was it. Georgette Heyer. What would Georgette
call this? A seduction? A ravishing? Oh my gosh! That was it! She was being
ravished by a rake!
Wake
up! Her mind screamed. No more kissing!
Oh,
but it felt so good. So very, very good.
Panic
gripped her. Breaking lose, she ripped off his mask.
Corban
West stood in the pool of moonlight, gun dangling at his side.
Fun excerpt. Summer is busy. I've had to cut back on my writing time, but it's okay.
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