You can follow Laurie on Twitter at @mizwrite (https://twitter.com/#!/mizwrite).

 Laurie’s blog, http://mizwrite.com/, features her life with three teenagers and her own real-life hero, aka “Superman.” Laurie wrote their true-life love story in serial format one summer—G-rated because she knows her kids will read it—and you can swoon along at http://mizwrite.com/how-i-met-superman/.

Take it away, Laurie!!

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

So Why Aren’t You?

Sign up for first Nationals – check. Sign up for agent-editor appointments – check. Design business cards – check. Put Golden Heart pin in drawer for safekeeping – check. …

I’m slowly working through my list of things to do as a newbie Golden Heart finalist. But honestly – between you and me – I can hardly believe it’s happening.

I started writing romance fiction about six years ago, mostly because Oprah told me to.

I was standing in the kitchen one afternoon, drying dishes, watching her afternoon television show while I listened for my youngest to come downstairs and ask where his tennis shoes were for the millionth time. I was a stay-at-home-mom-who-freelanced, happy with my job(s), happy with where I was, happy with everything – or so I thought. Until, that is, Oprah stood up that day from her yellow studio couch and asked her viewing audience to imagine, for a second, what they would be if they could be anything.

My dishtowel hardly missed a swipe. “A novelist,” I said into the quiet kitchen, putting a glass away into the cupboard. But then I sort of froze: Where had that come from?

I grabbed the next dish a little slower as Oprah left a dramatic pause. Then she turned to the camera and said, “So why aren’t you?”

My dishtowel dropped to my side. I turned toward the TV and stared. I stared at Oprah. I stared at the other audience members, who looked similarly stunned.

So why aren’t you?

It sounds sort of silly that a television show – and one line out of it, at that – could change my life, but that show did. That line did. Because I wondered, then, for the next several hours, so why aren’t I?

I started ticking off all the old reasons. As every self-respecting English major does, I had the proverbial Great American Novel started, unfinished, and stuffed into my underwear drawer. I began writing it right out of college. But then life got in the way and I created a series of new reasons: I was just out of college. I was starting a “real” career. I was starting a family. I had little ones to raise. I was already working too many hours at the newspaper. I was already writing for a living. I was too busy. …

But that day, after drying all the dishes, all the old reasons seemed to slowly disappear. Suddenly the idea of being a novelist didn’t sound crazy. I now had the time. I had the education. I had the familiarity with the publishing industry. I knew deadlines. I knew editing marks. I knew editors. My kids were older, and were leaving me pockets of time to work. I already wrote every day. Suddenly I didn’t know why I wasn’t working to become the one other thing I would still be if I could be anything. …

The next day, I went to the book store and scoured the reference section for books on how to write novels, and thus began my long (and still ongoing) education to do the very thing I always dreamed of doing.

I chose romance novels pretty quickly. Although I didn’t read romance novels as a teen (horror was my genre of choice then), and had been raised on a strict diet of literary classics as a young adult, I knew one thing loud and true: I loved the concept of romance, both in writing and in real life. I myself was always in love, and I loved hearing about how people fell in love, and stayed in love, and fell out of love, and found love again. I always enjoyed the romantic elements of any books, even when I was a kid. I thrilled when Calvin held Meg’s hand in A Wrinkle in Time, or when Almanzo first paid attention to Laura Ingalls. I loved Philip Hall Likes Me I Reckon Maybe when I was in 5^th grade, and I dog-eared all my Judy Blume books like any preteen girl did in the ‘70s. I pined like Meggie did in The Thorn Birds, and I sighed along with Florentino in Love in the Time of Cholera. I was in love with love.

After selecting my first “how to” book, I walked in and out of the romance section about seven times, but didn’t know where to start. The only romance I’d ever read was a Danielle Steele book in about 1985, and I figured a lot had changed since then. So I went home and dove into the message boards. And the blogs. I can’t remember what I originally searched for, but eventually certain names kept popping up: Jenny Crusie, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Suzanne Brockmann, Lisa Kleypas … Eventually, somehow, I decided on the Jenny Crusie. (I think someone mentioned “humor” and I thought that sounded like something I’d enjoy.) So I marched into my library and found Bet Me. I walked to the checkout counter. The librarian smiled when she saw the book. “This is SO GOOD,” she said. I shrugged noncommittally and told her I’d never read Jenny Crusie before. “Oh, you’ll be back,” she told me.

I recall giving another shrug of skepticism.

“I’ll set some aside,” she said with a knowing smile.

Needless to say, I was back in two days. I snatched up every Crusie she stacked on the counter for me. I moved on to Susan Elizabeth Phillips. Then Suzanne Brockmann. Then bought all their backlists. Then some Nora Roberts, Laura Kinsdale, Lisa Kleypas, J.R. Ward, Mary Balogh, Diana Gabaldon, Eloisa James. … My bookshelves began overflowing with these writers I instantly fell in love with.

Basically, I couldn’t get enough.

I realized that my instinct was right – I’m thoroughly in love with love. I’m not one of those people who is bothered by the constant “happily ever after” – I cherish that. To me, it feels like walking up to random couples on a train and asking “How did you meet? How did you fall in love?” Sure, the story always ends the same, but the route to get there is as varied as snowflakes. And I believe in true love. I’m in it.

