I used to hate fall. I lived on Hebgen Lake and right after Labor Day Weekend the campground cleared out and suddenly everyone was gone. I remember hearing the geese honking as they flew past. It seemed such a sad sound. Summer was over. I wouldn't see a lot of the summer people until the next year.
I must be getting old, but I love fall now. I always liked going back to school, buying supplies, getting my books. It felt like an adventure. Who knew what would happen that school year. But now it is a time to shift gears.
I've spent the last week canning: peach jam, hot spicy carrots, pickles, pepper jelly, spiced peaches. We've put up bags of green beans and corn. There are still dozens of tomatoes turning ripe on the vine and cantaloupe the size of softballs getting sweet under the corn stalks. We'll have red potatoes, hard as stones, late into fall and turban winter squash until Christmas.
Yesterday I cleaned my kitchen, even washed the walls. Then I started washing all the bedding and hanging it on our clothesline, the kind with the large metal T's at each end. My husband wanted to take them out when we bought our old stone house. No way. I love the smell of my sheets and towels after drying on the clothesline. Yesterday I listened to the snap of the sheets in the wind. What a wonderful sound.
I'm like the squirrels stocking up and getting ready for the coming winter. It feels like a new beginning. The air is filled with expectation.
And of course I have lots of plans for fall. The local quilting group just sent me the calendar through December. We have a shop-hop coming up. My first. Apparently we are going to drive an hour away, catch a bus and then hit three quilt shops in eastern Montana and North Dakota. There are lots of projects planned this year and some fun classes coming up. I have a new sewing machine and am excited to get cracking.
Between that and writing (I'm working on Whitehorse: The Winchesters, coming out beginning next spring), it will be a full, fun fall. My husband and I will play tennis until the snow falls and we will have a lot of company that will warm our big old house. I think I'm starting to love fall more and more.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
It is time to unplug and reconnect
I hate cell phones. We have two. We use them when we leave home. The rest of the time we have trouble finding them.
The reason I hate them is that they seem to be a sign of our inability to be alone with ourselves for even a few minutes.
But the other day, my husband ran into the post office while I waited in the truck and I saw his cell phone sitting there and I picked it up and wondered who I could call.
I instantly put it down and realized, I had become one of THEM. Those people who couldn't spend a few minutes in silence, doing absolutely nothing.
It was very scary because I also realized I'd become really bad about having my laptop on my lap while I watched TV. The moment I sat down in the evening, I grabbed the laptop and surfed the web or played word games.
I was one of those people who could no longer just sit quietly without something to entertain me.
For a writer, I think that is very bad. We're daydreamers. It is hard to daydream when you're reading your emails or talking on your cell or surfing the Web.
I think as a nation we are too connected to each other. When was it that we needed to always be in touch? Do we really have to carry a phone all the time? Or be connected to the Internet 24/7?
I remember when we didn't even have a phone at our house on the lake. If someone wanted us, they drove out. Even when we had a phone at our home outside of Bozeman, we hardly ever used it. My mother didn't have it stuck to her ear.
It scares me that we are losing our abilities to just sit down quietly and visit without constantly checking our cell phones or taking calls. Have you noticed that people in a restaurant will often all be on their phones instead of visiting with the people they are having a meal with.
Even joggers and bikers are seen with a phone stuck to their ears. I have friends who confess to being "totally lost" without their cell phones and there is nothing more annoying than lunching with someone who has to constantly check their cell phone.
I don't think it's healthy that we should be "on call" all the time. Nor do I see us being a national that communicates better because of the technology. As if being on call all the time isn't bad enough, now we have texting which removes the human connection even further.
We are like sheep. Sit in an airport terminal for twenty minutes and listen to the phone calls and you'll realize that these people aren't passing important information. I remember when people used to visit with the person sitting next to them instead of calling their BFF and giving a blow by blow of what it is like to be waiting for a plane.
It shocked me the other day that I couldn't just sit there for a few minutes without thinking about picking up the phone and calling someone. I thought of friends who call when they're driving. Because they suddenly had an urge to talk to me? Or because they are bored? Or just feeling too alone? Remember when people used to just drive and that was enough?
