Jan Scarbrough's Blog, page 18

THE ART LOVER, by Friend Maggie Wells, Free this week!

Amazon Kindle Retail Price: $0.99 Promotional Price: FREE March 3-7, 2014

Multi-published author, Maggie Wells, is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, this mild-mannered married lady has a naughty streak a mile wide.

Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed. They are the food purveyors to three dogs, a passel of fish, and one impertinent house rabbit she claims is the love of her life. Shh. Don’t tell her husband.

You can find her online at http://www.maggie-wells.com, on Twitter @maggiewells1, or on Facebook.

 

THE ART LOVER, A story made vivid by passion

Starving artist Kelsey Tecato takes being The Templeton Museum’s artist in residence a little too literally. By day, she puts on a show of painting for the crowds that shuffle through the galleries, but at night, her muse runs wild.

Mitch Jameson is a guy’s guy. A cop moonlighting as a security guard, he has little use for the artsy-fartsy stuff, but the mysterious Ms. Tecato’s sexy portraits call to him.

So does an interior alarm.

When Officer Jameson goes to investigate, he finds a paint-splattered goddess working on a self-portrait–in the nude.

A couple tubes of paint and a roll in the drop cloths later, free-spirited Kelsey helps Officer Jameson discover his passion for art.

 

To Tweet or Not to Tweet

I have to admit I didn’t use Twitter very much until a year ago. Then I heard another author admit her sales had increased once she started using it.

Author Marie Dunn says “I tweet to connect with my readers and other authors… and sometimes just to express random thoughts.”

Hmmmm, I said to self. And then I thought I’d try twittering harder. (Funny how our vocabulary has changed, isn’t it?).

For a while last year, I belonged to an online service that helped me find followers. I read that you needed to connect to your followers personally. I’m still not so sure how that happens when I follow almost 2500 people and the tweets pour into my home page 20 or more at a time. But when someone retweets me, I try to thank him. I try to respond to a personal tweet. I’m even part of a group of romance writers who tweet for each other.

How has it worked out? Well, I had my best year this year in sales. I can’t attribute it all to tweeting. Last year, I began blogging once a week too. Who knows what works in social media?

You need to write short when you tweet. And design your text for “usability.” Here are a few tips from an article called Twitter Postings: Iterative Design.

Front load attractive keywords.
Be specific.
Leave slack in your original post if you expect followers to share it (below 130 characters).
Don’t tweet on the hour. This author prefers 9:01 a.m. to reach from California to the U.K.

Here are a few of my compositions this year:

Tired of snow? Think KY Derby & spring! Horse races, charity parties and romance in one book: BETTING ON LOVE http://amzn.to/15R1xvM

KY COWBOY What happens when a pro bull rider comes home? http://amzn.to/1bb6iPM Bull riding is America’s original extreme sport. #PBR

He was so powerful. The ultimate warrior. She was his quarry. MY LORD RAVEN http://amzn.to/14TtLID #Medieval

TANGLED MEMORIES If you liked ‘Rebecca’ or ‘Jane Eyre,’ you are going to love this story. #Gothic #Romance http://amzn.to/1e44olF

 

I express my passion for the medieval period in Freely Given

Author Anne O’Brien says, “I have a long-held passion for the medieval period which has fuelled my writing in recent years.”

I have to agree with Anne. I too have a “passion” for the medieval period. And I’ve enjoyed reading medieval romance books as I explain in my blog about Anya Seton’s book Katherine. I recently enjoyed Phillipa Gregory’s series about “The Cousins’ War,” and faithfully watched The White Queen on Starz.

Nevertheless, I find writing about the period a challenge. My Lord Raven is my one and only full-blown medieval romance. When I wrote it, I tried to research carefully and stay true to the time. Because of the difficulty of writing a good, long medieval novel, I’ve opted to take a shortcut with my most recent endeavor.

Freely Given is a series of short romances about women in the time period. I hope they are accurate enough. Yet, in writing them, I’ve let my imagination wander—from a would-be nun to a scandalous runaway heiress. I’ve used Ms. Gregory’s technique of first-person present tense which should provide an immediacy to the tales.

