I have a confession to make. I originally wrote Drunk on Men before I wrote hot romances. Many things in the book got overhauled, including the sensuality level. How did I do this? I listed all the love scenes, analyzed the dynamics that should be there, including conflict and emotion, and expanded them. It was almost like writing them from scratch but harder because I had to fit them in with what was already there. It was also a lot more fun than I thought. The story really came alive in ways I’d never envisioned the first time around. Usually when writing a new book, the hot scenes are intermittent. But here, I spent a few days rewriting nothing but one hot scene after the next. At the end, I needed a cold shower!
Drunk on Men by Afton Locke
1920s interracial romance ~ monthly serial ~ get addicted!
Release Date – Volume One: 1 April 2017
series page: https://www.aftonlocke.com/DOM.html
You may think it’s sloe fizz gin But honey we’re sober, just drunk on men
When three African-American women meet at a resort on the Jersey Shore in the 1920s, they say goodbye to their old lives. Finding men as intoxicating as bootleg liquor, they pin their futures on happily ever after. But love can be worse than a hangover when the men’s flaws threaten to destroy them.
Hannah knows it’s time to replace her fiancé who died in the war, but the abrupt white man who rescues her from rough surf hardly fits the bill. Belle longs to ditch her latest meal ticket, but is the rich African-European owner of an upscale hotel out of her league? And while Edie struggles to face her upcoming arranged marriage, a rugged Hispanic-white fisherman decides to stake his own claim on her.
This 8-volume serial is a heady romance cocktail stirred with addiction, abuse, betrayal, and scandal. These women aren’t perfect and neither are their men. If you think you can handle it, read on and watch three steamy interracial relationships explode across the pages.
Playlist
Hannah:
Wait Till The Sun Shines on You – Gary Puckett & the Union Gap
He sighed and made a rude gesture with his hand and chin. “What did you think, Belle? The booze simply drops out of the sky into my bar? I am performing a necessary service for the town of Ocean Promenade.”
Excitement rippled down Belle’s arms and legs. Tonight’s joyride was the most thrilling thing she’d ever done.
“How much booze does this town drink, anyway? The Sands is the only place I see that’s even wet. I have a hard time believing you could buy a car like this on that speck of business.”
“I see you are shrewd businesswoman.” He leaned between the front seats and shot her an admiring glance. “I am much impressed. Since you ask, the product also gets shipped to Washington, Philadelphia, and New York City.”
“So, what happens next?” she asked. “Where’s the booze?”
He slid his jacket sleeve upward with two fingers and glanced at his watch. “It’s coming. Please join me in the front seat where I can see you.”
“Not with the gun lying there. A girl could get her cha chas blown off with a thing like that. Besides, how do I know you’re not planning to bump me off for knowing too much?”
“You are too beautiful to kill,” he crooned as he moved the monstrous weapon to rest against his door. “However, you have become heavily involved. I wanted to protect you from this.”
“It’s okay,” she said, shrugging as she scrambled to the front passenger seat. “I’m a big girl. I’ll survive.”
He reached over and grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him. Adrenaline flooded her body. Without thinking, she smacked him across the face.
He reared back in his seat. “What was that for?”
“Don’t manhandle me,” she said coldly. “I don’t care for it.”
She hadn’t pegged him as abusive, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. Especially in this abandoned place. She’d do a lot for money, but she refused to tolerate violence.
Please tell me you’re not one of them, Raoul. I don’t want to have to give you up.
“Bella, please. You shocked me, and I think you broke my jaw.” He stuck out his bottom lip like a little boy and dazzled her with another smile.
She couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you’re all wet. I did not.”
“I’m only trying to make you understand something.” He leaned closer but without touching her this time. “You will see things and people who don’t want to be recognized. If you do not keep your pretty kisser shut, you could endanger your life and mine.”
Belle took a shaky breath. “Understood.”
“And it means you are my lady. You cannot walk away from me. Not after tonight.”
