Are you ready to WIN?

Are you ready to win an ebook reader? Or downloads of fantastic romances, including a copy of Prophecy of Vithan? Have you wanted to buy some romances from Cerridwen Press, but haven't got around to it.

Now all you have to do is participate in a scavenger hunt and you will be eligible to win downloads of romances from Cerridwen Press.

Starting March 1 through March 15 you will have the opportunity to hunt for a tree icon and for secret words.

Go to www.charleneleatherman.com and check out the rules.

Be a winner in the First Annual Cerridwen Spring Giveaway.

Awesome End of February

This week I signed a contract with Total E Bound , a Britsh based publisher, for Fate Unbound, a Greek God time travel I orginally published with Venus Press. (Yes, that Venus Press. Nuf said.) My story will be in an anthology titled Nectar of the Gods, September 2008. Love that title, very sexy, I think.

Over the next couple weeks I'll be adding a new ending and expanding a couple scenes. Very fun - more of the good stuff.

The premise of the book - is - for lack of a better word - different. It came from the female character who was accustomed to getting any man she wanted whenever she wanted him. She really needed to learn a lesson.

Curious?

Here's an excerpt:

The man, not much more than a boy really, was swaying as he leaned back, trying to get a look at Taryn's ass.

Brown hair hung across his face, hiding one of a pair of bright blue eyes. His jaw was pleasantly square, his skin nicely tanned and contrasting well with the casual, soft brown sweater clinging to his lean muscles. Denim pants hung low on his hips, showing off a small slice of his strong midsection.

He certainly wasn’t puny, or unattractive, but he wasn’t up to her usual standards either. He had no sword, or markings of battle, and his face was fresh with the enthusiasm of youth.

She preferred her men strong and experienced. Vigorous. Capable. In Kate’s words–edgy.

But, she reflected ruefully, always getting what she wanted was the problem.

Or had been.

The newcomer set his hand on her waist, gripping it firmly, and leaned in. The bristled shadow of his facial hair brushed across her cheek as he spoke, his hot breath blowing across her neck. “I come here all the time. Want me to show you around?”

She shook her head, easily meeting his gaze because he wasn’t more than a few inches taller than she. “I’m meeting someone.”

Still holding her waist, he angled back, his gaze darting across the mass of people before coming back to her. “Another girl?”

Girl?

Did she look like an unripe, inexperienced girl?

Taryn straightened, looking down her nose at him, but because his attention had dropped to the swells of her breasts her disdain went unnoticed.

She set her hand on his to pull it away, but he gripped hers tightly and smiled, his vivid gaze coming back to her face. His grin was sweet, his azure eyes glowing brightly under the shaggy locks falling across his forehead.

A mature man would’ve been subtle, and realized the importance of anticipation. This boy’s inexperience was well balanced by drunken confidence. “We can wait for her,” he replied, stretching to the bar to discard his empty beer bottle, intentionally letting his arm brush across the side of her breast. “Then I’ll show you both around.” Moving his gaze to the dusting of glitter she skimmed between her breasts, he added, “This is a big place, you need to know where to go to get what you want.”

He seemed harmless enough, but Taryn wanted to end things quickly, before he made the one offer she was forbidden to refuse.

Vials of Aquilonia

Right now I am working on Vials of Aquilonia. So that is my wip (work in progress). I have a contract for Stone of Cruento which I haven't seen a cover for, or even got the final edits for yet. My first book Prophecy of Vithan is the only book on the market so far.

My future work will consist of novels placed around the Twin Planet System. Each with a heroic woman, a handsome and capable man who gets himself in a situation that only the heroine can rescue him from, and some really horrific monster, and of course they have to save the world, planet, system, and maybe the universe.

Each of these books are available or will be available from Cerridwen Press at www.cerridwenpress.com.

And cause my mind is on Vials of Aquilonia, I am going to post an excerpt of my wip.

