Saying goodbye is never an easy thing, as the Taylor Dayne song says.  But sometimes it just comes down to there being a season for all things, even for ending something that has been great fun.

     We’ve all talked a lot about blogging in the last while, among the Berkley Babes, discussing this one and others, and I think calling an end to it is just a reflection of how the blogging world is evolving.  Most of us have individual blogs now, and that, with lots of other commitments, mean we are all just so darned busy.  Best of all, most of us are super busy with writing!

     I have begun my own blog, which, as the name of it indicates – Donna Writes Romance – is mostly about writing, but also a bit about my history in the publishing business, how I began, how others can try to get published, writing in general, but also some semi-personal stuff.  Like my mother’s adventure in a hip-hop clothing boutique.  LOL!

     Of course there will be more about the release of Awaiting the Fire (Berkley Sensation – September 2007) and everything that comes after!

     So, here is my blog address: http://donnaleasimpson.tripod.com/donnawritesromance

     My site: http://donnaleasimpson.tripod.com

     And my e-mail address: donnawritesromance@yahoo.com

     And it’s not really goodbye, since I’m sure we will be guest blogging on each other’s sites/blogs, etc..  All in all, it has been fun, and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the other Berkley writers this way.  What a talented and diverse group!

     So, I hope I’ll see you all; drop in and check out my blog!!

Awaiting the Fire - Berkley Sensation - September 4th, 2007:   Isn’t the cover for Awaiting the Fire fabulous??  I think it’s very dramatic and in keeping with the gothic/supernatural tone of the series, and the difference between it and the previous covers is a reflection of some of the differences, I suppose, between this third in the series and the previous novels Awaiting the Moon and Awaiting the Night.

The Story:   Swiftly on the heels of Christoph von Wolfram’s discovery of his werewolf heritage, the saga of the von Wolfram family continues.  Charlotte and Christoph, the troubled brother and sister from Germany, arrive in England to meet Countess Charlotte von Wolfram’s English fiancé, a priggish earl. Charlotte’s passionate and impetuous character will prove to be her undoing, and trouble will pursue her across England as she tries against all odds to do the right thing for her younger half-sister, Fanny.  But what is the right thing for herself?  Should she marry the upright and handsome Earl of Wesmorlyn, or let herself be charmed by the mesmerizing Lyulph Randell? Dark forces close in around them all, and Charlotte’s life may be forfeit if she makes the wrong choices.

*This First Chapter excerpt is condensed from the original to save space.  I have a tendency to write long!! 

