Ready to go off the grid? I’m not sure why I’ve been so fascinated with it, but after a fan asked for a sequel to Follow Me, I couldn’t resist roughing it once again.
At the moment, it also happens to be a hot topic. With schools, restaurants, and bars closing from the pandemic, we are being forced to live a simpler life — at least for a while. It makes us appreciate what we usually take for granted, and some of us may end up realizing the simpler life can be better.
While Follow Me hung out in the West Virginia mountains and rivers, Find Me’s setting is a Louisiana swamp. Hot, sticky, and oh so sexy… Sheltering-in can be a thrill instead of a prison sentence if you’re locked away with the hero of your dreams. Away from outside distractions and conveniences, you can immerse yourself completely in the other person’s body, heart, and soul.
Can a civil rights attorney and a southern rocker find love at a Confederate statue rally?
Weary of climbing the corporate ladder to care for her aging hippie parents, Dee Dobson marches in a rally. When violence erupts, Rodney Walker, lead singer of Breeze, comes to her rescue. Their dramatic picture hits the papers, but an interracial relationship is out of the question for both their careers.
Between a long-distance concert tour, her endless overtime, and his racist brother, Jack, they struggle to build a future from their powerful connection. When a senator pursues Dee and helps her run for political office, things get even more complicated.
But their biggest obstacle is Jack. As a southern gentleman, Rodney values family above all else. Due to a long-buried secret, he always gives his brother the benefit of the doubt, a decision that could cost him and Dee everything.
He grabbed an enormous green towel and washcloth from the metal rack and set them on the vanity. “Here you go. Soap and shampoo are inside the stall. Do you need anything else?”
Their gazes caught and held…too long.
When he grabbed the belt buckle of his jeans, her gaze dropped to his hand and didn’t let go.
“I need a shower, too,” he said hoarsely. “And, well, there’s no flag in here.”
“I expected you to have one as a shower curtain,” she joked.
But she caught his drift. Running water would mask any sounds they made in case the evil brother woke up. Without taking her eyes off Rodney’s waist, she stooped to remove her sneakers. She straightened and padded toward him in slow motion. The thick rug massaged her feet, which only fed the desire rising inside her like a high tide.
Her hands got a mind of their own as they fastened around the big, round buckle and tugged it open. He jerked his zipper down and pulled off his tank top. Her nipples tightened so hard they ached. Ever since he’d rescued her at the rally, she’d wanted him. No, before that. She’d wanted him the first time she’d heard him sing.
She ran her palms over the warm, solid planes of his chest, but he grabbed one of her hands and pulled it down. Lord, the man had a thick package. The bulge she’d always seen in his pants didn’t disappoint.
His eager erection was the best thing she’d ever felt, too. When she rubbed the length of him, a moan escaped him and he slumped against the vanity. Before she could do it a second time, he growled and peeled off her clothes.
“Don’t move,” he said as he reclined against the vanity, watching her.
His gaze felt as heavy as a caress. In response, goosebumps popped up all over her flesh. Without another word, he walked her toward the shower and turned on the water. In moments, the glass-doored stall filled with steam.
Hot water pulsed over their bodies. Rodney’s hair looked even sexier wet. Long sheets of it framed his muscled flesh, which turned rosy in the hot water. His jutting organ reddened, too.
He sat on one of the built-in seats and pulled her back-first onto his lap as he had in the boat. His cock, slick and hard, rubbed against her buttocks. When would she feel it inside her? To fill her aching need? If he decided to act like a southern gentleman now, she’d scream.
With his arms around her, he leaned toward the nearby soap dispenser, built into the shower wall, and squirted a dollop of pearly fluid into his palm. It reminded her of cum, which made her cleft burn even more. With exquisite gentleness, he rubbed it over her arms, releasing its herbal scent. Going back for more and more to cleanse her legs, back, and belly.
When he lavished extra care on the scar from her stab wound, it made her recall the rally. She’d been terrified of dying until he’d carried her to safety. I must be dreaming! Never let this shower end, even if my skin turns into a wrinkled prune.
