Jamie DeBree's Blog, page 62

On the Bookshelf: Deception Past by Franki deMerle

Prologue

May 1886

Amherst, Massachusetts

Emily Dickinson burned with the desire to be loved. She felt somehow that her feverishness was merely a manifestation of her yearning to be freely accepted for who she was.

To be free …

She craved acceptance after so much rejection, indifference, and isolation. Everywhere there were judgments. Always other people had their judgments. Emily was too unconventional. She didn't follow social protocol. She longed to be accepted in the same way she had opened her heart and warmly accepted Nature just as she found it. No man-made conception of "perfection" was required. No judgments or changes were necessary when you truly loved. But she hadn't found that love from any male human being. The true love of her life had rejected her for someone more appropriate for his status in life. Yes, she had loved deeply in this life, but only Nature reciprocated that love.

Judgments were a way of life for "civilized" humans. How could a person be judged by the relative shade of their skin pigments? Yet masses of humanity had spilled rivers of blood over just such a concept—as if it actually made any sense. Emily had seen it split her country in half and still, two decades later, she could make no sense of it.

Humanity was delirious with judgments and burning with rage to fight over any difference. Yet all of physical creation and all of life were made of the same stuff, and each creature was uniquely different from all the rest. How could life be property? And yet, even after the slaves had been freed, women were still the property of men.

She had lost her stomach for the insanity long ago. She had tried to share her perceptions, insights, and sense of wonder at the true innate perfection of all creatures just as they are, but most people thought she was daft.

She could no longer keep food in her stomach. The bedclothes were soaked with her sweat. Emily didn't fear death. Death was the lover who would finally accept her just as she was. In death she was free to be herself, knowing that death wouldn't judge her. She laughed to herself, maybe even laughed out loud, remembering how the good Christians who had tried so hard to save her from her natural self had feared the judgment of death.

But death is natural, she thought to herself, and Nature does not judge. If anything, death is the great liberator who frees us from the shackles and prisons we let others talk us into. She had tried many times to express the thought poetically. No need to try again.

She smiled quietly with closed eyes knowing she had not been talked into being anyone else's idea of who she should be. She had paid a price in heartaches for her liberty as she found how many would not love her if she would not be someone else. She would not belong to any man, because any man who claimed to love her but wanted to own her instead did not know the real meaning of love. The man who, in recent years, had finally accepted her as herself had already been liberated by death. The wounds were deep and invisible, but she had found a far greater truth. All those Bible stories other people taught as "the word of God" were written by men wanting to play at being God. The burning bush may well have had some divine insight to impart, but some mere human male wrote down the interpretive story with prejudice.

Next time around, I'll try again to get more involved with people, she thought to herself as she reveled in her delirium, but I won't conform to their judgments. They can burn me at the stake if they want, but I'll be free. I'll do things my own natural way. I'll make music, and I'll write, and they will judge me. I don't care about their judgments. I'll be myself. I'll be free. They'll reject me, and I'll die fighting for liberty from stupid judgments. There is a rage in me to fight against that insanity of man that judges people for the color of their skin and their gender. They can burn me alive for that if they choose, and they probably will. I know death will come and liberate me. I will play my music and publish my stories even though I'm a woman or have dark skin or refuse to be dictated to or dominated by the Christians or any other religion. This river of sweat has freed my soul. Death is here to liberate me.

The black carriage arrived in her upstairs bedroom and parked parallel to her sleigh bed. "You have come for me," she said to Death, "and I will not reject you, judge you, or keep you waiting."

The door to the carriage stood wide open, beckoning to her with fully open and accepting arms. She accepted the embrace and felt neither weight nor pain as she floated into its total acceptance. She would live and fight freely for her liberty and never accept the judgments of others until at least some of them had accepted her thoughts and writings just as she presented them. This would be her liberation.

Available at:  Amazon | Barnes & Noble | iUniverse | Franki's Web Site





Connect with Franki: Web Site | Independent Author Network



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Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 69

This serial novel is posted in draft form every Tuesday and Friday.




Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63|Ch. 64|Ch. 65|Ch. 66|Ch. 67|Ch. 68




The Biker's Wench










Chapter 69

Monica woke slowly to the sound of someone snoring next to her. The green brocade canopy above her was dimly lit with light coming in through the narrow windows near the ceiling, and she grinned, recognizing Harley's bed. Turning her head, she saw him sprawled out on his stomach beside her and she couldn't resist the urge to touch him. He stirred as she ran her fingers over his warm, bare skin and she marveled at the connection she felt to this rough and tumble man. 

"Look who's awake," he said, his voice soft and husky as he turned to smile at her. She tried to roll to her side, but a shooting pain in her leg vetoed the move.

"Ow." She winced, remembering the events of the day before. "Did I get shot?"

Harley nodded, gently stroking the side of her neck with his knuckles. "I've never been so scared in my life. When I saw you go down..." he shook his head, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. "Thank god the bullet didn't hit anything vital, and went all the way through. I had Ben clean out the wound and bandage you up and then we brought you here. I thought you'd be more comfortable at home than at the clinic."

She nodded, her heart swelling at how good the word home sounded. "Thank you. I'll have to thank the doctor properly too. Did you see who shot me? Did you get him?"

Propping himself up on one elbow, Harley looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "I got him. I'm sorry, honey, but it was Burns. He warned me he was going to make it so you couldn't run away again. When he shot you..."

"It's okay." Monica closed her eyes, trying to sort through the conflicting feelings swirling in her head. Guilt warred with pain and abandonment, but it had been so long since Burns had been anything but someone to be avoided that the feelings were muted. She mainly felt numb.

Harley pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his broad chest. She melted against him, soaking up his warmth and listening to his heart beat steady under her ear. He stroked her arm and kissed the top of her head.

"I told you not to come back. Why didn't you run like I told you to?" he asked. "You could have been killed showing up here."

She pulled out of his embrace so she could look at him. "I told you I'd be back. I'm through running, Harley. I'm also done taking orders from men - or anyone, for that matter. From now on, I do what I want, when I want, understood?"

He grinned, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Yes, ma'am. Does that mean I'm taking orders from you now?"

 She looked up thoughtfully, pretending to give the matter serious thought. "Yes, I believe it does." She grinned. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you more than life itself," he replied, leaning forward for a kiss. "Do I get a reward for good behavior?" he murmured against her lips. She kissed him back, meeting his tongue with her own as he devoured her mouth. When she finally pulled back, her whole body was simmering with desire and happiness. Finally she belonged. 

"Oh yeah," she breathed, smoothing her hand down the center of his chest. "I think we both deserve a reward." She hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down over her as she rolled to her back, whispering in his ear as he nibbled at her neck.

"I love you too."

The End

I hope you've enjoyed the story - the final version will be published on July 29, 2011. I'll probably be expanding this scene when I revise, but for now, this is where it ends. Stay tuned for information on the next serial novel to be announced next Monday. Thank you for reading!
Enjoy this installment? Try Desert Heat, available now at:


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Writing Notes: Die, Draft! Die!

I hate endings. Not because it's "the end", but because once I know what the end is going to be, my brain tries to cut off the creative flow, and move into analytical/production mode. This makes the end of most books tough to write because as far as my brain is concerned, the creative part is done. Getting the rest of the story out of my head is *work*.

I started The Biker's Wench last summer, and fully expected to have it done long before now. I just got distracted with other things, took a couple months off from working on it, and just let it sort of drag along behind me. Now I'm finally near the end - I'm pretty sure the next scene will be the last – and it's like pulling teeth to get myself to work on it. I know how the story ends now. Writing it out is just work.

Obviously this means I generally rush my endings. At this point, when I'm so very close to "done", I just want to move on and get to the clean-up stage. I want my characters to just take their happily-ever-after already, and leave me in peace to work on the technical side of things.

Is there a cure for this? Danged if I know. I think this will be the ninth novelish-length draft I've done, and I still don't have any idea how to keep that magical, "new" feeling all the way to the end. I even get that way with shorter stories, albeit not nearly as bad. So rather than fighting it, I force myself to write through it. I've never been a big believer in just "let it come" for anything in life…I'm more of a "make it happen" kind of girl. And that's exactly what I have to do with the last part of every draft. Make it happen.

