Romance

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day Nine

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I know you’ve heard the expression “phoning it in,” meaning you’re so detached or uncaring you do a superficial job at work or relationships or, in my case, writing. My NaNoWriMo word counts were good over the weekend, but all I could think about was a snarky email from someone with whom I serve on a volunteer board. I’d sent an email without his “permission,” and I found my psyche back in freaking middle school. So, my writing probably reflects that attitude, but that’s the whole point of NaNoWriMo: You write now, in the moment, and you refine it later.

Then, bless Facebook and its endless streams of memes, because one resonated with me today:

The only people who are mad at you for speaking the truth are those people who are living a lie.

Keep speaking the truth.

You see such things sprinkled all over Facebook, and, mostly, they make you want to gag, but this? This brightened my day. I wish I’d seen it on Friday when I got my ass chewed as if I were an adolescent.

And today I was much happier with what I wrote, all 3,365 words of it. Oh, it still needs badass editing, but at least it flowed easily and seamlessly. I wasn’t forcing it past negative feelings put in my head by someone living a lie.

Today’s word count brings my total to 27,502, well past the halfway mark on Day Nine. It’s kinda downhill from here, in a good way.

We’ve had angst and tension and multiple does of sappiness, so today we have our female protagonist being a bit of a badass herself in this excerpt:

“I’d like my desk,” Mai said.

Roisin scurried from behind it, and Mai thought she might like being in charge once she turned twenty-five if so few words could get people scurrying. Mai seated herself at her desk as O’Saidh came in with the tea tray, which she settled on a butler’s table near the desk.

“Shall I be mother?” she asked.

“Leave it for now and sit. Both of you,” Mai said.

The two Irishwomen exchanged a glance but seated themselves in the matching chairs before the desk.

“How was your stay with Sir Travers?” O’Saidh asked.

“Why would you think I was staying with him?” Mai asked.

“Well, the lovely dinner, and then you were gone. I just assumed…”

“Will there be an announcement soon?” Roisin asked.

“An announcement of bloody what? My engagement to someone I’ve been seeing for six bloody weeks?” Mai said.

“You’ve known him a lot longer than…”

“And hated his guts. If you’d delved deeper on him, and I know you looked, you’d have found he’s practically tapped out, keeping up appearances, and looking for a wife who could bail him and his father out of their shady deals,” Mai said.

Roisin’s spine stiffened to the point Mai thought she heard a crack. “Actually, I did know that, but his family is a good one…” Roisin said.

Mai laughed, and Roisin frowned.

“What?” Roisin asked.

“Nothing. Watch the news in a few days. We’re not engaged. We were never going to be engaged. I’m twenty years old, and I’m not interested in providing heirs yet. Enough about Travers Brent. Now, on to why I’ve called you here.” She shifted her gaze to Finnoula O’Saidh. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I expect a truthful answer. If you’re not truthful, I’ll be able to tell, and in the mood I’m in right now, you do not want to lie to me. Understand?”

“Of course, but…”

“A few days before I was supposed to go to Paris for my birthday, did Alexei Bukharin call here?” Mai asked.

Finnoula and Roisin again looked at each other. “Finnoula!” Mai said. “Don’t look at her. I asked the question. You answer me.”

Both women blinked, though Mai could see a hint of a satisfied smile on Roisin’s lips.

“Did he?” Mai asked.

Finnoula clenched her own fingers until her knuckles were white. “Yes, he did. You weren’t here.”

“Did he leave a message for me?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Why didn’t I get it?”

Finnoula didn’t break eye contact, and that made Mai’s anger ease somewhat. “Because I threw it away,” Finnoula said.

Mai looked at Roisin. “That came from you, I suppose,” Mai said.

“No,” Roisin replied. “It was Finnoula’s idea, but I supported it.”

“Why was it any of your business?” Mai asked.

“Because you are our business, in every iteration of that word,” Roisin said. “Your mother would want someone to keep you from making such a mistake.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Alexei Bukharin? He’s not Irish?”

“He’s shady, for one thing,” Roisin said. “I know that when I see it, and he’s much older than you. He’s Russian, for God’s sake.”