As if she wanted to. They sat in silence for a moment. He caressed her hand and then the thigh it lay on through the thin hem of her dress, making her breath draw in with a hiss.
“I want to show you my hotel room soon,” he said, lazily stroking. “I have a circular tub with flowing water. It is like the ocean, yes?”
“Sounds divine,” she whispered.
“We don’t have much time, and I need you to show me your loyalty.”
Loyalty?
Belle watched, fascinated, as he reclined his seat until it lay almost horizontal.
His voice dropped very low. Very soft. “Come here, Bella.”
Coming Soon
Turning the Tide: A Siren’s Revenge – Wiccan Haus series – Decadent Publishing – paranormal
Kira Duval, US Army Special Forces, never expected to fall in love with any man while she worked with an A-team in Afghanistan. But she did. And she never let anyone, not even Weapons Sergeant, Garret Fleming, know what lay in her heart for him.
She didn’t know if it was reciprocal because every man on the A-team treated her like their favorite sister. They treated her as an equal and they trusted her without question. Kira knew that if there was any hint of intimacy with Garret, it would fracture the team. And there was no way she was going to do that.
But Fate has a way of intervening and their worlds explode on them during a Taliban attack. Kira saves Garret after he is wounded. In the end, they lose track of one another for three years. Broken by PTSD, Kira is out of the Army and trying to find a job at a Wyoming ranch. And again, her life turns upside down.
EXCERPT from Chapter 1, Wind River Cowboy by Lindsay McKenna:
“Ambush!”
Sergeant Kira Duval’s earpiece rang with the warning from Army Captain Aaron Michelson, the Special Forces A team leader. The night was black and an RPG exploded right in between the two Humvees they were riding in. The twelve-person team halted and all hell broke loose. Kira exited the vehicle, hearing the hollow thunk of another RPG being fired in their direction. She heard more orders in her earpiece as she threw herself on the muddy Afghan ground, hands over her head, mouth open.
The night erupted into red, yellow and orange flames as the second RPG hit the first Humvee, which Aaron was in. She wanted to scream, but the blast lifted her off the ground, hurling her several feet, and she started rolling to minimize the impact. Keeping her mouth open to equalize the pressure between her lungs and the outside air so they wouldn’t melt into jelly, Kira had the M4 strapped in a harness across her chest. She fell hard on her side, the weapon jamming into her rib cage, making her cry out.
Another explosion erupted. Her eardrums were pounded. The pain in them caused her to grunt. The shouts, screams and orders roared into her head. She saw dark shadows exiting her Humvee, the other four men trying to escape and run for cover.
Someone jerked her up by the shoulder of her uniform harness, dragging her along, heading for a group of shadowy rocks. Gasping, Kira struggled and then lunged to her feet with the help of Sergeant Garret Fleming, who was at her side. He was screaming into his mic for the four operators, ordering them to get to the safety of the rock fortress just ahead of them.
Another RPG was fired. AK-47 fire was like a fusillade slamming into the escaping Special Forces survivors. Kira didn’t have time to cry. The first Humvee was twisted metal, flames roaring into the dark sky, sending long, dancing shadows across the muddy soil. She slipped, but Garret kept a tight gloved hand on her uniform, keeping her on her feet as they raced three hundred yards to safety. They had to get cover or they were all dead.
Her mind spun. There had been six men in that first Humvee. Had any of them made it out? She heard Garret yelling into the mic for Captain Michelson, but there was no answer from their leader. Oh, God! She’d lived with this team for three years. Each of these men were like beloved brothers to her. They couldn’t be dead. The just couldn’t!
Sobbing, tears burning in her eyes, Garret suddenly went down. She heard him curse. He released her shoulder, sending her spinning and falling to the left of him. Bullets were digging up mud all around them, geyser spouts flung into the air. They were not only ambushed but surrounded on half of the area where they were scrambling to find cover. Landing hard on her knees, she twisted around, the mud making everything slippery. Kira saw the shadows of two other A team members running in their direction.