The other day was a wake-up call. I realized it is time to turn off the TV, put away the computer and take a walk all by myself. Or just sit and stare out the window as the last days of summer pass. Or actually sit with my husband and talk without a computer on my lap.
It's not too late to get in touch with my surroundings and the people in it. I would hate to forget how to daydream or be alone with my thoughts.
And if all else fails, I could just curl up on the porch with a good book. One made out of paper that I can turn down the corners just for nostalgia's sake.
The reason I hate them is that they seem to be a sign of our inability to be alone with ourselves for even a few minutes.
But the other day, my husband ran into the post office while I waited in the truck and I saw his cell phone sitting there and I picked it up and wondered who I could call.
I instantly put it down and realized, I had become one of THEM. Those people who couldn't spend a few minutes in silence, doing absolutely nothing.
It was very scary because I also realized I'd become really bad about having my laptop on my lap while I watched TV. The moment I sat down in the evening, I grabbed the laptop and surfed the web or played word games.
I was one of those people who could no longer just sit quietly without something to entertain me.
For a writer, I think that is very bad. We're daydreamers. It is hard to daydream when you're reading your emails or talking on your cell or surfing the Web.
I think as a nation we are too connected to each other. When was it that we needed to always be in touch? Do we really have to carry a phone all the time? Or be connected to the Internet 24/7?
I remember when we didn't even have a phone at our house on the lake. If someone wanted us, they drove out. Even when we had a phone at our home outside of Bozeman, we hardly ever used it. My mother didn't have it stuck to her ear.
It scares me that we are losing our abilities to just sit down quietly and visit without constantly checking our cell phones or taking calls. Have you noticed that people in a restaurant will often all be on their phones instead of visiting with the people they are having a meal with.
Even joggers and bikers are seen with a phone stuck to their ears. I have friends who confess to being "totally lost" without their cell phones and there is nothing more annoying than lunching with someone who has to constantly check their cell phone.
I don't think it's healthy that we should be "on call" all the time. Nor do I see us being a national that communicates better because of the technology. As if being on call all the time isn't bad enough, now we have texting which removes the human connection even further.
We are like sheep. Sit in an airport terminal for twenty minutes and listen to the phone calls and you'll realize that these people aren't passing important information. I remember when people used to visit with the person sitting next to them instead of calling their BFF and giving a blow by blow of what it is like to be waiting for a plane.
It shocked me the other day that I couldn't just sit there for a few minutes without thinking about picking up the phone and calling someone. I thought of friends who call when they're driving. Because they suddenly had an urge to talk to me? Or because they are bored? Or just feeling too alone? Remember when people used to just drive and that was enough?
The other day was a wake-up call. I realized it is time to turn off the TV, put away the computer and take a walk all by myself. Or just sit and stare out the window as the last days of summer pass. Or actually sit with my husband and talk without a computer on my lap.
It's not too late to get in touch with my surroundings and the people in it. I would hate to forget how to daydream or be alone with my thoughts.
And if all else fails, I could just curl up on the porch with a good book. One made out of paper that I can turn down the corners just for nostalgia's sake.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Titles and covers: Editor's choice
It was good to see my short story, "Remember Me," come out this week in the Aug. 24th issue of Woman's World. The editor even used my title, which is rare with my books.
I'm terrible at titles. Every once in a while my editor will like one I suggest.
Nor do I have any control over my book covers. I fill out a form suggesting what I'd like to see on the cover. Once in a while they take my suggestions. Apparently the covers with one large head of the hero sell the best. That explains why you see so many of those.
I don't really like them except for the hero on the cover of Crime Scene at Cardwell Ranch. There is something in his eyes... That was definitely a good one.
My favorite covers aren't the ones with the half-naked hero on the front either. I still like the ones with both hero and heroine. My first book, Odd Man Out, had my heroine and two possible heroes on the cover showing only their backs so you didn't know who was who. I've never seen another Intrigue cover like it. Readers apparently want to know who the hero is right away, I'm told.
My favorite covers are the ones that are different. I loved my Wanted Woman cover because it fit the feel of the stories, kinda creepy, kinda sexy. It is the only time I've had a naked heroine on the cover. I also loved the cover of Premeditated Marriage. It had that same kind of ominous feel.
I even like the covers with the head-less hero, like in Montana Royalty. In fact, I think I prefer those. As a reader, I like to picture the characters myself. Often I don't agree with what they look like on the cover.
