Friday, March 13, 2015

J is for Jobs

Margaret looks at her characters' jobs.
 
My first job was a typist, my second a shorthand typist, my third a secretary, and my fourth and most enjoyable a writer.
 
But even as a writer I’m still interested in jobs. For the simple reason that each of my main characters work and although I don’t need every single detail of what they do, I need to know enough to make it look as though I do. I tend to cheat and make a lot of my heroines secretaries and my heroes businessmen, but it isn’t always the case.
 
Here are a few of the jobs my heroes and heroines have had:
Explorer
Stud Farmer
Banker
Hotelier
Beautician
Journalist
Hairdresser
Yachtsman
 
And naturally each of these jobs have to be researched – some more than others. What do I know about sailing? Nothing.
 
What do I know about breeding horses? Nothing.
 
Nowadays most things can be researched on the internet, but before this marvellous creation I either used library books or managed to get an interview with someone in the ‘trade’.
 
For instance when I decided my hero would be a stud farmer I searched until I found one not too many miles away from where I lived and approached him about an interview – which he willingly gave – though he did look uncomfortable when he told me his mares were sent away for covering. In my ignorance, me being a townie, I asked him what he meant by covering. Well, he didn’t actually blush but he didn’t look me in the eye either before mumbling, “Er – mating.”
 
It’s funny what things stick in your mind, isn’t it?
 
It makes me wonder whether it was far more fun doing research this way.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

J is for Jasmine

Debra takes a look at the five senses in a story.

As writers we know the importance of including sensory information in our stories. We're told to include all five senses. But of course some senses are much easier to include than others.

Sight is obviously an easy one. Everything that's happening is being seen by either the hero or the heroine. Of course it's up to us, as authors, to do justice to what's being seen by adding description to our scenes.

Sound is another fairly easy one. Our characters hear each other speak. They might listen to the radio. Or be at a bar with loud overlapping conversations or music in the background. Things in our environment make sounds too. Again, as an author, we need to include those sounds in our descriptions. This gives us a chance to stretch our creative muscles. Rather than...'it was raining' we can say something like 'raindrops tap-danced on the windows'.

Touch is pretty manageable too. Especially in a romance, characters are always touching one another. Whether it's the warmth of his hand in the small of her back as he guides her out onto the dance floor or how his warm breath mingles with hers the first time they kiss. Your heroine might find herself wrapped in the warm hug of cashmere when she dons a favorite sweater. Or the cotton of the hero's shirt might be rough (or soft) against her cheek when she tucks her head beneath his chin and nestles in for a hug.

Taste can get a bit trickier, but any type of eating lends itself to this. My characters generally share at least one meal together. Even his kisses may taste like whiskey. Or he might taste the mint of her toothpaste or gum.

Then we get to smell. Obviously our world is filled with smells. Some are nice. Some are not so nice. Foods have a smell. Different seasons have smells. Houses can have smells. But when it comes to personal smells, this is the sense I have the most trouble realistically incorporating. My heroine's shampoo might smell like jasmine, or cherries, or vanilla. In One Great Night, Jason mentions how Chloe always smells like honeysuckle. Okay, let's be honest here. What man is going to recognize the scent of honeysuckle? Heck, I wouldn't recognize the scent of honeysuckle. But it sure made for a nice, romantic moment in the story. So I do tend to associate my heroine with a certain smell when I'm in the POV of the hero. But then the hero's smell is even trickier for me. I'll be honest again...I don't like sweaty guys. So even if my hero has been working in the hot sun all day...I am not going to go there. My heroes always wear aftershave or cologne (because I think it's sexy), but this is even harder to describe than an herbal scent for a woman. I usually come up with something lame like 'spicy' or 'woodsy'. I think the most creative I ever got with it was to add 'citrusy' to the mix, but does cologne really smell like citrus? Probably not. I love the smell of my hubby's bodyspray, but heck if I can specifically describe it other than 'sexy'.

So, whether it's difficult for us or not, it's important to include these sensory details for our readers. It helps to strengthen POV for our characters, and it helps to ground the reader in a scene and pull her deeper into the story, as if she's really right there experiencing everything along with our hero and heroine.

Until next time,

Happy Reading!

Debra
www.debrastjohnromance.com

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Jumping for Joy

Paula lists 10 different (writing) occasions when she jumps for joy!