When would he wash the parts she needed most? As if reading her mind, he palmed her breasts. Through the soapy bubbles, the warm friction of his hands against her swollen nipples sent her into the stratosphere.
Then he shut off the faucet, dropped to her feet, and nudged open her thighs.
Oh, no he isn’t…
Coming Soon
Look Into My Eyes – in case you missed the Crossroads boxed set
Good morning! I have a cup of coffee, and the morning’s quiet—so far. So, here I am talking to you! I had to check my calendar to know what day of the week it is! With everyone home, every day, it’s hard to keep track here in the loony bin!
While mom and dad are coping, the littlest kids are having an absolute blast! The temperature rose to the low 70’s a couple of days ago, and they secretly put their swimsuits on underneath their clothes, went outside, stripped, and turned on the hose to have a big water fight. We knew when we heard the screeching. Outside was warm, but the water coming out of the hose was not. They had a blast then came running inside, dripping everywhere, and said, “Guess what we did?!” (Like we didn’t know? 🙂 )
The older ones are going stir crazy and spending way too much time making TikTok videos and FaceTiming friends. The 15-year-old girl keeps singing, “It’s the end of the world as we know it…” Don’t remember that one? Play it while you play here!
The creatures I feel sorriest for inside this house are our five cats. They’re solitary creatures by nature, and now, they never get a break! The little ones want to play with them and carry them around. The little Jack Russells also run and hide when they’re outside because they’re always in a wagon being dragged around the yard. Ah well. LOL
Do you know who’s happiest though? Me. All this enforced isolation works for me with my writing, and I get to spend extra time with the fam. So, there are silver linings, folks. Look for them!
Enjoy the puzzle! Leave a comment below telling me about your “silver lining”, and you’ll be entered to win a $5 Amazon gift card!
You’d think, being a minister, I’d wake on Sunday morning wondering what miracle lay in store for me that day. Unfortunately, more often than not I’d have the Saturday night why-did-I say-I’d-preach-on-Sunday blues. My colleagues and I lead our parishioners in choruses like “Victory is Mine” or classic hymns like “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”, but many of us leave the ministry suffering from compassion fatigue or badly burned by well-intentioned dragons. I could have been one of those casualties but for a faith-reviving miracle.
From 2013-2015, I served as interim pastor to the United Presbyterian Church in Paterson, NJ, where I met an enthusiastic member named Diane Anderson. She wanted to hold an evangelistic service outdoors so members of the community could hear the message. For the benediction, we’d write prayers on index cards, tie them to helium balloons then release them. The Sunday of the service was warm and wonderful. We worshipped in the church parking lot and, at the end of the service, released our balloons as planned. They dotted a blue and cloudless sky.
The following Tuesday on our answering machine was a message from a woman who lived in Massachusetts just outside of Boston. She shared how one of our balloon blessings reached her backyard and was an answer to a prayer.
I called her back and had a wonderful conversation. It seems her father had recently died after a long bout with cancer. She’d gone that Sunday to his graveside and just talked to him, letting him know how much she missed him and didn’t know how she was going to go on without him. On Monday, as she was washing her dishes she glanced out her kitchen window and saw something stuck to a shed in her backyard. She went to retrieve it. It was a balloon with the following message attached: “Jesus, I am asking and believing in your name to continue to bless all those free of cancer and to those suffering that you will comfort them during this time.” She told me she wasn’t a religious person, but she felt sure our balloon was a sign from her dad that all was well with him and all would be well with her. Because our address was on the card she was able to track us down and thank us. She mailed the card back so I could share her thank you with the congregation the following Sunday.
I told Diane first. She had always wanted to do a service like this and thanked me for encouraging her to do it, despite the grumbling from the we’ve-never-done-it-that-way-before naysayers of the congregation. Diane now leads a ministry called Faithworks that feeds 500 people a month.
