Barbara Samuel's Blog: A Writer Afoot, page 7

Two people pretending they don't need anybody at all….

From Breaking the Rules, a fast-paced, sexy, adventure-romance originally published by Intimate Moments.  I love the escapist aspects of it, and love both Zeke and Mattie's need to protect themselves, and hide their pasts, even as they are falling in love.  And just for the record, if you want a brand-new first edition of the paperback, it will be a tiny bit pricy–lowest price is $152.

Luckily, it is free for the next five days on Kindle.  Grab it while you can.

EXCERPT

It was Zeke's habit to rise early, one born in childhood when he'd awakened to help his mother weed the garden, knowing it would be the only time he could have her to himself in a day.

So even now, when his work was in the evenings and sometimes ran very late, he found himself wide-awake as dawn broke the night sky. Over the past months, he'd developed a habit of going to the canyon, knowing that if he got there early enough, as with his mother, he'd have it to himself.

Of all the flyspecks on the map he'd blown through the past eighteen months, Kismet would be the hardest for him to leave behind, a thought that bothered him this morning – just a little. He had a rule about getting attached to things. When you got attached, you got in trouble. People, animals, places – he didn't let himself get too comfortable with any of them. Probably time to move on.

But this morning, he was here, and that was good. He stripped at the edge of the river, taking deep pleasure in the brush of cool morning air against his skin. Overhead, a tangle of larks and sparrows sang to the light, as if it were a unique event. He smiled at them, standing on the bank for a moment to brace himself . Taking a deep breath, he touched his stomach in preparation, and with a whoop, jumped into a deep pool.

The water was a biting, icy shock – exhilarating as it stabbed through his hair and needled his flesh. He touched bottom and pushed himself back up, then lazily paddled in the broad pool, admiring the colors around him.

Back in Mississippi, rivers were wide and muddy and slow, as if the heat sucked their energy from them. Their banks were covered with cattails and grass. This river was crystal clear and mountain-cold and ran fast through the canyon it had carved from red sandstone. There was no mud to speak of, because the streambed was the rock itself.

The beauty of it was that the water had played capricious games with the soft rock, creating slides and carving pools and ignoring little flats, with no rhyme or reason. Later in the day, it would be crowded with tourists, come from the campgrounds nearby to enjoy the miracle.

He kicked out and submerged himself again, now used to the invigorating cold. He looked at the sky, vividly blue above the red of the rocks, and wondered that such color could exist.

It was only then that he became aware of a prickling uneasiness. With a flush of embarrassment, he wondered if some campers had wandered over. He'd been coming here since summer started and had never been discovered. After a few weeks, he'd shed his cutoffs in favor of skinny-dipping just because it seemed natural to do so in such a place. Keeping himself covered to the shoulders, he spun around slowly, peering into the trees at one side of the water. Nothing moved but a squirrel, who chattered in some irritation at Zeke's gall invading the quiet so early. He grinned to himself, relieved, and splashed backward to lean on a rock in the warming sunlight.

It was only then he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of a path that probably led straight back to her little cabin.

Mary. He wiped water from his face and straightened. "Well, well, well," he said. "I'm just runnin" into you all over the place."

She carried a small paper bag and a thermos. "I come here every morning to eat my breakfast," she said, and pointed to a small outcropping of rocks on the other side of the stream. A natural staircase led to the perch. "I won't bother you."

"Maybe I'll bother you."

"I doubt it." He saw that it took some effort, but she resolutely headed toward the perch, leaving her sandals at the edge of the stream to splash through the shallows to the stairs. When she reached the top, she settled herself primly with her bag in her lap. "You mind your business and I'll mind mine."

Zeke half smiled. She probably had no idea he'd left his clothes in a pile at the edge of the water, or she wouldn't be quite so calm. The pool he stood in was deep enough to cloak his nakedness, but if he moved at all, the clear water wouldn't hide much. "Nice sentiment," he said, "but we've got a little problem."

"What's that?"

"Well, Miss Mary, all my clothes are over there on the bank."

A flash of something crossed her face – satisfaction? She raised her eyebrows. "I guess you'll have to wait until I'm finished with my breakfast

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The original cover

to finish your swim, then, won't you?"

Zeke licked his bottom lip. It had been a mistake to underestimate this woman. She might look young and naive, but there was something hard as barbed wire running beneath it all. If he hadn't been so rattled by that mouth yesterday, he would have realized it, too.

"Not necessarily."

She shrugged, cracking open a peanut. Her composure was utterly unrattled this morning, and he wondered what had brought about the change.

"I think you're pretty mad at me, aren't you?"

"Why would I be mad? You deliberately tried to embarrass me at the restaurant, then you followed me home, dropped all these innuendos, then made it sound like I was the one who initiated things." A blaze of color touched her cheeks. "Not to mention the fact you stuck your nose in where it didn't belong."

