Brita Addams's Blog, page 10
March 3, 2012
Tour finished, Boxer Falls and future projects
Phew! The Demands of the Heart book tour is over and was quite a success. I met a lot of wonderful readers, and I couldn't ask for more than that. I'm thrilled that reviewers have given Demands such great reviews as well.
I'd like to congratulate the winners in my t-shirt contest: Shadow, Catherine, Cristina, and Julianne.
It's a busy time for me and I'm glad of it. I always feel better about things when I'm busy and have many things simmering in my writer life. I'm putting the finishing touches on a story and I hope to have it submitted within the week. Fingers crossed - because it's a new publisher to me.
Then I'll settle into finishing editing a het romance that has lingered for sometime, put on the back burner because of other things. I'm anxious for it to see the light of day. I truly believe that it has stayed with me for so long for a reason and the expansion I've done on it gives the story so much more depth. It deals with a great many aspects of human nature - deceit, jealousy, confusion, and above all, true love. Now, I need to finish it up and come up with a proper title. That is the hardest part of all. The working title, No Substitute for Love just won't cut it. LOL
I've plotted out a sequel to my Sapphire Club series and am anxious to get that written. I think it will surprise some readers, but I look forward to doing that. I've had this story on my mind for some time now and it seems like the next couple of months might bring that story to light.
The other project that still percolating is my old Hollywood story and I am very anxious to get that written. It will be an undertaking, because I still have tons of research to do and then, of course, the writing.
I've become a part of a fun project called Boxer Falls, at the invitation of my friend, Damon Suede. Boxer Falls is a gaytime drama, an online soap opera. My episode, the ninth in the series, can be found at the M/M Romance group on Goodreads. It appears I created an upset, in that I had some favorite characters seeking comfort in each other's arms, when one belongs to another.
Having spent many years watching soap operas, such things are common, even expected, on them. Other readers loved what I did, so I'm vindicated, I think. I left the readers with a bit of cliffhanger, too, which should bring them back as another writer picks up where I left off.
I'm scheduled for another episode later in the year, but for now, I'm hooked and plan to read each episode with great interest. They are released every Friday and I invite you to join M.J. O'Shea next week. There are many terrific authors lined up, so you don't want to miss a word.
Soon, the episodes will appear on Goodreads and on the Boxer Falls website. Lots of great things planned for Boxer Falls.
With Poppy Dennison, I'm working on The Boxer Brief, the Boxer Falls newsletter. It comes out every Friday and is a chatty summary of life in Boxer Falls, complete with the wonderful Amanda Reckonwith, who dishes dirty on all the intimate goings on in the little hamlet, set in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. You don't want to miss an issue, so please check out my sidebar for the subscription box.
Boxer Falls is quite nostalgic for me because I grew up just miles from the setting. Though Boxer Falls is fictitious, it is set in an area I am very familiar with. In my episode, I couldn't resist including Pittsfield, Mass., a city where place my father worked for many years and where my brother lived up until last year. I spent nearly as much time there as in my tiny home town of New Lebanon, N.Y.
Later this year, I'll fly to Albuquerque for the GayRom Lit Retreat. I'm looking forward to it, as I had such a wonderful time last year in New Orleans. Can't wait to see the authors I became friendly with.
Life is busy, yes, it is, but isn't that the way it should be? I wouldn't have it any other way.
What's up with you? Anything I could use in a story?
I'd like to congratulate the winners in my t-shirt contest: Shadow, Catherine, Cristina, and Julianne.
It's a busy time for me and I'm glad of it. I always feel better about things when I'm busy and have many things simmering in my writer life. I'm putting the finishing touches on a story and I hope to have it submitted within the week. Fingers crossed - because it's a new publisher to me.
Then I'll settle into finishing editing a het romance that has lingered for sometime, put on the back burner because of other things. I'm anxious for it to see the light of day. I truly believe that it has stayed with me for so long for a reason and the expansion I've done on it gives the story so much more depth. It deals with a great many aspects of human nature - deceit, jealousy, confusion, and above all, true love. Now, I need to finish it up and come up with a proper title. That is the hardest part of all. The working title, No Substitute for Love just won't cut it. LOL
I've plotted out a sequel to my Sapphire Club series and am anxious to get that written. I think it will surprise some readers, but I look forward to doing that. I've had this story on my mind for some time now and it seems like the next couple of months might bring that story to light.
The other project that still percolating is my old Hollywood story and I am very anxious to get that written. It will be an undertaking, because I still have tons of research to do and then, of course, the writing.
I've become a part of a fun project called Boxer Falls, at the invitation of my friend, Damon Suede. Boxer Falls is a gaytime drama, an online soap opera. My episode, the ninth in the series, can be found at the M/M Romance group on Goodreads. It appears I created an upset, in that I had some favorite characters seeking comfort in each other's arms, when one belongs to another.
Having spent many years watching soap operas, such things are common, even expected, on them. Other readers loved what I did, so I'm vindicated, I think. I left the readers with a bit of cliffhanger, too, which should bring them back as another writer picks up where I left off.
I'm scheduled for another episode later in the year, but for now, I'm hooked and plan to read each episode with great interest. They are released every Friday and I invite you to join M.J. O'Shea next week. There are many terrific authors lined up, so you don't want to miss a word.
Soon, the episodes will appear on Goodreads and on the Boxer Falls website. Lots of great things planned for Boxer Falls.
With Poppy Dennison, I'm working on The Boxer Brief, the Boxer Falls newsletter. It comes out every Friday and is a chatty summary of life in Boxer Falls, complete with the wonderful Amanda Reckonwith, who dishes dirty on all the intimate goings on in the little hamlet, set in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. You don't want to miss an issue, so please check out my sidebar for the subscription box.
Boxer Falls is quite nostalgic for me because I grew up just miles from the setting. Though Boxer Falls is fictitious, it is set in an area I am very familiar with. In my episode, I couldn't resist including Pittsfield, Mass., a city where place my father worked for many years and where my brother lived up until last year. I spent nearly as much time there as in my tiny home town of New Lebanon, N.Y.
Later this year, I'll fly to Albuquerque for the GayRom Lit Retreat. I'm looking forward to it, as I had such a wonderful time last year in New Orleans. Can't wait to see the authors I became friendly with.
Life is busy, yes, it is, but isn't that the way it should be? I wouldn't have it any other way.
What's up with you? Anything I could use in a story?
February 18, 2012
My Demands of the Heart book tour starts on Monday, Febru...
My Demands of the Heart book tour starts on Monday, February 20. I hope you'll join me, stop by the various blogs and say hi. Check out my Book Tour page for the complete schedule and well as contest details.