To The Biker's Wench I say: "Die Draft! Die!"

Anyone else have issues with "the end"? What's your problem spot in the drafting process?

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Serial Story: The Biker's Wench, Ch. 68

This serial novel is posted in draft form every Tuesday and Friday.




Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63|Ch. 64|Ch. 65|Ch. 66|Ch. 67




The Biker's Wench










Chapter 68

"We're almost at the turnoff. Is there anything else you can tell us that might help, Ms. Burns?"

"Not that I can think of," Monica said, holding on to the handle above the car door as they sped toward the ranch. FBI Agent Kesley Monroe had shown up at the office at six that morning, and when Monica told her the whole story, she hadn't hesitated to round up a team. Apparently Daniels, the undercover agent was supposed to check in a week ago and they'd lost track of Burns when he went silent. Agent Monroe had sent someone out to check the cab companies for the recordings, and had tried to send Monica to the hospital. Frantic to get back to the ranch, Monica had refused and after a quick patch job on her shoulder, she'd joined Monroe's team. All she could think of during the endless drive back was getting back to Harley in time. If Burns had hurt him...

"We're treating this like a raid," Monroe said as she took the turn-off and pulled into the empty parking lot. She looked over her sunglasses at Monica with a stern expression. "You are not to leave this vehicle under any circumstances. You'll get in the way, and there's a good chance you could be shot or taken hostage. I need to know you're not going to add to the problem. Understood?"

Monica nodded agreeably. She had no intention of waiting even though what Monroe said made sense. She had to find Harley. That was the only thing that mattered, now that she was sure Burns would be taken into custody.

Monroe stared at her for a long moment, then shook her head and got out of the car. The two agents in the back got out, and five more exited the second SUV that had followed them down. Monica watched as they fanned out, several going around the fence on each side, and Monroe leading the others through the front gate. She waited, expecting some sort of commotion, but the minutes ticked by and it never came. Five minutes later, she opened the door and jogged to the main building, peering carefully around the corner into the compound.

The main gravel road was deserted. Where was everyone? She eased around to the front of the building, then sprinted across to the alley between the center row of buildings. Moving slowly, she crept down the row, stopping at every corner and getting more worried by the second. Why wasn't there any noise?

Finally she reached the end, and stood with her back to the clinic, looking sideways at the back of the compound. Across the curve stood the chapel, and a group seemed to be gathered in the park to the right. The bright white letters on the FBI vests stood out in stark relief, but where had the horses come from? And were those real live cowboys?

As she watched, agents began leading handcuffed men toward the front gate. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and when the last agent went past, she jogged out into the road, hoping Harley would be with the remaining people mingling in the park. She almost didn't see him half-hidden in the shadows at the front of the chapel, except the sun glinted off metal as she reached the center of the road. Stopping mid-stride, she almost called to him before noting the raised gun, and the absolute focus in his posture. He was aiming at some point behind her, and she instinctively turned to look.

A low whooshing sound was the only warning she got before she was knocked backwards to the ground. Dazed, she heard the pop of guns a long ways off as she tried to sit up, but couldn't quite manage. Her arms felt so heavy, and a dull burning pain set in just above her knee as a shadow fell across her face.

"Monica? Oh god...someone get Ben!" Strong arms lifted her, cradling her against a warm, familiar chest.

"Harley, I--"  She forced the words from her mind onto her lips, wondering why it was so hard to speak.

"Shh...don't talk. We're almost there, and Ben will fix you up good as new. I promise."

Monica closed her eyes, whimpering softly as she was laid on a soft surface and that warm, comforting feeling left. She started shivering, unable to keep her teeth from clattering together. Cold. She was so cold...

Enjoy this installment? Try Tempest, available now at:

Brazen Snake Books |
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Weekly News & Goals – 5/2/11

I can't believe it's May – where did April go? And more importantly, where is spring? Our last frost date here in Montana is supposed to be May 15th, but I have my doubts this year. I'd be more than happy to be proven wrong though...