Yesterday at this time, I had no idea what to write for my ‘J’ post this week. I put a request on Facebook – and was overwhelmed with all the suggestions, which ranged from Jello to Juxtaposition. Many thanks to all my FB friends – who gave me enough ideas to write a year’s worth of J posts! Apologies that I couldn’t use them all.

The one that ‘jumped’ out at me was ‘Jumping for Joy’ – as I immediately thought of all the joyful moments that occur when I’m writing. Here are some of them:

1. When I see, hear, or read something that sows a seed in my mind for a story, a scene, or a character.

2. When the seed starts to grow and the basic outline of a story begins to take shape in my mind.

3. When my two main characters somehow ‘appear’ in my mind, waiting for me to get to know them as I start to write their story.

4. When a secondary character appears out of the blue, leaving me thinking ‘Where on earth did he/she come from?’

5. When the characters surprise me by revealing something about themselves or their past lives that I didn’t know.

6. When I realise that I, like my heroine, have fallen in love with the hero.

7. When I think I’m stuck on ‘what happens next?’ and the solution jumps into my mind, sometimes when I’m driving, or washing the dishes, or – as happened with ‘Irish Intrigue’- when a brainstorming friend says just 4 words that gave me the elusive answer I’d been searching for.

8. When I complete the first draft (after a lot of agonising and brain-searching) and get ready to revise, tweak, and polish the story until I’m happy with it.

9. When someone tells me I kept them awake because they couldn’t stop reading my story and I know I have created a ‘page-turner’.

10. When my Amazon ranking jumps up (meaning more sales) and/or when someone writes a glowing review of my book.

What makes you ‘jump for joy’?

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

J is for Just Re-Released

Jennifer's book is out!

I’m happy to announce that Skin Deep, my contemporary romance originally published by Whiskey Creek Press in 2011, has been re-released by Rebel Ink Press.

With a tighter storyline and a brand new cover that better reflects the grittiness of the story, it’s currently available as an e-book, but will be released in paperback shortly.

Here’s the blurb:

The last thing Valerie needs, after escaping an abusive marriage to an alcoholic and rebuilding her life, is a broody, secretive, standoffish man. But that’s exactly what she gets when she becomes a makeup artist on the set of a hit sitcom and draws the attention of the series’ star.
John Samuels hides a terrible past—a life of abuse and neglect. A successful acting career and the affection and support of cast, crew and friends, does nothing to convince him that he is anything other than an unlovable monster.
            Will he learn that the life he’s been living has been built on a lie or will he be doomed to repeat the sins of his father?

And here’s an excerpt:

That night, after all the scenes had been shot, Valerie waited for everyone to leave. She didn’t want to answer questions or receive pity.
She arranged and rearranged drawers and tools. The trailer contained three stations, each with its own make-up chair. A long table ran down one wall, with plenty of drawers for storage space. Well-lit mirrors hung above the table. Unable to find anything else to do, and convinced by the silence that everyone had to have left, she took out her keys to lock up. She jumped as a knock sounded at the door, the trailer rattled, and a head peeked in.
“Valerie?”
“Oh, hi, John.” She expelled a deep breath and willed her heart to slow its frantic beat. “Do you need something?”
“No.” He entered and stood by the door. John Samuels played the lead. At almost six foot three, he dwarfed the trailer and had to tip his head to fit. He folded his muscular arms across his chest and spread his feet apart. “Michelle told me you were not joining us tonight. I thought I would see if I could change your mind.”
Valerie rolled her eyes. “She is persistent.”
“You noticed.” John’s dark eyes twinkled. His mouth widened with a ghost of a smile. Valerie tried not to gasp.
He reminded her of a rugged cowboy—broad shouldered, with a prominent brow, dark piercing eyes, high cheekbones, and a cleft chin. When he smiled, even a slight trace of one, his eyes looked like liquid velvet and his dimples twinkled like stars in the night sky. A five-o’clock shadow covered his cheeks. Her fingers itched to brush against their rough texture, to tease his mouth into a full-blown grin.
“So, what can I say to make you join us?”
As he leaned against the wall in well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination, Valerie’s mind said, “Sleep with me.” Heat crept up her neck, over her cheeks, and continued to the roots of her hair. A thin sheen of sweat dampened the space between her breasts. She felt the sudden urge to fan herself, like a damsel in distress in an old B-movie. Instead, she ignored her traitorous thoughts. Her balled fist pressed into her tight stomach.
“Tonight, not even chocolate will change my mind.”
She didn’t exactly lie. She had no intention of going to the bar, or of sleeping with him, no matter how her thoughts might try to sabotage her good intentions. She’d been fooled by surface finery before, and it had almost killed her. She wouldn’t let it happen again.
“I will remember that,” he promised. “But next time you will not get off so easy.” His eyes bored into hers for a moment, and then he turned on his heel and left.
* * * *
True to his word, John arrived the following day prepared for battle. With a cursory knock on the door, he dangled a bag of M&Ms inside the trailer, but snatched it back before she could grab them. “We are going out for pizza. I will pick you up in ten minutes.” Before she could answer, he walked out.
Valerie shrugged as she finished her work. The new Valerie never allowed other people to make decisions for her, but she’d practically handed John a permission slip. And, he had M&M’s. How could she refuse?
Ten minutes later, he returned, ushered her out the door and down the steps. Although he didn’t touch her, she could imagine the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, and feel the gentle puff of his breath against her hair. The angle of his body steered her toward the others in the parking lot as if he had taken her by the hand and dragged her with him. An invisible electric charge pulled her. Or maybe it was his Dial-soap scent. That scent—soap and man—made her stomach flip flop. Her uncontrollable reaction to him disturbed her, especially since he appeared unaffected.
He remained silent, strode toward their meeting place, and studied his surroundings as if he expected someone to pop out of the shadows and yell, “Boo!”
Then she saw the brown bag of M&Ms sticking out of his white shirt pocket. Before he could stop her, she reached around and grabbed them, opened the bag and popped three in her mouth.
“Hey, those are mine!” He reached for the bag, but not fast enough to retrieve them.
“Not anymore.” As she danced away from him, she stuck another handful in her mouth.
He brought his hand up to his heart, as if she had wounded him deeply, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. Valerie had all she could do not to burst out laughing.
“You did not have to take them, you know. I was planning to give them to you later.” He pouted and his dark hair fell across his brow, but not before Valerie saw a flash of a smile turn the corners of his mouth up.
“Oh really? When?”
“After dinner, of course. I would not want to spoil your appetite.”

Interested? Here are the buy links. I hope you enjoy the book, and if you read it, please post a review. Thanks!





Monday, March 9, 2015

Justice in Black and White

Maybe it's my Sagittarius Sun sign, but I believe in justice and fair play.
The bad guy(s) should be exposed and made to pay for their crimes.
Firefighters should swoop in and save the garment workers from the burning building.

I know life does not always work like this. Women are trafficked and children still labor in sweat shops. Natural disasters happen, and we are still burning insane quantities of fossil fuels.

Between the covers (I was going to say 'of books'), though, things can work out. The girl gets the guy. Wrongs are righted. Wounds are healed.

Justice prevails in the black and white of our e-readers. Happily ever after is the reward for our characters' travails, and what makes readers buy story after story. They want all to work out in the end.

And so do I.




Sunday, March 8, 2015

Margaret's Sunday Snippet

Margaret shares the opening few paragraphs from her book Abby’s Bodyguard:
 
‘Abby Redman?’ enquired a deep, male voice.
 
Abby stopped walking and turned her head. She had just arrived at Orly airport from Heathrow and was heading towards the shuttle bus that would take her to her hotel. She had no idea who this man was. He was tall and broad shouldered with jet black hair and amazing grey eyes. But she didn’t know him from Adam and she certainly wasn’t expecting anyone to meet her.
 
‘And you are?’ she enquired, her fine brows dragging together, her voice sharp.
 
‘A friend of your brother.’
 
A smile accompanied his words revealing even white teeth. He was very good looking, well dressed in black linen trousers and a crisp white shirt, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a con man.
 
‘By coincidence I phoned him only this morning,’ he added with another one of his dazzling smiles. ‘And when he said that his sister was spending a few days in Paris I immediately thought that you might like some company.’
 
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Abby straightened her back and squared her shoulders, her eyes shooting sparks of anger and distrust. ‘And my brother would be?’ She still didn’t truly believe that this man was a friend of his.
 
‘Why Martin, of course. Martin Redman,’ he said with more than a hint of amusement in his voice.
 