That balloon traveled 220 miles from our parking lot in Paterson to this woman’s Boston neighborhood. Ever since that call, I greet each morning with this prayer: “Thank you, God, for another day to be used by you for good.”
Coincidence or miracle? I believe the latter. What do you say?
One Breath Away
Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. She’s never been courted, cuddled or spooned, and now no man could want her, not when sexual satisfaction comes only with the thought of asphyxiation. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.
Wealthy, freeborn-Black, Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing the mysteriously exotic woman was foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex. Hope ignites along with lust until the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…
Excerpt from One Breath Away
She circled around him as if he were an open bear trap. “What if touching you in those ways doesn’t give me pleasure?”
Her words sliced across his throat. He pressed a fist against his heart then sucked air through his mouth to recapture his breath. “Then I’m wrong…but I honestly don’t believe I am.”
She frowned. “I told you I’ve no experience when it comes to relations between men and women.”
“You’re a fast learner, remember?”
She looked down. Interest burned in the gaze that traveled to his crotch. His cock twitched under her scrutiny. She returned her attention to his face, stared into his eyes, searched a minute.
Eban held his breath.
Come on stars. Be right.
She tilted her head. “You’ll show me what you want? Guide me? Instruct me?”
“If you’re willing.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Fine. Show me.”
He unbuttoned his fly, let his pants slip slowly down his legs, and blew out a breath as her gaze followed his movements. He discarded his underwear, swallowed hard as he exposed his member to her. Her eyes widened.
“Your first impression?”
Still clutching her shoe, she approached him, reached for his cock, let her hand hover indecisively.
“Touch it anyway you like.”
She knelt on the mattress, laid her shoe aside and took his genitalia in her hands. He closed his eyes, melted in the immediate warmth of her fingers cupping his balls. A drop of semen pearled from the head’s slit.
“What is this?”
He opened his eyes, observed then relaxed at the curiosity in her gaze.
“Sperm.”
She thumbed the substance onto her fingers, examined it, sniffed it.
“Planted in your womb it becomes a baby.”
She spread the precious seed along his cock slit. He stifled a moan as a delicious thrill tripped up his shaft. She stopped. He looked down into eyes filled with concern.
“Have I done something wrong?”
He shuddered, shook his head. “No. You’ve done something very right. Please, continue.”
Since I’m here on the first day of Spring, I thought I should write about it. But not your usual stuff. You know cute fuzzy bunnies named fluff butt. Or how many bags of jelly beans that are needed to make infused vodka. Or the recipe for whip cream vodka cupcakes.
I wanted something different…something romantic. After all, spring is the season of romance and this is a romance blog. So, I went to the internet (what did we do before the internet? My 8-year-old wants to know something the 1st thing he does is say – google it – sorry, I got distracted) and looked up “Spring” things. Most involved cute bunnies and how to dye eggs (kool-aide works the best!)….And if you do romantic spring things make sure small kids aren’t in the room with you. Those were all a bit more steamy than I wanted to discuss on a guest blog 😉
Then I stumbled on an article about the Roman’s celebration of the spring equinox. They used the day to celebrate Cybele (Great Mother) and mourn Attis (her lover). It has everything needed for a great romance. A kick-butt heroine – a goddess named Cybele. Now Cybele wasn’t your average run of the mill goddess, oh no, she was definitely a step above. Sure, she rode in a chariot but no horses for her, nope, she had three lions pulling it. Let’s be real for a minute, now while lions might not be able to pull you as fast, it’s definitely would be way cooler!
When she wasn’t being pulled around in her lion drawn chariot, she was hanging out with her lover Attis. Did you pick up on the fact the day was spent celebrating AND mourning?
What’s a romance story without a little anguish between the hero and heroine??? You know where the hero wonders if the heroine really loves him… or is she having sex with the God three stars over?
Well, it turns out that there was more than a little anguish between Cybele and Attis. It seems that Cybele provoked such an amount of jealously in Attis that he castrated himself – and died!
And that is the story of Cybele and Attis. Sorry, no happy ever after.