Here's an excerpt to get you in the mood:
PartOneChapterOne
June,1807LondonAs he approached the Amberstons'cavernous ballroom, the familiar burn of desire consumed Richard Fanshaw, quickenedhis pulse, and made his heart thrum. He'd felt it many times these last monthsand recognized it for what it was—he was in love. He stopped to watch from thearched entryway as the object of his desire, Miss Victoria Bramhill, chattedwith her usual coterie of young swains. Dressed as the legendary highwaymanDick Turpin, he appreciated the long, skirted coat of his costume, for hisdesire was having an uncomfortable effect on his loins."Lud, I've not even touched heryet," he mumbled, trying to affect some dignity in his gait.His embarrassing reaction to herhappened with predictable regularity. They'd agreed to forestall anannouncement and keep their relationship quiet until after the Season. He'dalways prided himself on his control and ability to restrain his urges, but asthe Season drew to a close, his mind wandered to thoughts of obtaining aspecial license and marrying the luscious Miss Bramhill before he threw cautionto the wind and ruined her before the fact."My father said if he was toexpend the sums of money required to launch my sister and me into society, wemust see it through," Victoria had told Richard. "He wishes to sizeup all of the potentially marriageable candidates. Once he's made up his mind,I'll be married off to some rich, old man, and he'll out of debt before year'send.""But I'm a rich young man.""I fear he will never see youas marriage material, Richard," she'd told him. "He wishes me tomarry title and money. He seems tofeel I am obligated to see him through his financial storm."Richard had been deeply gratifiedeach time Victoria expressed her desire to marry him, not for his fortune,which he'd amassed through no lack of hard work before his twenty-fourthbirthday, but for love."Though my father is intent onmy future husband being the bearer of a title, I'm sure once the chaff isseparated from the wheat, I will be able to convince him of your other, finerqualities."Richard hoped that was the case, forhe couldn't imagine his future life without Victoria as its focus."My, my, now is that not asight? Not since Vienna have I seen such a grand display," said a cynicalKing Henry VIII."Damn, must you sneak up on melike that?" Richard started at the sound of his friend's voice. "Youhave a disturbing habit of simply materializing." And unwelcome."So sorry, old man. If you hadn'thad your mind under those glorious skirts, you might have heard me approach.Nonetheless, she is a rather beautiful woman, don't you think?""Yes, she is rather stunning."He kept his own counsel as to just how deeply he felt about Victoria. From hisparticular angle, he could see only her luscious mouth, for the elaborate goldhalf-mask all but covered her vivid green eyes. However, what he could see tookhis breath away."Sounds to me as though youhave a tendre, Dick."Thomas Daintree, the Earl of Charrington,was dressed this night as King Henry VIII, though for the life of him, Richardwould never understand why Charrington attended affairs like Lord and LadyAmberston's Masquerade Ball. In all the years Richard had know the earl, Thomashad never been a social fellow, and of late, he'd grown even more unpleasantthan Richard could remember.Richard ignored him.He saw Victoria, even surrounded bya dozen admirers, all eminently unqualifiedto breathe the same air, search the room for him. When their eyes met, shesmiled so brightly, she outshone the hundreds of candles that illuminated theroom. Respecting their agreement, he acted as though he were just one of her manyavid devotees, requesting a dance or two—waltzes, of course—and engaging inconversation only meant to prolong their moments together. On occasion, theyenjoyed a stroll."Do you know her?"Charrington asked."Yes, I do. Why do youask?""Mmm, I would love to see whatshe looks like under all that crimsonsatin. What say you, Dick?"Richard looked at his compatriotwith disgust. "I say stubble it, Charrington. Have a care when speaking ofa lady."Charrington's indecorous remarks hadlong ago begun to chafe. Even allowing for Thomas' inebriated state, Richard'sstomach wrenched to hear Victoria spoken of in such a fashion."She's like all the rest. Notworth the blunt to dress 'em.""Aren't we especially blue-deviledtonight?""I see no reason to change now.One chit is just like the rest." Bitterness oozed from his words."Excuse me, Charrington,"Richard said in disgust, pushing away from his post against the wall. While thatposition had given him the perfect vantage point from which to admire his lady,he wanted nothing more than to be rid of Thomas and his vile musings.Richard had known Charrington sincetheir days at Harrow. Thomas had inherited at seventeen, when his father haddied while enjoying sexual congress with one of his many whores. Word of thefamily's embarrassment had passed with rapid precision through the network ofservants that kept the London gossip mill well greased. Thomas suffered thetaunting of his fellow students while trying to fight back, something at whichhe was wholly inept.Though Richard had saved the earl'sarrogant arse from several rather severe beatings at the hands of the otherboys, his protection had only served to fuel Thomas' anger.Spotting Victoria on the dance floorthrew him happily into much more pleasant thoughts. He casually circled theballroom, while he longed to be at the side of his lady. The musicians struckup the first waltz, and he determined to claim it without words.As he inched closer, theintoxicating aroma of lavender filled his senses. Her beauty, even partiallydisguised, was overwhelming. The jeweled mask sparkled in the candlelight, andeven the few visible curls shone as brown silk. Victoria's green-jeweled eyessparkled upon seeing him. With a deft turn on her heel, she excluded all theoverzealous young lords and made Richard the focus of her attention."Did you come to steal my heart,sir?" she whispered, eyeing his costume. "No need, for I give itfreely.""Well then, my dear, stand anddeliver."They laughed in murmured tones asthe music swelled, and Richard took her into his arms. They swirled and twirled,staring into each other's eyes. Desire fired through his body, once again makinghim ever so glad the dastardly outlaw he portrayed tonight favored along-skirted coat. He would never be able to face the crowded ballroom withoutit."I am not sure I can go on likethis," she whispered."Of course you can, sweeting.The Season will be over within a month. Afterwards, I will go to your fatherand ask for your hand. You must be patient, my darling." Good advice, old man."I'm tired of the pretense. Imust keep shooing away those inane pups, when all I want is to be yoursforever."Richard maneuvered them through theFrench doors, and onto the marble terrace. They danced in the cooler air, awayfrom the usual ballroom smells of beeswax, perfumes, and overheated humanity, allcombined to form a sickening miasma that hung over them in the June heat."Alone at last." Hechuckled. "Would you care to walk in the garden?"Victoria looked at him with a longinghe well recognized. Her silent plea was one he understood.Richard stopped their progress, thenreleased the ribbons on her mask. Holding the elaborate covering in his hand,he said, "There; that beautiful face should never be hidden."He led her beyond the terrace steps,across an expanse of freshly mown grass, then into the fragrant rose garden.Other couples ambled about thevarious garden paths, enjoying the moonlit grounds of the Mayfair mansion. Theintricacy of the design was impressive, boasting water fountains and elaboratesculptures depicting mythical figures.Victoria's crimson satin dressswished along the path, the gentle hiss mixing with the night sounds ofcrickets and an occasional small creature rustling the underbrush. The faintstrains of the music gave the garden an even more magical quality.Her chatter about her costume, andhow she'd had to plead with her father to provide it, was surely nothing butnervous energy. "I told him that to attract just the right gentleman, oneneeded such a . . . ."Richard placed two fingers overVictoria's lips. "Shush, I do notwant to talk about your father, especially not during our few precious, stolenmoments."They walked the pea gravel patharound the largest fountain. Life-size marble figures ringed the elaboratepool, providing them with secreted alcoves. They stopped beside Hera, dressedin a flowing white gown.Water burbled from the mouth of agigantic up-upturned fish, lending a gentle, soothing sound to the night. That,added to the fragrant roses and moonlight, made the setting exquisite."What a lovely place," Victoriasaid."Not quite as lovely as you, mydear." He dipped his head and kissed her sumptuous pink lips. Sheresponded by opening them as he probed with his tongue. Richard itched to givehis hands free rein, but to do so would pitch them beyond a simple kiss. Undeniably,Victoria aroused him, despite all propriety."Oh my," she said as they pulledback to draw breath. She touched her kiss-swollen lips and smiled coyly."Yes, I would say that is aproper assessment," Richard said, his voice thick with desire. He placedhis palm on her face, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. She leaned into hishand and closed her eyes. While he wished the evening would never end, he wasalso unsure he could exercise more self-control than he actually possessed."I believe we should rejoin theBall," he said reluctantly, as he placed his hand on her elbow.Victoria pouted prettily, thennodded in agreement.Richard was grateful she didn'tprotest. His burgeoning desire simmered dangerously close to the surface, andhe was sure she had no idea what could happen, should he forego all commonsense.They continued their stroll aroundthe fountain with alacrity. As they reached the stone stairs leading to theterrace, they encountered a regal figure, leaning against the balustrade. "Nicewalk, Dick?" King Henry VIII spatout."Quite."Victoria struggled as she tried toput her mask back on."Let me help you," Richardsaid. "Go in now, I'll follow presently."* * * * *Victoria's sister, Almira, grabbedher by the arm the moment Victoria reentered the ballroom. "Vicky, I'm inlove with the most incredible gentleman." Almira bubbled, so excited shewas almost stuttering.Victoria looked over her shoulder asAlmira dragged her across the floor, and saw Richard enter, followed by thesullen King Henry VIII."Really?" Victoriamumbled."Yes, yes, he's the armyofficer I've been raving about for the last month." Pointing, she said,"Look, there he is, the one in the red jacket.""Allie, they are all wearing red jackets," she said,"all twenty of them. Which one ishe?"Allie turned and pointed toward aconclave of similarly dressed army officers. "He's the one with the divineblack hair. There, there, you see, he just nodded in this direction. Do you seehim?"Victoria again spotted Richard, whonodded and smiled."Vicky, you aren't paying anyattention to me.""I'm sorry, dearest, of courseI am.""Well, then, do you seehim?""I believe I do. Ooh, he is anattractive one. What is his name again?""He is Lieutenant ArmandBlakeley. Isn't that the most divine name you've ever heard in your life? Bythe way, have you seen your handsome Mr. Fanshaw this evening?""Yes, I've seen him. Do youfind him good-looking, Allie?" Victoria whispered, bringing her hand toher lips in an effort to hide her guilty smile."Indeed I do. Tall,broad-shouldered, oh, my Lord, if I didn't have my Armand . . . .""And don't forget thosebeautiful brown eyes.""I can honestly say I've neverlooked at his eyes closely enough to know their color."Victoria smiled. "Very good toknow. Besides, he'd too old for you, little sister.""He's barely four andtwenty.""As I said, much too old foryou.""I do hope you aren't referringto me, Miss Bramhill."Victoria turned and saw Allie'ssolder at Allie's elbow. "Indeed not, Lieutenant."Allie gave her a smile and a nod,then accepted Blakeley's invitation to dance.How smart he looked in his scarletcoat and buff breeches, Victoria mused, and how easily her sister fell in andout of love with no more than a moment's notice. Odd that, after a month'stime, the Lieutenant should still have Almira's rapt attention.Just then, King Henry VIII approached,leaving Victoria little opportunity to avoid him. He bowed and, in a tone asdry as sand, he said, "May I have this dance, Miss Bramhill?"With a nod, she reluctantlyaccepted.Charrington spoke not a word asVictoria executed the steps of the quadrille as her dance master had taught.She smiled, determined no one should see how deeply she disliked her partner.The earl's dark eyes bore into her, leavingher with a distinct wish to bathe.* * * * *Richard grew piqued at Charrington'ssudden interest in Victoria. The fact that she rewarded his attention with afriendly smile did nothing to allay his fear that she might have a slightinterest in the surly earl.Shortly after the removal of allmasks, Victoria, her sister, and their Aunt Louisa, who acted as theirchaperone, left the ballroom. Following at a discreet distance, Richard heardVictoria's aunt request their carriage. Richard drew solace at their departure;at least she'd not be in anyone else's arms this night, albeit if only on thedance floor. She was his and only his.Another insidious pang of jealousy lodgedin his throat. Seeing her in the earl's arms had unsettled him, thoughlogically, he knew how wrong he was. Nevertheless, he would have to bide histime, which would surely be the death of him, and wait until they couldannounce their engagement.As he stood at the front door andwatched the footman hand Victoria into her carriage, he heard footfalls behindhim. He turned to see Charrington's approach, bringing with him a smugexpression."She is indeed light on herfeet, Dick. With the proper impetus, she could simply be blown away."