So here we are, six years, three manuscripts, and a gazillion drafts later, and I’m tucking my Golden Heart pin into a drawer for safekeeping. …

I can hardly believe it.

And it’s all because Oprah pointed out to me, that one day, that you shouldn’t get rid of childhood dreams. If you aren’t doing exactly what you’ve always wanted to do, you have to ask yourself “So why aren’t you?” …

*********************************************************************************************************************************

Here’s a bit more about Laurie’s Golden Heart book, EARNING WINGS:

Channeling femme fatales has always worked for Simone McCabe in the past, but even Mae West can’t get her out of this one. …

When her mother falls ill just after inheriting an airport-ranch resort named “Wings” from an old boyfriend, Simone treks up to the California mountaintop to claim it for her. But Simone didn’t factor in the ranch’s sexy owner, Adam. The scowling, suspicious, Levi-wearing Mr. Responsibility is definitely not letting the place go quietly.

Several cranky cows later — along with a $10,000-a-day bet, a mysterious cardboard box, a horse with a terrible sugar habit, and a Cessna flight that ends in a wildflower meadow — Adam and Simone slowly come to grips with their parents’ real pasts, how your heart can get in the way of business, and what it truly means to “earn wings.”

***********************************************************************************************************************************

Here’s Laurie’s question for you today: When did you first make the decision to pursue your writing dreams? Have you, or have others you know, pursued other big dreams later in life (like a woman I know who moved to Beverly Hills at the age of 60 to begin acting, or a friend of a friend who tried out for the Rockettes at 35)? Please share – the stories are always inspiring!

Some might find it difficult to carve a hero out of someone so wretched. Oh, but I have fun with the challenge. I adore the pirates starring in my Romancing the Pirate series. Each and every one of them, their quirks, their motivations, I even find the pirate villains a bit fascinating. But my heart lies with the captains. I make no excuses for my pirates’ behaviors and neither do they.

In The Siren’s Song, released May 16^th through Carina Press, Captain Thayer Drake is no different. In fact, he’s downright reprehensible. He lures ships with false lights to the reefs off the Florida coast. In exchange for help—and their lives—he takes what he wants from the hapless ships and sells the ‘salvage’ at auction.

Now any pirate worth his salt has to be just as assertive and possessive with the ladies as he is with his quarry. (giggle, giggle, snort) It takes a courageous, strong woman to tame a rogue. And Gilly McCoy has her work cut out for her with Captain Drake.

Excerpt:

The sun now blazed from its zenith in the sky. Only slivers of shade from the canvas sails overhead could be found hugging to the crevices and corners of the ship. Heat rose from the baking deck, and without the constant breezes, she would suffocate from the hot air.

The ship’s bell struck and Gilly counted the rings. It was time to pay her debt to the captain. She’d been tallying the bells as they struck every half hour all throughout the watch. Two bells. Her chest tightened. Mixed emotions churned in her stomach. Four bells. She wanted to kiss him, didn’t she? Of course she did. Six bells. Was she supposed to go to him? Where would he be waiting? In his cabin? She glanced at Willie and Henri. They didn’t seem to know of her quandary. She couldn’t ask them for an opinion. How mortifying to think of it. Seven bells. Would she be good at it, good enough for him? How would she compare to others he had kissed? Eight bells. Lord help her, she surely was going to faint.

Before the final peal of the bell faded into the winds, Captain Drake appeared at the top of the ladder. Time slowed as he glided toward her. She slid off her perch and met him halfway.

“Eight bells, milady.”

“I’m ready,” she said. Closing her eyes, she puckered, waiting for his lips to descend upon her. Waiting to inhale his delicious musk. Waiting for his hands to roam across her back and his fingers to thread through her hair. Waiting. Why hadn’t he kissed her yet?

“What’s the lass doin’?” Henri asked. “Is she alright?”

“Maybe the heat’s done gotten to her,” Willie answered.

She popped open one eye. Gone was the captain’s mask of steely austerity. His amusement beamed brighter than the unforgiving sun. The heat couldn’t compare to her swill of embarrassment. Sweat beaded on her brow and she wished with all her heart she could disappear. Why didn’t he kiss her? How idiotic she must look. She huffed, angry now. Mustering up a scrap of dignity, she confronted the cur.

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you kiss me?” She propped her hands on her hips. “Have you gone back on our accord?”

His smug laugh indicated he had not. “I never renege on a deal, Miss McCoy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have misinterpreted the terms. Our agreement stated that you kiss me. Not the other way around.”

“Oh.” Won’t death spare me this humiliation?

She was helpless. She had never kissed a man, only been kissed. This changed everything. It simply was not proper. Come now, Gilly. You haven’t been proper since the day Hyde laid eyes upon you. And besides, you want to kiss him.

“All right, Captain Drake. I shall play by your rules.”

She rose to her tiptoes and, quick as a rabbit dashing into a briar patch, she pecked him on his mouth.

“There,” she said. “It’s done. I kissed you.” She grinned a self-satisfied smile. “Come back at the next eight bells. I shall be ready.”

“Uh-uh. Not quite, lass. That’s not at all how I want you to kiss me.”

“A kiss is a kiss.”

“Nay, lass. That is how you kiss a codfish.”