"All right, all right." He raised a hand. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Sunlight angled through the high trees and over the canyon wall to strike her face. "I'll turn around if you want to get out."

"Much obliged."

She stood up, and Zeke frowned over her clothes – a dowdy pair of baggy shorts with an equally dowdy, baggy tank top. He winced at the waste of that body in those clothes as she turned around, putting her back to him.

For a moment, he paused, struck by the tenderness of her nape. He followed the path of her spine downward to the barely visible outline of her rear end, down farther over the taut thighs and strong calves, tanned to a deep golden hue.

"You'd better hurry up," she warned. "I'm not going to stand here waiting forever."

Zeke pushed out of the water and dashed for the bank, feeling a little tightening of his muscles as he scrambled into his briefs and cutoffs. Much as he hated to do it, he tugged his shirt on, too. Cover the scars.

He turned around and saw to his relief she was still standing with her back to him. "All right," he called.

She settled once more on her perch. "Maybe you shouldn't be out here skinny-dipping."

He waded through the shallows toward her, even though he told himself he ought to be moving in the opposite direction. "You're the first person who has ever come here."

"There's not really room for two up here," she said as he began to climb up the slope.

"Sure there is. Move your fanny over."

She scooted like a little brown mouse, her mirth and bravado shrinking as he sat down next her. He chuckled. "What's wrong, Miss Mary? You scared of the giant?"

"I'm afraid of falling off here."

"You could sit on my lap."

"I think not." To avoid his eyes, she dug in her bag and came up with a handful of peanuts in their shells.

"Some breakfast," he commented and grabbed the bag to peer inside. Peanuts, another apple, a paper carton of orange juice and a small thermos. "Will you share?"

"Help yourself."

He held up the thermos. "Is this coffee?" She nodded. "But I'm afraid it has cream. I never did learn to like it black."

"That's okay, Miss Mary. I'll drink it your way."

She didn't make a response, just cracked open a peanut and picked out the nuts from within. As he poured a cupful of the still-steaming brew, he caught her sidelong glance sweeping over his bare legs.

"So, what are you doing up so early?" he asked.

"I have to be to work at five-thirty. Even on my days off, I can't sleep past four." A shadow crossed her eyes, and she was suddenly not with him here on the sandstone table, but lost somewhere inside herself. He narrowed his eyes and wondered again what she was hiding. A violent husband? Maybe. It was plain she was scared to death.

He restrained himself from asking any more questions, however. Bad enough he'd crawled up here to sit with her. "I like early morning," he said, admiring the sky. "Private, quiet, peaceful."

"I never knew I did until—" She broke off, bowing her head in consternation.

"I'm not gonna pry this morning," he said quietly. "Promise."

She raised wide brown eyes. "I never got up this early before I started working at the restaurant. I guess you do it all the time?"

"Pretty much." He cracked a peanut and poured the nuts into his palm. "You ever wait tables before?"

A small, rueful smile touched her mouth. "No. It wasn't a pleasant sight the first few days."

He chuckled. "Roxanne train you?"

"Yes. She was so patient, too. She never yelled at me once."

"She's a good lady. Good waitress, too."

Mattie looked at him, and he could see her weighing something in her mind. "She – um – rather likes you." She pinched an earlobe. "That's not really the right word, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"It's not mutual?"

"Are you matchmaking, Miss Mary?"

With a little shrug, she tossed the stem of an apple into the water. "Maybe."

He inclined his head, wondering why she would take that role when he'd been getting pretty clear signals that she "liked" him, as she put it. He touched her bare arm with one finger, liking the silky pale flesh and the jolt it gave her. "Why don't you match make me with you?" he drawled. "Might be more successful."

She didn't look at him. "You aren't my type, and I'm not yours."

Only yesterday, Zeke had told himself the same thing. Two different worlds, lifestyles, values, everything. But he found his gaze wandering over the smooth length of her long neck, down to the shadow he could glimpse between her breasts, over her smooth, pretty legs.

"How do you know until you try?" he said.

She turned her head, and now she was so close, Zeke could see the green and blue and yellow flecks in the brown irises. "I know," she said, but the huskiness in her voice betrayed her.

Below their dangling feet, the water rushed merrily over the rocks. Birds twittered and cheeped. A soft breeze, smelling of all the best of the outdoors, swept a lock of her hair over her forehead. Zeke let his fingers trace her upper arm and fall into the hollow of her elbow, tracing the path his fingers took with his eyes. An abrupt and insistent heat spread through his groin.

It would be so easy to disarm her, he thought. She was ready to fall right now. All he had to do was lean forward and press his mouth someplace that would surprise her – the sensitive hollow below her ear, the edge of her shoulder, her palm.

She swayed just a little toward him, and the motion brought Zeke to his senses. Alarmed, he snatched his hand away and swore softly.

He'd done it again.