‘And your name is?’
 
‘Temple Townsend – at your service.’
 
He held out his hand but Abby ignored it. ‘Martin didn’t say anything about someone meeting me.’ She paused and glared at him. ‘How did you know who I was?’
 
The smile widened. ‘He described you perfectly. Tall, slender, long dark hair. Outstandingly good-looking.’
 
‘There must be thousands of women who match that description,’ she challenged, convinced her brother had not said any of that. He had never paid her a compliment in his life.
 
‘So call him if you don’t believe me.’ His eyes continued to twinkle. ‘Don’t worry, I mean you no harm. But who in their right mind would want to wander around a magnificent city like Paris on their own?’
 
‘I don’t need an escort.’ Abby kept her chin high and her eyes icy. ‘I am here on business.’
 
‘But also a few days holiday – according to your brother.’
 
 ‘Martin has a lot to answer for,’ she hissed as she speed-dialled his number, and was not impressed when he told her that, yes, Temple was an old friend of his.
 
‘When he offered to meet up with you and show you the sights I thought it a good idea since you’ve never been to Paris before.’
 
‘I am not a child, Martin!’ She tried to keep her voice down but found it impossible. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
 
‘Temple’s a good man,’ he said, ignoring her outburst. ‘You should get on well with him.’
 
‘Get on well?’ Her voice rose even higher. ‘How much time am I supposed to spend with him? He’s a total stranger. You’re unbelievable.’
 
Abby cut the call short and turned to face Temple who was once again grinning.
 
‘So now that you know I’m perfectly trustworthy,’ he said, ‘let’s go. I have a car waiting.’ And he picked up her suitcase.

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Erica Ridley, guest author


Ana presents romance author Erica Ridley

Tell us about the Dukes of War, and The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress.

The Dukes of War historical romance series features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.

Captain Xavier Grey returned from the Napoleonic Wars a hairsbreadth away from catatonic. No one knows what happened but him, and Xavier isn’t saying a word. He flees London for the countryside, intending to spend the rest of his days alone in his small cottage.

Jane Downing is a wallflower with a serious book habit and well-honed inner snark. She’s tired of being invisible, and sets out to turn the man of her dreams into her real life lover. She lands on Xavier’s doorstep just in time for the snowstorm of the season.

Captain Grey suddenly finds himself snowbound with a bluestocking. And she has an unbelievably tempting plan for heating up the winter nights...

How do you deal with writer’s block?

If I'm blocked because a scene isn't working or I literally have no idea what should happen next, that usually means I'm way too close to the project and need to take a step back. More often than not, going on a long walk will jog something loose in my brain and let me see where the story needs to go.

Other times, taking my mind off of the problem completely—such as going on a Netflix or TBR binge—provides me with the right amount of distance to find my own answers.

However. If I know exactly what I need to do next but I just don't "feel" like writing, that is not an excuse to spend the next four hours with someone else's characters. I sit myself down in front of the computer and force myself to keep going, no matter how slow and painful it might be. It might take minutes or it might take days, but eventually I'll get my mojo back.

Sometimes the only trick to keeping going is just not stopping.

Who or what helped you along the way to publishing?

Joining the Romance Writers of America was the smartest thing I could’ve done. Through workshops from my local chapter, I learned so much about the publishing industry and the craft of writing. Romance authors tend to be wonderful about helping each other out, so networking at conferences often turns into lifelong friendships. I met my literary agent, Lauren Abramo of Dystel & Goderich, the old fashioned way—query letters and postal mail—and she has also been an invaluable resource and a great friend.

What do you do to relax?

I live on a macadamia farm in the rainforests of Costa Rica, so I can’t help but relax when I’m not writing! My front balcony has a rocking chair and a view of a volcano, and my side balcony has a hammock and a view of the largest lake in the country. Before moving to Costa Rica, I was an avid scrapbooker. Now I’m more likely to be found hiking in the middle of the jungle or relaxing on the beach.


Erica will give one lucky commenter a free copy of The Earl's Defiant Wallflower. Be sure to include your email address with your comment.




Excerpt from The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

When Captain Xavier Grey finds himself snowbound with a sultry bluestocking intent on seduction, he does what any honorable soldier would do: He tries to make her think of him as “just a friend.” Failing that, he figures he can at least distract her attention with the dusty old library he hasn’t laid eyes on since leaving for war...

