Time To Chill

I've been living in North Carolina for a year and a half now, and hadn't been able yet to get to the coast. Until now, anyway. My sister is visiting me from Phoenix and we decided to go see my niece's new home in Wilmington, and by so doing, I got to stick my toes in the Atlantic Ocean at Carolina Beach.

The water was cold, and my pant legs got wet, but I had a huge smile on my face as my great-niece and I waded in and tried to dodge the waves. 

It was also wonderful to see my other sister, too. We've turned into three old ladies, but we Golden Girls are taking it in stride. (With the great-niece and nephew.)

Sometimes it's nice to step away from the computer for a couple days and just chill. 

Time To Curl Up

The temperature in North Carolina shifted from summer to fall this past week. And, it's about time. I've always loved autumn. That's probably why I surround myself with trees every place I've lived, just so I can enjoy the spectacle of color in the fall. In my part of the state, there are vast forests of pine, which smells good, but doesn't put on the show of color that I prefer. For that, you need to go to the mountains.

So, I'm planning a trip. My sister from Phoenix is coming to visit, and we're going to explore my state, from the coast line to the mountains and a few places in between.

We'll feel the ocean breeze on our cheeks, breathe in the salt air, visit my niece and my baby sister, and then head to the hills for the display of color. We'll be able to curl up with a good book in front of a roaring fire, maybe see some deer or black bears. Can't wait. I'll get to spend valuable time with my sisters, and get to tour parts of the state I haven't yet seen. Maybe I'll even get inspired to have my next book take place in the mountains of North Carolina. If Nora Roberts can do it, so can I. 

Getting Here

Long ago, I lived in Texas. Those who were born and raised there were in one class of folks. Those who migrated there as adults got to wear a popular t-shirt proclaiming even though they weren't born there, they got there as soon as they could.

I thought about that shirt (which I never bought or subscribed to its notion) this week when I read an editorial talking about the same subject, but instead of Texas, they were relating it to North Carolina. Now, that's a notion I can get behind. Since moving here 1-1/2 years ago, I've settled in. I have nice neighbors, I've found work I can do from home, I joined a gym, and my new Revolutionary War series has me waking up each morning raring to go.

The first one in the series, A British Heiress in America, basically wrote itself. The second one's taking a bit longer, since my hero took a while to get his act together. But with a name like Hawk, what else could you expect? Here's a snippet from the second book, A British Courtesan in America:

The streets were bustling with people, all busy with their lives. Libby melted into the throng and wandered from one street to the next. Her next hurdle was to find employment. She glanced at the various shops and tried to picture herself working in one of them, but nothing so far captured her fancy. The street noise was deafening and the cobbles uneven, so she shifted her gaze to the street and lurched to a stop as the heel of her expensive brocaded silk shoe wedged between two cobbles. In her haste to explore her new city, she’d forgotten to change out of her favorite pair of shoes, the final gift from Atticus. She leaned over to dislodge the shoe, or take it off. 

Shouts, and then, thundering hooves, finally resonated. Libby glanced up in time to see a horse barreling right at her, but she was unable to move to safety. A scream formed in her throat as her gaze was pinned on the runaway animal. She closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. What a pity, to die on her first day of freedom. Then, the breath got knocked out of her as hands grabbed her and yanked her out of the way. She landed hard on the cobblestones, with an equally hard body on top of her. She fought for air as the man rolled off her, helping her to a sitting position, while Boston bustled around her. 

When she finally was able to breathe again, she opened her eyes and stared at the person who had saved her life. Dark skin, a shock of black hair that stood straight up from his scalp, broad shoulders, and brown eyes that narrowed as she perused him. If she hadn’t had the wind knocked out of her already, this man’s appearance would have stolen it. She’d never seen anyone remotely resembling him. And he still held onto her hand. 

She put her feet under her and he helped her rise. When she tried to put weight on her left foot, her ankle screamed in pain and she winced. 

“Have you been injured?” The exotic stranger asked in a voice that had a French lilt to it. 

“It’s my ankle. I twisted it, evidently. And lost my shoe.” Libby glanced around, searching for her missing footwear. 

The man scoured the area where she had been and pulled what was left of the shoe from the cobbles. He handed it to her. “Hope you weren’t too fond of them. Mighty fancy footwear for the wild streets of Boston.” 

She stifled the moan, and blinked rapidly, not letting the tears fall. “Thank you, kind sir. Now, if you can direct me to my hotel, I’ll let you get back to work.” She took a step forward, but latched onto the man’s arm for support as she cried out in pain. 

“You aren’t going anywhere in that condition, mon amie. I can take care of you.” He picked her up in his brawny arms and carried her through the streets. 

“I can take care of myself, sir. Please put me down.” She struggled, which made him grip her tighter. 