Excerpt Vials of Aquilonia unedited:

"Carus, you sorry excuse of a lander, keep that line taut."
Carus strained against the rail, his muscular legs braced while his arms corded with the strain. He listened to the grunts of the sailors beside him as they hauled Captain Jarvis' latest find aboard ship.
Captain Jarvis fancied himself a pirate and a treasure hunter. His ship was the finest in the system, a technological wonder with all the latest equipment and gadgetry. It was also disguised as a clipper ship complete with sails. Jarvis went so far as to make the ship appear as a clipper when they were on water complete with rigging, sails, and able body sea men. It kept the crew on their toes and in top shape.
Carus had failed in paying attention this morning. He let his attention wander. He had let his portion of the line go slack. He put the men and more importantly the haul in jeopardy. Carus knew once they loaded the cache he would be in for a reprimand.
He also knew his offence was not bad enough to warrant harsh punishment. The cache was retrieved and no loss of wealth or life had been sustained. In the two years he had served with Jarvis he had seen what punishment was. Loss of life meant a flogging. You did not put your shipmates in danger, but killing a second person when one had already been lost was not cost effective. Lost of wealth by misdeed or by dishonesty was punishable by death. Other offenses were punished by loss of privileges or freedom.
Carus hoped all he would get would be a tongue lashing.
He focused on the task at hand. His encounter with the captain would have to be put on the back burner of his mind unless he wanted harsher punishment. The loss of one Sadchian emerald he would be looking at death.
With a sigh of relief from the entire crew, the load of emeralds was pulled from a star-freighter that crashed and sank in the ocean of this particular planet. Jarvis traveled from planet to planet in search of salvage, but only the richest salvage. The richest usually meant the hardest to acquire. The richest was salvage that no other crew would risk working on because the loss of life was too great. Captain Jarvis and his crew were the best. They retrieved the richest salvage because they knew what they were doing and did it well.
Carus worked his end of line spilling the emeralds on the deck. The processors, robots programmed for this particular work, would appear soon. The sailors would be relieved of duty to relax for a few hours while the processors did their jobs. The emeralds were worth over one hundred twenty five million creds processed. Unprocessed they were worthless. The emeralds had poisonous gases trapped inside them. The processors would vent the gases while the crew was safe inside the ship. After the robots completed the venting and cleaning, the emeralds were marketable and would make the captain a great deal of money. That was the whole point of Captain Jarvis. That was the whole point of working for Captain Jarvis. Money.
The crew started patting themselves on the back for a job well done as they headed into the ship.
"Carus in my ready room, now," Captain Jarvis ordered.
"Aye, sir," Carus said quietly. The looks the other men didn't give him spoke volumes. They turned away and avoided his eyes. They had all, at one time or another, been on the wrong side of Jarvis. It was never a pleasant experience.
"What the hell was wrong with you, Carus?" Jarvis sank into his chair behind a large desk. He shoved his boots off, first with one foot then another. Pulling open an old fashioned drawer he took out a bottle of Cardasian Ale. Taking two thimble-sized glasses he poured each of them a drink.
Carus took the small glass. Holding it he and no loss of wealth or life had been sustained. In the two years he had served with Jarvis he had seen what punishment was. Loss of life meant a flogging. You did not put your shipmates in danger, but killing a second person when one had already been lost was not cost effective. Lost of wealth by misdeed or by dishonesty was punishable by death. Other offenses were punished by loss of privileges or freedom.
Carus hoped all he would get would be a tongue lashing.
He focused on the task at hand. His encounter with the captain would have to be put on the back burner of his mind unless he wanted harsher punishment. The loss of one Sadchian emerald he would be looking at death.
With a sigh of relief from the entire crew, the load of emeralds was pulled from a star-freighter that crashed and sank in the ocean of this particular planet. Jarvis traveled from planet to planet in search of salvage, but only the richest salvage. The richest usually meant the hardest to acquire. The richest was salvage that no other crew would risk working on because the loss of life was too great. Captain Jarvis and his crew were the best. They retrieved the richest salvage because they knew what they were doing and did it well.
Carus worked his end of line spilling the emeralds on the deck. The processors, robots programmed for this particular work, would appear soon. The sailors would be relieved of duty to relax for a few hours while the processors did their jobs. The emeralds were worth over one hundred twenty five million creds processed. Unprocessed they were worthless. The emeralds had poisonous gases trapped inside them. The processors would vent the gases while the crew was safe inside the ship. After the robots completed the venting and cleaning, the emeralds were marketable and would make the captain a great deal of money. That was the whole point of Captain Jarvis. That was the whole point of working for Captain Jarvis. Money.
The crew started patting themselves on the back for a job well done as they headed into the ship.
"Carus in my ready room, now," Captain Jarvis ordered.
"Aye, sir," Carus said quietly. The looks the other men didn't give him spoke volumes. They turned away and avoided his eyes. They had all, at one time or another, been on the wrong side of Jarvis. It was never a pleasant experience.
"What the hell was wrong with you, Carus?" Jarvis sank into his chair behind a large desk. He shoved his boots off, first with one foot then another. Pulling open an old fashioned drawer he took out a bottle of Cardasian Ale. Taking two thimble-sized glasses he poured each of them a drink.
Carus took the small glass. Holding it he suddenly got dizzy. He reeled for a moment and lurched to the chair. The glass dropped from his hand shattering on the metal floor of the star-ship. Thick yellow gel splattered. The expensive, highly alcoholic Cardasian Ale marked his pant legs and the wall of the captain's cabin. Carus sank to his knees. His vision blurred. The room around him disappeared.
"A sip," The black haired beauty handed him, no not him someone else like him, a tiny cup filled with Cardasian Ale. "That is all you can have. Any more and it would kill you."
"Morgan, I'm not a child anymore. I am Emperor."
"Yes, you are. And you can not do something as stupid as drink a full glass of Cardasian Ale. I can drink it. I am Sonij. You are Dkr. If you drink any more than this taste it will burn out your brain cells and if you are lucky, kill you. If not, the Twin Planet System will have a brain-dead moron for an Emperor."

