Carla Neggers's Blog, page 29
October 8, 2012
Write on the Sound
I’ve been in the Pacific Northwest this week for the Write on the Sound Conference in Edmonds, WA. What a beautiful part of the country! As I head home to Vermont today, I’m inspired by all the wonderful writers and readers I met this week — at the conference, at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop, at the Silverdale Barnes & Noble. I’m grateful for the warm welcome to the Seattle area and look forward to returning one day soon.
September 3, 2012
Kingdom Books on September 9!
It’s a beautiful day here in Vermont, and I’ve noticed that the leaves are starting to turn on some of our trees. I love autumn in New England! On Sunday, September 9, I’ll be driving up to what we call the “Northeast Kingdom” to meet and chat with readers at charming Kingdom Books, run by Beth and David Kanell, two people I could talk books with from dawn to dusk. I’m looking forward to my visit. It should be a beautiful drive. Here’s a photo from last autumn…not that much color here yet!!
August 28, 2012
Rocky Maine Coast
A scene on the rocky southern Maine coast that inspired the setting for my Sharpe & Donovan series…
August 7, 2012
Blogging!
I’ve had the privilege of guest blogging this past week. I love reading the comments! You can check out what I’ve had to say here:
http://www.justromanticsuspense.com/2...
http://dianecapri.com/2012/07/diane-c...
http://www.romancejunkies.com/rjblog/...
Meanwhile, it feels as if I’ve been here, there and everywhere this past month, but I’ve had great fun meeting people on the road…not to mention sampling Irish whiskey and hiking the Irish hills. I’m enjoying being back in my garden but a little trepidatious about bees. As I arrived home from signing copies of HERON’S COVE (just out last week!) and SAINT’S GATE (out now in paperback) her in New England, Joe was recovering from multiple stings after disturbing a nest right by the yarrow. He’s recovered but it was not a pleasant experience!
Happy reading,
Carla
July 29, 2012
HERON’S COVE
On Sale July 31, 2012
MIRA Books Hardcover
First Time in Print
Order this Book:
- Amazon
- Walmart
Order Signed Copy:
Mystery Lovers
When your safety depends on living a lie. . .
After escaping certain death, deep-cover agent Colin Donovan is back home on the Maine coast with his new love, FBI art crimes expert Emma Sharpe. Then Tatiana Pavlova, a London-based jewelry designer, arrives in Heron’s Cove, asking for Emma’s help–a prized collection from a lost era of Russian opulence, decadence and rare beauty has resurfaced, and Tatiana warns Emma it’s about to be stolen again. And Colin realizes his nightmare isn’t over. It’s just begun.
And everyone you love is a target. . .
Emma guards her past closely, and Colin is determined to unlock her secrets. As they investigate the mysterious collection and the equally mysterious Tatiana, they confront their greatest challenge. Now they must count on their expertise–and each other–to outwit an enemy who wants to destroy them and
everyone they love most.
Who can you afford to trust?
Read an Excerpt
With three Donovan brothers and an Irish priest watching her, Emma Sharpe choked back her sample of the smoky single-malt Scotch—her sixth and last tasting of the night. “Intense,” she said, managing not to slam the tulip-shaped nosing glass on the table and grab the pitcher of water. Give it a few seconds. She was an FBI agent, after all. Tough as nails. She smiled at the four men. “People pay to drink this one, huh?”
“Dearly,” Finian Bracken, the Irish priest, said. “You’re not one for a heavily peated whiskey, I see.”
Emma tried to distinguish the other flavors of the sample—spices, fruits, whatever—but only tasted the peat. “I don’t know if I’m one for a lightly peated whiskey, either.”
A cold wind penetrated Hurley’s thin walls and sprayed the old windows with salt water and rain. The restaurant, a fixture on the Rock Point harbor, was basically a shack that jutted out over the water. Now only a few lights penetrated the dark night and fog. Finian had organized the impromptu tasting, setting up on a back table away from what few diners were there on a windy, rainy late-October Friday. He and Michael, Andy and Kevin Donovan were already gathered over a half-dozen bottles of highend whiskey when Emma had arrived in southern Maine an hour ago, up from Boston and her job with a small, specialized FBI unit.
Only Colin, the second-born Donovan, wasn’t in Rock Point. Mike was a Maine guide, Andy a lobsterman and Kevin a state marine patrol officer, but, like Emma, Colin was an FBI agent.