Demands of the Heart will be available at Noble Romance Publishing on February 20.
Here's an excerpt to get you in the mood:
PartOneChapterOne
June,1807LondonAs he approached the Amberstons'cavernous ballroom, the familiar burn of desire consumed Richard Fanshaw, quickenedhis pulse, and made his heart thrum. He'd felt it many times these last monthsand recognized it for what it was—he was in love. He stopped to watch from thearched entryway as the object of his desire, Miss Victoria Bramhill, chattedwith her usual coterie of young swains. Dressed as the legendary highwaymanDick Turpin, he appreciated the long, skirted coat of his costume, for hisdesire was having an uncomfortable effect on his loins."Lud, I've not even touched heryet," he mumbled, trying to affect some dignity in his gait.His embarrassing reaction to herhappened with predictable regularity. They'd agreed to forestall anannouncement and keep their relationship quiet until after the Season. He'dalways prided himself on his control and ability to restrain his urges, but asthe Season drew to a close, his mind wandered to thoughts of obtaining aspecial license and marrying the luscious Miss Bramhill before he threw cautionto the wind and ruined her before the fact."My father said if he was toexpend the sums of money required to launch my sister and me into society, wemust see it through," Victoria had told Richard. "He wishes to sizeup all of the potentially marriageable candidates. Once he's made up his mind,I'll be married off to some rich, old man, and he'll out of debt before year'send.""But I'm a rich young man.""I fear he will never see youas marriage material, Richard," she'd told him. "He wishes me tomarry title and money. He seems tofeel I am obligated to see him through his financial storm."Richard had been deeply gratifiedeach time Victoria expressed her desire to marry him, not for his fortune,which he'd amassed through no lack of hard work before his twenty-fourthbirthday, but for love."Though my father is intent onmy future husband being the bearer of a title, I'm sure once the chaff isseparated from the wheat, I will be able to convince him of your other, finerqualities."Richard hoped that was the case, forhe couldn't imagine his future life without Victoria as its focus."My, my, now is that not asight? Not since Vienna have I seen such a grand display," said a cynicalKing Henry VIII."Damn, must you sneak up on melike that?" Richard started at the sound of his friend's voice. "Youhave a disturbing habit of simply materializing." And unwelcome."So sorry, old man. If you hadn'thad your mind under those glorious skirts, you might have heard me approach.Nonetheless, she is a rather beautiful woman, don't you think?""Yes, she is rather stunning."He kept his own counsel as to just how deeply he felt about Victoria. From hisparticular angle, he could see only her luscious mouth, for the elaborate goldhalf-mask all but covered her vivid green eyes. However, what he could see tookhis breath away."Sounds to me as though youhave a tendre, Dick."Thomas Daintree, the Earl of Charrington,was dressed this night as King Henry VIII, though for the life of him, Richardwould never understand why Charrington attended affairs like Lord and LadyAmberston's Masquerade Ball. In all the years Richard had know the earl, Thomashad never been a social fellow, and of late, he'd grown even more unpleasantthan Richard could remember.Richard ignored him.He saw Victoria, even surrounded bya dozen admirers, all eminently unqualifiedto breathe the same air, search the room for him. When their eyes met, shesmiled so brightly, she outshone the hundreds of candles that illuminated theroom. Respecting their agreement, he acted as though he were just one of her manyavid devotees, requesting a dance or two—waltzes, of course—and engaging inconversation only meant to prolong their moments together. On occasion, theyenjoyed a stroll."Do you know her?"Charrington asked."Yes, I do. Why do youask?""Mmm, I would love to see whatshe looks like under all that crimsonsatin. What say you, Dick?"Richard looked at his compatriotwith disgust. "I say stubble it, Charrington. Have a care when speaking ofa lady."Charrington's indecorous remarks hadlong ago begun to chafe. Even allowing for Thomas' inebriated state, Richard'sstomach wrenched to hear Victoria spoken of in such a fashion."She's like all the rest. Notworth the blunt to dress 'em.""Aren't we especially blue-deviledtonight?""I see no reason to change now.One chit is just like the rest." Bitterness oozed from his words."Excuse me, Charrington,"Richard said in disgust, pushing away from his post against the wall. While thatposition had given him the perfect vantage point from which to admire his lady,he wanted nothing more than to be rid of Thomas and his vile musings.Richard had known Charrington sincetheir days at Harrow. Thomas had inherited at seventeen, when his father haddied while enjoying sexual congress with one of his many whores. Word of thefamily's embarrassment had passed with rapid precision through the network ofservants that kept the London gossip mill well greased. Thomas suffered thetaunting of his fellow students while trying to fight back, something at whichhe was wholly inept.Though Richard had saved the earl'sarrogant arse from several rather severe beatings at the hands of the otherboys, his protection had only served to fuel Thomas' anger.Spotting Victoria on the dance floorthrew him happily into much more pleasant thoughts. He casually circled theballroom, while he longed to be at the side of his lady. The musicians struckup the first waltz, and he determined to claim it without words.As he inched closer, theintoxicating aroma of lavender filled his senses. Her beauty, even partiallydisguised, was overwhelming. The jeweled mask sparkled in the candlelight, andeven the few visible curls shone as brown silk. Victoria's green-jeweled eyessparkled upon seeing him. With a deft turn on her heel, she excluded all theoverzealous young lords and made Richard the focus of her attention."Did you come to steal my heart,sir?" she whispered, eyeing his costume. "No need, for I give itfreely.""Well then, my dear, stand anddeliver."They laughed in murmured tones asthe music swelled, and Richard took her into his arms. They swirled and twirled,staring into each other's eyes. Desire fired through his body, once again makinghim ever so glad the dastardly outlaw he portrayed tonight favored along-skirted coat. He would never be able to face the crowded ballroom withoutit."I am not sure I can go on likethis," she whispered."Of course you can, sweeting.The Season will be over within a month. Afterwards, I will go to your fatherand ask for your hand. You must be patient, my darling." Good advice, old man."I'm tired of the pretense. Imust keep shooing away those inane pups, when all I want is to be yoursforever."Richard maneuvered them through theFrench doors, and onto the marble terrace. They danced in the cooler air, awayfrom the usual ballroom smells of beeswax, perfumes, and overheated humanity, allcombined to form a sickening miasma that hung over them in the June heat."Alone at last." Hechuckled. "Would you care to walk in the garden?"Victoria looked at him with a longinghe well recognized. Her silent plea was one he understood.Richard stopped their progress, thenreleased the ribbons on her mask. Holding the elaborate covering in his hand,he said, "There; that beautiful face should never be hidden."He led her beyond the terrace steps,across an expanse of freshly mown grass, then into the fragrant rose garden.Other couples ambled about thevarious garden paths, enjoying the moonlit grounds of the Mayfair mansion. Theintricacy of the design was impressive, boasting water fountains and elaboratesculptures depicting mythical figures.Victoria's crimson satin dressswished along the path, the gentle hiss mixing with the night sounds ofcrickets and an occasional small creature rustling the underbrush. The faintstrains of the music gave the garden an even more magical quality.Her chatter about her costume, andhow she'd had to plead with her father to provide it, was surely nothing butnervous energy. "I told him that to attract just the right gentleman, oneneeded such a . . . ."Richard placed two fingers overVictoria's lips. "Shush, I do notwant to talk about your father, especially not during our few precious, stolenmoments."They walked the pea gravel patharound the largest fountain. Life-size marble figures ringed the elaboratepool, providing them with secreted alcoves. They stopped beside Hera, dressedin a flowing white gown.Water burbled from the mouth of agigantic up-upturned fish, lending a gentle, soothing sound to the night. That,added to the fragrant roses and moonlight, made the setting exquisite."What a lovely place," Victoriasaid."Not quite as lovely as you, mydear." He dipped his head and kissed her sumptuous pink lips. Sheresponded by opening them as he probed with his tongue. Richard itched to givehis hands free rein, but to do so would pitch them beyond a simple kiss. Undeniably,Victoria aroused him, despite all propriety."Oh my," she said as they pulledback to draw breath. She touched her kiss-swollen lips and smiled coyly."Yes, I would say that is aproper assessment," Richard said, his voice thick with desire. He placedhis palm on her face, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. She leaned into hishand and closed her eyes. While he wished the evening would never end, he wasalso unsure he could exercise more self-control than he actually possessed."I believe we should rejoin theBall," he said reluctantly, as he placed his hand on her elbow.Victoria pouted prettily, thennodded in agreement.Richard was grateful she didn'tprotest. His burgeoning desire simmered dangerously close to the surface, andhe was sure she had no idea what could happen, should he forego all commonsense.They continued their stroll aroundthe fountain with alacrity. As they reached the stone stairs leading to theterrace, they encountered a regal figure, leaning against the balustrade. "Nicewalk, Dick?" King Henry VIII spatout."Quite."Victoria struggled as she tried toput her mask back on."Let me help you," Richardsaid. "Go in now, I'll follow presently."