Imagination

Imagination. Lucky are those of us who are gifted with the power to imagine, to create pictures inside our heads, to find inspiration in ordinary or extraordinary events. I'm posting a picture that appeared in our local newspaper. (photo credit Mike Szaszik)

I was so enchanted by the picture I got in touch with the photographer to ask for permission to post it on my blog and the Goddess blog. Mike graciously consented.

It's a lucky shot, Mike says. He snapped the picture of a barn fire. Local fireman herded the ducks to safety. But that's too simple. Too mundane.

When I viewed the picture I thought, this is a fairy tale. Those are little people whose village is being destroyed by a wicked wizard and they are powerless. All they can do is stand in awe as the flame devour everything they love. But ... and good fairy tales have a happy ending. I leave it to you to imagine the ending.

My imagination had fun playing with the picture and how it created a whole drama inside my head. But that's the way writers are inspired to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. My current release, Isabelle's Diary, was inspired by a scene I witnessed in Llandrindod Wells, Wales. My husband and I had stopped for a cup of coffee in a cafe. Seated alone at a window table was a young girl dressed in black. She was drinking a Coke and kept glancing over her shoulder as if waiting for someone. That was all I needed to kick start my story.

The young woman in Isabelle's Diary is dressed in sombre Victorian black. She is weeping over a diary. Why? Who was she? That's the story question.

Want to know more? Read Isabelle's Diary. I am muddling through a contemporary romance set in Cornwall. Yes, I got the idea when we visited Cornwall and came across an unusually beautiful garden that seemed out of place on the rugged coast line.

Does the picture I posted speak to you?

www.anitabirt.com

I'm jealous . . . but it's my own fault

I belong to a prolific group of authors. Every day on the list they tell all of us about their new releases, their anthology entries, their new covers. I on the other hand remain silent.

It is my own fault. Although I have many, many stories running around in my head and some of them already begun on paper or in my computer, I have only finished one manuscript so far. Fortunately, that manuscript got published (or I wouldn't be here now) and has sold more copies than I ever dreamed it would.

But I don't want to be a "one hit wonder." My problem is that I have not developed a writing regimen. In fact, I am not regimented about anything in my life. So, I have come up with a plan.

November is the NaNoWriMo challenge -- to write a whole novel, or about 50,000 words, in the month of November. No research, no editing, just WRITE. I sign up every year but needless to say, I never achieve anywhere near that goal. But this year the situation is quite different. I HAVE finished a manuscript and I AM published. I AM a writer! I WILL finish my Work In Progress, at least. And in the process, I will hopefully establish a routine that I can continue past the month of November.

Wish me luck! And by my next blog date, I should have my website up and running, and I will give you the link. Talk to you on October 24 -- when I will be another year older and hopefully, wiser.

Kate Poole

Change of Season Change of Residence

I live in the desert. Desert Center California to be exact. My little burg is near the Mojave Desert, Death Valley and the Salton Sea. The seasons are changing here.

Summer is hot - up to 130 degrees. This summer it was not so hot - only 120 but the humidity was high 89%. When it is hot like that we stay under the swamp cooler or the air conditioner.

Two summers ago we had a hamster in a habitrail. We lost electricity for three days. We had the hamster in the habitrail in breezes. However we tried keeping it cool we still lost it.

So, we got another hamster. This time we have the hamster in the habitrail during the winter and an open wire cage during the summer.

Summer just ended. Yesterday our weather was 101. Today our high is 85.

Today was moving day for our hamster. This entails capturing the little critter. Putting Scritch (that is her name) in a walking ball and letting her wander around the house while the cat watches the moving ball. The cat does not hit at the ball nor chase it. She just follows it around hoping the lid will come off and she will get some fast food.

Then we unmercifully rearrange Scritch's enviornment. Her bedding is changed from cool shredded paper to cushiony and warm paper filler. We made the mistake one day of putting pine shavings in her cage. We found out the hard way that most hamsters are allergic to pine and cedar. So, now for winter she gets warm mushed up paper filler. Her air-flo bars are replaced by warmth holding plastic habitrail walls. Next step is finding Scritch in her walking ball and putting her in her new home.

She snuffs around and digs around and makes herself at home. Scritch thanks us for moving her to her winter home by hibernating most of the winter.

Me? I'm just the opposite. I enjoy the winter. It is envigerating. I get more done. I have more energy. I work out more. Its just nicer. I even write more. Which is a good thing.

I wonder if there is a place that is always just the right temperature? Just the weather? A place where I would always have energy? Of course if there was such a place, I'd never see my hamster. She would always be in her winter home hibernating.

Charlene Leatherman, Author of Adventruous Romances
Prophecy of Vithan available at Cerridwen Press

What Do I Know?

In the dark hours this morning, a vehicle followed mine onto a narrow two-lane road that I take to get to work. With seconds, this vehicle had drawn so close behind me that I could barely see its headlights. My initial reaction was fear. That was followed by a flash of anger that settled into a low simmer. How dare this idiot endanger my life by risking slamming into the back of me if I had to brake suddenly for a deer or a kid on a bike? When we reached the stop light at the end of the road, I imagined myself getting out of my car, walking back to the other vehicle and chewing out him or her. Then I thought that a person who tailgates with such disregard for traffic safety probably doesn’t feel guilty about it and might even have a gun (this is Texas). So of course I stayed put. But the situation blossomed into a tidy little scene in my mind, one I could no doubt use for some future work of fiction.