Not like me, she thought.
She specialized in art crimes. Colin was a deep-cover agent. He’d left his hometown a month ago, pretending to return to FBI headquarters in Washington. The true nature of his work was known to only a few even within the FBI, but his brothers had guessed that he didn’t sit at a desk. Initially he’d kept in touch at least intermittently with his family and friends—and Emma—but for the past three weeks, no one had heard from him.
The silence was far too long, not just for his family and friends but for the FBI.
And for Emma.
She felt the draft at her feet. She had come prepared for the conditions, dressed in jeans, black merino wool sweater, raincoat, wool socks and Frye boots. The Donovans were in a mix of flannel, canvas and denim, no sign they even noticed the cold and the damp. Finian had opted against his usual black suit and Roman collar and instead wore a dark gray Irish-knit sweater and black corduroy trousers. He was a sharp-featured, handsome Irishman in his late thirties who had arrived in the small Maine fishing village in June. He had run into Colin, home for a few days in the midst of a difficult, dangerous mission, and they quickly became unexpected friends.
Emma hadn’t met Colin until September. She suspected his friendship with the Irish priest was less of a mystery to her than to his brothers. Finian Bracken was a fish out of water in Rock Point. He had no history with the town and little familiarity with the FBI. He also had a ready Irish wit, and he knew whiskey. He was objective, intelligent, tolerant—a safe friend for a federal agent with secrets.
Andy Donovan held his small glass to the light and examined the Scotch’s deep caramel color, then swirled it and brought it to his nose. He raised his eyes—the same shade of gray as Colin’s—to Finian. “Do you want me to tell you what I smell?”
“If you like,” Finian said. “Just sniff. Don’t inhale deeply. It’s not a yoga class.”
“As if you’d ever find one of us in a yoga class,” Andy said, then shrugged. “It smells like peat.”
Finian observed him with interest. “What else? Do you smell spices, fruit—chocolate, maybe?”
“Nope. It smells like an expensive Scotch to me.”
“Have a taste, then,” the priest said with a sigh, his Irish Kerry accent more pronounced than usual.
“No problem.” Andy tossed back the Scotch and made a face. “I’m with Emma. Too smoky for me.”
It was the final whiskey of the evening. The Donovan brothers hadn’t left so much as a drop in any of the specially designed glasses, one for each whiskey. The glasses all had little hats, like Scottish tams, that concentrated the aromas of each sample. Finian had brought them from the rectory; Hurley’s didn’t have whiskey nosing glasses. Before turning to the priesthood six years ago, Finian and his twin brother, Declan, had founded and operated Bracken Distillers on the southwest Irish coast. Bracken 15 year old, an award-winning single malt and rare peated Irish whiskey, was one of the night’s offerings—or “expressions,” as Finian called his lineup of bottles.
Emma noticed Mike, the eldest Donovan, eyeing her from across the round table. He was down from the remote Bold Coast where he worked as an independent wilderness guide. “Special Agent Sharpe’s a wine drinker. Aren’t you, Emma?”
She couldn’t detect any hint of criticism or sarcasm in his tone, but he still was looking at her as if she had done something wrong. “I like wine.” She kept any defensiveness out of her voice. “How about you, Mike? Do you pack a nice Central Coast red in your canoe when you take tourists on moose-sighting excursions?”
Kevin and Andy both grinned. Mike ignored them and settled back in his chair. “I took a couple out on the river in August. They had a wicker picnic hamper stocked with real wineglasses, cloth napkins, silver cutlery, French cheese, a baguette, apples and pears and two bottles of fancy wine.”
“Must have weighed down the canoe,” Kevin, the marine patrol officer, said.
“Oh, yeah. They insisted on having a picnic on the river-bank but they didn’t count on Maine mosquitoes. They lasted three minutes before we had to throw everything back in the canoe. We paddled straight back to their car.”
“Don’t tell me,” Andy said, amused. “The next stop on their Maine tour was Heron’s Cove.”
“Couldn’t wait to get there. I’m sure they enjoyed the quaint shops and fancy restaurants.”
“Everyone does,” Emma said.
“I don’t care.” Mike raised his as-yet untouched glass of the heavily peated Scotch; his eyes were lighter than those of his three younger brothers but no less intense. “Sldinte.”