My latest release doesn’t have lions in it, nor does the hero die (or castrate himself). It doesn’t have fluffy bunnies or cupcakes. But it does have a kick-butt heroine (even though she isn’t pulled around by lions) and hero. And a happy ever after.
Taking a Risk
If Leigh Ronaldson is one thing, it’s predictable. What’s wrong with having a routine? Apparently, it makes her boring or so her ex-boyfriend claimed as he dumped her. And her best friend agrees.
She decides to prove them wrong and books an extreme adventure in Ecuador. The hiking, kayaking, and camping she signed up for. She didn’t plan on the hot guide who by just looking at her made her squirm with desire and definitely not the drug cartel who wants them dead.
Nick Greco golden rule is never to touch a client. NEVER. But rules can’t be broken.
Once the local drug cartel starts hunting them, he knows it will take all his skill to get out of the Amazon jungle alive. And if your life is hanging in the balance even golden rules can be broken…
Thanks for having me! And if you would like to come and hang out with me…we will talk doughnuts, vodka (I’ll share how many jelly beans it takes to infuse the vodka), and planners…
Last summer, the owner of the first publishing house I joined, Liquid Silver Publishing, died. I hated hearing the news because she was a wonderful person to work with. With Liquid Silver, I’d sold, gosh, maybe twelve books and several novellas/short stories in anthologies. It was a good company to work for because they were fair, honest, and they paid on time. With her death came the problem of what to do with the books they still had on the docket. I recently received rights back for all of them. I also received rights back for the one non-erotic book I’ve written, Burning Bridges, written as Anne Krist. What to do, what to do…
I’ve only recently explored the adventure of self-publishing. It’s exciting and scary all at once. Exciting, because I am more in control of my own fate—responsible for quality and timeliness and marketing. Scary, because I am more in control of my own fate—responsible for quality and timeliness and marketing. It seems everything is a double-edged sword. What if I take charge of my own destiny (fun) and screw everything up (scary)?
With Burning Bridges, the book of my heart, I was happy to take the risk because I love the book so much. Reading through to edit and make necessary changes was actually a pleasure. Hubby designed a new cover that I (surprisingly, because I loved the first cover) like better than the first. Uploading the book went off without a hitch. So far, so good.
But when it came to marketing, I was kind of stuck. Do I market the book as new or revised? Should I even mention that it was out before? Anyone looking at the website—or even Amazon, since they can’t/won’t tell their marketplace vendors to remove images and offerings of older versions—will recognize the difference in cover art. And the book already has reviews. Do I use the old reviews in marketing the updated book? None of these questions had I considered before jumping into republishing. (To answer, I decided to use the old reviews in marketing, I noted that the book is republished on the copyright page of the book but don’t make a big deal of it in ads, and I use only the new graphic in messages and marketing.)
Since Burning Bridges, I’ve republished two other books, both written as Dee, and both paranormal: PassionateDestiny and Your Desire. They also have new covers (I think hubby outdid himself!) and have been updated slightly with re-reading/editing. I have about seven or eight more to go if I am to match the books I had on Liquid Silver’s site. It’s a daunting task! As I am repubbing, I’m putting books on Kindle Unlimited. If you are member of KU, I hope you will check them out.
So, is republishing books a PITA or fun? It’s a mix. If I had gone to one of my other publishers—assuming one of them would have accepted the books—it would have been so much easier. They would have taken care of cover art and editing, and I would have had help in marketing. But so far, I kind of like the idea of taking the reins of control for my work. I have found formatting for paperback is a bit of a pain but nothing that can’t be dealt with. The fun comes from reading my own work again. I don’t usually read a book of mine once it’s published. After reading Burning Bridges, Passionate Destiny and Your Desire, I kinda sit and say, “Did I really write that? It’s pretty darn good.” That’s the most fun part! I hope folks will take notice of my marketing and agree!
Burning Bridges: mybook.to/BurningBridges
Letters delivered decades late send shock waves through Sara Richards’s world. Nothing is the same, especially her memories of Paul, a man to whom she’d given her heart years before. Now, sharing her secrets and mending her mistakes of the past means putting her life back together while crossing burning bridges. It will be the hardest thing Sara’s ever done.