Chapter One:
London, England - 1795
     “Wes, I’m frightened.”
     Simeon St. Ange, the Earl of Wesmorlyn, turned to face his much-younger half-sister, Hannah, as his valet retreated.  Her gentle voice, so quiet it was almost a whisper, had hardly echoed in the grand front hall of his London town home.  “Hannah, you have more courage than you know.  Think of our family, stiffen your spine and stand up straight.”
     She did as she was told, but the paleness of her face gave away her continuing terror.
     “It is a ballroom, not a torture chamber,” he chided.
     “B-but there will be so many people, and they will all be looking at me.”
     “Some will look, but you will only suffer that for a moment, and then it will pass.  Once Countess Charlotte von Wolfram and her brother arrive, all eyes will be on them.”
     “Aren’t you the least bit anxious, Wes?  Countess Charlotte is your future bride.  What if you dislike her, or what if she is rude?  What if… what if she doesn’t like me?”
     He smiled, finally understanding her fear.  His own anxiety about meeting his German-born fiancée for the first time was well controlled and no one else would ever know his inner turmoil.  He would not allow a trembling uncertainty in his gut to undermine this first meeting.  He framed Hannah’s delicate face with both of his hands.  “You are a sweet angel from heaven.  How could the countess not like you?”
     “I’ve never had a sister,” she said, brightening.  “Perhaps she will like me a little and we’ll become friends.”
     “How could she help but love you?”
     Hannah smiled, radiantly, her pale skin glowing like nacre.  “Will Lyulph be there?” she said, casually, of their old family friend and neighbor from Cornwall.
     “Of course,” Wes said, frowning and noting that she turned away into the shadows as she spoke of him.  “He is in London, and did hint for an invitation.  How could I refuse?”
     “I thought you might say no,” Hannah said, softly, fiddling with her fan.  “You are not so close to him now as you once were.”
     “Things are different in London, Hannah.  In the country our various stations in life do not matter so much, but in town the boundaries must be observed.”  He was silent for a moment, observing her, the peachy perfection of her skin, the exquisite flawlessness of the matched pearls around her slender neck.  Coupled with her naïveté, her beauty and wealth could draw the wrong kind of attention from predatory males.  And iIf there was one man in the world she must not marry, it was Lyulph Randell. 
      “I hope,” he said, watching her open and shut her fan, “that you don’t spend all of your time talking to Lyulph this evening; you may be polite, say hello, and inquire after his well being, but little more.  This ball is for Countess Charlotte and her brother, Count Christoph.  Please be polite to them both and do not hide away.  And do not let the ease of Lyulph’s familiarity lead you to spend an inordinate amount of time with him.”
     “I will be correct, Wes, I promise,” she said, her tone satisfactorily submissive.  She folded the fan, prettily painted with biblical scenes, and held it still in her gloved hands.
     “See that you are.  As a St. Ange, much is expected of you.  It is especially important to make a good impression on our cousin the marchioness, Lady Harroway, for if she likes you she will sponsor your coming out next spring.”
     She stood away from him.  “Am I presentable?”   
     “You look perfectly lovely,” he said. 
     “I wish mama was here.”  She bit her lip, but tears welled in her eyes.
     “I know,” he said, and stepped over to her, taking her in his arms and hugging her, the briefest of gestures before turning away to accept his walking stick from the butler.  “Your mother would be proud.  She loved you very much.  But I’m sure she can see you tonight, Hannah.” 
     As she turned away and applied a delicate scrap of lace to her welling eyes, he felt a pang of pity.  Hannah’s mother, his father’s second wife, had outlived her husband by many years, but in the autumn of the previous year she had succumbed to a fever.  It was then, forced to acknowledge mortality anew, that he accepted what he had known for some time.  He must marry and start a family.  When the Prince of Wales had condescended so far as to suggest he consider marrying a cousin of his new wife, Caroline, Wesmorlyn had cautiously agreed to hear more.  Countess Charlotte von Wolfram, suggested to him as an appropriate bride, was a young lady of impeccable lineage and related by birth to many kings and princes.  She was intelligent, could speak at least three languages, and had been under the tutelage of an Englishwoman to learn British ways and manners, for her family was looking for an English husband for her.  That fact alone, that she had made a study of English ways, appealed to him; she seemed the ideal bride for a man like him, and so he had acquiesced. 
     The betrothal, which was firm on his side but conditional on hers, served the purpose of finding him a wife of excellent heritage and foreign birth, and ingratiated the prince to him.  He had made the contract, but had specified that the young lady had the right to refuse if she came to England but found she could not go through with it.  He would force no woman to uphold a contract in which she had little say, though friends thought him odd and overly nice in his notions of consideration toward the fair sex.
Of course, now that the prince’s marriage was turning out as it was—unhappy and combative, even though the princess was successfully with child—it would not serve Wesmorlyn politically to wed the Countess von Wolfram, but he was never one to evade a commitment once it was made.  He just hoped his future wife would not be the embarrassment to his reputation that Princess Caroline had become to the prince.  Raw, bawdy and jocose, forward and disobedient, Caroline was distasteful to Wesmorlyn and even more so to the poor prince, who must nonetheless support his wife until the birth of his heir freed them to live separate lives.
     “You look very pleasant, and exactly as you should,” he said to his sister, and patted her shoulder.  “But you mustn’t cry; you don’t want to have red, swollen eyes, or people will talk.” 
     “Thank you, Wes.  You are always so kind to me,” Hannah said with a sniff, stiffening her spine and defeating with a great effort the tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.
     “Shall we go?” Wesmorlyn said, as he took his sister’s arm.