In one day, this soft little mouse of a woman had tempted him into all kinds of thoughts he didn't let himself have. He shook his head. Just hungry, he guessed. A man couldn't go without forever, after all. Obviously, he was getting to the end of his celibacy.

But it would be a mistake to let himself go with this woman. A big mistake.

"I gotta go."

He turned and scrambled down the rock, skinning his heel in his haste to get away from her.

"Zeke?" She climbed down after him, running a little to catch up. "Wait a minute."

He steeled himself and spun around, pasting an annoyed look on his face to discourage anything sweet coming from her.

It worked. A little bit, anyway. She stopped a foot away, her bare feet sunk to the ankles in silvery water. She was still too close. He could smell her shampoo and see a gleam of that innocent hunger in her big brown eyes as she stared up at him. Way, way up, because she wasn't real tall and Zeke didn't meet many men bigger than he was.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to imply you were—" she shrugged. "I don't mean that you're not good enough or anything like that. I'm just not your type."

He took a breath. "You're right. And I'm not yours." He stuck out a hand to shake. "Friends?"

She smiled, and the expression was dazzling, innocent and sweet and damnably delectable. She stuck out her hand. Zeke caught sight of her burns again. It triggered that odd sense of déjà vu and as he took her hand, he turned it over quizzically. "How'd you get these burns, honey?"

She sighed and lifted her hands in front of her. "A teddy bear," she said. "My parents were killed in a house fire when I was six. I was there, too, but the firemen got me out in time, but they couldn't get the bear away from me in time. It stuck to me."

Ah, hell. Now if that wasn't just about the saddest story he'd ever heard—

Irritated with himself, he frowned. "Why do I think I know you? It's driving me crazy."

Her face drained of expression and she backed away. "I don't know. And I'm not going to talk about it again." She whirled and splashed back toward her rock.

Good. That was that. He stalked through the trees without a second glance. Time to get out of town, all right. Trouble was brewing. He could smell it.

Two people pretending they don’t need anybody at all….

From Breaking the Rules, a fast-paced, sexy, adventure-romance originally published by Intimate Moments.  I love the escapist aspects of it, and love both Zeke and Mattie’s need to protect themselves, and hide their pasts, even as they are falling in love.  And just for the record, if you want a brand-new first edition of the paperback, it will be a tiny bit pricy–lowest price is $152.

Luckily, it is free for the next five days on Kindle.  Grab it while you can.

EXCERPT

It was Zeke’s habit to rise early, one born in childhood when he’d awakened to help his mother weed the garden, knowing it would be the only time he could have her to himself in a day.

So even now, when his work was in the evenings and sometimes ran very late, he found himself wide-awake as dawn broke the night sky. Over the past months, he’d developed a habit of going to the canyon, knowing that if he got there early enough, as with his mother, he’d have it to himself.

Of all the flyspecks on the map he’d blown through the past eighteen months, Kismet would be the hardest for him to leave behind, a thought that bothered him this morning – just a little. He had a rule about getting attached to things. When you got attached, you got in trouble. People, animals, places – he didn’t let himself get too comfortable with any of them. Probably time to move on.

But this morning, he was here, and that was good. He stripped at the edge of the river, taking deep pleasure in the brush of cool morning air against his skin. Overhead, a tangle of larks and sparrows sang to the light, as if it were a unique event. He smiled at them, standing on the bank for a moment to brace himself . Taking a deep breath, he touched his stomach in preparation, and with a whoop, jumped into a deep pool.

The water was a biting, icy shock – exhilarating as it stabbed through his hair and needled his flesh. He touched bottom and pushed himself back up, then lazily paddled in the broad pool, admiring the colors around him.

Back in Mississippi, rivers were wide and muddy and slow, as if the heat sucked their energy from them. Their banks were covered with cattails and grass. This river was crystal clear and mountain-cold and ran fast through the canyon it had carved from red sandstone. There was no mud to speak of, because the streambed was the rock itself.

The beauty of it was that the water had played capricious games with the soft rock, creating slides and carving pools and ignoring little flats, with no rhyme or reason. Later in the day, it would be crowded with tourists, come from the campgrounds nearby to enjoy the miracle.

He kicked out and submerged himself again, now used to the invigorating cold. He looked at the sky, vividly blue above the red of the rocks, and wondered that such color could exist.

It was only then that he became aware of a prickling uneasiness. With a flush of embarrassment, he wondered if some campers had wandered over. He’d been coming here since summer started and had never been discovered. After a few weeks, he’d shed his cutoffs in favor of skinny-dipping just because it seemed natural to do so in such a place. Keeping himself covered to the shoulders, he spun around slowly, peering into the trees at one side of the water. Nothing moved but a squirrel, who chattered in some irritation at Zeke’s gall invading the quiet so early. He grinned to himself, relieved, and splashed backward to lean on a rock in the warming sunlight.