“Not until I take care of your ankle. The longer it’s left unattended, the greater the swelling.” He glanced down at her and smiled slightly. “It’s the least I can do. That horse escaped from my stables.” 

Libby settled into his arms. “Well, in that case…” She took a moment to study him. “I’m sensing a French accent, but something else, too. What is your nationality?” 

“Oui, half French. The other half is Passamaquoddy Indian.” 

And, when I get a spare morsel of time, I'm already thinking of the third book, tentatively titled A British Spinster in America. All my heroines are transplanted from England to the United States at the very moment in time when the states did become united. The Revolutionary War is a battle I can get behind, unlike the Civil War, in which so many died so a few could continue their plantation way of life. I keep my Civil War leanings to myself, since I am technically a Southerner now. But North Carolina is a good place to grow things. Like my office plant. It was a gift when I moved into my new place, and has taken off, spreading its leaves towards the heavens. What only a year ago was a little philodendron of some kind has grown into a plant worthy of Little Shop of Horrors. I can hear it calling out "Feed Me!" each time I come near with a watering can.

So I guess it's time I bought a shirt. One that says "I may not have been born here, but I got here as soon as I could." North Carolina is feeling like home.

The In Between

Often, when I was living in Ohio and starting my publishing career, I felt I was between a rock and a hard place. My house was a huge financial burden, the proverbial money pit, and my publishing career was growing, but not to the point where I could afford to pull money out of the business and put it into the house.

My move to North Carolina helped get rid of the huge financial burden, but the publishing career is in the process of being retooled. I now have an agent I trust, I've finished a book I truly enjoyed writing, and I'm sliding into the next one. Yesterday, I drove my 15-year-old Jeep into Pinehurst to go to the library and parked on the street, between a Land Rover and a Mercedes.

A rock and a hard place or a Land Rover and a Mercedes. Even with a 15-year-old Jeep, I'm sitting pretty right now. 

Finding Inspiration

Lately, my life seems to be a series of inspirational quotes. 

In the first three months of this year, I've moved five states away from Ohio.  It did take three months to get from one house to the next. Then, no sooner did I get my furniture delivered than I was told my publisher was shutting its doors and I was losing my connection to those editors and authors. So, where does that leave me?

As Terry Goodkind, best-selling fantasy author, so eloquently said, "If the road is easy, you're likely going the wrong way." 

So my publishing road has hit a few bumps. My latest book baby, the second in a new series, has been abandoned. Until I can figure out what to do about it, I've slid it under the proverbial bed and turned my attention to my Mail Order Brides book, which is halfway done. My road so far this year hasn't been easy, but I'm now at the picture-hanging stage in my house and I'm figuring out on a publishing level where to go from here.

My second favorite quote came via my nephew. "Throw me to the wolves and I'll come back leading the pack." Although the weather is more agreeable than the North coast, I miss my fellow authors from one of the better RWA chapters in the country. And with the closing of Crimson Romance, I miss my daily interchange with my fellow authors. I feel like I've lost my pack, my tribe, on two fronts. Thanks to the internet, Facebook and email, though, my tribe is only a click away. It may not be as good as face to face, but it'll do.

I'll meet other authors–there are a lot of us in North Carolina–and life's road will smooth out a bit more. My losses will turn into blessings and I'll wonder why it took me so long to make a move–on both fronts.

View Out My Window

As most of you are aware, I've recently relocated from cold, snowy Ohio to the warmth of North Carolina. Although the natives have been telling me I've brought the cold and snow with me, since this is the worst winter North Carolinians have seen in years. But it was warm enough the other day for the golf course behind my house to be populated with men and ladies who were enjoying some fun.

My office looks out onto the 11th hole of the local course and the other day I stood and watched a man as he practiced his putts on the green. The course wasn't busy, so he spent about ten minutes there, dropping his ball from various parts of the green and trying to stroke it into the hole. It occurred to me that my writing takes a similar course. I have to try several different approaches to the opening of any story, to the plot line, to the ending, before I get it right. And even then, it may veer off into a sand trap or a water hazard if I'm not careful.

As I sat in my new office and watched the parade of golfers whizzing by in their carts, I realized the similarities between golf and writing a novel. Many rounds of golf are played by individuals with various levels of expertise, but only a handful ever become great. Likewise, many books are published each year by authors with varying levels of competence with their craft, but only a few rise to the top. You're likely to spend more on both golf and writing than you'll ever realize in profit, but it's the elusive thrill of a hole-in-one or making the New York Times bestseller list that propels each of us forward. 

Time To Get Moving

It finally happened! I found a place in North Carolina to call home. It only took four trips, four different realtors, and seeing the inside of more homes than I care to enumerate. Now my days are spent compiling documents for the mortgage company instead of planning my next trip. Much more sane, but still as stressful.