There’s an old adage for writers that says “write what you know”. But what do I know? I live a fairly quiet life without the killers, ghosts, or femme fatales that populate my stories. Most of the heroes in my romantic suspense novels are Deputy United States Marshals. I’m not one. I don’t even know any. The heroine of my western romance is a Louisiana debutante. I had a debut once. Drama class, junior year of high school. Not quite the same thing and it didn’t lead to love and happily-ever-after. . .oh, wait. Yes, it did. But that’s another story.

Stepping beyond that adage is where real writers truly excel. One thing we know how to do—the most important thing—is use our imaginations. We can conjure characters and places out of thin air, lay them out on a page and make them come across as if we know those people and have been to those places.

I’ve never been pursued through the dark woods by a murderer. But I can pull up the emotions of fear and desperation based on experiences like the one with the tailgater above. I’ve never ridden a horse at a full-out run, but I’ve walked a horse and I’ve had one run away with me. Add to those experiences all the westerns I’ve seen and read in my life and I’m able to create a convincing chase scene.

So we can relate our own experiences into adventures for our books. Yes. We may not be cops or killers, but we know more than we think we do. Now I’m not suggesting anyone endanger themselves (or anyone else) just to gain experience for a scene or a character. But pay attention to what does happen to you and how you feel. Have a close call on the freeway with someone in the throes of road rage? Document how you feel: the pounding of your heart, the sense of threat, your own rising anger. Use that. Expand on it. Meet the eyes of an attractive stranger across a dimly lit restaurant? Describe that little flutter in the pit of your stomach. Use it. Get it down on paper and build a scene around it.

You know more than you think you do.

Cheers!
Teri Thackston
www.terithackston.com
DEADLY CLIMB available now at www.cerridwenpress.com

Would you like to heat up your night with a little Night Heat?

This is a story that began life as a little tale about long lost lovers and broken hearts. But dang! Desiree Holt just can't seem to write anything that doesn't set fire to the keyboard. Here's a little taste of Night Heat for you, available at http://www.ellorascave.com/

When Jill Danvers left Bluebonnet Falls ten years ago she never expected to go back. When Gabe Carter, the love of her life, married someone else she took the pieces of her shattered heart and ran as fast and as far as she could. But Gabe is chairing The Falls’ bicentennial celebration and the magazine Jill writes for has assigned her to do a piece on it. The minute she walks into Gabe’s office she discovers two things: she’s as hot for him as she ever was, and Gabe isn’t married. Their feelings for each other explode and they heat up the nights, the sex hotter and more erotic than either thought possible. But there are still a lot of obstacles in their path. The former Mrs. Carter comes home determined to reclaim Gabe for herself and a nasty scandal is brewing over a new development meant to put Bluebonnet Falls on the map. A scandal that could involve everyone, even Gabe’s ex-wife.

“God, darlin’.” His words were like little puffs of air on her face. “You have no idea how much I’ve prayed that despite every bit of bitterness you had a right to feel, you’d still walk back into my life one day.” He traced a line from her mouth to her jawline with feathery little kisses, then moved to her neck and the place behind her ear that drove her crazy. As he teased the soft flesh with the tip of his tongue, his body pressed her back against the couch and one hand moved easily to the buttons on her blouse.
I have to remember something important. What? What?
Then she felt his hands on her, gentle but insistent and she lost all ability to think. Peeling away the blouse, opening the front clasp on her bra, he touched her breasts with a gentleness she’d never forgotten. His mouth closed on a nipple, teasing it with his teeth then swirling his tongue around the hardened bud. Sensation washed over her, sparking her nerve endings, spiraling through her like an electric wire.
“Jesus, I’ve missed you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not a night has gone by that you weren’t in my dreams.”
Jill clutched at him, her hands feeling his powerful muscles beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, the heat searing her palms. Memories of how well their bodies fitted together played havoc with her mind and her senses. Suddenly his clothes were too much of an obstruction. With frantic movements she tugged his shirt free from his trousers, desperate to touch his skin, to relearn the feel of him. The instant contact was like a drug, fogging her mind.
One arm holding her tightly, Gabe’s other hand moved over her body, mapping it, relearning it. He touched the familiar places, from her breasts to the curve of her stomach, down to her slim legs and up to the inside of her knees, her thighs. Sliding beneath the thin fabric of the skirt, his fingertips teased at the elastic edge of her lace panties. All the while he murmured softly in her ear, words that inflamed her and made her writhe against him.
Automatically she opened her legs to give him greater access. He deepened the kiss as he reached beneath the scrap of silk to touch the soft curls covering her feminine mound. She felt him now, gently touching, probing, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
Then, out of nowhere, the painful memory of his betrayal along with the reality of the situation blasted into her brain like a bucket of cold water. What was wrong with her? She had no business doing this. Wrenching her mouth away from his insistent lips, she pushed at him with all her strength.
“Stop,” she gasped. “Stop, stop, stop. Let me up, Gabe. Right now.” She writhed in is grasp, trying to free herself.
“What?” He looked at her with eyes clouded with desire. “What’s wrong?” His eyes had an unfocused look. “Jill, I’m so sorry I grabbed you this way but from the minute you walked in the door all I could think of was making love to you.”
She shoved at him as hard as she could, pulling herself away. “We can’t do this. Please.”
He leaned forward while she adjusted herself, raking his fingers through his hair. “Help me understand here.” His voice was raw with passion and frustration. “What we felt so long ago is still there. Ten years haven’t made a damn bit of difference.” He drew a sharp, ragged breath. “You may have hidden from me all this time but you can’t hide the fact you feel it too.”
She had her head bowed, biting her lower lip as she struggled to fasten and rearrange her clothing. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t do this. It’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “Tell me what’s wrong with it. It doesn’t get much better than this. It never did.”
She knew he was going to kiss her again and she jerked her head away. “I don’t sleep with married men, Gabe.”
“Married?” He dropped his hand. “What in God’s name are you talking about? Who’s married?”
“You are.” Defiance gripped her. “To Robin Fletcher. Remember?” Her voice mimicked his from long ago. “‘Robin’s pregnant. Four months.’ Has the little scene somehow disappeared from your memory bank?”
Gabe rose from the couch and stood before her, looming over her, his face a mixture of shock and anger. “I’m not married, Jill. Maybe if you’d bothered to keep in touch you’d have found out. Robin and I were divorced two months after the wedding.”