It was only then he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of a path that probably led straight back to her little cabin.

Mary. He wiped water from his face and straightened. “Well, well, well,” he said. “I’m just runnin” into you all over the place.”

She carried a small paper bag and a thermos. “I come here every morning to eat my breakfast,” she said, and pointed to a small outcropping of rocks on the other side of the stream. A natural staircase led to the perch. “I won’t bother you.”

“Maybe I’ll bother you.”

“I doubt it.” He saw that it took some effort, but she resolutely headed toward the perch, leaving her sandals at the edge of the stream to splash through the shallows to the stairs. When she reached the top, she settled herself primly with her bag in her lap. “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”

Zeke half smiled. She probably had no idea he’d left his clothes in a pile at the edge of the water, or she wouldn’t be quite so calm. The pool he stood in was deep enough to cloak his nakedness, but if he moved at all, the clear water wouldn’t hide much. “Nice sentiment,” he said, “but we’ve got a little problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, Miss Mary, all my clothes are over there on the bank.”

A flash of something crossed her face – satisfaction? She raised her eyebrows. “I guess you’ll have to wait until I’m finished with my breakfast

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The original cover

to finish your swim, then, won’t you?”

Zeke licked his bottom lip. It had been a mistake to underestimate this woman. She might look young and naive, but there was something hard as barbed wire running beneath it all. If he hadn’t been so rattled by that mouth yesterday, he would have realized it, too.

“Not necessarily.”

She shrugged, cracking open a peanut. Her composure was utterly unrattled this morning, and he wondered what had brought about the change.

“I think you’re pretty mad at me, aren’t you?”

“Why would I be mad? You deliberately tried to embarrass me at the restaurant, then you followed me home, dropped all these innuendos, then made it sound like I was the one who initiated things.” A blaze of color touched her cheeks. “Not to mention the fact you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong.”

“All right, all right.” He raised a hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Sunlight angled through the high trees and over the canyon wall to strike her face. “I’ll turn around if you want to get out.”

“Much obliged.”

She stood up, and Zeke frowned over her clothes – a dowdy pair of baggy shorts with an equally dowdy, baggy tank top. He winced at the waste of that body in those clothes as she turned around, putting her back to him.

For a moment, he paused, struck by the tenderness of her nape. He followed the path of her spine downward to the barely visible outline of her rear end, down farther over the taut thighs and strong calves, tanned to a deep golden hue.

“You’d better hurry up,” she warned. “I’m not going to stand here waiting forever.”

Zeke pushed out of the water and dashed for the bank, feeling a little tightening of his muscles as he scrambled into his briefs and cutoffs. Much as he hated to do it, he tugged his shirt on, too. Cover the scars.

He turned around and saw to his relief she was still standing with her back to him. “All right,” he called.

She settled once more on her perch. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out here skinny-dipping.”

He waded through the shallows toward her, even though he told himself he ought to be moving in the opposite direction. “You’re the first person who has ever come here.”

“There’s not really room for two up here,” she said as he began to climb up the slope.

“Sure there is. Move your fanny over.”

She scooted like a little brown mouse, her mirth and bravado shrinking as he sat down next her. He chuckled. “What’s wrong, Miss Mary? You scared of the giant?”

“I’m afraid of falling off here.”

“You could sit on my lap.”

“I think not.” To avoid his eyes, she dug in her bag and came up with a handful of peanuts in their shells.

“Some breakfast,” he commented and grabbed the bag to peer inside. Peanuts, another apple, a paper carton of orange juice and a small thermos. “Will you share?”

“Help yourself.”

He held up the thermos. “Is this coffee?” She nodded. “But I’m afraid it has cream. I never did learn to like it black.”

“That’s okay, Miss Mary. I’ll drink it your way.”

She didn’t make a response, just cracked open a peanut and picked out the nuts from within. As he poured a cupful of the still-steaming brew, he caught her sidelong glance sweeping over his bare legs.

“So, what are you doing up so early?” he asked.

“I have to be to work at five-thirty. Even on my days off, I can’t sleep past four.” A shadow crossed her eyes, and she was suddenly not with him here on the sandstone table, but lost somewhere inside herself. He narrowed his eyes and wondered again what she was hiding. A violent husband? Maybe. It was plain she was scared to death.

He restrained himself from asking any more questions, however. Bad enough he’d crawled up here to sit with her. “I like early morning,” he said, admiring the sky. “Private, quiet, peaceful.”

“I never knew I did until—“ She broke off, bowing her head in consternation.

“I’m not gonna pry this morning,” he said quietly. “Promise.”

She raised wide brown eyes. “I never got up this early before I started working at the restaurant. I guess you do it all the time?”

“Pretty much.” He cracked a peanut and poured the nuts into his palm. “You ever wait tables before?”

A small, rueful smile touched her mouth. “No. It wasn’t a pleasant sight the first few days.”