For my September book, Smokin' Six-Shooter, I got a large-headed hero. He's handsome and tough looking so I don't mind that much. But I love my cover for my October book, One Hot Forty-Five. It's of the hero and heroine in a blizzard. I think of that book as my "Fargo" book since it takes place in the middle of the winter and I wrote it last winter, during one of our worst winters in this part of Montana. The only thing hot in the book is the heroine and hero. :)
I'm in a business where the only control I have is over what I write. And I think it is probably best that I don't have any control over the titles or the covers. I'm not good at those things and I know it. The editors and publishers know what sells best and this is a business.
I'm just glad that readers are smart enough to realize that the cover and the title and even the back cover copy aren't my doing -- and still want to the story inside no matter the cover or the title or what is written on the back. I thank you. :)
Friday, August 14, 2009
Funny how things don't always happen
I should have known the moment I mentioned my short story in Woman's World that it wouldn't come out when I thought it was supposed to.
It has been interesting, sending short stories to the magazine. I sent my first story to them right after the magazine began publication after reading that they were looking for short fiction. I had to send for a free issue since they didn't sell in the town where I lived. Now they sell everywhere.
Back then the guidelines called for stories no more than 6,000 words. As I submitted, the guidelines changed, dropping first to 4,500 then 3,500. I ended up selling 36 short stories to Woman's World, most of them in that range.
Now the guidelines call for 800 words. Or maybe not since I haven't checked the guidelines this week. They change quickly. But Woman's World is one of the few magazines around that still prints short stories and I'm glad of that. They published my first piece of fiction so I have a special place in my heart for the magazine.
But I have to tell you, I loved the stories when they were longer. It's hard to tell a story in 800 words. I used to love Tima Smith's stories. If you're out there, Tima, I'd love to hear from you. I used to write as Barbara Johnson Smith. Some people thought Tima was just another name I wrote under. I wish. Her stories were better than mine.
I get short story ideas occasionally and I feel the need to write them, though it is frustrating since I think I write much better now than when I used to sell to WW. It seems I might be wrong about that since my favorite short story I've written just came back rejected. An editor at WW(apparently there are a few) said it was too sad and suggested I read the magazine to get a feel for what they are publishing.
Yes, I bristled at that since I have been a loyal reader since their beginning. I know what kind of stories they're buying. I study the market, so to speak. The thing is, I didn't want to do a story about a 20-year-old falling in love. This was a story about a man who could have been anywhere from 25 to 70 who dares to take that first step after a loss. The idea was...
Wait. Better yet I'll attach the story here and you can see what you think.
But first let me say, I loved this story and because of that I committed a sin that every writer is guilty of some time in his or her career. I sent a publisher a story I thought they SHOULD be publishing -- not one like they WERE publishing. So I shouldn't have been surprised to get it back.
But since I still love this story... Here's: Just Like Riding a Bike
by yours truly.
“Are you listening to me?”
Tom smiled at his brother as they finished their lunch. “Yes, you said dating is just like riding a bike.” Except that he hadn’t done either in way too long.
“Amy’s been gone for four years,” Johnny said as if Tom didn’t know that. “She wouldn’t want you to be alone.”
Tom knew that was true, but he also knew there was no one like Amy and for so long she’d been all he could think about.
“I appreciate your concern,” Tom told his brother. “But trust me, I’ll know when it’s time.”
What he couldn’t tell his brother was that he was waiting for a sign from Amy. He knew it sounded crazy, but he believed she would tell him when to move on.
Later that evening, he was sitting on his front porch enjoying the cool breeze when he heard a familiar sound. Squeak, thunk. Squeak, thunk. Squeak thunk.
It surprised him because he realized he’d been hearing the annoying sound this time every evening for the past week but it hadn’t really registered.
Now he looked up to see a woman on a bike round the corner and start by his house. She had short curly reddish-blond hair and when she glanced in his direction there was a wariness in her gaze that he recognized.
“I can fix that,” he called to her surprising himself.
She slowed to a stop. “Sorry?”
“That noise your bike is making.” He motioned for her to wait a minute as he went into his garage and came out with a small oil can.
She stepped off the bike, holding it up as he put a little oil on each pedal.