She gasped and her hand flew to her bosom at the insult. “And just how am I supposed to kiss you, Captain? There were no stipulations on the manner of kiss.”

“Kiss me as you did last night.”

She poked him in his chest. “You kissed me.”

“At first, yes. But then you lost your chaste modesty and your voracious appetite took over.”

If she could get her hands on his cutlass, she would end her suffering. Gilly glanced over her shoulder. Both Henri and Willie quickly, but not quickly enough, became occupied, pretending miserably not to have been listening in on their exchange. Henri fiddled with his vest pocket and Willie tapped at the compass he kept fixed to his wheel.

“You need not let shamefulness get the better of you, Miss McCoy. You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” Captain Drake said.

She frowned. He did not make things any easier by calling her on her discomfiture.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

What a wicked, wicked man. The only way to wipe that smirk from his face was to give him the best kiss he ever had in his wretched life.

Gilly grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and smothered his lips. Long and hard, she pressed against him. He tensed under her grip. His arms reached out, as if to hold her. But he didn’t. Nevertheless, she felt his smile. And that pleased her.

She broke free of him. Excitement coursed through her veins. Liberation was hers. She could do that again. Eight more times, in fact.

~~~~~~

I’ve had pirates with suicidal tendencies, anger issues, libidinous overindulgent, extreme recklessness, and an alcoholic marauder. But they all have had redeeming traits. I promise. I delight in the journey of the spirited heroines who undertake to tame them.

For another excerpt The Siren’s Song, click here.

Want to HEAR an excerpt. Click here for an audio snippet.

Did I convince you that pirates can have a heart as gold as a Spanish doubloon? Click here to take a chance with your own copy. The Siren’s Song is available at Carina Press, Amazon, B&N, Audible, and All Romance.Don’t forget, you can catch up with me at www.jbrayweber.com

Tell me. What do you think of heroes in desperate need of atonement? Thumbs up or thumbs down?

Leave a comment and you could win a copy of THE SIREN’S SONG!

Today I’m wearing an old pair of battered pointe shoes and dancing on my toes as we celebrate the release of Amanda Brice’s young adult novel, Pointe of No Return. The second book in the Dani Spevak Mystery Series, Amanda’s latest novel for teens/tweens is a charming blend of compelling mystery, quirky humor, and a dash of sweet romance. Bonus points for her rich, fascinating dance world setting. More on that below, but here’s a quick peek at Pointe:

Aspiring ballerina Dani Spevak’s visions of sugar plums are dashed when she’s assigned to understudy her nemesis, Hadley Taylor, in the Nutcracker. Pretty, popular, and rich, that girl has all the luck. Or so she thought. When Hadley mysteriously disappears with opening night just around the corner, Dani can’t sit idly by, even if it means losing the part. Now she’s running all over Phoenix in a race against the clock. From reality TV trophy wives to sleazy real estate developers to a possible drug ring, the cast of suspects begins to add up. Will she find Hadley before the curtain rises?

Shelley: As the mother of three teen-aged ballerinas, I adored the dance world you created. Seriously, Amanda, you absolutely nailed the passions and pains I see daily in my daughters and their dancer friends. Why did you choose to write about dancers?

Amanda: Amanda: Awww, thanks, Shelley! I’ve been dancing almost my entire life. My parents enrolled me in dance classes at age three because I used to jump up and dance around the room every time the Coke commercial came on. I got serious around eleven or twelve or so, and danced through my tween and teen years in a pre-pro company. I then took ballet, flamenco, and ballroom in college (and competed at the intercollegiate level in ballroom), but got away from it when I was in law school because I just didn’t have the time. Then I came back to ballet as an adult around age twenty eight, although actually I haven’t been to a class of my own since August when I was about five months pregnant. (And I totally hit those double pirouettes despite a messed up sense of balance, too! Go me!) But my almost two-and-a-half year-old is taking ballet these days, and while she doesn’t really pay too much attention during class, she’s constantly regaling us at home with her prowess at pliés, elevés, passés, and arabesques. As well she should.

Anyway, when I think back to my teen years, dance was the constant, and it’s what jumps out at me the most, so it just seemed like an obvious plot device for me. I basically wrote the kinds of books I would have loved to read when I was that age.

Shelley: Are any of the scenes, characters, or plot threads yanked from your life as a dancer?

Amanda: Well, it’s fiction, so I definitely made up a lot of it. I didn’t have a beyotchy nemesis like Hadley, nor did I ever solve mysteries like Dani, but when I gave the first book to some of my old dance friends, they agreed they felt like they were reading themselves on the page. Sadly, the eating disorder subplot was pulled from my own experience, and several of the scenes in dance class were as well. But the specific plots of each book are pure imagination.

Shelley: Most of our Ruby Blog readers are writers, and I can’t help but point out that this is a classic case of “writing what you know.” What are the upsides of using your hobbies in your writing?

Amanda: My dirty little secret is that I’m basically lazy. (My Ruby sisters are laughing at me, but it’s true!) Between a full-time job as a lawyer and a full-time job as a mommy to a rambunctious toddler and an adorable infant — as well as serving as president of my local chapter, Washington Romance Writers — I don’t have much time for writing, so I certainly don’t have time for research. Thus, I subscribe to the “write what you know” school of thought, and when it comes to my teen years “what I know” is dance. So it was the logical backdrop for my series. I think (hope) that it makes for a richer experience for the reader.