Passionate Destiny: https://tinyurl.com/sxy5sfh
When Margaret Amis-Hollings inherits an old house in Virginia, she never suspects she’d be sharing it with a very loving ghost. Or that her interest would be divided between her spirit lover and the very live man who’s renovating the place. Suddenly her life is intertwined with a soldier from a previous century and with his descendant, Aaron, who has a secret concerning her home. Is it coincidence or the power of a past love that makes Aaron want to share her life, as well as her destiny?
Your Desire: https://tinyurl.com/whkqtjf
Your Desire. A mysterious shop appears in town for one reason: to bring the spice of passion and the thrill of love to one special person. Magic is in more than the item purchased—it’s in the heart of the buyer, often hidden, usually surprising. And after enchantment takes hold? The store fades from sight and memory, only to reappear somewhere else. Maybe in your town….
About Dee S. Knight
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! Once a month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity.
Ack! I almost forgot to post! Who knew that having everyone stay at home would make life fast-forward? Okay, so maybe I should have known. However, let me describe my day so far…
Instead of getting up to see kids off to the bus and then enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee before I headed to my computer, I organized kids to take care of animals—scooping poop from litter boxes, feeding and walking dogs, feeding horses.
Just as I was settling at my desk, a kid came rushing down the stairs. “Hey, Nina? Whatcha making for breakfast?” Yes, I am now in charge of all breakfasts, because now that they are home, cereal isn’t good enough. So, yes, I caved and made breakfast. An hour later, it was, “Hey, mom,” from my dd. “Can you help the 16-year-old with her homework? She has an essay to write, and you’re the writer…” Then I had to organize the next round of taking care of animals, putting on a load of washing, etc.
An hour later, I sat at my desk but the morning was gone. I worked on editing someone else’s pages then turned to edit my own. Just as I was getting ready to start on new words, my dd said, “Hey, Amazon isn’t shipping for third parties any more,” and of course, I had to read up on the news, watch a conference Governor Cuomo conducted, because his information is so much better than what we’ve gotten out of our own state’s… And on, and on…
When I went outside to clear my head, I realized I’d forgotten something. A few somethings. Like blogging. Like changing my clothes. Like cleaning off my desk. Like making my bed. Like… There are not enough hours in the day. How long is this self-quarantine going to last, because I’m ready for a break!!!?
And I’m sure you’re feeling just about the same way, too, right? The thought that I might be doing this for longer than two weeks is enough to make me want to have a video-conference with some doctor to request sedatives.
But hey, I do have something to share. The opening pages of the next book I’m releasing, One Hot Night. I set the release on Amazon for April 14th, but I’m doing my best to get it finished for release at the end of this month.
One Hot Night
While investigating seemingly unrelated attacks against visiting dignitaries, New Orleans detective, Remy Cyr, spots a certain reporter trying to use a fake invitation to enter an exclusive nighttime event. Seeing a chance to give the persistent reporter a hard time, he pulls her aside to confront her. He’s distracted and amused by her excuses long enough that, once he heads back to the ballroom, he realizes it has been taken over by a group of armed men and that he and the reporter are the only ones who know…
Excerpt from One Hot Night
Detective Remy Cyr followed the slender woman with his gaze as she made her way around the convention ballroom. That she didn’t belong was obvious. That she was likely a reporter was also, although only to someone trained to observe.
Sure, she was dressed for the occasion in a knee-length, emerald green dress. She should have blended in well with the other well-dressed women. Her four-inch suede heels teased a man’s gaze to travel upward over lightly muscled, sleek calves. The jewels she wore weren’t fake. They were nice enough they might fool some of the men attending the event into believing she did, in fact, belong among the glittering NOLA socialites. But her earrings and bracelet were a classic design, likely passed down, not something purchased on a reporter’s salary. Likewise, the clutch she carried was a classic black quilted piece, probably Chanel.