“There that should do it,” he said. “Try that.”
She took a couple of quiet rotations on the pedals before braking to look back at him as if she was surprised.
“Thank you,” she said as she walked the bike back to where he stood. “I didn’t even realize it was making that noise until it stopped. I guess I’ve had too much on my mind.”
“I know that feeling,” he said smiling. She was about his age, slim and attractive, but it was her cautious smile that tugged at his heartstrings. Instinctively he knew this woman understood loss.
“I’ve been thinking about biking again,” he said into the silence that fell between them. “It’s been years though.”
“For me too. My sister kept telling me I needed to get out of the house. That it would do me good.” She looked away as if embarrassed by revealing so much and he noticed her left hand resting on the handlebars and the fading white line where her wedding band had been.
“Sounds like my brother who’s been encouraging me to…bike again.”
“You too?” She smiled then, her face lighting up at the knowledge she wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry, I’m Sarah. Sarah Branson. It was kind of you to fix my bike for me.”
“Tom Walker,” he said wiping his hand on his jeans before taking hers. Her hand was small and cool in his and jumpstarted something in him that had been lying dormant.
“I moved in a week ago.” She smiled looking a little embarrassed. “But then I guess you knew that since I’ve been biking by your house every evening. I found this old two-speed in the garage when I bought the house and thought…” She shook her head. “I guess I just finally felt the need to get moving.”
He nodded, feeling the same need stir in him.
“Well, thank you again,” she said and he stood back as she climbed on the bike and pedaled quietly down the street.
He watched her go for a few moments before heading back to his garage to put his oil can away.
As he was wondering if he’d have noticed her if her bike pedals hadn’t squeaked, he saw his old ten-speed in a dark corner of the garage.
It was as if Amy was there with him in the dim light of the garage, nudging him to get moving again and he realized he’d been ignoring her nudges for some time now.
He reached for the bike, telling himself that after all this time he’d make a fool of himself his first time out.
Even as he climbed on, he wasn’t sure he was ready for this. Down the street, he saw Sarah in the distance. He wobbled a little as he started pedaling, thinking she must have too.
But then he got his balance and began to pick up speed. Maybe he could still do this after all.
Tom pedaled faster, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. As he caught up with Sarah, he just hoped his brother was right, that dating was just like riding a bike.
It has been interesting, sending short stories to the magazine. I sent my first story to them right after the magazine began publication after reading that they were looking for short fiction. I had to send for a free issue since they didn't sell in the town where I lived. Now they sell everywhere.
Back then the guidelines called for stories no more than 6,000 words. As I submitted, the guidelines changed, dropping first to 4,500 then 3,500. I ended up selling 36 short stories to Woman's World, most of them in that range.
Now the guidelines call for 800 words. Or maybe not since I haven't checked the guidelines this week. They change quickly. But Woman's World is one of the few magazines around that still prints short stories and I'm glad of that. They published my first piece of fiction so I have a special place in my heart for the magazine.
But I have to tell you, I loved the stories when they were longer. It's hard to tell a story in 800 words. I used to love Tima Smith's stories. If you're out there, Tima, I'd love to hear from you. I used to write as Barbara Johnson Smith. Some people thought Tima was just another name I wrote under. I wish. Her stories were better than mine.
I get short story ideas occasionally and I feel the need to write them, though it is frustrating since I think I write much better now than when I used to sell to WW. It seems I might be wrong about that since my favorite short story I've written just came back rejected. An editor at WW(apparently there are a few) said it was too sad and suggested I read the magazine to get a feel for what they are publishing.
Yes, I bristled at that since I have been a loyal reader since their beginning. I know what kind of stories they're buying. I study the market, so to speak. The thing is, I didn't want to do a story about a 20-year-old falling in love. This was a story about a man who could have been anywhere from 25 to 70 who dares to take that first step after a loss. The idea was...
Wait. Better yet I'll attach the story here and you can see what you think.
But first let me say, I loved this story and because of that I committed a sin that every writer is guilty of some time in his or her career. I sent a publisher a story I thought they SHOULD be publishing -- not one like they WERE publishing. So I shouldn't have been surprised to get it back.
But since I still love this story... Here's: Just Like Riding a Bike
by yours truly.
“Are you listening to me?”