If all goes well, I'll be permanently ensconced in my new dwelling by mid-March and life can return to normal. Which is excellent timing, since the release of my new western, Gambling On Forever, happens on March 1. And the next book in my Regency series, Losing Lily, is due to the publisher in mid April for a June release date. I've been working on that story here at my friend's home and at the local library, but I miss my desk, my reference books, and my own office.

But in the meantime, here's the cover of Gambling On Forever, and a little bit about the book:

When Elise Lafontaine spies her father’s missing saddlebag with its all-important papers slung over the shoulder of a man boarding a riverboat, she follows him, hoping to retrieve the contents. Her plans come to an abrupt halt when she is declined entry to the boat, since she is an unaccompanied female.

From his perch on the top deck, handsome riverboat gambler James Garnett witnesses her denied entry. When she shoots him a look of desperation, how can he resist those deep blue eyes and beautiful face? Of course, he comes to her rescue, pretending she is his fiancée—and she is allowed aboard.

Begrudgingly, Elise accepts James’s offer of help to win back the saddlebag and the papers by having him play poker on her behalf, certain the thieving Confederate brothers who stole the bag will lose everything to James. But can Elise be happy with only the saddlebag and its contents? Or has she already lost her heart to the dangerous gambler?

After a sultry kiss, Elise steals his money and the papers and jumps overboard. Then the games truly begin. Now, Elise stands at the biggest crossroads of her life—will she go her own way, fiercely independent and alone? Or will she wager everything on the man who holds her heart--GAMBLING ON FOREVER?

And an excerpt, for your reading pleasure:

“Delta Queen, here I come,” she whispered, hoping she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. She could handle wide-open spaces, and campfires under the stars while rounding up wild horses, but on a big, beautiful large riverboat, a floating palace? This would definitely be a challenge for her, since she’d have to act as a refined lady. She touched her whip again and hoped she wouldn’t need to unfurl it. The nerves tightening in her stomach told her she had just entered uncharted territory and the hairs on her neck prickled again. Never a good sign.

She followed the two men up the gangplank, her fingers itching to yank her father’s saddlebag from the shoulder of the one man. She’d need to be patient and choose the best time to steal it back, and the moment of boarding would not be the best time. Better to wait until they were underway, floating down the Mississippi. Then, those two couldn’t get away. She’d nab it when they weren’t looking, just as they’d taken it from her father. Then, she’d jump overboard and be gone before morning. She took a deep breath and fisted her hands to prevent them from reaching for the bag.

The pair paid the steward for passage on the freight deck, which meant they were saving most of her father’s money for the gaming tables if they were willing to give up a bed in favor of sleeping on top of cotton and tobacco bales. She hoped she had enough money for an actual stateroom.

“Are you with the gentlemen?” The steward asked, raking his gaze over her before glancing at the men.

“Those two?” Elise pointed to the men still standing close by. “No, sir. I’m traveling alone and I’d like a stateroom, please, if the fare isn’t too much.”

The steward seemed confused. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. Our policy is to allow women aboard only if they are accompanied by a gentleman.”

“That’s preposterous!” Elise tried for a smile, hoping to charm the steward. “My money’s as good as any gentleman’s.”

“Your money is not the issue, ma’am. We don’t allow unaccompanied ladies on board. It’s company policy.” The steward clutched his papers to his chest, unaffected by her smile.

One clean-shaven, well-dressed man stood on the top deck, calmly smoking a cheroot and stroking the black string tie around his neck as he surveyed the crowd coming aboard. Elise pleaded with her eyes for the man to take action. She might be going from the frying pan into the fire but at least he’d taken a bath in the past year. She’d take her chances. She only hoped he would.

No Buy Link yet, but it should be available by the last week of February. 

Anywhere I Hang My Hat...

Many years ago, when I was doing the trade show circuit, I spent possibly more time in hotels than I did in my home. One of the men I traveled with objected to my use of the word "home" to indicate my hotel room. I never could see the difference, because to me, as long as I had my privacy where I could compose my thoughts, I considered it "home." Years later, I still don't see the difference. As long as you're comfortable in your surroundings, you should feel at home.




Call it my gypsy spirit.

Right now, I'm camping out at a friend's house in Virginia–my temporary home base. When I travel to North Carolina in search of a new home of my own, I stay at the same motel, in the same room–my temporary home base there. Both of these places feel like home to me. I know where things are. I can find my clothes and cosmetics in each place, there's wifi so I can work, my little dog, trooper that she is, feels at home too, as long as I cart her bed in and out of the various places.