Remy’s ex-girlfriend had been a social-climbing vlogger, who’d told other women how to dress to get the guy they wanted and would have traded all her followers for that clutch. He should have known when Isabelle had worn sweats and frayed jeans around him that she didn’t consider him “end game material” as she’d called the hapless guys she’d urged her devoted audience to stalk.
At first glance, Remy had thought this woman was cut from the same cloth as Isabelle. A lovely blonde with smoky eyes and a red-rimmed, diamond-bright smile. However, she wasn’t smiling to entice a man into taking her to dinner or even up to his room. One by one, she tried to draw them into conversation only to have the mostly foreign dignitaries raise brows and deflect her with a tight smile and tactical turn. Even now, she was beginning to annoy the man she’d latched onto—the Mayor of New Orleans, Hugo Benoit.
Unfortunately for the woman, it looked like Hugo knew her well because he arched a thick, black eyebrow at the woman, and then raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
In seconds, his personal security team converged. Hugo, always one to turn a moment into a flashy laugh, lifted the woman’s hand and bent over it to give her a kiss. Then he straightened and flicked his fingers over his lapel like he was brushing away dirt.
The woman gave him a narrow-eyed glare as she smiled, waved at the bodyguards, and as she turned away, snatched a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray as she walked toward the exit.
One of the bodyguards spoke into a radio, likely ensuring an escort awaited the woman outside the door to remove her from the venue.
Remy grinned. He’d bet his last dollar the woman would be back inside within half an hour. That cheeky grin she’d given the mayor said she wasn’t a woman who conceded a battle—ever.
“Hey, bro,” his brother’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “We’re not bein’ paid to eye the arm candy.”
“Not arm candy, man,” he said softly as he glanced around the ballroom for any hint of further trouble.
“A reporter?”
“Yeah. This rich a target? They’re not just standin’ behind the velvet ropes along the red carpet. They’re hittin’ up the wait staff, hidin’ in bathrooms…”
“Wearin’ pretty green dresses and high heels…”
Remy’s lips twitched. “She’s made now. I’m wonderin’ what she’ll try next.”
“Think she will?”
“I’d bet money.”
“I won’t take that bet. I’m here to make extra cash, not lose it.”
“Better earn it then, Thibaut, instead of ridin’ my ass.”
“You call that ridin’? I’m just seein’ how much you like the girl. My question is answered,” his brother said, amusement in his voice.
“Don’t even know her name, so don’t go reservin’ the chapel. Just ’cause you and Amelie are tyin’ the knot doesn’t mean the rest of us are ready to tie a noose around our necks.”
“It’s a sweet noose. But damn, weddings are expensive.”
Remy chuckled. “What happened to ‘simple and just family’?”
“Have you seen the size of our family?”
“If you weren’t also countin’ SEALs and cops…”
“They’re family.”
“Well, there you have it. This gig is a sweet deal. Ballard likes you. He’ll give you as many engagements as you want.”
Thibaut sighed. “I barely see Amelie as it is—what with her shifts at the store and all this wedding shit. Do you know she wanted to hire someone to figure out all this stuff?”
“It’s a lot,” Remy murmured. As Thibaut’s best man, he had a front-row seat to the chaos surrounding his brother’s wedding plans.
“Thank God for Laure. She really stepped up after Amelie asked her to be her Maid of Honor.”
“Glad those two put their shit behind them.”
“Amelie had this crazy idea Laure was sweet on me. Said she was jealous.”
“Maybe when you two were kids…”
“Said it was why Laure was always a bitch around her.”
“Doesn’t she know Laure’s that way with everyone?”
They both chuckled. They loved Laure, but the girl had always been a handful. Remy felt sorry for any man who got tangled up with her.
“I feel sorry for any man who thinks he’s gonna put a ring on her finger.”
Remy’s grin stretched across his face when Thibaut echoed his own thought. “Yeah, he’ll have to be tough, or she’ll walk all over him.”