Tom smiled at his brother as they finished their lunch. “Yes, you said dating is just like riding a bike.” Except that he hadn’t done either in way too long.
“Amy’s been gone for four years,” Johnny said as if Tom didn’t know that. “She wouldn’t want you to be alone.”
Tom knew that was true, but he also knew there was no one like Amy and for so long she’d been all he could think about.
“I appreciate your concern,” Tom told his brother. “But trust me, I’ll know when it’s time.”
What he couldn’t tell his brother was that he was waiting for a sign from Amy. He knew it sounded crazy, but he believed she would tell him when to move on.
Later that evening, he was sitting on his front porch enjoying the cool breeze when he heard a familiar sound. Squeak, thunk. Squeak, thunk. Squeak thunk.
It surprised him because he realized he’d been hearing the annoying sound this time every evening for the past week but it hadn’t really registered.
Now he looked up to see a woman on a bike round the corner and start by his house. She had short curly reddish-blond hair and when she glanced in his direction there was a wariness in her gaze that he recognized.
“I can fix that,” he called to her surprising himself.
She slowed to a stop. “Sorry?”
“That noise your bike is making.” He motioned for her to wait a minute as he went into his garage and came out with a small oil can.
She stepped off the bike, holding it up as he put a little oil on each pedal.
“There that should do it,” he said. “Try that.”
She took a couple of quiet rotations on the pedals before braking to look back at him as if she was surprised.
“Thank you,” she said as she walked the bike back to where he stood. “I didn’t even realize it was making that noise until it stopped. I guess I’ve had too much on my mind.”
“I know that feeling,” he said smiling. She was about his age, slim and attractive, but it was her cautious smile that tugged at his heartstrings. Instinctively he knew this woman understood loss.
“I’ve been thinking about biking again,” he said into the silence that fell between them. “It’s been years though.”
“For me too. My sister kept telling me I needed to get out of the house. That it would do me good.” She looked away as if embarrassed by revealing so much and he noticed her left hand resting on the handlebars and the fading white line where her wedding band had been.
“Sounds like my brother who’s been encouraging me to…bike again.”
“You too?” She smiled then, her face lighting up at the knowledge she wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry, I’m Sarah. Sarah Branson. It was kind of you to fix my bike for me.”
“Tom Walker,” he said wiping his hand on his jeans before taking hers. Her hand was small and cool in his and jumpstarted something in him that had been lying dormant.
“I moved in a week ago.” She smiled looking a little embarrassed. “But then I guess you knew that since I’ve been biking by your house every evening. I found this old two-speed in the garage when I bought the house and thought…” She shook her head. “I guess I just finally felt the need to get moving.”
He nodded, feeling the same need stir in him.
“Well, thank you again,” she said and he stood back as she climbed on the bike and pedaled quietly down the street.
He watched her go for a few moments before heading back to his garage to put his oil can away.
As he was wondering if he’d have noticed her if her bike pedals hadn’t squeaked, he saw his old ten-speed in a dark corner of the garage.
It was as if Amy was there with him in the dim light of the garage, nudging him to get moving again and he realized he’d been ignoring her nudges for some time now.
He reached for the bike, telling himself that after all this time he’d make a fool of himself his first time out.
Even as he climbed on, he wasn’t sure he was ready for this. Down the street, he saw Sarah in the distance. He wobbled a little as he started pedaling, thinking she must have too.
But then he got his balance and began to pick up speed. Maybe he could still do this after all.
Tom pedaled faster, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. As he caught up with Sarah, he just hoped his brother was right, that dating was just like riding a bike.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Word games
My daughter and I have always played word games.
On her recent visit with her husband we played a lot of Quiddler. It's a great card word game and brings out our competitive natures.
The object is simple: You start with 3 cards. You draw and discard trying to make a word. Each card has a different numerical value from 2 pts for As and Es to 15 pts for a QU or 14 for a J or X.
The next hand you get 4 cards, the next 5 up to the last hand when you receive 10 cards. While you can make as many words as you want, we try to get the longest word and out-do each other.
We used to play a lot of Boggle, immediately changing the rules where the shortest word you could do was 4 letters. I have a friend who plays it where the shortest word is 5 letters. Even harder.
