Guest Blog Goodness–Belle Maurice
Good Thursday morning! It’s my pleasure to welcome Belle Maurice to the blog!! With no further ado…
What advice would you give a new author?
It’s harder than it looks and it will take longer than you think it will. Writing a book, even a short one, is hard. Writing a good book is exponentially harder. You can do all the research and chatting with other writers you can stand, but in the end, it’s you and a blinking cursor in a fight to the death.
Who or what inspired you to write?
In fifth grade, I transferred from the public school to a private Catholic school. My teacher was a nun, Sister Donna. I called her the Michelin Man because she was sort of round and squat like the Michelin tire mascot. She took us to the library every week and we were allowed to check out one book. One week I found 2 books I wanted to check out, The Hobbit and something else so I summoned the courage to ask if I could take out an unprecedented two books that week. I read The Hobbit three times that year and began reading everything I could lay my hands on. My father, a member of the local Rotary Club, noticed my newfound passion for reading and convinced the Rotary to raise money to get a branch of the county library into my little town. I loved reading so much that I started making up my own stories and sharing them with kids at school. They liked what I wrote and I liked the attention that I got. Still do.
Most writers I’ve known say that writing is invigorating, while some say that it’s their therapy. How does your writing serve you? Do you express your life through the story or does the theme come from your vision?
Writing is my happy place. I enjoy exploring other lives, other places, other situations that I wouldn’t be able to do in the one lifetime I’m allotted.
What are your five “desert island” books?
I lived in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi for four years. Al Ain is an oasis so I was kinda on an island in the desert and I had my iPad on which I have an app that connects to my local library system. That’s all I needed, my iPad and a WiFi signal.
What is the best way a reader can express their gratitude for the experience they had reading your work?
Tell friends. I write because it makes me happy and I want other people to be happy. If my books made you happy, spread it around.
Blurb
Sonny Black was the star quarterback in high school who couldn’t possibly be in love with the geekiest girl in school, Mandy Daws. He’d been seeing her under the guise of chemistry tutoring, but when his buddies found out there was a little more going on, he lied and said she was a slut, wrecking her life and earning her enduring hatred. Eleven years later, Sonny is the star quarterback headed for the Super Bowl despite amazing bad luck that has earned him the nickname Sonny Black Cloud. When someone mentions that the bad luck must stem from someone he failed in the past, the first name that comes to mind is Mandy’s. He tracks her down at the small university where she teaches chemistry and tries to seduce, beg, or win her forgiveness, and he needs it before the Super Bowl.
Buy at Liquid Silver Books, Amazon or Barnes and Noble
Sacked by the Quarterback
Excerpt:
Mandy dragged herself to the door. She’d come home, taken a hot bath with wine and Casablanca, and slipped into her favorite leopard print nightgown. Only rayon, but it was comfortable. Now, wrapped in her black velveteen bathrobe, she was waiting for pizza and the bell had tolled. Hmm, For Whom the Bell Tolls wouldn’t be a bad follow- up movie. She was looking over her shoulder at her DVD collection when she opened the door.
“Hi Mandy.”
She shrieked and leaped backward, clutching the neck of her robe closed. “What are you doing here?” Suddenly she wasn’t wearing enough clothes. A HAZMAT suit with a broken zipper wouldn’t be enough clothes.
“Trying to talk to you.”
“How did you find out where I live?” She backed up another step, which he naturally took as an invitation to come inside. “Get out!”
He paused in the act of closing the door behind him. “Why?”
“I don’t want you here. If this is still about me forgiving you then fine, I’ll forgive you if you’ll go away.”
“I don’t want to go away.” He closed the door.
“But you got what you wanted.” The maelstrom of emotion she thought she’d left behind in high school pelted her like sleet. “Please, just go.”
“Mandy, I love you.”
“You keep saying that like it should mean something to me.”
“It did once. You did love me.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll go if you really want me to.”
“I really want you to.” She took another step back and bumped into the arm of the chair.
He turned toward the door.
Without Sonny, she’d be left alone with her cold misery. Forever. “Wait.”
Sonny turned back again, but he looked angry. “Make up your mind. I just spent all afternoon playing nice with your school’s football team to get this address and I’m not interested in wasting any more time.”
“I said I forgive you.”
“And if you meant it, pigs fly.” Mandy walked across the room, loosening the neck of her robe. The whole house was warmer with him here. “You spent all afternoon playing with our football team?”
“Yes. I really just wanted to hit the weight room, but I figured that if you saw I wasn’t the creep I was then you’d give me another chance. If you’re not going to do that, then I’m going to cut my losses.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Son of a bitch.” Sonny threw open the door. “What?”
The skinny kid on the step just stared up at him. “Pizza.”
“Pizza?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“I can pay for that myself,” Mandy said. She had the money in her robe pocket already.
“I’ve got it.” Sonny handed the kid a couple of bills and took the pizza.
“Wow, thanks!” Great, now he was overtipping the pizza kid in addition to playing with the school’s team for kicks.
“Pizza,” Sonny said. Kicking off his shoes at the door, he carried the box through the living room to the kitchen as if he’d been here a hundred times and could find his way around in the dark.
“And wine. I like pizza.”
“I remember. Next you’ll be sitting down to watch an old movie. Casablanca first or will you save that for later?”
“How do you remember that?” Mandy stood next to the table watching him go through her cupboards. She’d planned to eat off the lid of the box at the coffee table, but he must be in a civilized mood.
“Your favorite color is chartreuse because you like the way the word sounds, but you actually hate the color itself. You watch Casablanca on repeat when you’re depressed. You love fuzzy things, but not furry things. You’re allergic to lilies.” He took two plates out of the cupboard and carried them to the table. “You like Thai food and hate Indian food, but given a choice you’ll eat a burger every day of the week. I remember everything, Mandy. I never forgot.”
“Then why did you tell everyone I was a slut?”
“I never said you were a slut. I said we’d had sex.”
“Then why did you tell everyone we had sex?”
“Because I was a stupid little boy who didn’t know what I had and thought those jerks we went to high school with were more important than you.” He pulled a piece of pizza free and put it on a plate. Then he thrust it at her. “I forgot to mention that you eat when you’re depressed too.”