“Maybe I should introduce her to some of my SEAL buddies when they come to the wedding.”
“Thought you liked your teammates.”
They laughed softly.
Remy caught sight of Thibaut across the ballroom floor and gave him a two-fingered salute.
“Man, I’m glad I’m here,” Thibaut said, smiling.
“Me, too. I’m happy for you.” Thibaut’s road to his engagement hadn’t been an easy one. He’d left the SEALs, attended the police academy, and now was a rookie NOLA cop. “Do you miss it?”
“The Navy?” Thibaut drew a deep breath. “Yes and no. I hated losing folks around me, but there’s something about walking into a firefight with your closest buddies. You feel… Man, I don’t know…like you’re part of something big. Like you’re one…organism. If that makes sense. We can function without commands; know each other’s next moves.”
“If you make SWAT, you’ll feel pretty darn close to that. They work hard. Play hard.”
“Did you hate giving it up when you made detective?”
“I’m not lyin’; I did. But what I’m doing now… I like puzzles. Like figuring out who done it.”
“Don’t think I’ll be goin’ after your job, man. Interrogation was never my strong suit.”
“Breakin’ heads more like it?”
Thibaut grunted in his ear. Then he drew an audible breath. “Glad I didn’t take that bet. Check out the waitress. Your four o’clock.”
Remy glanced out of the corner of his eye and found her. The blonde. Only now, she was a brunette. The wig was chin-length. She’d wiped off the bright red lipstick and smoky eyeshadow. Gone were the heels and in their place were functional black loafers.
Remy smiled and began to make his way toward the table where she was removing some kind of shrimp finger food tray and replacing it with fresh entrees.
While he watched, she glanced around then slipped one of the shrimps into her mouth and closed her eyes. Must have been good. Now, he was hungry, too.
Remy had no doubts that what could have been a really boring night was about to get interesting…
A question I’m frequently asked is how do I keep my characters, storylines, etc. organized? The first answer that always lingers on the tip of my tongue is that I don’t. However, that isn’t true. It merely seems that way at the time. Let me explain.
First, according to results on the Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator (MBTI), I’m what is known as an ENTP. For those unfamiliar with the MBTI, it is a self-report personality questionnaire developed by Isabel Myer and Katherine Briggs that identifies a person’s personality attributes and preferences based on theories of personality archetypes formulated by the Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung. Now, I’m not going to diving into Jung’s theory. (Been there; done that in grad school. His writings aren’t exactly light reading.) Fortunately, one doesn’t have to be familiar with Jung’s work to understand the MBTI, as the creators already did the work.
The MBTI divides personality archetypes into four categories.
1. Extroversion – Introversion
2. Intuition – Sensing
3. Thinking – Feeling
4. Judging – Perceiving.
These four categories in combination form sixteen personality types. I won’t be discussing the ins and outs of the MBTI. Readers interested in learning more or taking the MBTI for themselves are encouraged to visit the Myers & Briggs Foundation website.
As previously mentioned, my personality type is ENTP (Extroverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Perceiving). The N is what denotes my creativity; however, it is the P that causes me issues in organization. I generally like to substitute the P to mean procrastination instead of perceiving. Oof! However, I have an organized type of procrastination going on. For other Ps that probably made a lot of sense while all the Js are likely scratching their heads. See, I’m aware of deadlines and schedules and am mindful of how long it will take me to perform tasks. From the moment I’m first aware of a task, I begin mentally preparing a plan. Granted, this may not be a good or solid plan, but it’s a start. Don’t come for me. It is the P in me that has me, um…should we say lacking in organization? Which brings me to my second point.
I’m a panster. Yep, card-carrying. I know most of my fellow writers who are plotters have just come unwound. It’s okay. We’re all different. Look, I tried doing the outline and was about to cast myself into the Pontchartrain, but these waters have gators. When I write, I don’t need a bunch of Post-Its telling me what comes next. I write the scene as I’m feeling it. If it doesn’t belong in the final draft, I cut it.