He chuckled. “Roxanne train you?”

“Yes. She was so patient, too. She never yelled at me once.”

“She’s a good lady. Good waitress, too.”

Mattie looked at him, and he could see her weighing something in her mind. “She – um – rather likes you.” She pinched an earlobe. “That’s not really the right word, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not mutual?”

“Are you matchmaking, Miss Mary?”

With a little shrug, she tossed the stem of an apple into the water. “Maybe.”

He inclined his head, wondering why she would take that role when he’d been getting pretty clear signals that she “liked” him, as she put it. He touched her bare arm with one finger, liking the silky pale flesh and the jolt it gave her. “Why don’t you match make me with you?” he drawled. “Might be more successful.”

She didn’t look at him. “You aren’t my type, and I’m not yours.”

Only yesterday, Zeke had told himself the same thing. Two different worlds, lifestyles, values, everything. But he found his gaze wandering over the smooth length of her long neck, down to the shadow he could glimpse between her breasts, over her smooth, pretty legs.

“How do you know until you try?” he said.

She turned her head, and now she was so close, Zeke could see the green and blue and yellow flecks in the brown irises. “I know,” she said, but the huskiness in her voice betrayed her.

Below their dangling feet, the water rushed merrily over the rocks. Birds twittered and cheeped. A soft breeze, smelling of all the best of the outdoors, swept a lock of her hair over her forehead. Zeke let his fingers trace her upper arm and fall into the hollow of her elbow, tracing the path his fingers took with his eyes. An abrupt and insistent heat spread through his groin.

It would be so easy to disarm her, he thought. She was ready to fall right now. All he had to do was lean forward and press his mouth someplace that would surprise her – the sensitive hollow below her ear, the edge of her shoulder, her palm.

She swayed just a little toward him, and the motion brought Zeke to his senses. Alarmed, he snatched his hand away and swore softly.

He’d done it again.

In one day, this soft little mouse of a woman had tempted him into all kinds of thoughts he didn’t let himself have. He shook his head. Just hungry, he guessed. A man couldn’t go without forever, after all. Obviously, he was getting to the end of his celibacy.

But it would be a mistake to let himself go with this woman. A big mistake.

“I gotta go.”

He turned and scrambled down the rock, skinning his heel in his haste to get away from her.

“Zeke?” She climbed down after him, running a little to catch up. “Wait a minute.”

He steeled himself and spun around, pasting an annoyed look on his face to discourage anything sweet coming from her.

It worked. A little bit, anyway. She stopped a foot away, her bare feet sunk to the ankles in silvery water. She was still too close. He could smell her shampoo and see a gleam of that innocent hunger in her big brown eyes as she stared up at him. Way, way up, because she wasn’t real tall and Zeke didn’t meet many men bigger than he was.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply you were—“ she shrugged. “I don’t mean that you’re not good enough or anything like that. I’m just not your type.”

He took a breath. “You’re right. And I’m not yours.” He stuck out a hand to shake. “Friends?”

She smiled, and the expression was dazzling, innocent and sweet and damnably delectable. She stuck out her hand. Zeke caught sight of her burns again. It triggered that odd sense of déjà vu and as he took her hand, he turned it over quizzically. “How’d you get these burns, honey?”

She sighed and lifted her hands in front of her. “A teddy bear,” she said. “My parents were killed in a house fire when I was six. I was there, too, but the firemen got me out in time, but they couldn’t get the bear away from me in time. It stuck to me.”

Ah, hell. Now if that wasn’t just about the saddest story he’d ever heard—

Irritated with himself, he frowned. “Why do I think I know you? It’s driving me crazy.”

Her face drained of expression and she backed away. “I don’t know. And I’m not going to talk about it again.” She whirled and splashed back toward her rock.

Good. That was that. He stalked through the trees without a second glance. Time to get out of town, all right. Trouble was brewing. He could smell it.

A baby, an appendix, and a book…oh my!

Since my last post, these are the things that have happened in my world:

Amara was born over two days.  It was not an easy labor for mama, but I was very honored to be there and watch my first grandchild make her way into the world.  She was born February 18, and this is a picture from that day:

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Two days after she arrived home, my beloved Christopher Robin fell ill. We first believed it was food poisoning, so he gave up all food and slept for a day.  The next day, I decided it might be appendicitis.  I was right.  It was a very terrible case of appendicitis, about as bad as you can get and still survive, and he spent four days in the hospital, then another ten days at home in bed.  I made periodic trips to kiss Amara, but mostly, I urged CR to drink more tea, and eat eat eat eat….!