This collection is my second self-publishing endeavor. I want to thank Calliope Designs for the beautiful cover, and my dear husband for the technical work. Without him, the book would languish “under the bed” collecting dust. A special thanks also goes to my editor Karen Block who is there to whip my writing into shape.

Freely Given (Medieval Romances)

Freely Given is a series of four, short romances depicting the lack of control a Medieval woman experienced in choosing her marriage partner. Noble marriages were arranged by king and family. What happened if the woman did not freely give consent?

Available at Amazon for Kindle

The Troubadour

Courtly love, as sung by troubadours, was often a refuge for Medieval wives. Yet, its basis was fantasy, a far cry from the harsh realities of everyday life. Will an unwilling bride find courtly love and satisfy the longs of her romantic heart?

 

The Novice

Can a Medieval woman who doubts her vocation to the Church find true love in an arranged marriage?

The Betrothed

Marriage based on love was foreign to the Medieval mind. Yet consent had to be freely given for a marriage to be valid. Can a reluctant bride dare refuse her betrothed without suffering the consequences?

 The Duke

A trip to the British museum in London catapults a modern exchange student back in time to a tragic life shrouded in secrecy, lust, and true love.

 Excerpt from The Betrothed

The great hall is crowded with strangers—knights, men-at-arms, squires—all in attendance to Sir William. My household servants are busy with their morning tasks. In the kitchen outside, Cook prepares the midday meal. I spy my seneschal and nod to him. And then I catch Sir William’s eye. My heart quickens. I am afraid, but I extend my hand as he approaches.

This time he cannot see the outline of my body beneath my gown. I am suitably dressed, as befitting my station. I am the lady of the household, an earl’s only daughter and heir. All of this is still mine and will continue to be once our betrothal is broken.

He bows over my hand. “Lady Eleanor, God give you health, honor, and joy.”

At the mention of “honor,” he lifts his head and raises a dark eyebrow suggesting the night of our wedding. I cannot snatch my hand away, because everyone is watching. Instead, I curtsy as is proper.

“And God give you pleasure, peace, and health,” I answer, knowing full well what pleasure he wants from me.

“Walk with me and show me your household.”

My betrothed places my hand on his outstretched arm and leads me through the great hall to the door at the far end. People stand aside as we pass. We process as if already married, the lord and his lady, letting ourselves be seen by one and all.

DeHart Castle is a strong, square fortress with round towers at each corner and a moat fed by springs. We have a drawbridge and a stately entrance guarded at all times. We stroll through the bailey, stopping at the mews and the stables, viewing the small church where we are to be wed.

Once again we pause in the garden with its heady aroma of lilies and lavender. We are alone.

I take a deep breath. “My lord, I will not marry you,” I blurt out.

He turns to me, his eyebrows drawn down in a puzzled frown. “What say you?”

“I do not consent to our marriage.” I raise my chin and stand tall.

His gloved hand squeezes mine. “You have no say in the matter.”

“I do,” I remind him. “If I refuse, my chaplain will not marry us and the church will not recognize the union.”

“What game is this you play?”

“No game, my lord.” I pull my hand from his grasp. “You do not suit me. I repudiate a contract made against my will.”

His eyes flicker and his jaw tenses. He is not happy with me, but takes my measure nonetheless. “You defy convention and the order of your father. We have an agreement. King Edward bids us marry on the morrow. My men and I will depart for the coast in three days. You, Lady Eleanor, will not dare disobey the command of the king.”

“You know not what I dare,” I say in a hushed voice, knowing I am in danger.

“Forgive me. I have underestimated you, my lady.”

“Many have,” I reply and then turn away. My lord lets me go.

I resist the urge to look at him again. To gauge what he is thinking. Sir William has not reacted like I supposed he would. I thought he would rage and threaten. He has not. I fear this is not the end of the matter.

 

I admit it. I once was a Beatlemaniac!

With the anniversary of the Beatles’ arrival in the USA fifty years ago, I’ve been reliving my teenage years. I was one of those screaming girls, actually seeing the Beatles live twice, and crying when they bopped out to second base at the stadium in Atlanta.