I’ve heard the argument that creating an outline prevents plot holes and allows one to write faster. Uh huh. It does only if your mind is designed that way. Outlining slows me. I get caught and hung up in details and forget what I want to say. My work comes across as being contrived and forced. This isn’t a criticism of being a plotter. It’s just not a process that has worked for me.
According to the MBTI, women are more likely to be Fs than Ts. My T score is much lower than all my other scores. In fact, my scores on all the other scales are towards the falling off extreme end, while my T score is in the single digits. Instead of going on emotions, I really analyze matters. If one asks my friends, I analyze too much. This over-analyzation is the N in me trying to find a deeper meaning. Typical Ts make judgments that are based on logic. I must see and identify the problem before I am able to formulate solutions. If I tried to outline that, I’d extinguish an entire ecosystem with the number of index cards. As they say here, “Naw, sis, that ain’t happening.”
But make no mistake, there is organization. I do jot down ideas. I have two notebooks that I use to track ideas as well as things that I’ve learned in the past. For example, when I receive constructive criticism, I make a note of it. These notebooks are also where I write all of my notes. Now, why don’t I write them electronically? Two reasons. First, I’ve had computers to crash and suffer premature death, losing all of my work. I do back up, but I’ve had flash drives to be corrupted and cyber storage (e.g., Cloud) to be wiped out and vanish. Now, if this isn’t this next example isn’t the dumbest thing to happen to me, I don’t know what is. I was using my laptop while in bed. I sat it on the mattress to go to another room. As I was leaving, I tripped over the cord, and the computer slid onto a bench at the foot of the bed. The flash drive splintered.
Second, it’s easy for me to have my notebook beside me as I write and easily flip through it instead of bumbling through multiple screens. It’s an easy reference for me, especially when I’m editing. A lot of what I write in the notebook, I don’t keep long term. For example, I often use editing checklists. As I edit, I scratch items off or make notes. Since I make multiple self-edits, use the list several times. Often, my checklists are specific to the story I’m writing.
There’s also a third reason that I didn’t want to mention but guess I should if I’m being completely transparent. I really just like pretty notebooks and doodling in the margins.
As far as keeping my storylines and characters organized, I don’t find that difficult since I give them each a distinctive personality and image. If I find myself unable to remember my characters, that’s a problem, and that character either needs a major overhaul or the guillotine. One thing about me is that I’m not afraid to slash into my story to bring readers the best story possible.
I think a huge element in my organization is that much of my story is written in my head prior to my sitting down at the computer. I know most of the key elements, and I need to get them on paper before they evaporate. Once I get the large chunks down, I can add the sprinkles. It’s the life of a panster. Don’t hate.
And that’s how I keep organized.
For more of how I write, my stories, and my shenanigans, giveaways, and more, check out my blog, Creole Bayou, www.genevivechambleeconnect.wordpress.com. New posts are made on Wednesdays, and everything is raw and unscathed. Climb on in a pirogue and join me on the bayou. If you have any questions or suggestions about this post or any others, feel free to comment below or tweet me at @dolynesaidso. You also can follow me on Instagram at genevivechambleeauthor or search me on Goodreads or Amazon Authors.
And also, don’t forget to check out my new steamy, sports romance, Ice Gladiators, guaranteed to melt the ice. It’s the third book in my Locker Room Love series.
Taz has problems: a stalled career, a coach threatening to destroy him, a meddling matchmaking roommate, and a thing for his other roommate’s boyfriend. The first three are manageable, but the last… well, that’s complicated. Because as much as Taz is attempting not to notice Liam, Liam is noticing him.
Missed the two books in my sports romance series? No frets. Out of the Penalty Box, where it’s one minute in the box or a lifetime, out is available at https://amzn.to/2Bhnngw. It also can be ordered on iTunes, Nook, or Kobo. Visit www.books2read.com/penalty. Defending the Net can be ordered at www.books2read.com/defending. Crossing the line could cost the game.
Burning Bridges: 
Passionate Destiny: 
Your Desire: 