So...busy week last week! I spent nearly all my non-writing/non-day job hours working on the new web store for Brazen Snake Books, and it's now live and open for business. Not only can you buy all of my books in both digital and print formats directly from me if you wish, but I'm also offering author services packages for self-publishing authors who don't wish to learn how to format and convert their books themselves. In addition, I've teamed up with my cover artist, Heidi Sutherlin of My Creative Pursuits and my editor, Carol Ward of Creative Expressions to offer packages that include both cover art and proofreading in addition to manuscript formatting and conversion. I'll have samples up soon for download, but the services are available now.

I also did a "soft release" of my second erotica short, The Bouncer. You'll find it in the BSB store...and it will be up everywhere else by Friday. This story contains material that could be offensive to some readers, so please remember to read the description carefully before buying.

This Week on The Variety Pages

Tuesday: Ch. 68 of The Biker's Wench

Wednesday: The Writing Journal – Die, Draft, Die!

Friday: Ch. 69 of The Biker's Wench (will it be the last?)

Saturday: Excerpt from Deception Past by Franki deMerle

Goal Reports

I mentioned last week was busy...and that's mainly because I was hyper-focused and getting things done. Not everything, but enough that I feel rather accomplished about last week's lists. I finished and sent back that crit, wrote five serial chapters, started a new thriller short, got the web store up, edited, formatted and uploaded the new erotica short, and scheduled & stuck to regular bookkeeping times/days.

The workouts suffered, it was too cold/wet/rainy/snowy to work in the yard, and the final document I needed for the loan app. didn't get here until Saturday. So personal goals took a beating, but I'll get back on track this week.

Goals for the Week

Writing

6 serial chapters

3k words on the thriller short

Finish The Biker's Wench?

Business

Design/order bus. cards specifically for advertising author services.

Check into a few paid ads for the summer

Submit the erotic shorts to some review blogs

Work on the author service package samples

Personal

Workout three times

Laundry three days

Start yard clean-up, weather permitting.

Turn in loan app.

That's what's going on around here. How goes the reading/writing? Finish anything? Start anything new?

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On the Bookshelf: Henrietta The Dragon Slayer by Beth Barany

From Chapter 1

Battle-hardened and brave

Ready for the fight
Henrietta the Dragon Slayer
Swings with all her might
—From the chorus of the Song of the Dragon Slayer

Henrietta strode away from the tavern, fists clenched so hard they hurt. At two paces from the forest edge, the ground crunched in the black night behind her. Even with her ale-fogged brain, she sensed the presence of a man, smelled on him soot, leather and metal, and knew he was armed, but wore no armor.

She didn't have time for this.

"What do you want?" Henrietta whirled to face the thrill seeker, her long sword drawn, her long red hair whipping across her chilled cheeks. Above her head, the bitter wind keened through the forest trees.

The man hovered five feet-lengths away from her, out of sword reach, his face shadowed by the light of the tavern behind him. "I heard your story back there." His voice, thick with a foreign accent she couldn't place, held no compliment. "I hear you're looking for a new quest."

"Who gave you that idea?"

"The Song of the Dragon Slayer." The man's tone was flat.

So he wasn't a fan. She didn't care. She cared that he didn't move any closer. Empty hands at his sides, a sheathed long sword at his belt, he was broad shouldered and taller than her by half a head.

She re-sheathed her sword reluctantly. "So? What does that have to do with anything? It's only a song."

"A song about you. That is why you must come with me now." He stepped toward her, his face still hidden by darkness.

"No, I must not go with you. Leave me be!" she said annoyed and angry. There was a thrill seeker in every town. Facing him, she stepped back to have room to swing her sword if necessary, her hand waiting on her sword pommel. "There's plenty of others in that tavern to harass."

She didn't want to play "who's the best warrior" just now. The drink had touched her head more than usual, without its usual lovely numbing affect. "Who are you anyway? No, I don't want to know. Just leave me be."

"I am a knight, doing his duty. Assessing." He didn't move any closer.

Like she needed to know that. Then she opened her big mouth.

"If you're a knight, where's your armor?" As soon as she heard herself, she knew that was a dumb question.