I think you also write what you know, right? If I recall correctly, you were an editor for a food magazine, and I definitely noticed the prominent role that cooking and baking plays in Welcome, Caller, This is Chloe. I couldn’t imagine that book without tamales de dulce.

Shelley: Guilty. I’m a food writer, restaurant reviewer, and avid foodie. I included the tamales de dulce recipe in my YA debut because Chloe cooking with her two best friends played a huge role in creating their friendship years ago. Honestly, I was shocked when my editor at Amulet allowed me to keep it in because not many YA books includes recipes. Now, any warnings to our blog readers who want to incorporate hobbies – like dancing or cooking – into their WIPs?

Amanda: It can definitely put you in your comfort zone, but that runs the risk of becoming blind to the rest of the world’s knowledge of the subject — or lack thereof. Finding the right balance between too much lingo and not sounding authentic can be tricky. I can’t assume my readers are all dancers (although many are!), so I need to explain what the terms mean, but I don’t want to sound clunky, either. In my first drafts I tend to just write and then need to incorporate some in-text explanations in the second pass.

Shelley: With so many young dancers out there, including my little band of pancake-tutu-obsessed ballerinas, it seems that this is a perfect opportunity to target the world-wide dance market.

Amanda: Miriam Landis-Wenger, a former ballerina with the Miami City Ballet and the author of Breaking Pointe, called me the “queen of the ballet mystery.” I was thrilled, but I think I’m probably the only author writing ballet mysteries! With so many dance shows on TV these days — Dance Academy, the upcoming Bunheads on ABC Family, as well as the old standbys Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance — it struck me as the right time to publish. Although I have readers who know nothing about the dance world, I’ve found that I have good luck when I promote to dance students. Last year Dance Spirit Magazine featured my debut book, Codename: Dancer, on their website and in their e-newsletter. I’ve also run ads in recital programs, including Ruby Sis Anne Marie Becker’s daughter’s program.

I’m also finding success in using Facebook ads. I love these inexpensive ads, because you can narrowly target your audience (I like to show the ad only to people who have “liked” Dance Academy  or the School of American Ballet because I know that these people are likely to be interested in a book set in a ballet boarding school). And you can run them for as little as $1/day.

Shelley: Sounds like smart marketing, Amanda, and a great tip for our published blog readers to incorporate into their own promotions strategies. And thanks for the insiders’ look at your dance and story world. Now it’s your turn, Ruby Readers. Do your personal interests or hobbies sneak into your books? One commenter below will win a $25 gift card to Barnes & Noble.

Pointe of No Return has been chosen as a “Nook First Pick” by Barnes & Noble  and released exclusively for the NOOK on May 14. It will be available everywhere else on June 13. You can visit Amanda and find out more about her Dani Spevak mysteries at www.amandabrice.net.

I have release day jitters. I didn’t think I would, but the closer this day came, the more I started worrying about that horrible thing called reader expectation. So, I figured I’d turn my angst into a discussion and find out what things influence you, as a reader, to pick up a book. Because, I don’t know about you, but by the time I’ve one-clicked that book for my Kindle, or brought it up to the purchase counter, I’ve already formed an impression of what kind of story I expect the author to deliver.

How did I make those judgments?

Book Cover – Probably the single most influential factor in getting me to check out the book in the first place.

Blurb – The blurb sets the tone. Let’s me know if I’m in for funny, emotional, mysterious, exciting, scary, or all of the above. (All of the above? Yeah, I’d like to read that book!)

Sample – Whether you can read an excerpt at the author’s website, sample on Kindle or Nook, or walk into a bookstore and skim the first couple of pages, the sample can make or break the sale.

If marketing does their job, I should finish the book, feeling like I got exactly what I wanted. But if marketing doesn’t do their job, or if my expectations were somehow off, I might be left disappointed, maybe even angry that I’d been mislead.

How do you form impressions about a new release? Have there ever been times when you expected one thing from a book and got something totally different? Did you feel cheated? Pleasantly surprised? Inquiring minds (well, mine, anyway) want to know what authors can do to ensure their readers always get what they expect.

So here’s a little experiment. While you’re telling me about reader expectation, see if you can figure out what YOU can expect from my newest release, EDGE OF LIGHT. You can pick up a copy at Carina Press, Amazon, B&N, and most other online bookstores. It is also available as an audiobook from Audible!

Blurb:

Taken prisoner by a ruthless group of anarchists deep in the Cambodian jungle, anthropologist Jocelyn Hewitt is isolated in a dark prison cell. Without chance of rescue. Or hope. Until the man in the next cell reaches out to let her know she’s not as alone as she thinks.

CIA agent Oliver Shaw has been held prisoner for over two years. Forced to witness the brutal torture and slow murder of his entire team, his spirit is not just broken, it’s crushed. He no longer believes in hope. Until he hears Jocelyn through the wall, and suddenly feels like a glimpse of light is trying to reach in…

Jocelyn’s heart aches for the tortured man whose presence and voice give her the courage to risk their escape. But first she’ll have to remind Oliver who he once was, what he once loved, and bring him back to life. Only then will they have a chance for freedom—and the kind of love neither ever thought possible.

Excerpt:

Clang.

The metallic knell broke the endless silence.

It was a sound Oliver hadn’t heard for more than six months. He jerked his head up. His stubby pencil fell from his numb fingertips. He froze.