On the work front, I'm juggling three projects: the first is the arrival of The Garden of Happy Endings as a real live book in stores and ebook [image error]readers near you on April 17.  There are signings, conferences, blog tours, giveaways, and I hope you'll check them out. I will have a schedule up next week sometime.  I love this book very much, and hope you will, too.  It showed up nearly whole, throwing down a gauntlet that kicked my rear all through the spring and summer last year. There are gardens and dogs and sisters and a woman who became, through her courage and questing, one of my favorite characters ever.

Second project is finished: the rough draft of my online serial novel The Mirror Girl, the first book in a three-book YA urban fantasy/sff series is finished!

The third is the book for next year, involving all manner of research and food and the losses we think we can't possibly survive, and the people who help us through–fathers and friends, animals and love affairs, hobbies and work we love.  Very engaged and excited about this book.

And it might be true that time I might have spent blogging has been spent kissing the downy cheek of a little girl.

Wouldn't you kiss her, too?

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Waiting…..

In the moment……

It is a late Friday afternoon in February.  My dog Jack is snoring on the floor behind me. My old cat Athena is comfortably sitting in the sunshine , peering out at the world. The kittens randomly leap on the back of the chair, up to the desk, over to the bookcase, hoping to get me to come open a can of food for them.   I am waiting for my son to call and say that we're going to the hospital so that his wife can be induced, a call I have been waiting for–and THEY have been waiting for all day.  It was supposed to happen at 6 am. Then 9 am. Now 6 pm.

We are very, very ready for her to be here. Yesterday was long enough by itself, since we heard the news on Wednesday afternoon that Morgan probably needs to deliver.  But there were…electrical problems on the floor at the hospital. They had to postpone.  I would be lying if I said this didn't make me anxious, but I am also a believer in things working together for good, so I'm focusing on the fact that it would have been worse for her to be in labor when the power snagged.

So presented with an entire day, what have I done?  A lot of Facebook.  A lot of texting with my sisters. I made a stab at writing new material for The Mirror Girl, but the first time was a bust, so I took a little nap.  I woke up and shot a bunch of photos with my new camera, mostly playing with depth of field on little tiny things (you may have noticed I love shooting very little things up close), made some lunch read more Facebook.

BORED.  I can't really go to the gym because I had a stomach bug earlier this week and it kicked my butt, so I'm restricted from the gym for the week. Not even yoga. Yesterday, my dog was so slow on the final stretch that I got worried about him, so he got a bone instead of a walk today.

I finally did write some pages on The Mirror Girl (which is almost finished, at least this first book is) and did another round of deep research on childhood leukemia, which figures into the new book for Bantam.  I sent out some emails for The Garden of Happy Endings and made a list of things to do for the release, April 17.  (I will be at several events through April and May, so be sure to check back.)

(And by the way, if you're collecting the old titles, two more have gone up, Light of Day and A Minute to Smile.  Check out the covers–aren't they pretty??)

But really, all I'm doing is waiting for Amara.

Here is one of the photos I shot.  I love old silver and tiny spoons and salt cellars in particular.  Have you ever had one?

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What do you do when all you're really doing is waiting?

"They were London rakes, a breed of man beneath Madeline's contempt…."

[image error] It is blizzardy and deliciously wintery here today, so I thought you might like reading Lucien's Fall, available now at Amazon Kindle.  Lucien is one of my all time favorite heroes, reckless and beautiful and very nearly unredeemable.

A taste, if you're so inclined:

 

The riders raced up the road madly. The gleaming, sporty phaeton rocked dangerously in the rain-rutted course. The other man rode on a beautiful, lean black horse; beast and man were illuminated with the bars of hazy light falling through thick tree branches. They were young men, London rakes, a breed of man beneath Madeline's contempt. She found their arrogance and idleness a bore.

And yet, as they laughed and shouted, each goading the other to a faster pace, Madeline felt her blood rise in a strange excitement. It was in particular the man on the horse who caught her eye. He wore no powder or wig, and his thick dark hair was drawn back into a queue with a black ribbon. His body was long and sinuously made, and he rode as if he and the horse were one being. From where she stood, his face gave the impression of exotic tilts and powerful bones.

But it was the hedonism Madeline ordinarily found so distasteful in such men that drew her now, made her take up her skirts and run toward the opening of the maze so she would not lose sight of him behind the hedge.

She broke through to the open stretch of lawn between the maze and the Elizabethan house of Whitethorn just as the man urged his horse into a full run. Light dappled faster and faster over his dark hair, his dark horse, his long legs. Next to him, only a little behind, the phaeton rocked noisily.

As they neared the end of the drive, Madeline burst into a run. The man on the horse left the road and bolted across the same lawn. His speed was almost dizzying, and he headed with purpose for a shoulder-high hedge that edged the house garden.

Madeline froze. They would both be killed.

But even as she clamped a hand over her mouth, watching in horror, the black beast leaped with stunning grace over the squared hedge. Horse and man hung—haloed and gilded by the afternoon light—for an endless time against the sky.