Bullets mowed them down. Screaming, Kira lunged for Garret, who was grabbing his left leg, blood spurting from his calf.
Just as she reached Garret on her hands and knees, a second bullet struck him in the head. He suddenly collapsed, lifeless, on the ground.
No! I love him! You can’t kill him! You can’t!
Kira grabbed Garret’s shoulder. The man was six foot two inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds without counting the seventy pounds of gear he wore on his body. Jerking at him, she managed to get to her feet. Adrenaline gave her the strength of two men and she hauled Garret behind the rocks that stood five to ten feet tall in a semicircle around them. She called for their 18 Delta medics.
No answer from either of them. There were two on each team. Were they both dead?
Thank you so much for having me at your lovely site today, Delilah. I’d like to introduce my new romantic suspense, Lapses of Memory, and tell you a little about the background.
My traveling life began at the age of six months, when my family moved from New York to North Carolina. Soon after we were winging halfway across the world to Turkey in a Boeing Stratocruiser, just like my hero Elian and my heroine Sydney did. Since then I’ve lived or traveled in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the US, Central America, and South America. Like Sydney and Elian, I’ve seen the Golestan Palace in Iran and walked the Hamra in Beirut. Like them, I’ve ridden a bus down the switchbacks of the eastern Turkish mountains past Mount Ararat. I’ve even begged for cigarettes from the sailors on a battleship in the Port of Tangier—just like Sydney and Elian. It’s been an adventure.
Sydney Bellek first meets Elian Davies in the 1950s on a Boeing 377 Stratocruiser when she is five and he is seven. They run into each other every few years after that, but while he knows from the start that she is his true love, she does not. Later, as rival journalists, they vie for scoops on international crises from the Iranian revolution to the Lebanese civil war. The handsome and intrepid Elian beats her out at every turn, even while keeping his love for her secret. Only after years of separation does she finally realize they are meant to be together, but this time, in a twist of fate, it is Elian whose memory of her is gone. Will he remember her before she loses heart or will their new love be enough to replace the old one?
By luck or accident, Eddie’s parents had chosen the hotel next to Sydney’s apartment building, so they saw him every day. She and Eddie spent hours scouting the beach for what Eddie dubbed valuables—shells and sharks’ teeth and interesting flotsam. They kept their treasures in a shoebox under Sydney’s bed. Life seemed as good as it would ever be, or so Sydney told her diary.
The day before he had to leave for Marrakesh, Eddie met her at the front door of the hotel. “Let’s go down to the port. Ali says he has a surprise.”
They made their way to the bustling docks. Dwarfing the usual jumble of fishing boats and ferries at the wharves, a huge gray destroyer lay at anchor, its American flags flying proudly. “Wow, what’s that?”
A sailor passing by them said, “It’s the USS John Paul Jones of the Sixth Fleet. She’s come in for a weekend’s leave. See that little kiosk over there? You can get tickets for a tour if you like.”
Sydney started to head toward the kiosk, but Eddie held her back. He pointed at a gaggle of local kids standing near the ship pointing and yelling. “There’s Ali. Let’s see what’s going on.”
They ran along the pier, gawking at the sailors in their brilliant white uniforms who stood at attention on the decks. A couple of the other kids waved their arms, calling the sailors. Eddie grinned at Sydney. “You wanna jump in and see if they’ll throw us something?”
“What? Eew!”
“No, it’ll be fun. Ali says he and Yusuf do it all the time.” He took a flying leap and landed butt first in the oil-ringed water. He came up spluttering and waved at her. “Come on in, the water’s disgusting!”
When you’re thirteen years old and in love, you sometimes do the darndest things. Holding her nose, Sydney dove off the pier. She made the mistake of opening her eyes before she surfaced and was nearly blinded by a silt soup thicker than the Nile at flood stage. Something nipped her toe. She shot up out of the depths, kicking frantically at whatever slimy sea creature lurked in the muck. Together they swam over to a couple of brown-skinned boys and waved and shouted along with them. “Hey, sailor! Throw us sumpin’!”