They’d placed someone in the cell next to him.

He shoved aside the ragged copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he’d been scribbling in and covered his ears, his attention riveted on the opposite wall. Enough ghosts already inhabited that cell. The room didn’t need another, more corporeal occupant.

The new prisoner wasn’t his concern. He couldn’t make them matter. Not this time. But he somehow found himself on his feet, scrambling across the floor. He snatched up his metal cup with shaky hands, poured the stagnant water onto the concrete and shrugged out of his linen shirt. Sinking onto his haunches, he wrapped the thin material around the cup and set the bottom against the wall. He pressed his ear to the cup’s rim and waited.

The tin carried vibrations from even the smallest of sounds. Knowing he wasn’t alone could give him the strength to endure another day—or it could drive him further into hell. He didn’t want to witness another man’s fear, didn’t want to hear haunting screams magnified by the room’s flat echo.

Please, God, let him have imagined that iron door slamming.

His palms grew clammy and slipped against the cup. He righted it in time to hear the vibration of a feminine sob. His heart accelerated in an erratic dance—as if caught on Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train”—causing him to teeter for a moment before falling back on his butt.

Another hostage was bad enough, but a woman…

His fingers tightened around the cup. He hurled it at the door where it bounced against iron with a clash before it hit the floor and rolled to a stop in front of his feet. Eyes squeezed tight, he tried to block out the impulse to listen in further.

Ignore her. Ignore that room.

Knowledge was not power. Caring about anything outside his cell was a mistake he wouldn’t be foolish enough to repeat. He turned to retrieve his discarded book, but his fingers snagged the edge of the damn cup instead.

Don’t do it. Do not listen in on her again.

He wound the shirt around the metal circumference once more and set the cup against the wall.

Silence.

He held his breath. Maybe he had just imagined—

“Hello?”

No, she was real. He drank in the vibration that lingered inside his cup, as if that single word were a drop of cool, clean water he could reach out and caress.

He flattened his palm against the wall. God, he craved the contact.

“Is—is anyone there?”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. It would be so easy to call out. After six long months of slow and painful rehabilitation from the brink of death, he desperately wanted to remember what conversation felt like, but he wouldn’t give the woman false hopes just to indulge in a single moment of selfishness.

A sob tore from her. “God, help me.”

Her whisper clawed at his battered heart. He lowered the cup into his lap, squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back against the wall, listening to his pulse rush in his ears.

God.

How long would it take her to realize that He didn’t exist in such a place?

******

I’m having a release party on my blog. Stop by and enter my giveaway extravaganza to win Oliver journal, pendants made from Cambodian money, and copies of my books!

As a third grader, Deborah enraptured her classmates with installments from her first novel, Teddy Bear Invasion From Outer Space, but it wasn’t until 2002 (after a long, writing-free flirtation with computer science) that she decided on a whim to do NaNoWriMo, and found herself joyously writing 100,000 words that month. The writing bug was back! Today, Deborah is writing full time in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, where she’s a member of the local chapter of RWA. 

THE LAZARUS GAMBIT is a steampunk romance set in New Amsterdam, an alternate version of Manhattan were ley lines and aether exist. It features a heroine whose aetheric abilities are on the fritz, a secret society of aether-users, a mysterious death, and a pragmatic cop who doesn’t believe in magic.

You can learn more about Deborah at  her website,  http://www.Deborah-Wright.com and contact her via Facebook at  http://facebook.com/Deborah.B.Wright

Follow her on Twitter at  http://twitter.com/DeborahBWright (or @DeborahBWright) And you can read about her experience doing world-building for her book here.

Take it away, Deborah!

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Hello, My Name is Deborah Wright and I Am A Romance Writer!

First, thank you, Rubies, for having me today! It truly is an honor. I have to admit, though, it feels a bit surreal. You see, I found your blog last year when I searched for information on how to write a synopsis. I used your articles to help me put together a clear synopsis for my Golden Heart entry — and now, here I am! I think I’m still in shock.

I have a confession to make. For the longest time, I didn’t know I was a Romance writer.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good romance as much as the next reader, but my first reading loves were SciFi/Fantasy and Mystery. I grew up sneaking the books from my older brothers’ bookshelves to read, and let me tell you, there was nary a romance in sight! There were, however, an abundance of Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, Tolkien, Christie, and Sayers. So I naturally assumed, when I daydreamed about writing for publication, that those were the genres I’d write in. And, hey, I did dabble there for a long time, starting numerous implausible murder mysteries and the obligatory wretched fantasy quest stories, only to discard each and every one of them within a few pages (and trust me, we’re all glad I did!).

Attempting to write those aborted stories taught me something important, something which surprised me. Each of them had a common element: I always planned a romance–an it-all-ends-happily-ever-after romance–as a major sub-plot. It took awhile for it to sink in, but once I realized what I was doing, I never looked back. Eventually, I did some research online, looking for help with story structure and the craft of writing, and that’s how I found RWA and my local Mid-Willamette Valley chapter. I was thrilled to learn that the Romance genre is as broad and encompassing as it is. And that there are other people out there who also want to write and read the kind of stories I’m interested in.