"I do not need armor for this." He said the words as if she wasn't worth a gnat on sheep's berries. "You will come with me now," he repeated.

He dared to order her?

"I will do no such thing. Weren't you listening in there?" She gestured toward the tavern where she'd just told and re-enacted her tale. A thrill seeker who ordered her? What was this nonsense? "I did my quest. Now leave me to my peace."

He didn't budge his bulky frame. What was he waiting for? A royal invitation to depart?

Heaviness pressed against her chest like an anvil, preventing breath from fully entering her lungs.

She'd done her dragon slaying and military campaigns. Done. Finished. Fini.

"There is much coin and glory for the one who takes the Emerald Dragon's Dracontias," the stranger knight said, disdainfully.

How much coin? But that didn't come out. "The what-ias?"

"Thought you knew everything there was to know about dragons."

Politeness wasn't this man's strength.

"Yah, that's me. A walking, talking dragon-spouting slayer, at your service."

The man snorted. Very elegant.

Her stomach churned the ale. She knew what the Dracontias was, but didn't want to be drawn in, though her coin purse was flat.

What was wrong with her?

"Listen, uh, Can we talk in the morning? I need to—." Henrietta gestured to the woods. Her need wasn't that urgent, yet. She just needed an excuse to make him go away.

"I'll wait."

Great. She had to make good on her words, so she did her best to stomp through the spindly underbrush, ready to move fast if she had to. She had taken no more than two steps when the man spoke again, his deep voice booming at her back.

"You can't do it anymore, can you? Dragon Slayer." He drew out the word "slayer" as if it were an insult.

Fear coursed through her at his words, and that made her angry. "I don't have to listen to this!" A cold sweat broke out under her tunic and across her forehead. She shivered but kept walking, her greatcoat and hat back in the tavern.

"You can't do it," he repeated louder. "You have grown soft, weak. That's what I told my king. You are but a shadow of your former self, if you ever were that Dragon Slayer. I don't think you killed the Fire Dragon of Britham's Keep after all. Your story back there was all show. It was your so-called partner who did the deed, and you stole his glory."

Henrietta froze. She brushed away what little truth he said, and focused on his lies. Anger fired through her body and gave her strength. She turned and stomped back toward the knight. "My partner was a she. But what do you know! I don't have to listen to your insults."

"You don't have it in you," he said again, holding his ground. "A fool's errand I was sent on. But duty is duty." He spat.

Enough. It was time to show this disrespectful knight who it was he insulted.

Available at:  Amazon US | Amazon UK | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords





Connect with Beth: Web Site | Twitter | Facebook



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Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 67

This serial novel is posted in draft form every Tuesday and Friday.




Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63|Ch. 64|Ch. 65|Ch. 66




The Biker's Wench










Chapter 67

Harley stuffed the unconcious guard into the bathroom and pulled the door shut, wiring it closed with a hanger from the wardrobe. Trying to ignore the pain in his side from the bullet wound, he got the cell phone from the bed and dialed Ben's number. The doctor answered on the second ring.

"Ben? You there?"

"You shouldn't be out of bed in your condition, Mr. Majors." Burns said, mock censure in his tone. "But I'm assuming you are, since my guard hasn't taken your cell phone away. Who's phone is that, Majors? I didn't recognize the number."

Harley closed the cupboard door behind himself and then moved a panel on the back wall to reveal a tunnel entrance. There was nothing he could do for Ben now except to get a weapon and come back. Hopefully it wouldn't be too late. 

He disconnected the call and slid through the small opening, sliding the panel back in place as he heard his hospital room being breached. Standing up, he turned, holding the phone up for light. A tall figure blocked his path, arms crossed over his chest, chuckling.

"Surely you didn't think Burns was stupid enough to leave the tunnels unguarded, Mr. Majors?"

Harley shrugged as the man started walking toward him. "Didn't really give it much thought, actually. Burns ain't the brightest bulb in the box, from what I've seen." To the side he caught a glimpse of one of the flashlights they kept at each tunnel entrance. Big, heavy and metal, that would do the job. If he could reach it.