But more important than my teenage love, I’m a writer today because of what I discovered back then. In last week’s blog, I printed a short story I wrote in the ninth grade. Did you know my first novel was about the Beatles?

Recently, I have collaborated with other romance writers. The Ladies of Legend series has been a big success. Maddie James and I are planning a contemporary Western series later this year. However, my first collaboration came with a group of high school friends. We called ourselves “The Lassies.”

I still have our one and only novel in two notebook binders complete with illustrations. Each one of us wrote a chapter until we finished it. The theme? Our love affair with the Beatles! Each of us got one of the fab four—who in our imaginations were not married and were waiting just for us. In our fantasies we were a singing group called “The Lassies.” Our first novel was called “Were You Dreaming?”

We sure were!

 

I was a budding romance writer even in the ninth grade!

I found a short story recently, all neatly typed (not on a computer, but on an old-fashioned manual typewriter). I must have written it for a ninth grade English assignment. I don’t remember writing it or where the characters or the idea came from. I admit to be crazy about boys back then, boys I was afraid to talk to and who didn’t care a thing about me. The story is full of teenage angst and yearning.

Climbing the Ladder of Life

Sandy fumbled for sunglasses in the hamper and snapped off the transistor radio. The air, suddenly emptied of sound, was now heave with silence, enclosing the lone figure on the sand, extending in waves of stillness to the sunlit, shimmering sky. Even the cool blueness of water was quiet—no ripples, no breeze. Sandy stood up slowly. There was no point in waiting any longer.

For the last hour she’d had a vicious battle with her heart. The black dog in her heart said to tell Michael Dent that she wouldn’t go to the spring formal with him. The other side, the white dog, said it would be cruel to hurt Michael’s feelings. Finally, the white dog’s bark was reduced to yipping, and the black dog proved victorious.

Sandy’s mind was made up, and she suddenly found herself gay and light-hearted.

“What a jolly good time I’m going to have telling that creep what I think of him!” She laughed.

Sandy stuffed her things into the hamper and started down the beach at a trot. Her brown curls bobbed up and down and her eyes were dancing with joy. Sandy’s vivid imagination was acting up again. She suddenly found herself at the spring formal instead of the beach. Beside her stood the cutest boy in school, sixteen-year-old John Harrison.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

John’s masculine vice sent shivers down her spine. He held her in his arms, and they whipped around the dance floor. She thrilled to his blond hair brushed into the Beatles fashion and his crystal clear blue eyes. His lips, which were slightly thick but otherwise perfectly shaped, parted in a smile. Sandy’s heart thumped faster: Oh! He was gorgeous! No words could express her happiness. She was in heaven and the world was hers!

Sandy was drawn abruptly back into reality when she found herself arriving at her uncle’s motel, The Rutledge Manor. Uncle Dan acknowledged her cheerful “hi” with a mere grunt as she passed behind the office desk and entered their living room. In her room, she was greeted by a faint meow from Trigger, her pet cat.

“Eh, there kitty,” she said as she buried her face into his soft golden fur. “You’re a good ole cat, aren’t cha Trig?”

“M-E-O-W,” screamed Trigger.

“Sorry, Luv, can’t play now,” Sandy told the ball of fur.

Ten minutes later she was clad in a brand new outfit of madras.

****

As Michael walked out of the Manor’s office, he pocketed the money he had received from delivering “The Ocean City News.” “Hi, Messy!” he greeted Sandy.

Sandy’s blood began to boil. She hated her nickname, derived from her last name, Messina.

“Hi yourself!” she snapped.

Sandy followed Michael to his beat-up shell of a bike.

“Michael, I have something to tell you,” Sandy told him.

Her indignation of him grew when he didn’t answer her.

“Michael! I’m not going to the spring formal with you,” she stated defiantly.

“John Harrison is going to the dance with Cynthia Stuart,” Michael smiled, a gleam in his eyes, “so you have to go with me. Anyway, he wouldn’t ask an unpopular girl like you.”

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. It took all of her control to restrain her hand from slapping his ugly face. All the injustices he’d done to her in the past were brought to a head, and she loathed him. She was so sick of him she couldn’t look upon his grotesque face that bore the strange resemblance to a modern day Uriah Heep. She stormed back into the motel and burst into tears of rage.