Part of the reason I think my daughter and I love word games is that we both love to read. She didn't like reading when she was younger. Since I have always loved reading, I did everything I could encourage her to read including taking her to a bookstore and letting her pick any book she thought she'd like to read.
Those books when she was young were stories about witches in high school. Some of my friends worried that those types of books might not be good for her. But they got her reading.
From there she went to Dean R. Kountz, then Stephen King. Those days are long gone. Now she prefers reading over television. She reads everything but prefers "literary" novels and nonfiction. Even in college with a job and classes, she would read at least one book a week that had nothing to do with her "education."
After college, she got a list from the library of 200 books that every college student should have read and has worked her way through most of those. She reads books that would put me to sleep, books we used to call "deep." I remember one book she was reading that required her to keep a dictionary close at hand. Slow, dry reading.
She told me on this trip that when she starts a book, no matter how difficult or slow it is to read, she has to finish it to see how it ends. She wouldn't dream of skipping to the end.
I had to laugh. Beside my bed were a half dozen books that I had deemed "unfinishable." I had asked myself: Do I care what happens to these characters? The answer was: No. So the books had to go. I don't want to give the time to a book I don't enjoy when there are so many books out there to read.
I realized while we both love words and reading, I demand a lot from a book and don't have the patience to finish one deemed by me to be paced too slow, needs to have started 50 to 100 pages into the story or screams out for something to actually "happen" during the story.
But I am thankful that my daughter loves to read and still reads all of my books and stories as well as books that challenge her.
I still believe that the best thing we can give our kids is a love of reading -- even if she does win most of the word games we play together. :)
On her recent visit with her husband we played a lot of Quiddler. It's a great card word game and brings out our competitive natures.
The object is simple: You start with 3 cards. You draw and discard trying to make a word. Each card has a different numerical value from 2 pts for As and Es to 15 pts for a QU or 14 for a J or X.
The next hand you get 4 cards, the next 5 up to the last hand when you receive 10 cards. While you can make as many words as you want, we try to get the longest word and out-do each other.
We used to play a lot of Boggle, immediately changing the rules where the shortest word you could do was 4 letters. I have a friend who plays it where the shortest word is 5 letters. Even harder.
Part of the reason I think my daughter and I love word games is that we both love to read. She didn't like reading when she was younger. Since I have always loved reading, I did everything I could encourage her to read including taking her to a bookstore and letting her pick any book she thought she'd like to read.
Those books when she was young were stories about witches in high school. Some of my friends worried that those types of books might not be good for her. But they got her reading.
From there she went to Dean R. Kountz, then Stephen King. Those days are long gone. Now she prefers reading over television. She reads everything but prefers "literary" novels and nonfiction. Even in college with a job and classes, she would read at least one book a week that had nothing to do with her "education."
After college, she got a list from the library of 200 books that every college student should have read and has worked her way through most of those. She reads books that would put me to sleep, books we used to call "deep." I remember one book she was reading that required her to keep a dictionary close at hand. Slow, dry reading.
She told me on this trip that when she starts a book, no matter how difficult or slow it is to read, she has to finish it to see how it ends. She wouldn't dream of skipping to the end.
I had to laugh. Beside my bed were a half dozen books that I had deemed "unfinishable." I had asked myself: Do I care what happens to these characters? The answer was: No. So the books had to go. I don't want to give the time to a book I don't enjoy when there are so many books out there to read.
I realized while we both love words and reading, I demand a lot from a book and don't have the patience to finish one deemed by me to be paced too slow, needs to have started 50 to 100 pages into the story or screams out for something to actually "happen" during the story.
But I am thankful that my daughter loves to read and still reads all of my books and stories as well as books that challenge her.
I still believe that the best thing we can give our kids is a love of reading -- even if she does win most of the word games we play together. :)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
If I'm not writing, then just shoot me
I've been in a funk. Even my husband commented on it.
The problem?
I wasn't writing. I wanted to write ever since I'd gotten back from Nationals. I just couldn't decide which book to do next in my six-book series Whitehorse: The Winchesters. I had this great weird family with lots of stories to tell. Book one was in the mail but I wasn't sure which story was book two.
I wanted to do something fun.