* * * * *Victoria's sister, Almira, grabbedher by the arm the moment Victoria reentered the ballroom. "Vicky, I'm inlove with the most incredible gentleman." Almira bubbled, so excited shewas almost stuttering.Victoria looked over her shoulder asAlmira dragged her across the floor, and saw Richard enter, followed by thesullen King Henry VIII."Really?" Victoriamumbled."Yes, yes, he's the armyofficer I've been raving about for the last month." Pointing, she said,"Look, there he is, the one in the red jacket.""Allie, they are all wearing red jackets," she said,"all twenty of them. Which one ishe?"Allie turned and pointed toward aconclave of similarly dressed army officers. "He's the one with the divineblack hair. There, there, you see, he just nodded in this direction. Do you seehim?"Victoria again spotted Richard, whonodded and smiled."Vicky, you aren't paying anyattention to me.""I'm sorry, dearest, of courseI am.""Well, then, do you seehim?""I believe I do. Ooh, he is anattractive one. What is his name again?""He is Lieutenant ArmandBlakeley. Isn't that the most divine name you've ever heard in your life? Bythe way, have you seen your handsome Mr. Fanshaw this evening?""Yes, I've seen him. Do youfind him good-looking, Allie?" Victoria whispered, bringing her hand toher lips in an effort to hide her guilty smile."Indeed I do. Tall,broad-shouldered, oh, my Lord, if I didn't have my Armand . . . .""And don't forget thosebeautiful brown eyes.""I can honestly say I've neverlooked at his eyes closely enough to know their color."Victoria smiled. "Very good toknow. Besides, he'd too old for you, little sister.""He's barely four andtwenty.""As I said, much too old foryou.""I do hope you aren't referringto me, Miss Bramhill."Victoria turned and saw Allie'ssolder at Allie's elbow. "Indeed not, Lieutenant."Allie gave her a smile and a nod,then accepted Blakeley's invitation to dance.How smart he looked in his scarletcoat and buff breeches, Victoria mused, and how easily her sister fell in andout of love with no more than a moment's notice. Odd that, after a month'stime, the Lieutenant should still have Almira's rapt attention.Just then, King Henry VIII approached,leaving Victoria little opportunity to avoid him. He bowed and, in a tone asdry as sand, he said, "May I have this dance, Miss Bramhill?"With a nod, she reluctantlyaccepted.Charrington spoke not a word asVictoria executed the steps of the quadrille as her dance master had taught.She smiled, determined no one should see how deeply she disliked her partner.The earl's dark eyes bore into her, leavingher with a distinct wish to bathe.* * * * *Richard grew piqued at Charrington'ssudden interest in Victoria. The fact that she rewarded his attention with afriendly smile did nothing to allay his fear that she might have a slightinterest in the surly earl.Shortly after the removal of allmasks, Victoria, her sister, and their Aunt Louisa, who acted as theirchaperone, left the ballroom. Following at a discreet distance, Richard heardVictoria's aunt request their carriage. Richard drew solace at their departure;at least she'd not be in anyone else's arms this night, albeit if only on thedance floor. She was his and only his.Another insidious pang of jealousy lodgedin his throat. Seeing her in the earl's arms had unsettled him, thoughlogically, he knew how wrong he was. Nevertheless, he would have to bide histime, which would surely be the death of him, and wait until they couldannounce their engagement.As he stood at the front door andwatched the footman hand Victoria into her carriage, he heard footfalls behindhim. He turned to see Charrington's approach, bringing with him a smugexpression."She is indeed light on herfeet, Dick. With the proper impetus, she could simply be blown away."
Demands of the Heart will be available at Noble Romance Publishing on February 20.
February 14, 2012
How I came to be called Princess
Today is a day for lovers the world over. A day to show the one you love how much you love and appreciate them.
Valentine's Day reminds us, in a very profound way, that love is alive and well in our world, cynics be damned. Whether it's through cards and flowers, a wonderful, home cooked meal or an expensive restaurant, or an evening-long cuddle on the sofa watching a great movie, as long as the love between you is celebrated, it doesn't matter how, does it?
My honey took our daughter and me out for dinner last night, because our daughter had plans with her boyfriend for V-Day. He wanted to take both his girls out (the ones he lives with, as there is another daughter,) so he did it a day early. When we got into the car, we found Valentine's cards on our respective seats, propped up, lovingly addressed to: My Sweet Little Valentine (daughter) and To My Princess Valentine (me.) Each had a beautiful, handwritten message, from his heart.
Just briefly, let me tell you how I came to be called Princess by my sweetheart.
I am of an age to remember the old sit-com, Father Knows Best, with the consummate father, Robert Young. He called his oldest daughter, Betty, Princess all the time, which as a young teenager, I thought was the best thing a dad could do.
I went to my Dad and asked him to call me Princess, to which he answered, "Your name is Tina and I'll do no such thing." I'd like to say that it didn't hurt, but it did, mostly in the tone he used and the scowl on his face. Never did get used to that combination. It was one in a very long list, so even a minor slight hurt like the devil.
So be it, I thought. I stuffed the rejection down deep and went on.
Years later, my sweet, darling husband and I were talking and I told him that story. In true Sir Galahad fashion, he whipped a figurative crown around from behind his back and placed it upon my head, dubbing me his Princess for all time, an honor I don't take lightly.
He rarely ever uses my name, usually only when talking to others about me, and always calls me Princess when talking to me. I'm his Christmas Princess, Valentine Princess, Birthday Princess, and any other variety he might decide.
To have that long ago hurt healed instantly by this caring man defies description. He is the finest human being to ever walk this earth, dubbed so by official Princess edict.
He's turned every bad situation into a good one just because he was there to see our family through it. He's funny, loving, gentle, strong, a cook that could rival even Gordon Ramsey, humble, and most importantly, all mine.
Now, you ask, is he my Prince? Yes, he is. But more, he's my heartbeat, my soul, my everything. He puts a smile on my face, a lilt in my step, and more importantly, he's never let me down, ever. I write because he supports me, I'm a better Mom because he's by my side and he lets me be who I am, without reservation.
Let me share a poem he wrote for me when we first started dating. It sums up how we live our lives:
Letting
Letting you be youAnd letting me be meHas brought about this thingWe do so naturally.
Without the slightest effort Or tension on my partI reached down deep within my soulAnd offered you my heart.
You in turn repaid me,With love of equal kind.The sort you seek forever, And often never find.
So it's not hard to pictureHow such a love could be,Just letting you be you And letting me be me.
Happy Valentine's Day
Till next time,Luv,Brita
January 19, 2012
Reviews - What are they?
I recently read a review for one of my older books and found it kind of funny. The reader gave it a bad review because they didn't know it was a period piece when they bought it. They didn't read it because it was a period piece, yet they felt compelled to leave a bad review. They couldn't have purchased the book on Amazon, at ARe or the publisher's website without knowing it was a historical, by the way.
Another person for the same book gave it a one star, because it didn't seem believable that a sex club could have existed in Regency England. I assure you, they did, as well as whore houses, molly houses for gay men and, oh, yes, debauched sex was practiced with amazing regularity. In reading the reviewers other reviews, I dismissed this one out of hand because they give bad reviews for everything. If something's too short, no matter the story, they give it a poor rating, too long, "unbelievable," you name it.
I've had reviews that were low because the reader thought that the story should have been longer or the ending should have been different, or they expected the story to be different or, or, or... Please judge it on the story you read and not the one you wrote in your head.
When I review a book, I review the book as it's presented - length, plot, story, characters. I would never presume to tell the author how they should have written the book, it is their story.
I wonder if the aforementioned reader reads paranormal and if they think vampires exist in modern day London or if werewolves do. What about space ships? Aliens? Elves and fairies? I never said the Sapphire Club was a real place. I wasn't recounting events from historical facts.
An author creates a story and a reader reads THAT story. Projecting what the reader thinks a story should be as opposed to what it is, then grading the author on that projection, is completely wrong. Sorry readers, I love you all, but we writers work very hard to create stories that will entertain. If that doesn't happen, I understand the reviews that say such.
Authors work very hard at a very lonely pursuit. Please grade my work on the work itself and not what you want it to be, what you think it should be, or on your own mistakes in purchasing it.