****

For the rest of her life Sandy never knew how she got through the spring formal. Throughout the night she tolerated Michael’s clumsy dancing. Several times his clodhoppers trod on her dainty pink slippers. She seemingly disregarded it, but inside she was cursing this gangly idiot who shoved her around the dance floor like she was a sack of potatoes.

To make matters worse she had to watch John and Cynthia together. It was sheer torture to watch them skim across the dance floor with the beauty and grace of born dancers. Watching them made Sandy abhor Michael more. Once, as they whirled by, Sandy caught the faint fragrance of John’s English Leather and heard Cynthia’s soft laughter. She turned green with envy when John’s broad smile was focused on Cynthia. Jealousy began eating at her heart. Her head began to swim and she wished she was home with Trigger. At least he returned her love. In all her fifteen years she had never gone through such mental suffering as this.

Sometime after ten the school’s gossip cavorted around the gym floor spreading the school’s latest news.

“Have you heard” she’d whisper, “John and Cynthia are going steady!”

When Sandy heard this her heart seemed to stop beating. Her breath came in short spurts an her thoughts began to jumble. “It can’t be true! I love him; he can’t do this to me! My dreams are crushed; I have nothing to live for.”

Suddenly Sandy’s emotions overcame her; tears filled her eyes and spilled over her cheeks. She loved John with all the passion of her youth and now he was gone.

****

That night Sandy’s sleep was filled with dreams. She tossed and turned as her dull brain pictured John racing through a green soup-like mist; she was chasing him. Every time she was close enough to touch him he slipped away and disappeared into the mist. Soon there was only a think trail of his English Leather left to follow. She rain along blindly, the mist stinging her eyes and causing huge tears.

Suddenly a light appeared and the scent of English Leather increased intensely. Someone called her name. Sandy turned, expecting to see John, but it wasn’t him. It was a figure with unrecognizable features. Sandy walked closer, her curiosity sparked. Suddenly the weird figure held out his hand. She grasped it tightly. The figure smiled. “Come with me,” he whispered.

Sandy looked back into the green mist she’d left. She paused; should she go back? The figure pulled slightly on her hand. Sandy relented and went with him.

A few yards away there was a ladder. The figure climbed it and urged her to do the same. It took all her strength to climb the ladder but when she had all of her troubles filtered away. Sandy took the figure’s hand and they walked into another rising mist.

 

All novelists can relate to these experiences

Getting the call, which before self-publishing used to be more important than it is today.

Back in the day, editors were like gods. You didn’t cross them or you might get on their wrong side. This happened to me once. Above all, a writer must remain professional. Be on time with your manuscript and be courteous.

Not agreeing with your editor.

Sometimes you just have to stick up for what you believe. In Tangled Memories, the characters are concerned about keeping the baby’s fever down. I had to explain to the editor what happens if your child spikes a high fever. It had happened to me, so I knew from experience.

A rejection letter from an editor who “doesn’t love it as much as she thought she would love it.”

I once attended a workshop with a bunch of New York editors and came away extremely depressed. They told us they “read to reject” and sometimes don’t make it past the first page before going to the next manuscript.

A really pretty cover like Freely Given.

Some covers are just lovely. We like to put them on Facebook and on our website. If we receive a paperback, we like to hold the book in our hands and stare at the pretty cover.

Making a top 100 list on Amazon.com.

For me, that is like being on the New York Times Bestseller list. My expectation are modest. I’ve been around long enough to know my limitations and my strengths.

Writing THE END.

Writing a novel may be some of the hardest brain work you’ll ever do. Getting to the end of a novel and being satisfied with what you have written is sometimes all the reward you’ll receive.

Getting to the sagging middle and not having a clue about what is going to happen next.

Once at a book signing, I asked Nora Roberts what she does at the “sagging middle.” She told me “kill someone.” Translation: Up the stakes and make something bad happen.

3-star reviews from a person who may not have read your book and certainly doesn’t “get” your book.

Sometimes you’d like to confront the reviewer face-to-face and ask what was wrong with the book. This is especially true with recent reviews complaining that they like the heroine, but didn’t know much about the hero. DUH! Timeless is a first person, modern Gothic romance. You are not in the hero’s head except through the eyes of the heroine. Note to self: Stick to third person, because readers like it.