The man advanced, his arms dropping to swing at his sides. He reminded Harley of a cheesy B-movie soldier, fresh off the mold. "I'll have to ask you to return to your room, Mr. Majors. I'm afraid the ranch is on lock-down at the moment."

Harley edged closer to the flashlight, careful to move only a few inches at a time. "It's my ranch. I say whether it's on lockdown or not." He lunged just as the guard reached for him, the other man's fingertips just grazing his arm. Grabbing the flashlight he waited until the guard was nearly on top of him. He swung the light in a wide arch, catching the man on the back of the head with a resounding thunk. The guard slumped over him, and Harley pushed him off then ran down the tunnel, flashlight in one hand, phone in the other.

Not bothering to use the light, he felt his way to the spot where he and Monica had escaped his bedroom. Ducking through the portal, he went to the closet and put clothes on, wincing at the bite of material over his wound. Then he grabbed a rifle and a handgun off the top shelf, loaded both, stuffed the gun in his waistband and headed back into the tunnels with the rifle slung over one arm.

Using the flashlight this time, he traveled deep into the lesser known passages at the back of the compound. It felt like forever, but finally he emerged from the cellar at the dude ranch, relieved that Burns seemed to have forgotten about this offshoot of the main compound. He hurried across to the bunkhouse and peeked in the corner of the window. The clock on the wall read four-thirty in the morning, and six cowboys were just starting to rise from their bunks. They'd probably enjoy a change of pace today, he thought as he knocked on the door and letting himself in.
Enjoy this installment? Try Desert Heat, available now at:


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Writing Notes: What are *you* doing here?

I got back the edits for my next short erotica this week, and was happy to see mainly nit-picky things (that I was equally as happy to fix). My editor even added a couple commas – crazy! The one thing that most interested me though is a by-product of working on several stories at one time.

If you have a print copy of Tempest (it's fixed in the digital files), you probably know that towards the end, there's a sentence where the hero (Jake) is mistakenly referred to as "Jeff". I know exactly why this happened – I was working on the serial at the same time I was drafting Her Private Chef, and the hero's name in HPC is "Jeff". When I write late at night, sometimes I'm so tired I probably shouldn't be writing – and that's generally when I make those types of mistakes.

I'll admit, part of the reason I've left it in the print version is to annoy all the writerly perfectionists out there who feel the need to point it out as if it's some sort of horrible wart on my novella. To them, it is. To me, it's more like that one flaw that proves something is *real* rather than just a cookie cutter of everything else. But I freely admit to having an odd view of mistakes. I'm not a perfectionist like so many of my peers – while I do want things to be *as close* as I can get to perfect, a few small nits will not leave me tossing and turning at night.

In any case, the reason I bring this up is, my editor noticed that in my latest short story, I switched the female main character's name (Kaylee) for Monica, my main female lead in The Biker's Wench. The stories are completely different genres, and the characters are completely different as well – yet I was probably writing late at night, very tired, and somehow interchanged the name. I had to go back through that scene to make sure it didn't affect the actual story because they are such different characters (luckily, it didn't).

Needless to say, when you consider how many drafts I have going at any one time (normally at least four), there's a pretty good chance that some night as I'm typing away, a character will sneak into the wrong story. With any luck, he or she won't leave too much of a mess to clean up later.

The obvious solution for me is not to write when I'm dead tired. Sometimes that can't be helped though. Yet another reason I need an editor (you know, along with lecturing me when I spell "breathe" as "breath" twice in one manuscript). Don't know what I'd do without her.  

If you work on several WIPs at once, do your characters sneak out and play in the others? Or is it just me they do this to?  ***Please note, comments take a few moments to appear. Refresh the page to see new comments. 

Serial Story: The Biker's Wench, Ch. 66

This serial novel is posted in draft form every Tuesday and Friday.




Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63|Ch. 64|Ch. 65




The Biker's Wench










Chapter 66

"You don't have me yet." Monica shoved hard against the desk, thankful when it proved to be lighter than it looked. As it went flying toward the shocked man, she flung herself backwards into the window, hoping it would break like they did in the movies.

It didn't.