The length of a story is what I intended, be it novel length, a short story or something in between. The period is the period in which I chose to tell the story. The elements of the story are what I wrote. Judging it on any other criteria is like judging American Idol contestants on the clothes they wear instead of their singing voice or on the fact they didn't sing the song the judge wanted them to sing.
Reviews are opinions and everyone has one. I read voraciously and review a good bit, though I have to say that my reviews are usually "Oh, wow, I loved it," or nothing at all, because I know what it takes to write a story and I won't diss a fellow author.
A reviewer shouldn't revel in giving bad reviews. Bitchy, mean-spirited reviews mean nothing because they are meant to humiliate the author. Very bad form. I've read some really ugly reviews and read tweets about the book and it was disgusting how much joy the reviewer took in tearing the book and the author apart.One author told me that they were catatonic for a week after a particularly vicious review.
No reason to do such things. You didn't like it? No. Fine. Tearing an author's guts out doesn't make you a a good reviewer. Nor does it make your infrequent good reviews more meaningful. All it is is evil, vicious, and mean, for no other reason other than your own entertainment. Brava, you can make an author weep. Ain't your mama proud.
For me, to really be affected by a review, it has to be thoughtfully done and resonate with me as far as quality of the writing, good or bad. If they are bitchy, I dismiss them. If they assume something that I didn't intend or if they are generally geared to the reviewers preferences and not to the book itself, it's difficult to take them seriously. If however, they are thoughtfully done, don't merely rehash the story, but assess the story on the merits, I'm in, listening, taking heed, whether it's a bad or a good review.
We can't please everyone all the time and it's unreasonable to think we can. However, when we connect with readers, that's the best feeling in the world.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
Another person for the same book gave it a one star, because it didn't seem believable that a sex club could have existed in Regency England. I assure you, they did, as well as whore houses, molly houses for gay men and, oh, yes, debauched sex was practiced with amazing regularity. In reading the reviewers other reviews, I dismissed this one out of hand because they give bad reviews for everything. If something's too short, no matter the story, they give it a poor rating, too long, "unbelievable," you name it.
I've had reviews that were low because the reader thought that the story should have been longer or the ending should have been different, or they expected the story to be different or, or, or... Please judge it on the story you read and not the one you wrote in your head.
When I review a book, I review the book as it's presented - length, plot, story, characters. I would never presume to tell the author how they should have written the book, it is their story.
I wonder if the aforementioned reader reads paranormal and if they think vampires exist in modern day London or if werewolves do. What about space ships? Aliens? Elves and fairies? I never said the Sapphire Club was a real place. I wasn't recounting events from historical facts.
An author creates a story and a reader reads THAT story. Projecting what the reader thinks a story should be as opposed to what it is, then grading the author on that projection, is completely wrong. Sorry readers, I love you all, but we writers work very hard to create stories that will entertain. If that doesn't happen, I understand the reviews that say such.
Authors work very hard at a very lonely pursuit. Please grade my work on the work itself and not what you want it to be, what you think it should be, or on your own mistakes in purchasing it.
The length of a story is what I intended, be it novel length, a short story or something in between. The period is the period in which I chose to tell the story. The elements of the story are what I wrote. Judging it on any other criteria is like judging American Idol contestants on the clothes they wear instead of their singing voice or on the fact they didn't sing the song the judge wanted them to sing.
Reviews are opinions and everyone has one. I read voraciously and review a good bit, though I have to say that my reviews are usually "Oh, wow, I loved it," or nothing at all, because I know what it takes to write a story and I won't diss a fellow author.
A reviewer shouldn't revel in giving bad reviews. Bitchy, mean-spirited reviews mean nothing because they are meant to humiliate the author. Very bad form. I've read some really ugly reviews and read tweets about the book and it was disgusting how much joy the reviewer took in tearing the book and the author apart.One author told me that they were catatonic for a week after a particularly vicious review.
No reason to do such things. You didn't like it? No. Fine. Tearing an author's guts out doesn't make you a a good reviewer. Nor does it make your infrequent good reviews more meaningful. All it is is evil, vicious, and mean, for no other reason other than your own entertainment. Brava, you can make an author weep. Ain't your mama proud.
For me, to really be affected by a review, it has to be thoughtfully done and resonate with me as far as quality of the writing, good or bad. If they are bitchy, I dismiss them. If they assume something that I didn't intend or if they are generally geared to the reviewers preferences and not to the book itself, it's difficult to take them seriously. If however, they are thoughtfully done, don't merely rehash the story, but assess the story on the merits, I'm in, listening, taking heed, whether it's a bad or a good review.
We can't please everyone all the time and it's unreasonable to think we can. However, when we connect with readers, that's the best feeling in the world.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
January 15, 2012
Keeping things in perspective
I've spent a great deal of time this week assessing what's important to me. No, not personally, family is always most important and that front is as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.
No, the assessment was as a writer and what I'm truly made of, or more, what I not. Writing is a lonely pursuit and the feedback isn't immediate, so you can write an entire manuscript and think your idea is a good one, only to find out months later that it truly sucks. It feels like telling a joke and having no one laugh. Or like putting your soul into something and finding that you've gone about it the wrong way. Or like an unexpected blow to the gut. That happened, resulting in a story that I have no heart to redo. Not because of the negative feedback, but because I'd actually lost heart before that. Sad, because it worked for me, but then, I know the story and the characters. I have to wonder how I could have gone so wrong.
I also finished a major rewrite on a story that has languished on my hard drive for over two years. It's actually the first novel I ever wrote, named it Her Inconvenient Marriage, and subbed it to Noble Romance. They bought it, but then I realized that it needed more work than I had time to devote to it, so I asked the publication be put off, which it was. Now it has a new title, Demands of the Heart, and will be out on February 20. Here's the tentative blurb:
In 1807, idealistic Richard Fanshaw and Victoria Bramhill areconsumed with each other, their young love blooming amidst a series of carefreesoirees and stolen moments.
But jealousy and greed turnwhat they have into something ugly and twisted. They're wrenched apart by vile lies and deceit when Victoria's freedom is sold to payher father's debts.
Six years later, Victoria is a widowed and a cynical Richard has just returned to England after yearsin India. Having been given the impression that Victoria's marriage was ahappy one, a chance meeting renews Richard's anger over Victoria's betrayal andsets in motion his plan for revenge.
I haven't put out a het in a while, I guess not since The Rogue's Salvation, so I'm excited to have Demands coming out.
Which brings me to the other revelation I had this week. I love writing historicals, as much as I love reading them. No, that isn't news, not for anyone who knows me. My daughter laughed when I told her that a couple of days ago. "Really, Mom, and that's news?"
My mother might say that I have an old soul, but then, well, birthdays don't lie, if you know what I mean. I've always loved history and writing stories set in a more genteel time is something that makes writing a thrill for me. I'm grounded there and it's where I'll stay, save for the occasional foray into different historical periods. I've love to do a story set during the American Civil War and do a Victorian, so I can employ the advent of the railway. I'm also working on one set in Old Hollywood, which I'll get back to when I finish the two projects I have going now.
I love writing both het and m/m, and have one of each in various stages of readiness for submission. Both are written, but undergoing some polishing. They're both historicals and I think they are both good stories. Betas have loved them in draft form, so I'm hopeful.
On the news front, there are some really good things going on. Romeo Club #1: Surprises has been nominated in the Love Romances Cafe Best of 2011 contest as the Best BDSM Book of 2011. The voting starts tomorrow at Love Romances Cafe.
I also found out that Splendid Captivity is going to audio. That's exciting and I can't wait to hear how the opening scene sounds. THAT alone will be worth the cost of admission. That book has been a trip for me from start to finish. A good trip, mind you. It's my first book in print, I think one of the best covers I've got, and now it's going to audio. I just discovered that you can purchase a print copy of Splendid for $5.99. Follow the link above. That's cool!
Something interesting - A Minute After Midnight is #26 on the Amazon Literature and Fiction list in Germany and #22 on the Gay and Lesbian list. I have no idea how big those categories are, but it's at least 100, LOL.
Yeah, this writing thing has it's up and downs, but I'm determined not to let the downs overshadow the ups. Everything needs to stay in perspective. I'd kind of lost sight of that for a bit, but I'm track again. This next week will rock!
Till next time,Luv,Brita
No, the assessment was as a writer and what I'm truly made of, or more, what I not. Writing is a lonely pursuit and the feedback isn't immediate, so you can write an entire manuscript and think your idea is a good one, only to find out months later that it truly sucks. It feels like telling a joke and having no one laugh. Or like putting your soul into something and finding that you've gone about it the wrong way. Or like an unexpected blow to the gut. That happened, resulting in a story that I have no heart to redo. Not because of the negative feedback, but because I'd actually lost heart before that. Sad, because it worked for me, but then, I know the story and the characters. I have to wonder how I could have gone so wrong.