To me there are two kinds of heroes. The solid, down-to-earth guy with a good job who just hasn't found the right woman yet. Or a hero who is a sexy, charming con-man sort who has secrets, a dark past, could do anything at any moment and will.
While those solid, down-to-earth heroes are fine, I was in the mood for a bad boy.
And once I gave in to it, my funk went away like magic.
His name is Jack Winchester. We met the day he came down two-lane Highway 191 in an old yellow Cadillac convertible. He was driving through my isolated part of Montana headed for trouble wearing jeans, boots and a cowboy hat. Blue-eyed, blond and deadly handsome, I knew the moment I saw him that Jack was just what I needed.
I wasn't even surprised when he spotted my heroine standing beside the road with her thumb out. Josey Smith standing there in her blue jean jacket, crop top, jeans and red cowboy boots, her mane of burnished brunette curls floating in the breeze around her shoulders. A backpack resting on the ground next to her feet. A backpack she isn't about to let out of her sight.
Jack took one look at Josey and recognized himself in her. Why else would he have made her an offer she couldn't refuse?
And now I'm having the time of my life. I'm out of funkdom. I'm having FUN.
It's sad but I'm not happy when I'm not writing. I get antsy, I get irritable, I get in a funk.
But once I dive into a new book, I can't stay away from either my computer or my AlphaSmart. I keep hearing my characters and have to write down what they're saying. Scenes just keep popping into my head. I'm excited. I love life.
And I love the Winchesters and all their secrets and mysteries and skeletons in the closets. They are the ultimate in dysfunctional families. And I know dysfunctional family.
(I should mention that when I was stuck, trying to make up my mind where I was going next, I had to write so bad that I wrote some short stories and mailed them off to Woman's World. One of those short stories will be in the Aug. 10 issue, tentatively titled REMEMBER ME. )
Now it is great to be writing again on my Intrigue series and... Oh, gotta go, Jack's callin' and I just saw Josey sneaking into one of those off-limits rooms at Winchester Ranch. Oh, this is so fun.
The problem?
I wasn't writing. I wanted to write ever since I'd gotten back from Nationals. I just couldn't decide which book to do next in my six-book series Whitehorse: The Winchesters. I had this great weird family with lots of stories to tell. Book one was in the mail but I wasn't sure which story was book two.
I wanted to do something fun.
To me there are two kinds of heroes. The solid, down-to-earth guy with a good job who just hasn't found the right woman yet. Or a hero who is a sexy, charming con-man sort who has secrets, a dark past, could do anything at any moment and will.
While those solid, down-to-earth heroes are fine, I was in the mood for a bad boy.
And once I gave in to it, my funk went away like magic.
His name is Jack Winchester. We met the day he came down two-lane Highway 191 in an old yellow Cadillac convertible. He was driving through my isolated part of Montana headed for trouble wearing jeans, boots and a cowboy hat. Blue-eyed, blond and deadly handsome, I knew the moment I saw him that Jack was just what I needed.
I wasn't even surprised when he spotted my heroine standing beside the road with her thumb out. Josey Smith standing there in her blue jean jacket, crop top, jeans and red cowboy boots, her mane of burnished brunette curls floating in the breeze around her shoulders. A backpack resting on the ground next to her feet. A backpack she isn't about to let out of her sight.
Jack took one look at Josey and recognized himself in her. Why else would he have made her an offer she couldn't refuse?
And now I'm having the time of my life. I'm out of funkdom. I'm having FUN.
It's sad but I'm not happy when I'm not writing. I get antsy, I get irritable, I get in a funk.
But once I dive into a new book, I can't stay away from either my computer or my AlphaSmart. I keep hearing my characters and have to write down what they're saying. Scenes just keep popping into my head. I'm excited. I love life.
And I love the Winchesters and all their secrets and mysteries and skeletons in the closets. They are the ultimate in dysfunctional families. And I know dysfunctional family.
(I should mention that when I was stuck, trying to make up my mind where I was going next, I had to write so bad that I wrote some short stories and mailed them off to Woman's World. One of those short stories will be in the Aug. 10 issue, tentatively titled REMEMBER ME. )
Now it is great to be writing again on my Intrigue series and... Oh, gotta go, Jack's callin' and I just saw Josey sneaking into one of those off-limits rooms at Winchester Ranch. Oh, this is so fun.
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