“Hey, mistah!”
Pretty soon, they had a crowd of uniforms hanging over the railing, tossing cigarettes to them. Sydney wondered what her mother would do if she saw her little Pollyanna screeching and spitting out scummy water while she fought over soggy Winstons. To be on the safe side, she yelled in French. That way the headlines wouldn’t read “Underage American girl caught fraternizing with the Sixth Fleet.” One sailor leaned far out, pointed at her, and sent his Dixie cup hat floating out. She lunged for it, but instead her head slammed into Eddie’s. Dazed, she threw her arms out hoping to find something to grab on to and hit a bare chest. Two arms went round her, and before she could struggle out of them, two lips came in contact with hers. A moment later, they were gone. A hand took hers and guided her to the dock. “You okay?”
“Eddie!” Then she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
He grinned at her. “We’d best get back.” He pulled her out of the water.
They picked up their towels and walked home. Sydney kept her mouth closed, the better to savor the tingling feeling the kiss left on her lips. At the door to her building, he stopped. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning early. I’d…I’d like to see you tonight. Can you get out?”
She shook her head. “I’ve used up my three late nights. I have to stay in.” She hoped the tear that welled up wouldn’t fall.
Eddie’s face fell instead. “I don’t want to say goodbye, Sydney. What happens if…”
“If we never see each other again?” A sudden weight crushed her sternum, reminding her of that first climbing ascent in a plane when she was five. Never?
“Look, I’ll figure something out.” He checked the sun. “I’ve got to go. I promise, I’ll see you tonight.” Before she could move, he bent forward and kissed her again, then threw his towel over his shoulder and strolled jauntily away.
Although M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents, the last thirty years were spent mostly in Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director, and parent. After many years in academia, she worked for the U.S. Senate, the U.S. Department of the Interior, in several library systems, both public and academic, and at the Torpedo Factory Art Center.
Ms. Spencer has published ten romantic suspense novels, and has two more in utero. She has two fabulous grown children and an incredible granddaughter. She divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
My daughter is in Italy attending a real estate seminar. She is also a coach, just like I was for several years. She works for the same mentor I loved, and who trained me to be a great saleswoman. Without his backing, I knew I was going to be trampled to death with the highly competitive field of knife-throwers-in-the-back. I felt I was too nice to sell.
I learned so much, and laughed so much, hearing all the mistakes people make in that business. I laugh about all the mistakes I’ve also made in writing. Some of the naïve views I had about writers and the writing process.
So Christen dropped the bomb that my mentor told a story about me in the seminar today. I’m just a bit obsessive about these sorts of things. I’m dying to know what the story is. Was it the bathing suit story? Or the time I sold a condo to a couple who looked like they were both women, and the title company informed them California (at that time) didn’t allow them to take title as husband and wife. And when one of them stood up, grabbed the back of her pants and said, “But I am a man,” we thought we were going to see the full Monty, but she got out her driver’s license, proving she was in fact, a man.
One of my old pals reminded me that I used to sleep under the stage at these big events, before I was one of the ones on stage. That way, I got a front row seat! Or the fact that I taught a whole bunch of agents I was training how to ride the service elevators so we didn’t have to wait to be part of the crowd waiting for one and running out of time to pee.
I also remember my son, who became a Navy SEAL, was 5 and spoke to my mentor at that time. “You know my mom, Sharon Hamilton?” And of course he did. “I think she’s a great Realtor,” Mike answered. My son replied, “Yes she is. She’s the best Realtor in the whole world. Did you know that?” He walked out of the ice cream store without looking back, satisfied he’d laid the proper facts on him.
Our past makes up so much of our stories. All the people we met, the families we raised, the seminars we went to, and churches we attended. Strange family gatherings. It’s all soup and it goes into the writer’s toolkit, right?
UPDATE: The winner is of the signed book is…Virginia!
* * * * *
Please don’t miss the give-away at the bottom of this post!