I also finished a major rewrite on a story that has languished on my hard drive for over two years. It's actually the first novel I ever wrote, named it Her Inconvenient Marriage, and subbed it to Noble Romance. They bought it, but then I realized that it needed more work than I had time to devote to it, so I asked the publication be put off, which it was. Now it has a new title, Demands of the Heart, and will be out on February 20. Here's the tentative blurb:
In 1807, idealistic Richard Fanshaw and Victoria Bramhill areconsumed with each other, their young love blooming amidst a series of carefreesoirees and stolen moments.
But jealousy and greed turnwhat they have into something ugly and twisted. They're wrenched apart by vile lies and deceit when Victoria's freedom is sold to payher father's debts.
Six years later, Victoria is a widowed and a cynical Richard has just returned to England after yearsin India. Having been given the impression that Victoria's marriage was ahappy one, a chance meeting renews Richard's anger over Victoria's betrayal andsets in motion his plan for revenge.
I haven't put out a het in a while, I guess not since The Rogue's Salvation, so I'm excited to have Demands coming out.
Which brings me to the other revelation I had this week. I love writing historicals, as much as I love reading them. No, that isn't news, not for anyone who knows me. My daughter laughed when I told her that a couple of days ago. "Really, Mom, and that's news?"
My mother might say that I have an old soul, but then, well, birthdays don't lie, if you know what I mean. I've always loved history and writing stories set in a more genteel time is something that makes writing a thrill for me. I'm grounded there and it's where I'll stay, save for the occasional foray into different historical periods. I've love to do a story set during the American Civil War and do a Victorian, so I can employ the advent of the railway. I'm also working on one set in Old Hollywood, which I'll get back to when I finish the two projects I have going now.
I love writing both het and m/m, and have one of each in various stages of readiness for submission. Both are written, but undergoing some polishing. They're both historicals and I think they are both good stories. Betas have loved them in draft form, so I'm hopeful.
On the news front, there are some really good things going on. Romeo Club #1: Surprises has been nominated in the Love Romances Cafe Best of 2011 contest as the Best BDSM Book of 2011. The voting starts tomorrow at Love Romances Cafe.
I also found out that Splendid Captivity is going to audio. That's exciting and I can't wait to hear how the opening scene sounds. THAT alone will be worth the cost of admission. That book has been a trip for me from start to finish. A good trip, mind you. It's my first book in print, I think one of the best covers I've got, and now it's going to audio. I just discovered that you can purchase a print copy of Splendid for $5.99. Follow the link above. That's cool!
Something interesting - A Minute After Midnight is #26 on the Amazon Literature and Fiction list in Germany and #22 on the Gay and Lesbian list. I have no idea how big those categories are, but it's at least 100, LOL.
Yeah, this writing thing has it's up and downs, but I'm determined not to let the downs overshadow the ups. Everything needs to stay in perspective. I'd kind of lost sight of that for a bit, but I'm track again. This next week will rock!
Till next time,Luv,Brita
January 5, 2012
Paying Tribute to he who makes it all happen
I don't say it enough and I should. There is a person who is dearer to me than life itself and to whom I truly owe everything - my husband. If you aren't prepared for gushy, well, I hope you are.
Today is laundry day. Every Wednesday night, my sweet carries the hamper to the laundry room for me, so I'll have it early in the morning. This morning I went to start getting the job done and discovered he'd put the first batch in for me, all washed, ready to be dried. "To save you time," he said, and my heart melted and I fell in love with him all over again.
My Mom & Dad; me, Honey, his mother,
son Chris, Best Man and daughter , Kim, maid of honorA little thing, yes, but so typical of the kind of man he is. I've shared my life with him for many years now. I was twenty-six when we met, a divorcee with two children, ages 18 months, and 6. We dated for four years and ultimately married on the anniversary of our first date. He helped me raised the two older children to adulthood, being a exemplary father, loving them as if they were his own. He even adopted my daughter, Kim when she was eight. He wanted to adopt my son, but Chris remembered living with his father and couldn't bring himself to consent. Still, my husband and Chris are as close as any father and son would be.
Together, we had our beautiful daughter, Lindsay. A wonderful young woman and so much like her Dad it's scary sometimes.
After working for forty+ years as an accountant/CPA, he retired and I was so happy to have him around more. He was never the type to bring work or the stress of it home, but I honestly missed him during his working hours. He'd get up at five and get home around 5:30, tuck in for dinner and a couple of hours of television before going to bed and getting ready to do it all again.
Several months after we married, I had to have surgery and my situation at my job changed while I was out. It was miserable to go back into the office two months later, where I'd been a secretary, to find I'd been demoted to receptionist because the temp, "Worked out really well." No pay cut, but still...
Things deteriorated and one day I called Honey and told him I wanted to find another job. Without hesitation, he said, "Do it. They don't deserve you."
When we married, I'd said to him, "I wish I could quit work and stay home with the kids." His answer was, "Yeah, me too," and I knew I was destined to work forever.
The day I quit, I scoured the newspaper and marked several job possibilities. When he came home, I told him what my plans were, but he had something else in mind.
"We can manage nicely on my salary," he said. "From now on, you work for me."
I can still hear those words today. The sound of shackles being released. The sound of freedom. *This is the part where the needle scratches across the record.* Freedom, my Aunt Patoot. While I loved being home, the work I'd kind of skimmed over while working out became my full time job. However, I love a clean house and I dove in, possibly working harder than I ever had, but I never wanted Honey to regret giving me the ability to stay home.
The kids grew up, moved out, two married and had children of their own. We built our dream home in 2002, much too much house and decided to sell just as the real estate bubble was bursting in 2008. My honey wanted to retire and I wanted him too. He'd grown weary of managing other people's money and we wanted to spend more time together. We sold at a loss, moved closer to our oldest daughter and bought a condo which we absolutely adore. It's perfect for us.
We shared the household duties, making it quick work and then enjoyed our own interests.
I've always read a lot and started reading romance novels about that time, starting with Phillipa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl, a marvelous combination of history and fiction. I was hooked and have since read everything Gregory has written - I simply adore her way of combining real history with her take on how conversations and events might have happened, had historians been privy to every aspect of her subject's lives.
I devoured historical romance novels, and told Honey about them, story by story. He listened, even asked questions, but I know he had no real interest, he did it for me. Just as I listen to his enthusiastic discussions about football, basketball, and the occasional baseball game. I don't understand most of the mechanics of any of them, but I do love his excitement.
He's always known that I wanted to write and has always been very encouraging. However, life has a way of detouring us on the way to what we should be doing with ourselves, so writing was something I never pursued seriously. I played at it through the years, but concentration was at a premium with a house full of kids and more responsibility than I could shake a stick at.
"Do you think you could write one of those?" Honey asked after I'd gone through the story of one of the most compelling romances I've ever read, Mary Balogh's Simply Love.
And that's how it all started. Now, I spend most every day typing away, while Honey takes care of the house. We'd never eat if was left up to me, I simply hate to take the time out to cook. He does the grocery shopping, he'll vacuum, though dusting isn't his thing at all. He cleans the carpets regularly and generally is busier than a retired guy should be. "I'm bored," is a phrase no one dares utter in our house, because boredom simply doesn't exist in our world.
He takes the pressure off me to be the typical housewife and gives me the freedom to do what I so love to do - tell stories. Yes, I tell him I love him a gazillion times a day, you can never say it too much. I don't ever want him to wonder.
He's my everything, for all he's given me, but more, for all he is. A fine man to the core, loving, kind, and always there. Encouraging, critical when he sees something isn't working, helpful, and that smile of his is killer. My favorite thing is when I put it on his face - yeah, that's a great feeling.
He hates laundry though, with a purple passion, but he'll put that first batch in to save me time. You've gotta love it.
Oops, the dryer just buzzed, so I'm off. Somehow it give me great pleasure to hang and fold his clothes. Truly, I wouldn't trade that task for anything in the world, but he'll be around later to carry them to the closet for me. "My job," he says.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
Today is laundry day. Every Wednesday night, my sweet carries the hamper to the laundry room for me, so I'll have it early in the morning. This morning I went to start getting the job done and discovered he'd put the first batch in for me, all washed, ready to be dried. "To save you time," he said, and my heart melted and I fell in love with him all over again.
My Mom & Dad; me, Honey, his mother, son Chris, Best Man and daughter , Kim, maid of honorA little thing, yes, but so typical of the kind of man he is. I've shared my life with him for many years now. I was twenty-six when we met, a divorcee with two children, ages 18 months, and 6. We dated for four years and ultimately married on the anniversary of our first date. He helped me raised the two older children to adulthood, being a exemplary father, loving them as if they were his own. He even adopted my daughter, Kim when she was eight. He wanted to adopt my son, but Chris remembered living with his father and couldn't bring himself to consent. Still, my husband and Chris are as close as any father and son would be.
Together, we had our beautiful daughter, Lindsay. A wonderful young woman and so much like her Dad it's scary sometimes.
After working for forty+ years as an accountant/CPA, he retired and I was so happy to have him around more. He was never the type to bring work or the stress of it home, but I honestly missed him during his working hours. He'd get up at five and get home around 5:30, tuck in for dinner and a couple of hours of television before going to bed and getting ready to do it all again.