She dropped to the floor, dull pain suffusing through her shoulder and across her torso as she fought to stay conscious. Get up. Run. Somehow she pushed off the floor, closing her eyes while waiting for the latest wave of pain to pass. When she opened them, he was there, standing right in front of her and blocking the only exit.

"Let's go." His phone rang, and he held up a hand, answering the call with the other. "Doug here. Yeah, she's here. Just caught up with her, actually. I don't think the chip's goind to work much longer though. She dug it out." He wrapped a hand around her arm, tugging her back through the dark warehouse with scary accuracy. She twisted and pulled, but couldn't manage to get free. "I'll do that," he said then disconnected the call and turned his phone out to use as a flashlight again. When they got to the warehouse door, he stopped and turned to face her.

"Your father--"

"He's not my father."

The man shook his head. "Your father said to tell you that your husband will pay for every hour that it takes you to return to the compound. If you want to spare him as much pain as possible, we'd better leave now."

Monica considered that for a moment. If she didn't get that bag back, there was no other way to prove that Burns was trafficking children. But how could she run knowing that Harley was being tortured and used against her?

Doug led her out the door and helped her into his SUV. She blinked back tears, knowing what she had to do when she spied the keys dangling from the ignition. As soon as he shut the door, she pushed the button to lock herself in and slid over into the driver's seat. Turning the key, she put the car into drive as he ferverently punched at the keypad on the door. Just as the locks disengaged, she stabbed at the lock button again and stepped on the gas pedal, punching it nearly to the floor. The vehicle lurched forward, tossing Doug to the side, and flinging her forward as she peeled out of the alley.

She veered side to side as she tried to gain control of the wheel. Easing up on the fuel she turned onto the main road and started back toward the FBI offices for the second time that night. She'd ditch the vehicle several blocks away, and wait for the offices to open. Maybe the FBI could find her bag and the evidence. In the meantime, she'd try not to think about what horrible things Burns could be doing to the man she loved.
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Weekly News & Goals – 4/25/11

Here we are again – everyone ready for another go-round?

First up, if you haven't had the chance, go check out FantasyRanchNovels.com. I've updated the site, added some features, and I'll be adding more as we slide into summer. The blog over there is empty right now, but it won't be for long. That blog will mainly be for character profiles, FR info and back story, and most importantly the next serialized draft for the series – The Minister's Maid. More on that next month. Yes, there will still be fiction posted here weekly, but we'll discuss that after I get The Biker's Wench finished.

This Wednesday I'll start a new weekly feature titled "The Writing Journal", in which I'll explore plot notes, character creation, writing craft, editing/revision notes, useful software, and basically anything that I happen to be thinking about or working on each week. Could be philosophical, could be technical...you'll have to tune in to find out.

This Week on The Variety Pages

Tuesday: Ch. 66 of The Biker's Wench

Wednesday: The Writing Journal

Friday: Ch. 67 of The Biker's Wench

Saturday: Excerpt from Henrietta the Dragon Slayer by Beth Barany

Goal Reports

I was pretty focused on the business end of things last week, so I completed three of my four goals there, plus I finished setting up my bookkeeping software. The only thing I didn't accomplish in that category was building the web store, and that's okay because I was finishing up "stuff" to put in it. So I feel pretty good about all that, because much of what I did is initial set-up that won't need to be repeated.

The writing went pretty well, though I still haven't done that crit, and the author's probably fed up with me by now. Still, it's going back on the list, and on the calendar for tomorrow. Last week was a light week writing-wise as I am between serials on the erotica blog, so that helped me get all the business stuff done.

As for the personal list, I completed two of three, and the third one not getting done was out of my control. So all in all, a good week, and extremely productive. I love it when that happens...

Goals for the Week

Writing

Crit doc. (Mon)

6 serial scenes

Edit short when it comes back

Start thriller short story

Business

Write sample book for formatting services

Schedule regular times several days a week to do bookkeeping

Build & launch new web store

Get newsletters out

Personal

3 workouts

1 load laundry every night after work

Spend a couple hours next weekend cleaning in the yard

Turn in loan application

I know I'm aiming pretty high this week, but I'm optimistic. What's at the top of your list for the week?***Please note, comments take a few moments to appear. Refresh the page to see new comments.