For example, my Golden Heart finaling book, THE LAZARUS GAMBIT, is Steampunk. It’s set in New Amsterdam, an alternate version of Manhattan, and has elements of fantasy and mystery. And, of course, there’s the romance between the heroine and the hero. Could THE LAZARUS GAMBIT have been written without the romance? Perhaps by someone else, but not me! In my story the romance is inextricably entwined with the other elements of the plot, and I believe the story would be the poorer without it.

I’ll never say never, but I can’t see myself writing a book that doesn’t have a romance of some sort. After all, life is more than just a series of things that happen to people. I think the most interesting bits of a story are those which show us the characters’ reactions and feelings — and what could be more revealing than the emotional changes which occur during the course of a romance?

I have to shake my head when I think what I might have missed if I hadn’t shifted my perception of myself. Now, when people ask what genre of books I write, I proudly say, “I’m a Romance writer.” Really. Who’da thunk it?

What about you? Was Romance your first reading love, or is it a newly acquired taste? And do you have a favorite sub-genre?

Kathleen was born in Minnesota but has lived everywhere: Washington, Idaho, California, Texas, New York, and currently Budapest, Hungary. Fittingly, she has a lot of personas: she’s a certified hypnotherapist but also a former choirgirl (well, actually, she sneaked into the back row of another congregation’s choir when she was 13, hoping for a touch of holiness, and got kicked out before practice was over). She rides in the elegant English style and is trained in dressage, but she has also walked on fire—and not the wimpy lava stones that are cool on the outside. No, for her it was wood stacked five meters high that burned down to a bed of hot coals registering 1200 degrees Fahrenheit. (They fire Toyota engines at 800 degrees. And yes, she still have feet).

She’s also been red hot on the contest circuit, stacking up finals and wins in The Sheila, Golden Claddagh, Heart of Dixie First Chapter Contest, Linda Howard Award of Excellence, Melody of Love, Fab Five, Heart of the West, Finally a Bride, Love and Laughter, the MERWA synopsis contest (in which she not only took first, second, AND third in the Historical category, but was Grand Prize Winner overall), and plenty more.

Her Golden Heart nominated novel A DUKE’S WICKED KISS is set in the Victorian era, but reflects the complexity and international flavor of her own life. The hero is a duke and master spy for the crown, the heroine the illegitimate daughter of a duke, and an Indian royal. They are “bound forever by one haunting kiss, but while their love can rise above the scandal of marriage, will deceit and treachery in the midst of a mutiny tear their world apart?”

 You can learn more about Kathleen at her Website: www.kathleenbittnerroth.com and find her on Facebook here.

She’s got a great story to tell us this morning, so take it away, Kathleen!

****************************************************************************************************************************************

 Shark Attack!

Scuba certified, I was still a bit skittish when it came to diving in unexplored waters. Baja Mexico was new territory. I was twenty-four and the only female in a group of rowdy, accomplished divers camping near Santo Tomas, a tiny fishing village overlooking a craggy shoreline. Our first outing was a spear fishing contest. Whoever landed the biggest fish would be relieved of camping duties for the next twenty-four hours.

A strange foreboding fell over me. “Doesn’t blood attract sharks? I mean, wouldn’t hauling a bleeding fish around in a mesh bag be kinda like…um…chumming?”

The lead diver gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “Get out of the water if you see one.”

I wasn’t about to let any of those alpha males catch me cringing, so I picked out the biggest guy as a diving buddy and geared up. Out of earshot from the others, I told him I’d feel more comfortable staying above thirty feet and near shore the first dive. He rolled his eyes, but agreed. We weren’t five minutes in the water when Buddy tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a large ling cod hovering not five feet below us. He signaled for me to take the shot. I couldn’t have missed the darn target had I tried. I pointed my spear gun, pulled the trigger, and impaled the fleshiest part of the fish. Buddy swam around to face me and gave me a big thumbs up.

And then he glanced over my shoulder and his eyes grew wide. He started back-pedaling.

My heart jumped to my throat.

I dropped the bag filled with the bloody fish.

Too late!

A fast-moving shadow caught my eye. A split second later I was broadsided so hard my regulator flew from my mouth. In shock and with blood pouring from a gaping wound in my side, I managed to retrieve the mouthpiece and sucked in air for dear life while Buddy grabbed my arm and headed for shore. Chilled to the bone and growing weaker by the moment, I prayed I’d make it to land before the shark decided to feast again. God, I didn’t want to die in the water.

By the time Buddy dragged me up the cliff and laid me on my back, I was light-headed from loss of blood. Barely able to speak, I managed to tell him to get me out of Mexico. I wanted to be buried in my own country.

The dear boy leaned over me and with a big grin said, “That ‘shark’ attacking you was nothing but a baby seal playing. He nipped at your wetsuit and tore it, you little weenie.”

I touched my side. Nothing but a rip in the neoprene. Not a scratch on me. All the ‘blood’ I thought I’d lost was nothing more than the release of the quarter inch of warm water that circulates between body and wetsuit to provide insulation. The cold chill was fresh seawater washing in.