Finian winked at Emma but said nothing. She reached for the Inish Turk Beg, a clear, triple-distilled whiskey from an independent distillery on a small island off the west coast of Ireland. She splashed a little into a fresh glass, set down the distinctive tilted bottle, then held up her glass to Mike. “Sldinte.”
He swallowed the Scotch and she sipped the Inish Turk Beg, one of Finian’s favorites. He had explained that it was gentle on the palate, clean and fresh on the nose, with fruity aromas, flavors of apple and orange zest and a dry finish. Emma wasn’t discriminating enough to go much beyond whether she could get a taste down with or without choking.
“Colin would have enjoyed tonight,” said his eldest brother, still watching her.
Emma nodded. “He’ll have that chance soon. Lots of whiskey left.”
“Are you and your FBI friends any closer to finding him?”
“You’re assuming he’s missing—”
“That’s right. I am.”
Her head spun and she wished she had skipped the extra taste of the Inish Turk Beg. “I can’t discuss your brother’s work with you.”
Andy and Kevin were as serious now as Mike was. Even Kevin, a law enforcement officer himself, didn’t have any information on his older brother’s work as one of the FBI’s most valuable ghosts. Emma had only a few details on his latest mission herself. It wasn’t as if Colin couldn’t handle himself in a dangerous situation. He was bold, aggressive and tough.
He was also sexy, she thought.
Incredibly sexy, in fact.
She kept that assessment to herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why Colin hasn’t been in touch.”
“He’s not a desk jockey in Washington.” Mike got up abruptly, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “You don’t have to confirm or deny. We all know. He’s always stuck his nose in dangerous situations. Even as kids, he’d be the one jumping into cold water and waves, chasing sharks. It’s his way.”
“I understand that,” Emma said.
“Is it your way, Emma?”
She didn’t respond at once. Aware of the four men watching her, she picked up one of the tiny tam-style hats and set it atop a glass. “Maybe Colin and I have more in common than you realize.”
“You’re a Sharpe,” Mike said. “You were a nun.”
“A novice. I never made my final vows.” Emma kept her voice even, neutral. “I studied art history and art conservation during my time with the sisters. I come from a family of art detectives. That background helps in my work with the FBI.”
Mike shrugged on his jacket. “I just think you have a knack for attracting trouble.”
“And you’re worried about your brother.”
“Maybe I’m worried about you, too.”
She let his comment slide. She had already said too much. “When do you go home?”
He grinned. “Not soon enough for you, I expect.” The seriousness returned to his eyes as he looked down at her. “If you hear from Colin, you’ll let us know, okay?”
It was more of an order than a request but Emma nodded.
“I will, Mike.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.” He shifted his gaze to Finian. “Thanks for the whiskey and the whiskey education, Father. Uisce beatha. ‘The water of life.’ I like that.”
“We’ll do it again when Colin’s in town,” Finian said.
“Yeah. We will.” The eldest Donovan grinned suddenly. “I think I tasted chocolate in that last Scotch.”
Kevin and Andy thanked Finian and said good-night to him and to Emma as they followed Mike out of the nearly empty restaurant. The late-October weather wouldn’t faze them. They would take whatever weather northern New England threw at them in stride. Rain, snow, sleet, fog, wind. Wouldn’t matter.
Once the brothers disappeared through the outer door, Finian sighed as he corked the Inish Turk Beg. “If you had information that could ease their worry, Emma, would you give it to them? Could you?”
“If I’d heard from Colin, I’d have said so.”
“His story of an intense schedule in Washington has worn thin. I assume the FBI will be in touch with his family if need be.”
Emma felt the whiskey burning in her throat. “The safety of an agent—any agent—is of paramount importance to the FBI. Colin’s brothers know that.”
“But you don’t know where he is, do you?”
The look he gave her told her she didn’t need to answer.
A strong gust of wind whistled, whipped more rain against the windows. The small, protected working harbor was lost in the dense, swirling fog. In September, Emma had gone on a boat ride with Colin, kayaked with him, picked apples with him. Laughed, made love. They had met over the horrific murder of a nun at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Emma’s former convent. Until then, she hadn’t realized another FBI agent had grown up just a few miles from her own home in Heron’s Cove. They’d had a short time together before Colin was gone again, chasing illegal arms merchants.