As he hung there, suspended in midair, looking like Pan, like some untamed beast come in from the wild, the man laughed. The sound rang with robust defiance into the day, and Madeline felt her heart catch with a sharp pang.

To be so free!

Order this book now.

“They were London rakes, a breed of man beneath Madeline’s contempt….”

[image error] It is blizzardy and deliciously wintery here today, so I thought you might like reading Lucien’s Fall, available now at Amazon Kindle.  Lucien is one of my all time favorite heroes, reckless and beautiful and very nearly unredeemable.

A taste, if you’re so inclined:

 

The riders raced up the road madly. The gleaming, sporty phaeton rocked dangerously in the rain-rutted course. The other man rode on a beautiful, lean black horse; beast and man were illuminated with the bars of hazy light falling through thick tree branches. They were young men, London rakes, a breed of man beneath Madeline’s contempt. She found their arrogance and idleness a bore.

And yet, as they laughed and shouted, each goading the other to a faster pace, Madeline felt her blood rise in a strange excitement. It was in particular the man on the horse who caught her eye. He wore no powder or wig, and his thick dark hair was drawn back into a queue with a black ribbon. His body was long and sinuously made, and he rode as if he and the horse were one being. From where she stood, his face gave the impression of exotic tilts and powerful bones.

But it was the hedonism Madeline ordinarily found so distasteful in such men that drew her now, made her take up her skirts and run toward the opening of the maze so she would not lose sight of him behind the hedge.

She broke through to the open stretch of lawn between the maze and the Elizabethan house of Whitethorn just as the man urged his horse into a full run. Light dappled faster and faster over his dark hair, his dark horse, his long legs. Next to him, only a little behind, the phaeton rocked noisily.

As they neared the end of the drive, Madeline burst into a run. The man on the horse left the road and bolted across the same lawn. His speed was almost dizzying, and he headed with purpose for a shoulder-high hedge that edged the house garden.

Madeline froze. They would both be killed.

But even as she clamped a hand over her mouth, watching in horror, the black beast leaped with stunning grace over the squared hedge. Horse and man hung—haloed and gilded by the afternoon light—for an endless time against the sky.

As he hung there, suspended in midair, looking like Pan, like some untamed beast come in from the wild, the man laughed. The sound rang with robust defiance into the day, and Madeline felt her heart catch with a sharp pang.

To be so free!

Order this book now.

The process

Since November, I've been writing a serial novel for a blog, The OtherLand Chronicles, which I've written about here several times.  After two months, I have some observations.

I began on November 1, for NaNoWriMo, a lark.  Or so I thought.  The truth is, this story has been rattling around in my head for more than three years, gathering bits and pieces to itself.  Every so often, it came to me with a new shiny something, like a child who wants to play, and I would say, "Oh, that really is clever, but I don't really have time right now to do anything with it.  Hang on to it, okay?"  The book-child wold nod and amble away, admiring her little treasure.

Over and over and over this happened, until I realized that I had a LOT of material.  Like an entire world and backstory and a story arc long enough for a trilogy.  It was all born from my walks in the parkways around Briargate, and that's a lot of walking.  Every day, year in, year out, me and my dog and the story brewing.

Any writer knows that sooner or later, that work has to be done.  It will force its way into your schedule no matter what else you've got going on, and it will make itself so very attractive that you will have no choice. You'll be seduced.

I was seduced. Now I find myself writing an entire book in public, which is not the most comfortable thing in the world. It forces me to find more time to write than I usually would, and for the first time in years, I'm really a hermit.  I don't want to go anywhere.  I have work to do. So much work, all of it so different, and so much fun in its own ways.

I also discovered that as much as I'd like to do a "serial draft" where I don't change anything, that was just not possible.  I had to go back and do some revisions for the sake of the story. I had to rewrite a couple of scenes pretty substantially and move a couple of them around, and until I did it, the book stubbornly wasn't going to let me move forward.

But here's the thing: this is my play project, so I get to make the rules.  My promise to the readers of the material is that I will finish.  I will not quit until I have a complete story.  Turns out my promise to the story is that I have to serve it first.  Which is always the way.

For the record, I am having a blast. This is as entertaining as anything I've done.

If you haven't been reading along and wish to begin, start at the beginning.

If you have been reading, I finally got new material up after the long Christmas break.  Start at Chapter Eleven, Scene 4

Adulthood and my personal commandments

I am pretty sure I've talked about Gretchen Rubin's book, The Happiness Project before.  The book is upbeat, illuminating, and surprisingly practical.  One of the steps I love most is her approach to creating a map of living.  Each of us have a different set of goals, a dharma and purpose unlike that of anyone else.  It's helpful to put that down in writing.

These are my 12 personal commandments, which are connected to the secrets of adulthood.  I used Rubin's list as a model, but adapted them to me and my reality. Maybe you have a list of your own you'd like to share.