Staring up at a sunny blue sky, I at least had the wherewithal to laugh. But then came my moment of epiphany. Right then was when I realized how powerful the mind was and what rotten tricks it can play on a person. Right then was when I realized that for most of my life I had allowed my mind to take charge, had allowed it to wander wherever, whenever. Right then was when I decided to find a way to become self-empowered. I went home and started reading the likes of Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, Florence Scovell Shinn and Napoleon Hill.

Soon, I learned about controlling my thoughts, about deciding something “is” instead of “might be”. I realized that one’s right destiny involves a series of positive choices. My experience with a baby seal nipping at my wetsuit was the moment I knew, without doubt, that my life up to that point was a closed book, chapters complete. I studied and learned. And then I went on to found a successful well-being center.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that my life so far can be broken down into several books. I’m currently on book four, chapter two.

Chapter one of my present Book of Life opened in 2006 when my German husband Hans and I moved from the U.S., to Opatija, Croatia. We had a marvelous time hanging out together. We swam in the sea, played with our dogs, and made new friends. I also regenerated after twenty-one years of working at a career I loved so dearly I lived and breathed it to the point of exhaustion.

Now I’m living chapter two of Book Four.

The pages turned when I returned from Nationals in 2010 and Hans failed to show at the Frankfurt airport. He’d been in a car accident near Salzburg Austria and was hospitalized. A routine CAT scan showed stage four cancer riddling his body. My son and his Hungarian wife urged me to rush Hans to a special hospital in Budapest. But it was too late. Two months later, my beloved was gone, and here I remain.

I don’t think it’s any accident that I live alone in a foreign city. I think that by removing everything around me that was familiar, I found a new layer of myself, new strengths, fresh insights. I forged onward and held onto my dreams with a fervor that keeps me discovering joy and happiness in odd little moments—from a mother duck and her ducklings I feed who live in the castle moat in the park at the end of my street to having lunch with my son in an outdoor cafe during the middle of his work day. And I have fallen in love with Budapest.

Despite 2011 being a year of intense grief, last January I grabbed my life in my hands and forced myself to join a group of women who’ve lived all over the world (I was very aware that socializing after loss is difficult, but necessary to maintain good mental health). Oh, it was hard, so very hard to walk into their monthly meeting. I actually burst into tears when I looked at the first woman I saw and turned to leave, but she encouraged me to stay, so I went to the ladies room, gave myself a pep talk, wiped my eyes and joined the group.

I came home from that meeting and began to write again. Not only did I complete a 100,000 word novel, I tried my hand at my first novella, tossed it into a contest and garnered second place. By Christmas Eve, I had signed with my dream agent. On March 26^th, I got the call that I had finaled in the Golden Heart. I wept. This time for joy. I hadn’t intended to enter A DUKE’S WICKED KISS, but a friend said if I didn’t, she’d never speak to me again. Yay, friend!

What I want to convey here is that the past year and a half was one of the most difficult periods in my life, but I did not give up. I did not whine or fall victim to a corrupt government that seized my property; I did not give up when I lost everything, from a dearly beloved husband to my precious furr kids. Beneath it all, I felt a strange kind of hope and some kind of inner peace that defies explanation.

I take the little things in life and wrap them in neat little packages called journaling, tie them in ribbons marked happiness and joy. There’s a difference between the two, I’ve learned. Happiness is a human emotion, contained within ourselves. We don’t share happiness. We share joy. Joy is a never-ending wellspring that originates from our spirit. Joy fills us up and spills over onto others, onto the next moment and onto everything we touch. I have learned that it is my accountability to bring both aspects into my life while at the same time, being willing to live in the moment, which means feeling the pain of loss along with the good things.

I still don’t know where I’ll end up. At this point, I would love to split my time between here and the U.S., but I’m not making plans. Instead, I am free-floating in the universe with all the faith that there is a destiny for me involving people and more people. And writing. Lots of writing. To be a finalist in the Golden Heart, with a story I penned to help me heal, is deeply gratifying and more than I had imagined when I sat down and wrote like the panster I am.

If you were to ask me for advice, I would say grab your joy, your happiness, your great expectations, and if you have to slay a few dragons along the way, pick up your sword and lunge. Most of all, keep the faith in your heart that there is a special plan unfolding in your life if you will dismiss any fears that occasionally creep in and block your path.

What about you, have you had one of those moments when you realized you had to change? When you grabbed your dreams and held onto them with everything you had in you? I’d love to hear from you.

I’m going to talk about shoes.

But first, I will give you a brief song and dance about WATERS RUN DEEP. It’s the first book in my three-book series called The Boys of Bayou Bridge and it’s set in Cajun country in Louisiana. The books feature a quirky, wealthy Louisiana family (the Dufrenes) and involves a prophecy, a long-lost sister and a kooky matriarch. Waters Run Deep is the story of St. Martin’s sheriff detective Nate Dufrene and the undercover former FBI agent Annie Perez  as they work to protect five year old Spencer from a threat on a movie set…and things get hot on the bayou.

It’s a perfect gift for mother’s day. A perfect beach read. Or a curl up in your jammies and take an imaginary trip to Louisiana afternoon. Here’s the link to learn more: http://www.amazon.com/Waters-Run-Deep-Harlequin-Superromance/dp/0373717768