      Lyulph Randell arrived back at his London town home just a moment before the rain began to sheet down, changing from the sprinkle of late summer drizzle it had been, to a torrent from above.  He had timed it well, but then, he had a sense about such things.  Nature was no mystery to him, and the change in the air that preceded the downpour was like a beacon shining through the mist.
     He shook the dampness from him, droplets flying from his unruly, dark hair, and raced up the stairs to where his faithful serving man, Diggory, waited patiently, his evening clothes laid out.  This ball at Lady Harroway’s would be a dreadful bore, but he had two objectives in mind, and so would find interest enough.  First, he must at any cost make sure Wesmorlyn and his foreign fiancée did not get along, and then, he must continue his campaign of winning little Lady Hannah’s heart so thoroughly she would never dream of marrying anyone but him.
     Give his peculiar talents and attractions, he did not see that as a problem.  No, it was Wesmorlyn who would prove to be the thorn.  And so he must think of how best to detach the young lady to whom the earl was engaged.  Again, he had talents that would make it simple enough, but still, he would not risk offending Hannah.  She was the ultimate prize.
     As the wordless Diggory assisted him, Lyulph hummed a merry tune.  Tonight would see many of his schemes advance.  Wesmorlyn had no chance against him in the end.  Too polite to cut him out of his life completely, the earl would one day regret that softness.

     Sheets of rain obscured the view outside of the carriage, but Countess Charlotte von Wolfram was not looking out anyway.  She was glaring resolutely ahead, to the seat opposite her where her half sister Fanny sat, her mild blue eyes filled with tears.  But Charlotte hardened her heart.  “Take me home, Christoph,” she said to her older brother, who sat beside Fanny, “or at least to that moldy, damp, disgusting pretence of a home we are forced to live in while we stay on this godforsaken island in this disgraceful city.  London!  Pah!  Nothing better than an open sewer.”
     “We must attend this ball!”
     Charlotte glared at her older brother, almost as blonde as she, but without the dimple in the chin and bow mouth.  In a measured and calm fashion that belied the way her insides were quivering with nerves she said, “I don’t want to.”
     Fanny wept openly, but Christoph spoke from the gloom, his tone resolute.  “We are going in to Lady Harroway’s ball, Charlotte, even if I have to carry you kicking and screaming.  I will not have you insult the Earl of Wesmorlyn, your future husband, for God’s sake, by running away.”
     If only he had offered one scrap of sympathy, said one kind word, she would have broken down and confessed all her fears, her exhaustion, the way her stomach wrung like a washcloth in her belly.  Instead all he did was bark orders, and she couldn’t bear to tell the truth about being afraid with him so remote and frigid.  Any anticipation she may have had for the ball was now dead, stomped out by his fussing, and her nerves were wrought up to a fine, high, feverish pitch.  “I wouldn’t be running away,” she said, through gritted teeth.  “I would merely be delaying the meeting until I have rested.  And I haven’t agreed to marry him.  I just said I’d look him over.”  She clutched her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking.
     “We came all the way from Germany to do so!” Christoph said, his normally quiet voice holding a note of tension.  “I will not have you insult the earl by not attending the ball put on in our honor!”
     Fanny, choking back her tears, said, “We did just arrive this morning, Count Christoph, and I think Charlotte is weary.”
     “Stop calling him ‘count’!  Call him Christoph!” Charlotte barked to her half sister.  “He’s your brother, almost as much as he is mine!”
     “It will take more time than I have yet had to learn to call him brother, I’m afraid,” the girl demurred, with quiet dignity.
     “Get out of the carriage, Charlotte,” Christoph muttered, “or I swear—”
     “Don’t threaten me,” she replied, lowering her head and glaring at him through her fringe of blonde hair, “or you will have to carry me in, and I will make a scene such as you have never imagined.”  He should know how she felt, she thought, desperately, peering through the shadowy gloom, without her having to say a thing.  Couldn’t her brother tell that she was walking the precipice above a deep, dark pit of anxiety?  She was tired, she was scared, and Christoph should know that.  Back home, when she had agreed to come and meet the earl, it had been a far off hazy event and she had agreed because she had another more important reason for wanting to come to England.  She was supposed to meet Lord Wesmorlyn in a private fashion, find out if she liked him, and if she didn’t, she would never have to face any public exposure.  But there had been delays along the way to England, and now, to see him immediately almost the very hour of their arrival in London… it was all too much.
     "Please, Charlotte,” Fanny said, putting one hand on her half sister’s arm.  She glanced out the carriage window.  “Look, the rain has stopped now, and the house is alight with candles, and there are lovely ladies dressed so prettily going in.  And we have such pretty dresses on, and it would be a shame to not go in after all the time it took to dress.”
      Charlotte sighed and looked down at her gloved hands, pulling at the end of one finger, a loose silk thread unraveling as she did so.  She knew Fanny, though frightened, was looking forward to this ball more than she would ever admit.  Charlotte summoned up her courage, willing her exhaustion and nervousness to subside.  She supposed since she had made an agreement, she would fulfill her part of it, which was just to look at the Earl of Wesmorlyn and say yea or nay to marrying him.  She had already decided what her answer would be, but she must go through the forms.  
Decision made, she said, “All right.  I’m ready.  Let us go in.”