Hi Everyone, I’m Geri Krotow, bestselling author of contemporary romance and romantic suspense. I’m so excited to be meeting all of you on Delilah’s blog. I’ve known Delilah and her sister for a long while, and they’ve both been incredible inspirations to my writing career.
What makes my stories different? The very thing that makes me different—I’m a Navy veteran, former Naval Intelligence Officer and a Naval Academy graduate. I have a more global perspective on romance and life in general, which shows up in my books with characters who have also traveled the globe, but usually (though not always) want to settle down now and enjoy great sex with the love of their life.
Currently I write the Silver Valley PD series for Harlequin Romantic Suspense, where I often use my military background to provide accurate descriptions of weapons or the physicality of doing military-type surveillance ops. Coming in January 2018 is my sexy contemporary series Bayou Bachelors, from Kensington Lyrical Caress. The Bayou Bachelors came to me when I was visiting New Orleans during a flooding rainstorm last year. I kept seeing the hero and heroine in Book One, and their backstories popped up whether I wanted to sleep or not! It’s my sexiest series yet, and I can’t wait to share it with you.
Contest
For each comment left by Saturday, March 25th at 6pm EST, I’ll enter you in a drawing to win a signed copy of the first Silver Valley PD book, Her Christmas Protector. The fourth book of the Silver Valley PD series, Secret Agent Under Fire, releases April 1st and is available for pre-order now. Isn’t the cover delish?
It’s been great sharing with you. Thanks for having me, Delilah and friends!
Hi, my name is Min Edwards. Actually, it’s Pam Headrick, but I write under a nom de plume for several reasons. The most important one though is that I want to separate my author persona from my business persona. As Pam Headrick I’m a book designer, A Thirsty Mind Publishing and Book Design, and have been for almost seven years. I’ve been a Contemporary Romance and Romantic Suspense author for almost three years now although I’ve crafted stories my whole life… I called them daydreams.
Today I want to talk for a bit about research goals and processes for fiction as opposed to non-fiction academic writing.
During my archaeology career, I wrote non-fiction or technical reports heavy with citations and footnotes. Now I’ve just completed my first historical novel and realized that the way I approach research for novels is not the same as picking out tidbits of knowledge and quotes for a non-fiction article. I thought you all might be interested in the differences.
First, non-fiction research for the most part is from primary sources; from the original publication where the quotes and facts initially were established. Occasionally I used secondary sources or second-hand references (think Wikipedia, but more academic). But when I wanted information about an archaeological site or materials recovered from it, the best possible data came from the initial site logs or subsequent research by the professionals who were actually on-site at the time of the excavation. Of course, if the excavation took place a century or more in the past quite often the information came from professionals decades or more later who re-examined the recovered artifacts or cited the original source material which either no longer existed or was in a language other than English. An example, although from a different discipline—paleontology, is the marvelous book, Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History by Stephan Jay Gould. Dr. Gould re-examined fossils from the Burgess Shale site in northern Canada many decades after its discovery and using the newest technology uncovered a surprising interpretation of the ancient life those fossils represented.
Second, non-fiction writing and specifically academic writing, not only uses a bibliography to show the reader where more information can be found (although you have to almost be a scholar to track down some of it because it’s buried in dungeon-like university library stacks or was when I was actively researching), but also uses citations, numbered and carefully conforming to academic styles. I recall the stress of not so much writing my undergraduate and graduate papers and master’s thesis, but the layout of the pages to conform to these academic styles… and most of this before the age of computers. Think about this… adding all those in-line citation numbers referring to the list of citations at the end of the paper, but also the placement of footnotes! I used a lot of ‘white-out’… do any of you remember that stuff?
Third, the information in these citations and footnotes had to be exact in style as well as content, particularly with academic writings. You could use short quotes as well as the rephrasing of information, but you did it all according to the Chicago Manual of Style and in the case of archaeological articles and monographs, the SAA Style Guide (Society for American Archaeology). Being accused of plagiarizing was the kiss of death to an academic career, and woe to you if you spelled an archaeologist’s name wrong or used incorrect academic affiliations.