Several months after we married, I had to have surgery and my situation at my job changed while I was out. It was miserable to go back into the office two months later, where I'd been a secretary, to find I'd been demoted to receptionist because the temp, "Worked out really well." No pay cut, but still...
Things deteriorated and one day I called Honey and told him I wanted to find another job. Without hesitation, he said, "Do it. They don't deserve you."
When we married, I'd said to him, "I wish I could quit work and stay home with the kids." His answer was, "Yeah, me too," and I knew I was destined to work forever.
The day I quit, I scoured the newspaper and marked several job possibilities. When he came home, I told him what my plans were, but he had something else in mind.
"We can manage nicely on my salary," he said. "From now on, you work for me."
I can still hear those words today. The sound of shackles being released. The sound of freedom. *This is the part where the needle scratches across the record.* Freedom, my Aunt Patoot. While I loved being home, the work I'd kind of skimmed over while working out became my full time job. However, I love a clean house and I dove in, possibly working harder than I ever had, but I never wanted Honey to regret giving me the ability to stay home.
The kids grew up, moved out, two married and had children of their own. We built our dream home in 2002, much too much house and decided to sell just as the real estate bubble was bursting in 2008. My honey wanted to retire and I wanted him too. He'd grown weary of managing other people's money and we wanted to spend more time together. We sold at a loss, moved closer to our oldest daughter and bought a condo which we absolutely adore. It's perfect for us.
We shared the household duties, making it quick work and then enjoyed our own interests.
I've always read a lot and started reading romance novels about that time, starting with Phillipa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl, a marvelous combination of history and fiction. I was hooked and have since read everything Gregory has written - I simply adore her way of combining real history with her take on how conversations and events might have happened, had historians been privy to every aspect of her subject's lives.
I devoured historical romance novels, and told Honey about them, story by story. He listened, even asked questions, but I know he had no real interest, he did it for me. Just as I listen to his enthusiastic discussions about football, basketball, and the occasional baseball game. I don't understand most of the mechanics of any of them, but I do love his excitement.
He's always known that I wanted to write and has always been very encouraging. However, life has a way of detouring us on the way to what we should be doing with ourselves, so writing was something I never pursued seriously. I played at it through the years, but concentration was at a premium with a house full of kids and more responsibility than I could shake a stick at.
"Do you think you could write one of those?" Honey asked after I'd gone through the story of one of the most compelling romances I've ever read, Mary Balogh's Simply Love.
And that's how it all started. Now, I spend most every day typing away, while Honey takes care of the house. We'd never eat if was left up to me, I simply hate to take the time out to cook. He does the grocery shopping, he'll vacuum, though dusting isn't his thing at all. He cleans the carpets regularly and generally is busier than a retired guy should be. "I'm bored," is a phrase no one dares utter in our house, because boredom simply doesn't exist in our world.
He takes the pressure off me to be the typical housewife and gives me the freedom to do what I so love to do - tell stories. Yes, I tell him I love him a gazillion times a day, you can never say it too much. I don't ever want him to wonder.
He's my everything, for all he's given me, but more, for all he is. A fine man to the core, loving, kind, and always there. Encouraging, critical when he sees something isn't working, helpful, and that smile of his is killer. My favorite thing is when I put it on his face - yeah, that's a great feeling.
He hates laundry though, with a purple passion, but he'll put that first batch in to save me time. You've gotta love it.
Oops, the dryer just buzzed, so I'm off. Somehow it give me great pleasure to hang and fold his clothes. Truly, I wouldn't trade that task for anything in the world, but he'll be around later to carry them to the closet for me. "My job," he says.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
January 2, 2012
Something quite nice happened over the weekend, other tha...
Something quite nice happened over the weekend, other than the holiday niceties, of course.
Love Romances Cafe announced their annual Best of awards and Romeo Club #1: Surprises received one for Best BDSM Book of 2011. How nice is that?
Voting instructions will come out in about a week, and I'll put all the information here, but yeah, I'm rather pleased.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
Love Romances Cafe announced their annual Best of awards and Romeo Club #1: Surprises received one for Best BDSM Book of 2011. How nice is that?
Voting instructions will come out in about a week, and I'll put all the information here, but yeah, I'm rather pleased.
Till next time,Luv,Brita
December 31, 2011
2011 wrap-upWhere I live, it's just five hours and forty-...
2011 wrap-up
Where I live, it's just five hours and forty-five minutes until 2012. I've rarely been excited about the new year coming, always going to bed before midnight, and it always comes in while I'm asleep.
I have to say that 2011 has been a remarkable year for me and 2012 promises even more wonderful things. I hope you find all you want in the coming year. May you be blessed with good health, prosperity, and most important, with love.
This year, I had eight stories published. A couple of novels, several novellas, two short stories, bringing to thirteen the total published works I have out there. I can hardly believe it.
In the new year, I'll be writing longer books, starting with one set in old Hollywood. Also, the very first book I ever wrote, no it wasn't Serenity's Dream, will come out on February 20. Demands of the Heart has been a long time in coming, but finally, I'll share Richard and Victoria's story. It's a Regency historical and one I enjoyed writing and rewriting. More on it as time gets closer.
There will be more Romeo Club installments too. Anyone up for cops and robbers. Delicious fun.
In 2011, I met Damon Suede, a fellow author at Riptide, and we have become fast friends. I'm a huge fan, as so many people are. He's got a very unique view of life and writing, and talking to him has given me great insights into my writing. Terrific guy!
I also got to meet my friend, Bryl R.Tyne, which was a thrill after talking to him often throughout the year. In October, he actually came to my home, picked me up, and drove me to New Orleans and the Gay Lit Retreat. We had a great time meeting a lot of authors we both admire. We also met many of our readers and that was a surreal experience.
And another great thrill for me was getting to know my friend Aleksandr Voinov a bit better. He edited my Romeo Club stories and I learned so many things no editor had ever taken the time to teach. Aleks is an amazing man and someone I admire tremendously, both as a person and an author. He's also one of bravest people I know. His November wasn't particularly stellar, but he acted as I would have thought he would--with dignity and honor. Bravo, my friend.
I had a cover controversy with a publisher and ended up pulling my two stories from a print compilation. Horrendous cover, all silly colors and teenagers as my thirty-something heroes. Classify it as, "What in the world were they thinking?"
Thank you Debbie, Raquel, CAS, and so many others who've emailed me and commented on my stories. You are terrific and I appreciate you so much.
Happy New Year. I'm looking forward to 2012. Are you?
With love,
Brita
December 14, 2011
Favorite Christmas Memories
Welcome to the Rom Fans First Annual Holiday Blog Hop. Thank you for stopping by. Please read about my favorite Christmas memories and then leave a comment telling me about your favorite Christmas memory. Everyone who leaves a comment will be entered into a drawing for a FREE backlist book from my collection (Romeo Club excluded.) I'll also have a drawing for a swag pack. I hope you enjoy my memories. Merry Christmas everyone.
Grandson Sebastian in 2005My Favorite Christmas Memories
My Christmas memories are divided into severalcategories. There are those involving my parents and siblings, and then thereare those I've created with my own family. All warrant their ownreflections and all live on in photographs stashed in photo albums and pictureframes.
To restrict this piece to just one would somehowlimit the scope of all those memories, so I'll try to comb through the tinseland recount just a few of the standouts.
There would of course be the year my parents gaveall four of us sleds for Christmas and there wasn't a flake of snow on theground that year in upstate New York. It wasn't until four days later when theblizzard came through, crippling all travel and thrilling the children.
An even earlier memory is one that I'm not so sureis a memory or just firmly embedded in my brain because of the repeated tellingover the years. My grandparents were poor people and my grandmother had onlyone fervent wish—to own a red and white Formica kitchen table, with matchingchairs. I must have been eight or nine at the time andhonestly didn't see the hubbub, but my aunts and uncles, mom and dad, all gottogether, pooled their resources and bought Gram her table and chairs and brand new Currier and Ives place settings.
Someone inthe family got my grandparents out of the house and the rest of the familybrought the new set in, placing in the kitchen with a huge red bow in thecenter of it.
When Gram walked in, she huffed (her way) and satdown at "her end,) which is where she was when this photo was taken. Sheloved that set and cherished it until she died.
There are varied memories of my mom decorating thetree with single strands of tinsel, her job each year. (Forgive the terrible pic. So much for Polaroid pics lasting through the ages.) I can still see herdoing it and then standing back to admire how the tree sparkled. Lord, how sheloved Christmas and in her absence, a bit of the magic has disappeared.Christmas stockings at the foot of our beds eachChristmas morning, the tangerine filling out the toe and then small games tokeep us occupied until the hour was civilized enough to wake Mom and Dad forthe grand unwrapping ceremony.
Each gift was opened individually, so everyone sawwhat everyone else got. There wasn't a mass opening with the whole thing donein five minutes. No, my parents made a production of it. That's one thing I continuedwith my family, and often we have to take breaks to get through it, but no onejust dives in. My theory is—if I have to suffering through the buying andwrapping, you will wait your turns. Everyone's used to it by now and no onegrumbles—too much.