Right now, I'm on my way back to Virginia after what I hope has been a successful house-hunting trip. Maybe my gypsy days will soon be at an end. But now I'm thinking about gypsies and how I can weave them into a plot line. Stay tuned. On both counts.

Looking Good On Paper

Most writers have experienced this at one time or another–you get an idea, do your research, plot the major points that make this a sound book idea and get to work, only to realize that what looked really good on paper won't fly when the nuts and bolts of the story start coming together and something's not right.

That's what happened to me last week. The house contract looked sound so I made a quick trip to North Carolina in search of my next adventure. I'd done my homework and had narrowed my choices to two potential cities, one of which I'd been to numerous times, the other a new to me city. I had decided renting was the best option, giving me time to settle in, and to fit in. However, two things were getting in my way–rents were more expensive than I thought they'd be, and the town I'd picked as my first choice didn't feel right. No warm fuzzy. I even asked total strangers what they liked about this particular town and they seemed puzzled, couldn't come up with an answer. I liked how they decorated the sides of the downtown building with images from the past. The historian in me appreciated the nod to the way things used to be. But it was not a good enough reason to consider relocating there.

So I moved on, a bit further south, to the town I'd visited many times over the years. Sliding into this little town felt like I was coming home. However, since it's close to a military base, rents are really high, even more so than the first town I was in. And housing prices are up there too, since it's a desirable location. I spent a couple of hours with a realtor, inspecting various houses, but my pickings were slim.

When I returned home, I got the news that the potential buyers backed out of the contract, since the home inspection turned up too many things that needed fixing. Even though I'd disclosed all the problems beforehand, it didn't seem to sink in until the home inspector laid it out to them. Back to square one.

So, what to do?

I threw away the paper on which I'd laid out my plans, realizing what looked good on paper wouldn't work in reality. But it's still a good idea. So, I'll rework the plan, come up with some different plot points, do some more research, and put my nose to the grindstone to get it done. After having seventeen books published, I know how to do this.

The Gypsy's On The Move

I don't know why I have this personality quirk, but every seven years or so, I like to upend my life. Since I've never married, it's not men, but locations that suffer from my seven year itch syndrome. It must be my gypsy blood. I wish the Tiny Home concept happened years ago. Then I could have taken the house with me as I tour the country, always eager to explore what's over the next hill.

I met a wonderfully supportive group of writer friends in Ohio and launched my career here, with my first book in 2012.

An agent told me recently I have an amazing publishing history and my writing is top-notch. Not something I could have accomplished without the love and support from this group. I will truly miss them.

My sister lived with me for the first time in our adult lives. We spent four years together, nursing each other through major surgeries, but she's now returning to Phoenix, where she spent so much of her life. Since I don't do deserts, she's going to be on her own. I'll miss her, but I also realize she needs her own space.

So where will I end up? This is where it gets exciting. I don't know. I explored some of North Carolina years ago when I first contemplated retirement, but couldn't find anything I cared much for. I've had gobs of time to research cities in the state now, and have sort of narrowed in on a choice, but I have yet to get there, boots on the ground, and check out the city I have in mind. As soon as my house passes inspection and I can be assured the potential buyers don't back out of the deal, I'll be on my way, scouting out a new location. Just as I did when I made the move to Austin years ago, I'll know when I pass the city limits sign that this city is the right one for me. At least that's my hope.

I'll be sure to let you know.

Whispering Pines

Last week, I spent some time in North Carolina. A nice break from the harsh Ohio weather, true. But, I was under a deadline. My edits were due for Banking On Temperance, my third book in the Cotillion series, no later than two days after I got back. There was no way I could meet the deadline without taking my work with me on vacation.

My friend drove the leg of the trip from Virginia to North Carolina and listened to my story as I read it aloud to her. It took the entire six hours down and six back to finish the book. I was a virtual audio book. We caught a few mistakes together and separately, and my friend’s favorite line from my book was also my favorite one, so it all worked well.

Once we got to our destination, I turned off the computer, put my edits aside, and enjoyed a couple days of relaxation. The house we stayed at backed up to a peaceful lake where Canadian geese were splashing around, taking a break on their way north, and was in the town of Whispering Pines—I don’t know of any other town with such a sweet name. It makes me smile just to say it.

All that R&R revved my imagination, which is what vacations are supposed to do. I had a night when a scene from a new story was doing the continuous loop thing in my head. So, I broke my own rule of vacation and turned the computer on. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I got it down. It’s going to be a good story, I think.

Oh, and our favorite line from the new book? This happens when my hero, Basil, and the heroine, Temperance, are caught in a sudden snowstorm and are forced to spend the night together. In an attempt to be a gentleman, he offers her the bed and moves to the chair by the wood stove, which isn’t throwing off too much heat, so he’s not only cold as a stone, he’s hard as a rock.

The book will be out on May 6.