In the first novels I wrote, it was a relief not to be bound by these strict conventions. The research I used was minimal because those stories used places and situations that were familiar to me. Of course, I had to research weapons, local government make up, and in some novels, I referred to maps so that my locations were factual. But all in all, I had a free rein and it didn’t take long to complete each book.
But now I’ve delved into a new realm… the historical novel. And serious research. Of course, for the most part I use the internet for my sources because my tiny local library is just that… a local village library. There is a university library in our county seat but that’s more than 30 miles away and it’s now winter and I stay off narrow Rt. 1 that leads me there. Thank goodness, I don’t actually have to put citations in my novels because what I’m going after in my research now is trivia. Little tidbits of information to liven up my story. If an historical character was a smoker, in a novel he doesn’t have to be. My choice.
The Russian Phoenix is the title I’m working on now. The time, 1913 during the Romanov Jubilee year (500 years of Romanov rule… and there’s some trivia attached to that as well). It was a turbulent time in Russia and my story revolves around a girl who’s fallen on hard times but is rescued by the Tsarina, a distant cousin, who takes her and her mother into the Alexander Palace near St. Petersburg to live with her, Tsar Nicholas II and the royal children. I have maps of the time period in Russia bookmarked on the computer, biographies of the Romanovs, articles on guns and vehicles of the time period, little wars and conflicts in Russia at the time, the building strain between the upper class and the workers which of course lead to the Red Army vs the White Army and the murder of the royal family in 1918. All these little bits of information I’m inserting within the text while telling the story of Natasha, a young woman not yet used to nor completely understanding the excesses and politics of the time.
The research is color, building conflict, a view of a crumbling society and status in the first part of the story and as Natasha leaves Russia behind it sets the stage for World War I, the world-wide influenza pandemic and her eventual emigration to America. Trivialities while I build characters, insert evil intentions, find romance—then the death of romance, and the final rise from the ashes of a girl becoming a strong woman. A Phoenix.
I wish this novel was in its final stages and I could show you cover art but that won’t come until sometime in April. Today I want you to see the sequel to this story. Precious Stone available now at Amazon as well as iBooks, B&N, Kobo and other outlets. I know it looks like I have this sequence backwards, sequel before prequel, but trust me, it works. And I’ve had so much fun delving into research now that I don’t have to worry about strict adherence to the factual past and can pick and choose what I say about my historic characters and situations… tweaking the past into a story I want to tell, because, hey, it’s fiction after all.
A gift of thanks to a young girl from the Tsar more than 100 years ago… and now the Russians want it back.
Collee McCullough, the owner of The Bakery in Stone Bay, Maine, has a perfect life until early one morning men in suits come calling. She has something someone dangerous wants. Something that her Russian great-grandmother, Natasha took when she fled Russia in 1913. Too bad Buka never told her son or anyone else what she had or where she left it.
Jake Elsmore, visiting Stone Bay to sell his mother’s house, walks into The Bakery for a cup of Earl Grey tea, but gets more. There she is. Collee McCullough, stepping out from behind the Chief of Police, a lovely, fiery-haired fairy toting a shotgun while two men lie insensate on the floor of her shop. Looks like that tea will have to wait.
About Min Edwards
I wear many hats… author, book designer, archaeologist, and citizen of the edge of America… Lubec, Maine, the most eastern town in the U.S. I’m a life-long reader, but I don’t chain myself to only one genre. I love, almost equally, romance, suspense, thrillers, sci-fi. And if a book takes me someplace I’ve never been with a story that makes my heart beat with excitement, then I consider that an excellent book. I strive for the same excellence in my own stories.
My first novel, STONE BAY, a Contemporary Romance, was published in March of 2014. It was followed by a new Romantic Suspense series, Hide Tide Suspense, bringing danger to the small village of Stone Bay, Maine. Out now in the series are STONE COLD, STONE HEART, STONE FALL and PRECIOUS STONE. Finally for the conclusion of the series, THE RUSSIAN PHOENIX, a women’s fiction historical and the prequel to PRECIOUS STONE is coming soon. These books can be found on my Amazon Author Page: https://amzn.to/2bHJ1kb.