Xavier gritted his teeth. This was Operation Platonic Friendship. He was not to think about the taste of Miss Downing’s mouth or the sway of her hips.
They needed to spend the entirety of the day discussing Wordsworth and Voltaire. Or rather, something less… provocative. He didn’t want to make a good impression. Perhaps he ought to engage her in a lively debate on whether library books were best catalogued by size or color.
“What do you think of my collection?” he found himself asking, instead.
“Well…” She poked her head from around a corner. “The topics are varied enough, but at least half have never been read. The pages aren’t even sliced.”
“You can do the honors, if you’ve found something you’d like to read.” He adjusted a small pillow and stretched out upon the chaise longue. He didn’t much care who sliced the pages, but if offering her the privilege made him seem like a good friend, he’d be happy to lend his knife.
Eyes sparkling, she bounced in place. “I can read anything that I want?”
“As long as it isn’t…” He hesitated. What had she mentioned earlier? Sugar? Shogun? “…shunga scrolls.”
The corners of her mouth quirked. “Nobody reads shunga scrolls. They just look at the pictures.”
He cut her a flat look.
She gave an innocent flutter of eyelashes and selected a book from the shelves. “Lay back down. I’ll read something to you. How about the Odyssey in original Greek?”
He couldn’t even remember purchasing it. “Do you mind if I snore?”
“I hope you do. But I’ll translate aloud in case you manage to stay awake.” Rather than take another chair, she perched at the foot of the chaise longue with her back toward him. “Ahem. Page the first. ‘Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero…’”
There. Xavier relaxed his head against the cushion. Nothing could be more respectable.
Or less stimulating. He hadn’t actually intended to snore, but nor had he anticipated the level of mortal dullness in which Miss Downing read aloud. She could not have infused less life into her tone had she merely been counting sheep.
He might have told her not to bother translating, since it wasn’t doing either of them any favors, except he saw no advantage to being rude. His goal was to be perceived as a friend, not the enemy. Enemies could incite passion.
Miss Downing’s monotone could only incite slumber.
After a while, he let his eyelids drift closed. It had been a long, cold night filled with nothing but vivid waking dreams. He had been exhausted from the moment he rolled out of bed. Her tone was pacifying in its relentless uniformity, the words forgettable and relaxing.
He almost didn’t notice when she skipped from Calypso to Circe in the space of a breath. Her low words droned on without hitch. His eyes flew open. How could she have turned thirty pages at once without noticing? How could she have skipped the Trojan horse without noticing?
Sleep forgotten, he propped himself up on one elbow to glance over her shoulder at the text.
And roared. “What the devil are you reading, woman?”
She jumped, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. “You said I might read whatever I wished.”
“You said you were reading the Odyssey!”
“I said I would read you the Odyssey.” She motioned him back to his pillow. “I’m reading something else.”
“That’s not ‘something else.’” Heart galloping, he reached for the book.
She held it aloft with her other hand. “You can’t have it. I’m right in the middle.”
“Absolutely not. That’s The Memoirs of Fanny Hill, and it’s not fit for human eyes,” he ground out.
Her brows arched. “Then why do you have it?”
“Because I’m inhuman! Give me the damn book or I’ll—”
“Oh, lay back down. You were almost asleep. I’ve already read most of what you’re afraid of, so there’s not much harm in reading the rest.”
He collapsed back against the chaise and covered his face with his hands. No wonder the woman’s storytelling abilities had been execrable. She’d been quoting from memory whilst reading an entirely different story. One in which an innocent country miss was procured by a bawdyhouse madam and then descended into a life of erotic abandon.
“What part are you at now?” he rasped, his throat dry. 

The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress is on sale for 99 cents right now at

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/ericaridley
page2image29752
Apple / iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/erica-ridley/id426778365?mt=11
page2image31104
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/erica-ridley
page2image32288
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/author?id=Erica+Ridley
page2image33600
Kobo: http://kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=erica+ridley


Author Bio
Erica Ridley learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be a writer when she grew up.
Now, Erica is a USA Today best-selling author of historical romance novels. Her latest series, The Dukes of War, features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.
When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip- lining through rainforests in Costa Rica, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.
Website: http://www.EricaRidley.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/EricaRidley Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/EricaRidley Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/EricaRidley