When I had my family, I created "Ta-Da"gifts, which is something we've done since my oldest was little. With all thegifts finally opened, everyone starts talking and enjoying their bounty. However,we've saved the best for last. Now, it could be just for one person or severaland only the givers are privy to that information.
Everyone is asked to close their eyes and the countbegins. "1 – 2 – 3 – Ta-Da!" When everyone opens their eyes, therecipient finds the giver standing before them. Usually the grandchildrenalways get a Ta-Da gift—they really don't understand the concept of unselfishgiving. There have been times when I've gotten the gift, from my husband ofcourse, and then there was the year we all got together and got a fancy easelfor our artist son-in-law.
Whatever the gift is, it's memorable and the bestone of the day.
Our son on his first ChristmasI loved the year my son, who was seven or eight atthe time, told my husband and I that he'd found out there was no Santa Claus.He'd hedged his bet though and waited until we'd bought the gifts that year,"just in case."
Our granddaughter on her first ChristimasHe came to us one day and asked to have a serioustalk. "We can't tell Sissy though, cuz she's only three. We'll wait untilshe's grown up, like me." He so loved being a part of the Christmasconspiracy. Now, he's got a little girl he treasures and wouldn't allow life to encroach too early on her.
And not to be outdone, here are my girls on their first Christmases. My sister bought the kids their first Christmas outfits, starting with my son. I still have them all, all packed away in tissue paper. Can't part with them, sentimentalist that I am.All this aside, for me, sentiment is very much apart of the Christmas season. I think of those no longer with us and miss allthey contributed to my years of Christmas memories. They are missed more witheach passing year.
There is a standout for me, one memory I recall eachyear as the leaves drop from the trees and other parts of the country gets snow(the deep south isn't known for its snow accumulation).
Maxwell House Coffee used to have the most beautifulcommercial and it kind of sums up the spirit of Christmas for me.
A young man comes home for the holidays and findshis mom sewing rag dolls late into the night. She explains that the churchChristmas party is the following day and she has many to finish before she cansleep.
He brews a pot of coffee and they sit and talk whilemom sews.
The next day, he accompanies her to the party, wherepresents are given out to all the children less fortunate.
Then, a box wrapped in bright red paper is given toa blonde-haired little girl so cute she'd melt anyone's heart. She was kind oftimid, but slowly undid the tape, peeled back the paper, and finally, liftedthe lid off the box. Her face lit up as she lifted a blonde-hair doll from thetissue paper and hugged it.
Camera pans to the mom, who has her hands up to her mouth. The son leans over, kisses her cheek, and says, "Merry Christmas,Santa Claus."
Still brings tears to my eyes and the full meaningof Christmas into my heart.
Merry Christmas from our house to yours.Love,BritaThe Rom Fans First Annual Holiday Blog Hop is in full swing. Here's a list of all the author participating: Bobbi Brattz December 11thFranny Armstrong December12th
Regina CarlysleDecember 13th
Elizabeth Amber December 14th
Brita Addams December 15th
D.B. Reynolds December 16thBeth Trissel December 17th
Amy Romine December 19th
Skhye Moncrief December 20th
Carrie Ann Ryan December 21st
J.S. Wayne December 22nd
Shannan Albright December 23rd
Jacquie Rogers December 27th
Keta Diablo December 28thAnne Holly December 29th
Follow the link for full details. RomFans Reviews
December 10, 2011
The holidays have me in a quandary this year. I wonder wh...
The holidays have me in a quandary this year. I wonder why I'm not in the spirit. I usually love Christmas and everything involved with the preparations. We've purchased the presents, the tree is up, and I'm still not in the mood. Even drinking hot chocolate every night hasn't helped. Ugh. It's a mystery.
Something interesting happened this past week. Please bear with me. Let me tell you a short story.
A month after I graduated from high school, I ran away from home (long story) and ended up in Georgetown, Massachusetts, at the home of my Aunt Margie and Uncle Mike. They were marvelous and took care of me, set me up in a boarding house in Boston, the fascade of which was used years later representing the St. Eligius hospital on the St. Elsewhere television show.
While I stayed in Georgetown, I commuted to Boston, working at Aetna Life and Surety. Dull job, but it paid the bills and I earned $72 a week - gross. This was in 1968 and that was better than babysitting money, so I was okay with the salary.
The house in Georgetown was a large Victorian, spacious rooms and lots of them. My aunt and uncle had purchased the place in the early '60's and I'd spent each summer with them for years. They had two sons, younger than me and I think my aunt particularly enjoyed having a girl around. She took me shopping, a lot, supplying me with my next year's school clothes.
I married in 1969, had my son in April, 1970 and in January of 1971, joined my husband in Iceland, where we lived for nearly two years. When we came back in September, 1972, we headed to Georgetown. It was quite a reunion, my uncle taking my son under his wing and thoroughly enjoying sneaking him sips of beer.
We were transferred to New Orleans in November, 1972 and didn't make it back to New England before my Uncle Mike passed away in December of 1974, a month after our daughter was born.
In 1977, my aunt sold the beautiful house on West Main Street. I found a book called A Conversation with John Updike, which says that he lived in the former Elmer Liebsch house, that's how I found out.
Now to what I learned this week. Author John Updike bought that house and lived in it from 1977 to 1982. Here he is across the street from the house.
To the left in the picture, there is a long extension to the house. My uncle always called it the Rathskeller. It was my cousin's rec room, a large space where they could really enjoy themselves.
In this picture, the Updikes are in the kitchen. To the right, the door that lead to the dining room, beyond that the formal living room. The stairs leading to the second story, where the bedrooms were located.
There was carpet in the upstairs bathroom. First time I'd ever seen that.
John Updike jumping rope in the driveway.
I have an old photo of me sitting on my husband's lap in a small sitting room just off the kitchen. I believe it's the only picture of me in the house.
While living in this house, John Updike wrote and won a Pulitzer Prize for his book Rabbit is Rich.
All these years later, I still miss my uncle. He was there for me during a very difficult time in my life, as was Aunt Margie. She lives in Arizona, her two sons long married with children of their own.
She's nearing 80 years old and doesn't write letters or Christmas cards, so I don't hear from her. I send a card to her each year though, as I can't let too much time pass with no communication. She's a lovely woman she is. Sad she's had to spend so many years without my uncle. They did so love each other.
Something interesting happened this past week. Please bear with me. Let me tell you a short story.
A month after I graduated from high school, I ran away from home (long story) and ended up in Georgetown, Massachusetts, at the home of my Aunt Margie and Uncle Mike. They were marvelous and took care of me, set me up in a boarding house in Boston, the fascade of which was used years later representing the St. Eligius hospital on the St. Elsewhere television show.
While I stayed in Georgetown, I commuted to Boston, working at Aetna Life and Surety. Dull job, but it paid the bills and I earned $72 a week - gross. This was in 1968 and that was better than babysitting money, so I was okay with the salary.
The house in Georgetown was a large Victorian, spacious rooms and lots of them. My aunt and uncle had purchased the place in the early '60's and I'd spent each summer with them for years. They had two sons, younger than me and I think my aunt particularly enjoyed having a girl around. She took me shopping, a lot, supplying me with my next year's school clothes.
I married in 1969, had my son in April, 1970 and in January of 1971, joined my husband in Iceland, where we lived for nearly two years. When we came back in September, 1972, we headed to Georgetown. It was quite a reunion, my uncle taking my son under his wing and thoroughly enjoying sneaking him sips of beer.
We were transferred to New Orleans in November, 1972 and didn't make it back to New England before my Uncle Mike passed away in December of 1974, a month after our daughter was born.
In 1977, my aunt sold the beautiful house on West Main Street. I found a book called A Conversation with John Updike, which says that he lived in the former Elmer Liebsch house, that's how I found out.
Now to what I learned this week. Author John Updike bought that house and lived in it from 1977 to 1982. Here he is across the street from the house.To the left in the picture, there is a long extension to the house. My uncle always called it the Rathskeller. It was my cousin's rec room, a large space where they could really enjoy themselves.
In this picture, the Updikes are in the kitchen. To the right, the door that lead to the dining room, beyond that the formal living room. The stairs leading to the second story, where the bedrooms were located.There was carpet in the upstairs bathroom. First time I'd ever seen that.
John Updike jumping rope in the driveway.I have an old photo of me sitting on my husband's lap in a small sitting room just off the kitchen. I believe it's the only picture of me in the house.
While living in this house, John Updike wrote and won a Pulitzer Prize for his book Rabbit is Rich.
All these years later, I still miss my uncle. He was there for me during a very difficult time in my life, as was Aunt Margie. She lives in Arizona, her two sons long married with children of their own.
She's nearing 80 years old and doesn't write letters or Christmas cards, so I don't hear from her. I send a card to her each year though, as I can't let too much time pass with no communication. She's a lovely woman she is. Sad she's had to spend so many years without my uncle. They did so love each other.