He had the FBI behind him but, ultimately, he was alone. Emma understood he could go dark, but not like this. Not with no word for weeks.
His Irish friend’s midnight eyes narrowed on her. “Co-lin’s in trouble, isn’t he, Emma? It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. I watched you tonight. I could see the answer for myself.”
“He’s independent.”
“He’s good at working alone. All the Donovans are.”
She watched raindrops slide down the window. “Do you ever feel alone here?”
“I’m here for a reason. I have a purpose.”
She glanced back at Finian. “That doesn’t answer the question, does it?”
“It does for me.”
She thought she understood what he meant. After the deaths of his wife and their two young daughters in a sailing accident, he had walked away from Bracken Distillers to enter the priesthood and follow his calling wherever it took him. In June, he had landed in Rock Point to serve struggling St. Patrick’s parish while its priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland for a year.
Emma touched the elegant, distinctive gold label of the Bracken 15 year old. “Do you miss Ireland?”
“Every day. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy here. What about you, Emma? Are you happy?”
His question caught her off guard. “Right now?”
“In your life. In what you do. In where you are, at this moment.”
A cold draft came through the thin walls and worn floorboards. “I don’t miss the convent, Father, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He smiled. “You only call me ‘Father’ when you think I’m speaking about your life as a religious sister.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a small laugh. “Yes, Fin, I’m happy. In my work, in my private life. I haven’t known Colin long but our relationship feels like the real thing. I understand that I’m a new addition to his life, and that his brothers regard me as impermanent.”
“Is that how you feel, Emma? Impermanent?”
“Colin and I are very different. I know that much.”
“You’re worried about him, too. And you miss him.”
“Yes.”
She helped herself to a couple of the Simple White Stonewall Kitchen crackers Finian had provided, and his Donovan tasters hadn’t touched, then poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers. Finian disapproved of adding ice or water to whiskey but he encouraged having water on the side to help counter the dehydrating effects of the alcohol. Only during a tasting did he tolerate, if reluctantly, adding a bit of room-temperature water to the whiskey, which arguably helped with “nosing” the aromas, but there’d been no takers tonight. Mike, Andy and Kevin had all stuck to whiskey, period. Emma had followed their lead, if, admittedly, in part because of their scrutiny.
Her head spun with whiskey, fatigue and tension—with the uncertainty and frustration she felt at not knowing where Colin was, if he was safe. “He’ll be back, Fin,” she said in a half whisper.
Finian transferred the tasting glasses to a tray and took them to the empty bar. Hurley’s would wash them and he would pick them up tomorrow. Emma ate the crackers and took a few sips of the water, thinking now that she should have stayed in Boston for the weekend instead of making the two-hour drive to southern Maine. She had become adept at avoiding lonely evenings, but tonight, she suspected, would be very lonely indeed.
A writer at the absolute top of her craft.
—Providence Journal
BOOK CLUBS:
Heron’s Cove will be available through the following book clubs:
• Doubleday Book Club
• Mystery Guild
• Literary Guild
• Rhapsody Book Club
• Doubleday Large Print
• Columbia House DVD club
• BOMC2 online
July 26, 2012
SAINT’S GATE
July 31, 2012
First Time in Paperback!
(Hardcover September 2011)
MIRA Books Mass Market
Order this Book:
- Amazon
CAUGHT AT THE CROSSROADS
OF ART AND MURDER
Two people, isolated by their pasts.
An obsessive killer who will force them together
Welcome to Saint’s Gate.
Emma Sharpe is summoned to a Maine convent, partly for her FBI art crimes work, partly because of her past with the Order. At issue is a mysterious painting of Irish lore and Viking legends. But when the nun who contacted her is murdered, it seems legend is becoming deadly reality.
Colin Donovan is one of the FBI’s most valuable deep-cover agents. Back home in Maine after his latest mission, a contact clues him in to an intrigue of murder, international art heists and long-held secrets that is too tempting to resist. As danger spirals ever closer, Colin is certain of only one thing—Emma Sharpe is at the center of it all.
Read an Excerpt
Saint’s Gate, Carla Neggers
1
Emma Sharpe steeled herself against the sights and sounds of her past and kept up with the nervous woman rushing ahead of her in the dense southern Maine fog. They came to a tall iron fence, a folk-art granite statue of Saint Francis of Assisi glistening with drizzle among purple coneflowers and cheerful golden daylilies by the gate.