You may also find all of my published books at sites such as iBooks, B&N and Kobo through Books2Read.com.
Thank you, Delilah, for inviting me to visit with your readers.
Writing is hard. There, I said it. I’m in the middle of, well, actually closer to finishing, a somewhat major revision of my work-in-progress. I say somewhat major but what I mean is a massive overhaul of all aspects of the book – character arcs, plot, inner conflicts, the whole kit and kaboodle. And that is hard, difficult, painful. By the end of the day my brain is mush and can just about function enough to get supper on the table. Ask me a difficult question and expect blood to flow from a cranial orifice.
Alas, I’m not one of those lucky people who can relax in front of the TV. I have to be doing something whilst streaming my latest obsession (Penny Dreadful) or enjoying an old black & white comedy (Arsenic and Old Lace).
That’s where crafts come into play. Even before I began this writing career I’ve done something whilst viewing TV. I’ve been stitching counted cross-stitch samplers and Christmas ornaments for more years than I can count. Every family member and most friends have received at least one cross-stitched item as a gift. Rug hooking is a newer craft to me, introduced to me by my mom. I’m now completely addicted. Knitting is a craft I’ve been pursuing for decades. Most members of my family have received at least one hand-knitted item as a gift as well. These crafts are not mindless activities. But they use a different area of my brain, and they use different muscles in my hands and arms. So after eight hours of tapping at the keyboard, devising obstacles for my characters and creating fictional worlds, I curl up on the chesterfield with my needle or hook and create something soft and tangible.
Do you have a craft or an activity you use to unwind at the end of the day?
One commenter will receive a hand-knitted (by me) washcloth
and a bar of handcrafted soap. (USA and Canada only.)
If Wishes Were Earls
A mysterious letter and an enchanted keepsake promise to lead Miranda to her heart’s desire. Or does her heart secretly yearn for more than a sexy earl?
When a mysterious note directs Miss Miranda Large to a tiny village in Cornwall to find her heart’s desire, she has no choice but to go. An enchanted keepsake heightens her curiosity. A snowstorm forces her to accept the hospitality of a sullen, albeit sexy and handsome, earl and Miranda’s wish doesn’t seem so out of reach.
Edward Penhallion, the 12th Earl of Claverlock, is not in the mood to start his search for a new wife. He wants to be left alone with his books and his dreams of revenge. But the arrival of a headstrong, sharp-tongued spinster forces him to play the charming host. Not a difficult task, given her intelligence and beauty. Suddenly, he’s not terribly eager for her to leave.
But as the snow falls and the winds blow, Edward discovers there’s more to Miranda than a lively wit and a lovely face. And Miranda wonders if the trappings of wealth are enough for true happiness.
By luck or accident, Eddie’s parents had chosen the hotel next to Sydney’s apartment building, so they saw him every day. She and Eddie spent hours scouting the beach for what Eddie dubbed valuables—shells and sharks’ teeth and interesting flotsam. They kept their treasures in a shoebox under Sydney’s bed. Life seemed as good as it would ever be, or so Sydney told her diary.
Hi Everyone, I’m Geri Krotow, bestselling author of contemporary romance and romantic suspense. I’m so excited to be meeting all of you on Delilah’s blog. I’ve known Delilah and her sister for a long while, and they’ve both been incredible inspirations to my writing career.
Writing is hard. There, I said it. I’m in the middle of, well, actually closer to finishing, a somewhat major revision of my work-in-progress. I say somewhat major but what I mean is a massive overhaul of all aspects of the book – character arcs, plot, inner conflicts, the whole kit and kaboodle. And that is hard, difficult, painful. By the end of the day my brain is mush and can just about function enough to get supper on the table. Ask me a difficult question and expect blood to flow from a cranial orifice.