     As Charlotte, Christoph and Fanny make their way through the overheated, crowded ballroom, following their hostess to meet Charlotte’s fiance, she not only experiences the dizziness of panic and exhaustion, but overhears insults to both her and her half-sister, Fanny.  And then…

     Before her was standing a tall man with broad shoulders; he was slender, russet-haired and very handsome, with even, stern features. Except for a beaky nose and a broad forehead, he was ordinary. No smile was on his well-shaped lips.  On his arm was a very slight, dainty girl who looked no more than a child next to him.
     “Charlotte,” Christoph said, taking her arm and drawing her forward, “this is his lordship, the Earl of Wesmorlyn, and his younger sister, Lady Hannah St. Ange.  My lord, this is my sister, Countess Charlotte von Wolfram.”
     Charlotte curtsied, then looked up into his brown eyes.  With a jolt she read his expression.  He was disappointed!  He bowed, the frown swiftly erased as his expression became a polite, smooth social mask.  Trembling, she turned to the young lady, who almost hid behind her larger brother.  But the girl, at a muttered order from her brother, stuck out her hand and murmured something too softly to hear.  Charlotte took her hand and they exchanged the merest light pressure before the girl released her.
Turning and pulling Fanny forward, Charlotte said, “This is our sister, Fanny.”
     Fanny, pale and quivering, curtsied but would not raise her head.
     “Sister?” the earl said, his voice quiet but penetrating.  “I had not understood you to have any other siblings but each other.”
     “She is our half sister, newly discovered, in one sense,” Christoph said.
     “I am Wes’s half s-sister,” Lady St. Ange said, the last word coming out with a nervous stutter.  “Just like Miss Fanny is yours.”  The girl looked terrified, but then her expression calmed as she looked behind Charlotte.  “Lyulph,” she cried, affection in her voice.
      Charlotte turned to see another gentleman, not quite as tall as the earl and darker, with olive skin, startling green eyes, and dark thick hair that curled deliciously on his forehead.  He gazed down at her and his smile turned up one corner of his full mouth in a delighted grin.
     Lady Hannah looked up at her brother, but he made no move to introduce anyone, so she stuttered, “C-Countess von Wolfram, this is Mr. Lyulph Randell, a neighbor and very good friend of ours from Cornwall.  Mr. Randell, this is Countess Charlotte and her brother, Count Christoph von Wolfram.”
     “How charming to meet you, countess.  You light up this drab occasion with your golden beauty,” he said with a bow.
     “You are a friend of the family, then?”
     “More than just a friend,” Lady Hannah blurted, and then clapped her mouth shut and looked up at her brother with alarm.
     “May I solicit the exquisite pleasure of the first dance with you, countess?” Mr. Randell said, with a hopeful smile.
     “I would be absolutely delighted, sir,” Charlotte said, with a happy sigh, relief flooding her.  Dancing would dissipate the nerves; all of her fearful anxiety would have an outlet.
     “Charlotte, the earl should have your first dance,” Christoph said in her ear, though his voice was loud enough to carry to the others even over the sound of the orchestra tuning up.
     “But Mr. Randell asked first,” she whispered back at him.  “I could hardly refuse.”
     “That is quite all right, Count von Wolfram,” the earl said, with a stiff bow.  “Since Randell has been so forward and quick, he must, I suppose, be rewarded, but I will solicit the second dance and the supper dance.”
     Charlotte curtsied.  “Perhaps, as Fanny is not engaged for this dance—” she began.
     “Since this is my sister’s first ball,” Wesmorlyn said over her words, “and she really cannot dance with anyone else, I will dance with her for the first set.”
     How rude, Charlotte thought, turning to take Mr. Randell’s arm as he led her to the dance floor.  She glanced back at Fanny, trying to encourage her to smile with a look, but it was no use.  The poor girl was mortified.  Charlotte felt in that moment that she would never forgive the earl for that rudeness.  But then her attention was commanded by her partner and the exigencies of the dance.  
     She glanced around the room as the couples lined up.  Good.  Christoph had taken poor little Fanny into the dance.  How rude the earl had been, snubbing their sister like that, but strangely, it had eased the rest of her nerves.  She could not care what he thought of her, not when he was clearly not the picture of perfect English gentility.  While she had imagined him to be the epitome of good breeding and refinement, she had worried about hurting his feelings when she had to tell him she had no intention of marrying him, but now she had no such compunction. She caught sight of Fanny and smiled.  She would certainly not worry about the Earl of Wesmorlyn any more, and would just enjoy her very first public ball.