The little bird perched on Saint Francis’s shoulder still had a couple of missing tail feathers.
Sister Joan Mary Fabriani stopped at the gate. On the other side was the “tower,” the private workspace where the Sisters of the Joyful Heart performed their restoration and conservation work. In violation of convent protocol, Sister Joan had escorted Emma onto the convent grounds without having her first stop at the motherhouse to register as a visitor.
And a visitor she was, in boot-cut jeans, a brown leather jacket, Frye boots and a Smith & Wesson 442 strapped to her left calf.
“The gate’s locked,” Sister Joan said, turning to Emma. “I have to get the key.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Wait here, please.” The older woman, who’d spent the past thirty years as a member of her order, frowned slightly at the gate, which crossed the meandering stone walk two hundred yards from the main gate at the convent’s entrance. “I thought I left it unlocked. It doesn’t matter. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“You’re preoccupied, Sister,” Emma said. “I should go with you.”
“The shortest route to the tower is through an area restricted to members of our community here.”
“The meditation garden. I remember.”
“Yes. Of course you do.”
“No one will be there at this hour. The sisters are busy with their daily work.”
“I’m in no danger, Emma.” Sister Joan smiled, her doe-brown eyes and wide, round face helping to soften her sometimes too-frank demeanor. “It’s all right if I call you Emma, isn’t it? Or should I call you Agent Sharpe?”
Emma noted an almost imperceptible bite in Sister Joan’s voice. “Emma’s fine.”
With a broad hand, Sister Joan brushed a mosquito off the wide, stretchy black headband holding back her graying dark hair. Instead of the traditional nun’s habit, the Sisters of the Joyful Heart wore plainclothes; in Sister Joan’s case a dark gray hand-knitted sweater and calf-length skirt, black tights and sturdy black leather walking shoes. The simple silver profession cross hanging from her neck and the gold band on her left ring finger were the only external indications that she was a Roman Catholic nun.
She looked pained. “I’ve already broken enough rules by having you here without telling anyone.”
Sister Joan hadn’t given any details when she’d called Emma in Boston early that morning and asked her to make the two-hour drive north to the convent, located on a small peninsula on a beautiful, quiet stretch of rockbound coast above Kennebunkport.
“At least give me an idea of what you want to talk to me about,” Emma said.
Sister Joan hesitated. “I’d like to get your opinion on a painting.”
As if there could be any other reason. “Do you suspect it’s stolen?”
“Let me get the key and show you. It’ll be easier than trying to explain.” Sister Joan stepped off the walk onto the lush, wet grass, still very green late in the season, and looked back at Emma. “I want to thank you for not bringing a weapon onto the grounds.”
Emma made no comment about the .38 tucked under the hem of her jeans. She’d left her nine-millimeter Sig Sauer locked in its case in her car outside the convent’s main gate but had never considered going completely unarmed.
Without waiting for a response, Sister Joan followed the fence into a half dozen mature evergreens. The evergreens would open into a beautiful garden Mother Superior Sarah Jane Linden, the foundress of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, had started herself more than sixty years ago, in a clearing on a rocky ledge above a horseshoe-shaped cove. The sisters had added to it over the years—Emma herself had planted a pear tree—but the design remained essentially the one Mother Linden, who’d died almost twenty years ago, had envisioned.
As she lost sight of Sister Joan in the fog and trees, Emma stayed close to the tall gate. Even the breeze drifting through the evergreens and the taste of the salt in the damp air called up the longings of the woman she’d been—the possibilities of the woman she’d never become.
She pushed them aside and concentrated on the present. The morning fog, rain and wind would have attracted passing boats into the protected cove, one of the well-known “hurricane holes” on the Maine coast.
Watching guys on the boats when she was supposed to be in deep reflection and contemplation had been an early clue she wasn’t cut out to be a nun.
Sister Joan, honest and straightforward to a fault, had always known. “You’re an art detective, Emma. You’re a Sharpe. Be who you are.”
Emma touched a fingertip to a raindrop on Saint Francis’s shoulder. The statue was the work of Mother Linden, an accomplished artist who’d have considered the absent tail feathers part of its charm as it aged.