“Actually, he’s an American,” Mai said.

“Well, worse.”

“Here’s something every O’Saidh needs to understand,” Mai said. “I’m my own person. I decide whom I sleep with, and if it turns out to be a mistake, it’s mine to make and learn from. Inform the rest of your family that where I’m concerned, they need to remember you bloody well work for me. It’s not the other way around, and, by God, if this interference in my life doesn’t stop, when I turn twenty-five and claim my CEO birthright, I’ll find some way to unravel the O’Saidhs from the Maitlands, if it costs me every penny I have. Am I clear?”

Roisin didn’t hide her admiration at all. Well, damn, Mai thought, if throwing a hissy fit would have accomplished this earlier, what was I waiting for?

“Of course,” Roisin said, echoed by Finnoula.

“Finnoula,” Mai said, “you’re going back to Ireland with Roisin. Roisin, send someone else to be my personal assistant. If this one doesn’t work out to my satisfaction, I’ll hire someone from a service.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mai. Someone suitable is available,” Roisin said.

“Actually, why don’t you send me several possibilities, along with resumes. I’ll decide,” Mai said.

Roisin smiled even wider. Bloody hell, the woman was proud of her.

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day Eight

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A mad dash back from Richmond so I could get to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Waynesboro for Sunday service and lunch afterwards. I missed my local region’s write-in at JMU’s Rose Library, which has a Starbucks in it! But I spent the afternoon and early evening writing. In between watching the NASCAR race, of course.

Today’s word count: 2,606, and an eight-day total of 24,137. So close to 25,000, but I didn’t have 863 more words in me.

So, I’ve upped the angst and the tension. Today, I upped the sappiness:

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“About twelve hours,” she said. “You have to have an operation. Your ribs are pretty bad.”

“You’ll stay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, then added, “Jinksy’s orders.” She saw his eyes shift to disappointment. Well, damn. Nelson had said he could get morose. “By the way,” she said, leaning closer. She pressed her lips against his and said, “That’s from Nelson.”

“I’d prefer it was from you,” he said.

“This one’s from me.”

She kissed him again, let her lips linger. His moved beneath hers, parting slightly. The roughness of his beard reminded her of the first morning they’d woken together, and finally it was a pleasant memory here.

Mai broke off the kiss. “They’ll be in soon to get you ready for the surgery,” she said.

“Tell me something before they do,” he said.

Mai frowned and said, “What?”

“That you believe I called and left a message with O’Saidh.”

“I’m almost there.”

“How far is almost?”

“More than half. I need to close the loop with O’Saidh, but here’s the thing. Why didn’t you call the broker in Paris and cancel the reservation?”

“Because I barely had the time to call you before I had to leave. I’d pre-paid, and since I thought you weren’t going to show up, she would never have known we weren’t there.”

“I still had the key.”

“She probably would have contacted me at some point about that,” he said.

“She?”

“I have friends who are women, whom I haven’t slept with. Look, you’ll have to update Nelson on my condition. Ask him.”

“He’s the reason I almost believe you. Look, Alexei, they’ll be in soon. Let’s get this over with, and when you’re better, we’ll talk some more. All right?”

“All right. What did you do with my overnight bag?”

Of all the things. “It was at my house, but I brought it here this morning. Why?”

“There’s something in it for you. A small package wrapped in green paper. Open it while I’m being cut up,” he said.

“I’ll wait until you’re awake,” she replied.

“No, please. I want you to have it. In case…” He broke off and gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“Look here, mister, there is no ‘in case.’ You’re going to be fine,” she said, feeling the sting of tears again.

His eyelids drooped, but he managed a smile. “Lady Fisher has declared it so,” he murmured.

“If necessary,” she said. She started to put the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth.

“One more kiss,” he said.

“You’re incorrigible,” she replied.

She kissed him and put the oxygen mask back in place.

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day Five

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A great day today with 3,629 words; 17,404 total. I’m finding it hard to not focus on the thriller aspect of the romantic thriller or thrilling romance. I need to be focusing on the romance, baby!