A great AH-HA moment when your character says or does something unexpected.

This is the best. It’s like your channeling a second self with your characters coming alive on the page. I remember in Kentucky Groom when the hero turns out to be a virgin. I didn’t see that coming, and neither did the heroine!

 

I’ve had enough of winter

I’m just about done with winter 2014. Okay, the past few winters have spoiled me. I’m already tired of the cold, the snow, and the polar vortexes. Riding lessons are cancelled, batteries die, wrecks occur, and my poor car is covered with a sheet of gritty road salt. Buying wild bird seed is costing me a fortune.

The only ones who seem to like the snowy cold are my three dogs. Red, Lenny and Cadi enjoy their daily romps. Heck, they even roll in the snow!

But I’m done with it!

Okay, I shouldn’t be so pessimistic. There has to be reasons why we should be thankful for cold weather.

6 Health Benefits of Cold Weather

Cold weather burns more calories.
It brings us closer together.
It’s less favorable for disease-carrying bugs.
It makes you appreciate warmer days.
It reduces inflammation.
It allows you to focus on exercise for the right reasons.

 Health Benefits of Colder Weather

Cold weather kills off bacteria
Cold weather burns fat
Cold weather brings us closer to our support network
Cold weather helps us appreciate the good days
Cold weather may extend your life

Really? How come I’ve gained weight recently? It’s like I’m a bear, eating enough for my winter hibernation. But I do agree, you must take the bad to appreciate the good. It’s only 100 days before the Kentucky Derby!

Of course, the Weather Channel is all over the cold weather. In an online article, Deep Freeze’s Silver Lining: Nature Benefits, the website declares: “It may be hard to think of this week’s deep freeze as anything but miserable, but to scientists like [John] Lenters there are silver linings: The extreme cold may help raise low water in the Great Lakes, protect shorelines and wetlands from erosion, kill insect pests and slow the migration of invasive species.”

Alright, so there’s good in the cold weather. I’m still tired of it, and can’t wait for the warm breezes of spring.

 

 

I don’t have time to write this blog

I don’t have time! With the day job, and the night job: write a Ladies of Legend novella, write a Montana series novella, and write another book in the Bluegrass Reunion series. And then I have my horse fixes: Monday nights for me, and Thursday nights for my granddaughter. Plus there’s gym time. I’m not getting there enough.

So yesterday I receive five books to judge in the RWA’s RITA contest. I have less than two months to read all five books! ARGH!

And sometime during this month or next, I hope to release Freely Given. It depends upon my formatter’s time. My formatter (my husband) has a life too.

Do you feel overwhelmed? Are your days shorter than all the things you need to stuff into them?

 

A new year’s reflection

If I had unlimited time, talent, money, knowledge, self-confidence and support from my family — what are the things I would like to do with my life?

In 1994, I made a list of dreams, things I’d love to do with my life. They were mostly about fixing up my house, or travel wishes, places I’d love to see. I still have many of those unfulfilled travel dreams.

Some of my dreams were horse related: own a “pet” horse, own a 5-gaited horse, show at Freedom Hall in the World’s Grand Championship. I did own the pet horse—an American Saddlebred, barn-name Harry, but my loftier horse goals have not yet been met.

“Get published,” I wrote. “Get published again.” And I did! Friends often ask me how many books I’ve written. I have to count them from my website—16. This doesn’t count the books rewritten and republished, like Tangled Memories. Or the one written, and waiting to be edited, or the ones in the works. But I’ve certainly fulfilled that dream. Maybe I haven’t made the New York Times Bestseller list, but I’m satisfied. Top 100 on Amazon would still be nice. . . .

At the end of my list in 1994 was a dream I never thought I’d achieve: “Meet a nice guy to share my life with.” As much as I doubted that dream could come true, it did. We’ve been married fourteen years on January 2, 2014.

So, as the new year starts, write down your list of dreams, and go for them. Over the years, you may be surprised.

As Mel said at the end of Kentucky Flame, “You’re right. Sometimes dreams do come true.”