1. Be Barbara

This is taken directly from Rubin.  It reminds me to be ME, not some idealized version of me.  Or as my old Unity minister used to say, "I am God expressing as….Barbara."  Which is an exhilarating thought, really.

2. I am 100% responsible for my own happiness

Never as easy as I think it will be.  For example, when I am driving and some rude driver cuts me off, how can I be happy?  But I can, as my friend Heather does, tell myself another story about the action.  Maybe that person has a sick child or is rushing to the beside of his best friend.

This also counts when I am irritated with some aspect of daily life or a person in my life….100% means all the time. The weird thing is, this particular secret carries a huge amount of relief.

 3. If I look good, I feel good.

This doesn't mean trying to be botoxed and skinny.  It is to remind me that while it's okay to wear yoga pants and my hair in a scrunchy while I'm working, I feel 10x better if I  get my hair cut on time and wear only clothes I really love.  It means putting on the nicer shirt and taking the time to do my hair before CR comes home.  Little stuff, that's all.  (And this probably makes me sound like a slob, which would be impossible for a daughter of my mother.)

4. An Uncluttered Environment Leads to an Uncluttered Mind

Simple. I don't have to have sparkling clean floors, but need to reduce visual clutter as much as possible.

 5. Exercise always helps

I need daily walks and fresh air and lots of hard, physical exercise.  I am grouchy without it.  If I'm cranky or overwhelmed or tired, I almost always need to get outside or go swimming or go work out.  The deeper the grumpiness, the more I need to do.

 6. Sleep Gives You A Clear Head

I am a morning person.  Like, obnoxiously so.  I like to wake up early and get going on the day.  That means I'm genuinely tired and ready to quit by 8 or 9.  Because I grew up with vampires, I sometimes feel sheepish about this and will often try to stay up until 11, like other people.  All this does is make me tired.  Going to bed with a good book at 9 is a great choice for me.

 7. Overindulging Always Has A Price

 Just what it says.  Too much sugar or wine, too many video games, too many cookies…and I don't feel great.

8. Work and Meeting Goals Makes Me Happy

I am lucky enough to adore the work I do.  Sometimes, however, I can procrastinate myself into a corner and then I have to work too hard to be able to enjoy the process.  Much much better to set reasonable goals and show up every day to get the work done.  I feel so much better this way.

 9. Tracking My Progress Is An Effective Tool for Conscious Living

I am a born diarist, and seeing my day to day habits in black and white makes me aware of what habits and actions actually form the basis of my life.  That allows me to be accountable and to make changes if I so desire.

  10. Celebrating others makes me feel happy

Everyone likes to be noticed, honored, get presents and cards. 

11. Meditation is my way of listening to God

I like meditation, but I am surprised how often I'll say to myself, "I don't have time this morning."  Making time makes a difference.

12. I am always practicing to be an elder

Our society revers youth, not elders, but we need our elders to guide and help lead.  To be the Wise Woman I hope to be one day, I have to learn what that means, and how to embrace it. That means listening to my elders instead of dismissing them.  It means seeking instruction and guidance.  It means practicing awareness of what I say and how I say it and how that influences others.

How about you? Can you think of some things you'd put on your list?  

Writing in Buena Vista

This morning, I'm sitting at Bongo Billy's coffee shop in Buena Vista, looking straight at Mt Princeton, which is one of the most gorgeous 14ers in a state packed with them. I've just posted the pages I wrote early this morning in my cabin overlooking Cottonwood Creek. Had to come to town to get a wifi signal. Doing it made me feel a bit of a city-slicker, but when you fall in love with a story, it goes with you. It's one of the great things about being a writer.

I am madly in love with Bartholomew and Alia and the world they are revealing to me. I love having the the little deadline every few days so I can write some pages, and stick with it, but I also love that I'm writing it for me. I always write for myself, of course, but the artistic freedom in doing whatever I want for pure, total fun is rejuvenating in a way I hadn't expected.

Now I'm off to soak in the hot springs and put together a vision board for the new year.

If you want to follow along, go to http://theotherlandchronicles.com/201...

In the meantime, hope you are all having a day as fine as mine.

Ready, set….READ!

Ambling around the internet this morning, I found this challenge from Book Chick City:

Since I'm often setting goals like "go to the gym seven hundred times a week," the idea of reading a hundred books of FICTION in a year sounds like a dream.  I bet you read that much most of the time anyway.  I know I do.

It seems a luxurious delight  worthy challenge for our insanely readerly selves. I signed up. Maybe you'll want to join me. Click the icon.

 

Also, speaking of reading: The OtherLand Chronicles, the serial urban fantasy/YA/? I started for NaNoWriMo,  is still in progress.  Just started Chapter Nine this morning.  Posting M-W-F through December.  Having so much fun it's just sinful.  ;)

To start at the beginning, go here: http://theotherlandchronicles.com/2011/10/starthere/