snow snow go away...

Okay, it's the end of February, and I am officially tired of winter. I've started humming Jimmy Buffett tunes and using tropical fruit-scented shower gel just to try to fool myself. It helps, as long as I don't try to leave the house. Then the act of scraping the ice and snow off my car brings winter back home with a vengeance.

On the other hand, this time of year always makes me wonder about the people around me. Aside from a few years in grad school, I've lived my whole life in Michigan. I'm used to snow. I understand the concept, and I know how to dress for it, how to deal with it, even how to drive in it. And yet every time there's a dusting of a quarter-inch, I swear everyone in Michigan has forgotten how to drive in it. Yeesh. You live here. Get a clue.

Likewise, I have to laugh at the weather reporters these days. You wake up to hear about a humongous blizzard that has blanketed the state and paralyzed life as we know it. Then I look out my window and see three inches. Good grief people. You live in Michigan. It's winter. Buy a pair of gloves and get over it.

While I may be seeing sandy beaches and fruity drinks in my mind, I recognize that I'm an adult. I've chosen to live here, for whatever reasons. (In my case, mostly family.) So even while I daydream about oiled hunks and tropical breezes, I'll pull on my pack boots and parka, and hope the kids DON'T have a snow day tomorrow. Maybe I'll go write a beach story. Hmmm--that should warm things up!

Daydream believing

I've always been a dreamer. From the earliest memories I have I recall sitting and dreaming of other things. Perhaps I was adopted and I was really royalty. Switched at birth like one of the shows on tv? Maybe my family was really aliens like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers? I'm sure some of you had the same thoughts as a child. But mine went further until I created not only other people but entirely different worlds. And I liked them.
My family always thought that my imagination would land me into an acting career. I was part of the drama department all through high school and college. The lead in most of our school plays. But I often found myself wanting to rewrite certain scenes or make other small changes to the story.
Then one day my father called and told me that he had written a book and was going through the motions to self publish. I was amazed and awed. My father and I have often written poetry as well as my other two sisters. But a book? And then I thought of all the times that I had stated in jest that I was going to write. Could I do it? Could I really sit down at a computer and stare at a blank page and create a story that others would like?
It was my father who gave me the courage I needed to sit down and begin work on my first story. And thus His Bare Obsession was born and with it not only the Bare Love series but a brand new career for me.
Last Thursday I celebrated my one year anniversary with Ellora's Cave. It was one year ago on Feb 21, 2007 that His Bare Obsession released. It has been a year of ups and downs for me and I'm so grateful to my father for giving me the push I needed to step out of my box and take a chance. It has paid off in spades. I have a new career, new friends and the possibilities before me are endless.
I'm living proof that dreams do come true...if only you believe.

Lacey Thorn





It's your world...unlaced

All the cowboys of White Tail are here now

Three years ago I created the fictional town of White Tail, Texas, very much like the Texas town I live near. Love With a Prioper Rancher introduced the Cutter brothers but focused on Ryan, a man very much like one of my neighbors. And the Wolfe ranch two miles down the road from me became the Circle C. In Cutter's Law we had Morgan Cutter's story, and now we have Tate Donovan, the owner - sort of -of the vast yellow Rose Ranch. It's available at The Wild Rose Press and Fictionwise.