     “I’m very nervous, Wes,” Hannah whispered across the form to her brother.  “I’m so grateful you are my first partner.  I feel sure I should faint if it was anyone but you or Lyulph.”
     “Though I do not like Lyulph putting himself forward like that to the countess,” he said, smiling over at her, “I was happy that it worked out this way, for I did not quite know how to tell my fiancée that I really wanted to give you your very first dance.  And you know, because you are not truly out yet, you may not dance with any other young man this time.”
     As the dance progressed and Hannah appeared to be doing well, he had leisure to look about him, and he gazed down the line at Countess Charlotte von Wolfram.  It had been a severe jolt to find her so absolutely breathtaking.  After meeting the prince’s German wife, Caroline, he supposed he had expected someone along her lines, short, stout and ruddy.  Finding the young countess lovely of face and form—wide blue eyes, skin like pearls, pink bow lips with a faint, dimple in her chin and possessed of a slim, lively figure—he had experienced a rush of something like disappointment.  Why?  Had he really preferred a dowdy woman?  Did he fear he would not keep strictly to a morally perfect path if he wished to marry her for other reasons than good blood lines, excellent lineage and the hope of children to carry on his title?
     She was laughing at something Lyulph Randell said as they came together in the figures.  She held Lyulph’s hand too long and let her gaze linger on his face.  She was flirting!
     “Wes, what is wrong?  You look most fierce,” Hannah whispered as they joined to do a step together.
     He calmed his expression.  “Nothing is wrong.”
     “But it is, for—”
     “Hannah!”
     The dance ended and Randell behaved correctly, Wes was relieved to see, and returned Charlotte to her brother, who had been dancing with his half-sister.  Taking Hannah’s arm, he escorted her back through the crowd.
     Charlotte, happily out of breath, was whispering to Fanny about how unexpectedly enjoyable dancing had been with Lyulph Randell as a partner, when Christoph drew her away.
     “What is it?” she asked, looking up into her brother’s eyes.
     “I felt something the minute we came into the ballroom,” he said in a hushed voice.  “And now I know what it is.”
     “What, Christoph?  What is it?”
     “There is, in this ballroom, another werewolf.”
 

 

Most authors have more ideas than they will ever use, or at least that’s the way it is with me.  At any given time I have a multitude of ideas ripening - or perhaps fermenting - in my brain, some written down on paper, others filed in computer document files, some fully fleshed out, some just jotted down.

But the sad fact of life is, there are a finite number of positions on any major publisher’s calendar.  Print books are expensive to create, requiring dozens of people, hundreds of man (woman?) hours of work, a publicity budget, etcetera, etcetera.

So what’s a poor writer to do with all these ideas that languish in the dark and mossy corners of our brains?  

E-books, my friends!  I know they’re not for everyone to read; most of us spend far too much time at our computers as it is, but now many are purchasing e-books to read on PDA’s, laptops, notebooks and even dedicated readers. My e-book publisher, Blackfriars Books, has published four of my novels so far, with more to come.  Though e-books have been condemned by some for the cheesy covers (I’ve seen some that make me cringe for the poor author) I happen to think my cover designer is the absolute best in the business… and no, it’s not me.  I don’t have the technical ability nor the imagination.

For those interested, here they are:  

So, has anyone here read an e-book?  What did you think of the quality?  Some have been condemned as second rate, poorly written, poorly edited, or technically lacking.  I think it probably depends on the publisher.  

What I like is the freedom to have some control over so many things, the subject - one can write currently unpopular formats - for instance, Absentee Heart is a traditional Regency - and with most e-book publishers you can say and do whatever you feel is necessary.