Okay, now back to shoes.

So I recently went on a girlfriend’s weekend with my besties from high school (and I have a love/hate with the word “besties” – kinda think it’s a cool and stupid term at the same time.) We went to Dallas area, specifically an area in Plano called Legacy. It was a great place for a weekend of shopping, eating, drinking vanilla vodka cokes and staying up late to tell war stories about child birth. We had an awesome, awesome time. There’s something so honest about being with a gal who loaned you a tampon in third period and followed you to the bathroom, blocking the “accident” in the white jeans so no one would see.  We know each other, we love each other and we got each other’s backs…literally. So it was relaxing and I laughed enough that I might have pulled a muscle in my stomach.

But I noticed something funny.

Our shoes.

Girls are usually all about shoes (I know it’s not just me) and we love to pull out of funkiest, sexiest and most wonderful when we’re together. Cause let’s face it. Only another girls is really going to appreciate the wonderfulness of shoes. Can I get an AMEN? I  know there are some of you thinking, “Un-uh. Not me.” Well, I’m just isolating you then because there is something very wonderful about a sweet pair of kicks (my kids’ term for shoes). Shoes make me feel sexy. Or powerful. Or funky. Or trendy. Or _____. Go on and fill in the blank. All of the above. And I’ve been known to drop a pretty penny on ones that transform me when I pull them on. Magic happens. Credit cards are handed over. The position on the shelf in my closet  is evaluated. It’s sad, sick and very real.

But I digress. So I noticed how everyone in the two adjoining rooms pulled out shoes and said things like, “Check these out. I found these at TJ Maxx” or “Where did you get those? They are TOO cute!” and it didn’t even matter what size you wear in clothes, shoes are the great equalizer of fashion. And they reveal a person’s personality. Check out the shoes in the pic. Can you see personalities?

So I got to thinking about my characters. And your characters.

What do their shoes say about them?

In the aforementioned book, my heroine is practical to a fault. Her standard shoe is a running shoe (new ones that escaped Spencer’s vomiting in Chapter One) and because she is tight on cash, it’s super important to Annie that she take care of them. That in a small way says a lot about Annie and who she is. Later in the book, Spencer’s mom, a stereotypical bombshell actress, bonds with Annie by trying to make her a bit sexier. She gives Annie mile-high heels and Annie can barely walk in them. She teeters, totters, but doesn’t fall down. Annie thinks the shoes are silly, but can’t deny they do make her feel sexier…and maybe a bit less inhibited. So this got me to thinking about all my past heroines – Nellie in her rubber boots, Scarlet in her kick-ass boots, Dawn in her Brighton sandals, Kate in her Tory Burch heels….and, well, Rayne’s often barefoot. What do the shoes say about the woman. Lots, if you think about it. I won’t tell you what those shoes mean for the characters in my books because you can see who has insecurities, who is conservative, and who loves to cause a bit of trouble. The shoes tell you a story about the person who pulled them on that morning.

So think about your characters….what kind of shoe epitomizes who she is as a character? Do you mention what shoes your character wears? Or maybe you just think I’m off my rocker here? Either way leave me a comment and I’ll select a winner at the end of the day to win a copy of one of my books. Winner’s choice. You can find the list here: http://www.liztalleybooks.com. Oh, and my shoe is in the pic…wanna guess which one is mine and what it says about me?

When the Rubies heard about this amazing young man, we simply had to know more! Spencer Brokaw published his first book when he was twelve. Today, he is 13 and working on his next novel. Think about that, what were you doing at 12 and 13? As a homeschooling mom of six kids, I love to see creative young men and women. Spencer definitely falls into that category. He is an awesome young man, and I predict a bright, successful future for him. The following are some questions we Rubies came up with so grab your morning brew and learn more about the fascinating Spencer Brokaw.

When did you start writing, and why?

I started writing stories on notebook paper when I was around age 7 or 8, because my dad suggested it as a cure for boredom.

I wrote a lot of stories, mostly on notebook paper. I eventually wrote one on the computer called Agent J, and it was my first “spy” story. It ended, and was only 12 computer pages long. Not long after, I wrote The Impenetrable Spy, never with the intention of publishing it. I just love to write.

I’m not “inspired” per se. I just love writing, and it is a lot of fun to me.

No research was involved until I wrote the sequel to The Impenetrable Spy, which at this point in time is not published. I just used common knowledge I had from video games and movies, and a little bit of imagination.

I don’t have a favorite author, but I really enjoyed Harry Potter.

I am reading The Mysterious Benedict Society, and PRIMAL Unleashed.

Don’t let other people discourage you from writing, and keep doing it.

It’s extremely hard. I normally have a half an hour of homework (or more) a night, and go over to my friend’s house occasionally, so not much time is left to actually write and read other authors works. I get most of my writing and reading done in the summer, because I have the time to focus on it more.

They have gotten over the fact that I published a book, and don’t bug me about it that much, mostly because they know it annoys me. Sometimes, I feel like no one cares to talk to me, just the writer me, and the first thing they ask about is money. My friends ask me about my writing once and a while, and I appreciate it, but they don’t bug me about it like other people at my school do.

Social Media:

You can find Spencer:

on his BLOG

FACEBOOK FAN PAGE

and on TWITTER  He follows back writers, bloggers, and readers!

Where You Can Find Spencer’s book: (only 99 cents!)

AMAZON (in paperback and kindle)

BARNES & NOBLE (nook)

SMASHWORDS