Today marks the release of my first erotic short story, Between a Rock and a Hard-On. It's a Tricks and Treats Quickie from Ellora's Cave. I’ll admit that the title still gives me a chuckle, but if it attracts attention to the book, that’s fine with me. It’s the story of a pixie, a half-dragon and a little sex magic in a wooded park on Halloween. Here’s an excerpt that’s NOT on the publisher’s website (or mine, for that matter.)

Excerpt:
His tongue tripped over the plastic fangs and he damn near drooled. Uggh! Enough! He surreptitiously spat the stupid things out into his hand and shoved them in the back pocket of his black chinos, then allowed his own canine teeth to lengthen. To hell with the mayor’s better ideas!

Another group approached, made up of a bunch of littler kids this time, shepherded around by a grown-up. Bram had to look twice to figure that out, she wasn’t much taller than the kids, but judging by the generous rack that filled the front of her cheap black witch’s outfit, she was an adult. One more look had Bram adjusting the damn cape to hide the sudden hard-on that had sprung up in his pants. Oh, yeah, definitely a grown-up! But the mayor had screwed up when he’d dressed her as a witch instead of a fairy princess. Long platinum-blonde curls tumbled out from the pointed cardboard hat. She had big, slightly tilted green eyes and plump, glossy lips that would look just right wrapped around his cock. He only hoped none of the kids she was wrangling were hers.

“Trick or treat!” Five of the kids chorused the refrain, but one small one began to whimper and point at Bram. He felt a frisson of power and cursed mentally. That kid was a damn wizard, or would be one day. Unfortunately His Honor seemed to have forgotten that kids with magic could usually see through the façade of humanity that Bram wore on a daily basis.

“Don’t cry, sweetie, he’s just a pretend vampire.” The ersatz witch picked up the sniffling toddler and cuddled him close, while Bram passed out goodies to the others.

“Here’s one for the little guy.” He held out a lollipop to the woman, as the teary-eyed urchin hid his face in her generous cleavage. Lucky kid! Privately, Bram thought the tyke had already gotten the best treat in the place. Bram would happily trade every last piece of candy in Philadelphia for the chance to bury his face between those breasts.

“Thanks.” Her voice was soft and breathy and her bright green eyes twinkled as she grinned at Bram. A human wouldn’t have been able to discern color in this half-light, but Bram had excellent dark vision. “Sorry about Kevin.”

She reached up to pluck the candy from his hand and just for a second, their fingers touched. And where they did, they burned. Just a momentary flare of heat, but it was like nothing Bram had ever felt before. If he’d thought he had a hard-on before, now he was going to have trouble walking, his body was so stiff. He actually felt dizzy for an instant as all the blood left his brain. She pulled her hand away like it was burning, so she must have felt it too. It wasn’t just a shock of static electricity, it was magic…

Get your copy today at http://www.ellorascave.com/

October

During This First Week of October You Can:

Sign Up for NaNoWriMo at nanowrimo.org

You can contact me at disonij@aol.com to be a guest blogger here.

Your can also so celebrate:

Breastfeeding Week (National, US) is celebrated every year during the first week in October.

Customer Service Week (National, US - Observed the first full week of October)

Gerontological Nurses Week

Get Organized Week

Health Care Food Service Week

Mental Illness Awareness Week

Minority Enterprise Week (Observed the first full week in October)

Newspaper Week (National, US)

Nuclear Medicine Week

Outplacement Week (National, US - Observed the first week in October with the first Monday thru Friday.)

Space Week (World Space Week)