I think they’re here to stay, and make a great alternative to paper books for some folks.  I don’t think, though, that they’ll ever replace the feel and smell, as well as the portability and convenience, of a print book.  There’s just something about a book. 

However I do think that the day will come when more and more textbooks, especially, will be electronic; think of how great it would be if instead of a stack of ten heavy hardback textbooks, you could just load them all into your laptop!  I would have loved that when I was in university, and the cost would have been less, especially considering that many texts in the sciences are changed every single year.  Or am I behind the times… has this happened already?

‘Nuff said; I’m obviously sold on the viability of e-books, but what about you? 

     Writing is a tightrope walk along a fine, difficult line balanced over readers, editors, and reviewers.

     As writers we are the ultimate arbiters of our own work, the decision-makers who determine what ends up Between the Covers.

     However… the decisions we make are not made in a vacuum.  First, being human, we want to please others, as we won’t keep getting published if we don’t!  Readers are the ultimate judge and jury.  But if other writers are anything like I am, we want our editors to be thrilled with our finished product, since they decide whether or not to offer us our next contract.  And we may variously want to please our family, our agent and/or our friends. But still, in the end, we have to be happy and satisfied that we have pleased our harshest critic, ourselves.

     So, what do you do when one of the other people in our life…. say, a most valued and respected editor… isn’t completely satisfied with the direction you’ve taken?  Should you… Cower in fear?  Sit in the dirt and cry? Change everything until he/she is happy?

     I’m being flippant, but it really does matter, especially if you, as I do, respect your editor’s position in the industry, genuinely like her as a person, and want to continue working with her. It’s extremely important that he or she is satisfied with your work.

     However… sometimes a genuine disagreement comes up, and that’s just the facts of life; your editor is not going to agree 100% with what you’ve done 100% of the time.  My own theory is, I will listen with an open mind and heart to what my editor says.  I will, without prejudice, weigh and think over her advice.  If it has any merit at all - which it more often than not does - I will work to what she wants.  If I am ambivalent, I will do the same. If I disagree, but it’s not an overly crucial point, I will try to find a compromise.

     But sometimes you just disagree.

     Right now, I am putting the finishing touches on the third ‘Awaiting’ book, Awaiting the Fire.  Charlotte von Wolfram’s character has been established in previous books.  I see her as courageous, impetuous, honest and committed to her family, especially her beloved brother, Christoph.  In Book 2, Awaiting the Night, she learned vital information about her family, things she never knew and that have changed forever, for her, how she looks at things.

     Sometimes, in life, our attributes are also our character flaws, and Charlotte is no exception.  Her impetuousness and honesty can get her in trouble.  She’s a special young woman, but inevitably, once on her own, her independence and commitment to family are going to lead her down paths that may be dangerous.  It doesn’t mean that she’s stupid, though she is willful.  My editor and I have disagreed on a couple of points in Awaiting the Fire, one of which is Charlotte’s behavior, but in this case, Charlotte stays the way I wrote her, and will get into trouble on her own terms.  I could have changed some things, and I know it wouldn’t have ruined the book.  It may even have made it stronger for some readers. But it wouldn’t have been Charlotte.

      Now… I sure hope I’m right, and that people will love her as I do, and root for her to find her way through the troubles ahead of her safely. In this case, my editor has done her job, I’ve done my job, and the judge will be the reader.

Reasons To Listen To Your Editor:

1 – She knows the publishing business.

2 – She understands what romance readers want.

3 – She may not sign your check, but she is the reason you get one.

4 – She really does have the best interest of your book at heart, meaning she wants your readers to like it, she wants it to sell lots of copies, and she wants it to be award-worthy-bestseller-list-millions-of-readers good.

5 – She decides whether you get to continue a series you’ve come to love.

Reasons To Listen To Your Own Heart:

1 – It’s your book, your creation, and you made the character who she is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Donna Lee Simpson 

 

I’m a freebie hound: there, I’ve admitted it.
 

If there are taster booths in the grocery story, I try out whatever they’re giving away.  (Who needs lunch before going to Costco?)  I fill out surveys for free samples, sign up for free magazines, and can’t resist a buy-one-get-one-free promotion (as long as it is something I’ll use.)  I send away for coupons (which I often forget to take with me and use), and enter draws at fairs, tho’ I never win.  Just type in ‘free stuff’ on any search engine and you will be inundated with links to free sites, offering freebies ranging from candles and cookies to magazines and diapers.  I will say, I rarely go to anything like that though, because there are a whole lot of scams out there, and some sites offer free stuff just to lure the unwary into signing up, giving out private info, or even divulging passwords, PIN numbers, etc.  One must be wary in this world; a little paranoia is a good thing!