Tate Donovan was sure The Yellow Rose ranch would be his when his father died. After all, he’d grown up there and it was his legacy. But Abby Culhane was King’s stepdaughter for many years and held a place in the old man’s heart right up to the end. When King leaves her one fourth of the ranch and Tate’s grandparents’ home, Tate is shocked. Then he sees the grown-up Abby and can’t decide whether he wants to fight her over the will or take her to bed. The entire town of White Tail, Texas rolls up its sleeves and sits back to watch the fireworks.

“This is crazy. Nuts!”
Tate Donovan was pacing the carpet in Ryan Cutter’s law office, thumbs hooked in the pants pockets of his expensive western-cut suit. His feet in custom-tooled boots wore a path from the large window to the wall and back again. “I can’t believe the old man would do this.”
“He did it,” Ryan assured him in a calm voice. “And it’s all legal. Abby gets one quarter interest in the Yellow Rose and all of Sycamore Grove.”
“That’s my goddamn ranch,” Tate shouted, stopping in front of the attorney’s desk, jaw grim, eyes flashing fire.
“And now I believe also mine.”
Abby Culhane sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs in front of Ryan’s desk, outwardly projecting a picture of serenity in her emerald silk dress, diamond earrings winking in the light slanting in through the windows. But she was far from peaceful. Inwardly seething, she twisted the antique ruby ring on her finger round and round in endless circles.
The day had been very long. She was tired and irritable, and the last place she wanted to be was tiny White Tail, Texas, a place she’d literally run from ten years earlier. Her flight from New York had left early that morning, then there was the three hour drive from San Antonio because she’d missed the last commuter plane to Mesquite, the closest town to White Tail. She was still wondering where in the hell she was going to sleep tonight. As far as she could remember, there was no motel in White Tail.
The ten years she had lived at the great Donovan ranch were one long, unpleasant memory, mostly due to Tate making her life miserable every waking moment. Her only respite had been the four years he’d been away at college. When her mother and Tate’s father divorced, Janet Culhane had dragged Abby off to New York and that had been that.
Now she just wanted to get this done and get out of here. But Tate Donovan got her back up, just like he always had. Like the night of her senior prom, a moment in her life that still made her want to jump under the covers and pull them over her head.
“I think you can consider me a part owner,” she went on. It gave her great pleasure to see how angry he was. Payback, she thought smugly.
“Not for long, sister.” Tate whirled on her, his fists clenched. “That ranch belongs to me—along with Sycamore Grove— and there’s no way I’m letting you get one greedy finger on either of them. Your mother walked out on my father. You don’t deserve one inch of land or one damn penny.”
“Tate, why don’t you sit down for a minute.” She could tell Ryan made his voice as reasonable as he could. “We have a lot of details to iron out here, and maybe we can all come to some kind of understanding.”
Abby recalled that Ryan was only a few years older than Tate, but they obviously had grown to know each other well, since Ryan had become the Donovan attorney.
She looked carefully at Tate. Was he still the arrogant muscle head she’d known ten years ago? His body was still lean but even more muscular, more defined. His black hair still had the same, silky look to it, and thick lashes still framed electric blue eyes. His face had more lines grooved in it, and the dimple in his left cheek was more pronounced. Today his body radiated a fine tension.
What she wasn’t prepared for was his commanding presence that dominated the room, and the waves of sexuality that rolled off him like ocean breakers. Little pinpoints of electricity stabbed at her body, which she squashed with great effort. She was in the middle of a war here. She didn’t need to be entertaining erotic fantasies about the enemy.

Where do you get your ideas?

A question that authors invaribly get from readers and interviewers alike is
"Where do you get your ideas?"

Of course, that is a silly question. Where does any of us get any ideas? Where did Edison get his idea for the light bulb? Where did Barbara Bradford get her ideas for the romance she wrote about? Where did your son/daughter/niece/nephew get the idea to color a garden on the kitchen wall?

The answer, "From our imaginations, of course."

The better question might be: "What inspired your imagination to put the ideas together in the pattern and in the series of events as you did to create the novel you wrote/the invention you created/the art work you manifested?"

Of course, but the time you get done saying the question, it is so long and lengthy, the person being interviewed has yawned, gone for coffee, and forgotten who she was talking to. And the questioneer has forgotten the purpose of the question.

So, perhaps, we should just stick with the tried and true.

Madam Author? Where did you get your idea?