The Sisters of the Joyful Heart was a tiny religious order, independently funded and self-sufficient. The twenty or so sisters grew their own fruits and vegetables and baked their own bread, but they also ran a shop and studio in the nearby village of Heron’s Cove—Emma’s hometown—and were skilled in art restoration, conservation and education. During the summer and early fall, the convent held retreats for art educators and conservators, as well as people who just wanted to learn how to protect family treasures. Various sisters were dispatched to Catholic schools throughout the region as art teachers. Hope, joy and love were central to their work and to their identity as women religious sisters.
All well and good, Emma thought, but hope, joy and love hadn’t prompted Sister Joan’s call early that morning. Fear had.
“It’s a personal favor,” she had told Emma. “It’s not FBI business. Please come alone.“
Emma felt the cold mist gather on her hair, which she wore long now, and sighed at Saint Francis, the beloved early-thirteenth-century friar who had given up his wealth to follow a life of poverty. “What do you think, my friend?” She peered through the gate and made out a corner of the stone tower in the gray. “I know.”
Sister Joan was afraid, and she was in trouble.
—
Copyright © 2011 by Carla Neggers
Permission to reproduce text granted by MIRA Books
Permission to reproduce text granted by MIRA Books. Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved. ® and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited and/or its affiliated companies, used under license.
With a great plot and excellent character development, Neggers’s (Cold Dawn) latest thriller, the first in a new series, is a fast-paced, action-packed tale of romantic suspense . . .
—Library Journal on SAINT’S GATE
BOOK CLUBS:
As a Main Selection in:
• Rhapsody (RBC)
Featured Alternate in:
• Doubleday Book Club
• Literary Guild
• Mystery Guild
• Doubleday Large Print
• Columbia House DVD and CD clubs
• And BOMC2 online only
IN THE MEDIA:
Savannahnow.com / Savannah Morning News
The story behind Carla Neggers’ ‘Saint’s Gate’ by Linda Sickler.
New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers is a people person, known for creating memorable characters and placing them in extraordinary situations.
Her latest book, “Saint’s Gate,” introduces readers to FBI agent Emma Sharpe, a former nun who is now an expert in art crimes, and Colin Donovan, a deep-cover agent. They are embroiled in a murder and art theft case that will take them from Maine to Ireland. Read More
June 30, 2012
Hiking in Ireland’s Black Valley
We took this shot in mid-May on our hike in the Black Valley in Southwest Ireland…what a spot!
June 26, 2012
A Maine Sunrise
Ah, Maine. I love this shot of a coastal sunrise…
May 25, 2012
Audio books for those long summer drives
My favorite time to listen to audio books is while I’m traveling, and I’ll be on the road and in the skies a lot this summer. I’ve just picked up Rex Stout’s Champagne for One and I’m thrilled that Secrets of the Lost Summer is available in audio (from AudioGo) just in time for summer travel. If only I’d had audiobooks when I was a kid and my folks and my six brothers and sisters would head to New Hampshire’s Lake Winnepesaukee!
Here’s a link to the audio version of Secrets of the Lost Summer at Barnes & Noble. It’s also available at Amazon, Books-A-Million, the AudioGo site…enjoy! And most of all, I hope you’re anticipating a wonderful summer filled with friends, family and good books.
Have a great day,
Carla
P.S. I’m still figuring out this blog so if you don’t see a comment or I didn’t reply…bear with me! Thanks!
May 13, 2012
Happy Mother’s Day
After a week-plus in Ireland, we’re back home on our hilltop in Vermont on a beautiful Mother’s Day. I’ll be taking a long walk to rid myself of the last of jet lag. I find walking and sunlight are the best antidotes! I’m an early riser anyway, so waking up at 4 AM won’t affect me too much. It’s quiet here. We saw our gang Friday and yesterday, and my mother’s just back from visiting her brother (my Uncle John) in San Diego.I’m writing today, working on THAT NIGHT ON THISTLE LANE (due out early next year). I hear from readers who’d like me to write faster. I love that! I give each book a hundred-percent and I do admit that some days I’d like to clone myself because I have so many ideas and interests. I’m enjoying being back in my fictional town in the Swift River Valley. We’ll see what happens next.
As a reader, I have many authors whose books I can’t wait to get my hands on, even if circumstances keep it in my “to be read” pile for a while. Some authors are very prolific (more than two books a year) and some aren’t as prolific (less than one book a year). What about you? Does it matter to you as a reader whether an author is highly prolific or not?