The dark side of freebie-fancying, of course, is that I am on EVERYONE’S mailing list, and get far too much junk mail.

So lately the ecologically conscious side of me is nagging; am I being unkind to the environment by sending away for all this free stuff, thus firing a cannon into the snowy mountain of unwanted flyers and causing an avalanche into my mailbox?  I just don’t know.  I always recycle them, sending them off in the blue box to become yet more flyers to stuff in my mailbox, but is that enough?

It’s just that though most of this stuff (Kraft Foods’ ‘What’s Cooking’ magazine, P&G’s ‘Rouge’ magazine) is available online, I hate sitting at my computer to read the articles.  There is nothing like a print magazine to curl up with on the couch.

So, which is it?  Do you send away for stuff, or do you find junk mail shocking in its abundance?   The jury is still out, but I suspect that the side of me that likes free stuff will hold sway for a time.

     
First, a little happy dance… my February 2006 release, the first in my ‘Awaiting’ series, Awaiting the Moon, has been nominated for a Romantic Times ‘Best Paranormal Historical of 2006′.  Yay!

 

 

     

 

 

     Now, the actual topic of my blog entry is Friends

     No, not the TV series, friends in fiction!

     The goal of most writers is to reproduce some feeling of real life in their work, so the reader will be engaged in the plot enough to care what happens and keep reading! Though lovers and family relations are vital in fiction, one oft-overlooked relationship is real friendship. Speaking of the TV series (Ah well, you knew I had to go there eventually in a blog entitled ‘Friends’) one thing I appreciate about it so much is the interplay between the various characters, how they have quarrels and spats, but come back together and truly care what happens to each other.

     In my own books, friendship is always part of the plot, I suppose because I have a fairly close-knit group of friends. It’s been a difficult winter in some ways, and I have found friends to be an infinite source of light in the darkness. In my November 2006 novel, Awaiting the Night, jealousy between friends is one aspect I explore lightly in a couple of different ways, but in the end Melisande and Charlotte overcome any little problems they have.

     So, for the writers, how do you create realistic friendships as a part of your fictional character’s world?

     And for readers… are there any memorable friendships in fiction you have read? And also, to pick up on a plotline featured in the movie When Harry Met Sally, can men and women be ‘just friends’ without the love thing coming up and being a problem? I certainly think so, but that’s me – what do YOU think?

 

 

     Have any of you seen the story this week of the astronaut who allegedly donned a trench coat and a wig, packed a buck knife, BB gun, and steel mallet and drove 1000 miles, from Houston to Orlando, to confront an engineer who she suspected was seeing another astronaut, a pilot, in whom she was romantically interested?  She intended, she claims, according to news sources and police affidavits, to merely talk to the woman about her relationship with the man.  But then she pepper sprayed the other woman, allegedly; that, it seems to me, would not be conducive to civilized conversation.

     And they say fiction is farfetched?

     I was blown away by the story and would have thought it a prank if I’d seen it on April 1^st.  (There are elements of the tale - for example, the adult diapers she wore on the drive - that are passing strange.)

     But it does raise the question, to me, how far out is too far out?  How much behavior could a writer justify in the name of love?

     I think everyone would agree that if reports are correct, this woman went waaaaay too far in her effort to establish just what her rival’s relationship was with the man, and it all seems so sad to me, this intelligent, well-educated, and clearly driven woman who now has had her fabulous career derailed by love… or rather, obsession.  Because, as a writer, I think I’d have a hard time making the heroine anything but dangerously obsessed if she went to confront a rival with a BB Gun (apparently not loaded, according to her lawyer) which she intended to use to ‘scare’ the woman into talking to her. 

     It’s interesting to me though, to try to imagine some circumstance in which the heroine is not dangerously close to the edge of emotional breakdown, but has a rational reason for her behavior.  What has this fellow told her about the other woman?  Has he maybe been telling her fibs, perhaps saying that the other woman is pursuing him relentlessly?  That’s not even really speculation, but my own mind beginning to play with the scenario.  For those of you who don’t write, this is the kind of news story that is likely to set off the ‘what if’ trail in a writer’s mind.

     What’s weird is, I will never write a story about a woman doing what this one supposedly did, but the ideas that come from my internal speculation will show up in some other way, erupting to the surface in unexpected places, like springwater burbling out of the ground.  I may not even be aware of how they are connected.

     But the lingering question that remains with me is, how far is too far in fiction?  Can you ever imagine a heroine (not a secondary character; they have lots more latitude) in a romance novel behaving this way and yet ending up with her happily-ever-after ending?  How far would this strain the willing ‘suspension of disbelief’ necessary to most romances and mysteries?  

     

     I love genre fiction.  Like most folks, I read Shakespeare and Eliot and Chaucer and Milton, enjoyed some of it, hated much of it.  Milton and I don’t get along and haven’t spoken in years.  But all the while, I was reading Agatha Christie mysteries, Robert Heinlein science fiction, Regency and historical romances, and fantasy novels.  I loved them all, and sometimes thought about the themes, characters and important plot points long after I closed the book.  They made me think. Good fiction should resonate with readers as more than just a good story, and genre fiction is no exception.

     So, scholars may sniff—this time of year they probably have a head cold like the rest of us—but I believe that though genre fiction is to some extent a mirror, reflecting what people are talking about and thinking about, it’s more than that.  I think it’s also an open-ended dialogue between writers and readers about life.  The changes in genre fiction over the years are in part just a response to changes in the social climate—the presence of more sex in romance novels today is an example of that—but I believe that readers shape genre fiction in other ways than as a general mass of social change.  Writers don’t write in a vacuum.  I read message boards and think about what readers are talking about, and inevitably it influences my writing.  I send my stories out, then listen to the feedback and that again influences me.

     Does anyone wish writers would listen MORE to what readers want, or do you think there is a good balance right now?  Do you think books lag behind the market, or do you think they influence the market?

 

Some writers say the blank page terrifies them, but I think I’m the opposite.  The blank page is my friend, the completed, needs-to-be-worked-on-some-more manuscript my nemesis.  I look at the reams and reams of text I have already written and sigh for a nice, clean open space.  I suppose it’s kind of like being a cowboy stuck in Manhattan, but instead of skyscrapers all I can see are words, words, words, and I long for wide open spaces.

And yet it has to be done; I must take this intricate, tightly woven plot and pick little holes in it so that I can mend, knit, baste and restitch the whole darn thing back together, with the improvements that have been suggested to me by my agent/editor/torturer.   

But… I suppose there are always parts of any job that you know are going to be a long, involved mess.  You just plod through it, and when you’re done, you can be proud of the entire project and know that you really did give it your all. 

I am choosing to go into this rewrite with the view that it is an opportunity… to fine tune, to make sure every word is right, to give nuance, shade and texture to every scene.  And I will beat myself over the head with the keyboard until I get it! 

So, with that said, here I go, riding off into the sunset wallpaper on my computer screen. 

     The shopping is all done (finally!), the gifts are bought and wrapped, and Christmas cookies have been baked.  I’m ready to PARTY! 

     It’s been a wonderful year for me, with Awaiting the Moon, my first Berkley Sensation, coming out February 7^th and becoming a national bestseller, and then Awaiting the Night, released in November.  I feel so very fortunate and blessed… truly blessed in every way!  And now Christmas is here, and 2007 is knocking on the door.

     Though there is much I enjoy about the season, I’m a fairly solitary person.  Sometimes I find the social commitments and shopping and cooking and wrapping overwhelming.  When that happens, a break with a cup of tea and a good book is just what I need… a few minutes – or hours – of peace on earth. 

     So I always make sure to have a couple of books on hand, just so that in my mind, at least, I can get away from it all.  That’s my holiday wish for you all… a few minutes or hours or days curled up in your favorite spot with a cup of your favorite steaming beverage and a book… or a stack of books! That’s true luxury, a tall stack of books from which to choose, like bonbons in a box.

     Sooooo… I’d like to offer a little giftie.  I will choose ONE reader at random from everyone who comments on this blog entry before midnight December 26th to win a copy of each of my 2006 releases, Awaiting the Moon and Awaiting the Night. (If you want to comment, but not enter, just say so!)

     Happy Holidays, everyone, and I’m sending out warmest wishes for a safe, prosperous, healthy and happy 2007!