Today, the plot thickened:

When the phone rang in the foyer, Finnoula O’Saidh used the extension in the kitchen to answer. She gave the soup she was making a stir, lowered the heat, and wiped her hands on her apron before she picked up the receiver.

“Fisher House, O’Saidh speaking,” she said.

“Ms. O’Saidh, this is Alexei Bukharin. May I speak to Mai, please,” came the accented voice.

O’Saidh pursed her lips. “Lady Fisher is at her place of employment and won’t return until between six and seven this evening,” she said.

Silence, except for the man’s breathing, and he certainly sounded a bit breathless.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Would you take a message for her? It’s very important.”

Finnoula snagged the pad and pen near the phone and said, “Go ahead.”

“Please explain to her I have an emergency trip for my work, and I won’t be able to make our date in Paris. Tell her I’m very sorry, but it can’t be helped and that I’ll be in touch as soon as a I can. Do you need for me to repeat any of that?” he asked.

What does he think? That I’m an eejit?

“You’ve been called away for your work and can’t make it to Paris. You’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” Finnoula repeated.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said. “Thank you.”

“A shame. She’s been looking forward to her birthday trip,” Finnoula said.

“I have, too. Again, please tell her I’m very sorry, and I’ll make it up to her,” he said.

“Of course, I will,” Finnoula said.

“Thank you again, Ms. O’Saidh. Give her my best, please. Good day,” he said and hung up.

Finnoula hung up the phone and looked at the message. She’d dutifully written down the date, time, and the man’s name, as well as the details he’d given. Herself would be disappointed. She’d talked about this trip constantly for two weeks, had practically bought herself a new wardrobe. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but she’d definitely gone shopping.

She looked from the message to the phone and picked up the receiver again. This time, she dialed a number in Dublin, Ireland, a private line.

“Fanny, what is it?” asked Roisin O’Saidh.

Finnoula explained what had just happened, all the while studying the message she still held in one hand, and she told Roisin what she thought she would do with it.

“I think you have the right idea,” Roisin said. “Better a little heartache now than a mess to clean up later.”

Finnoula hung up again. She tore the message into the tiniest possible pieces she could, placed them in the trash bin, making certain not a single scrap of paper had escaped. Though the trash wouldn’t be taken up for two more days, she removed the plastic bag from the bin, tied it closed, put it in another bag, and tied that one as well. She thought about putting it in the larger trash bin at the rear of the house. Instead, she put the plastic bag inside a spare paper bag, made it as small as she could, and tucked it away in the tote she brought back and forth between her flat and the house.

She washed her hands and went back to the soup.

NaNoWriMo – Day Four

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Cruising along on auto-pilot almost–3,947 words today; 13,775 total. A good cushion in case I don’t get in any writing time on Friday or Saturday.

So, yesterday I introduced a little angst in this romantic thriller or thrilling romance. Today, then, a little sappiness:

“How much whiskey have you had?” he asked.

“Enough that I miss you. A lot,” she said, and hated that she’d said it the second she did.

“I’m flattered,” he replied.

“So, I hope I didn’t inconvenience you,” she said. “You know, interrupt anything?”

It’s the whiskey talking, she told herself. She needed to hang up and soon.

“Only my dinner,” he replied. A pause, then, “Mai, if you want to ask if someone’s here, ask it.”

“None of my business if she, it were,” she said.

“I’m alone,” he said, “eating leftovers from last night’s dinner, which I had alone as well.”

“Look, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

“No, Mai, it’s all right. Don’t ever hesitate to ask me something you want to know,” he said.

Who the fuck is Pamela Higgins and why did she warn me about you, she thought.

To him, she said, “I won’t.”

“Did you get the key to the flat in Paris?” he asked.

“Yes. It came the other day. I know that area. Should be lovely,” she said.

“Good. You can get there first and let me in. I’ll come bearing gifts,” he said.

“I told you not to bother,” she said.

“It’s an expression, but what flowers do you like?” he said. “I mean, just in case I want to employ another Valentine op cliche.”

“It’s Paris, Alexei. Has to be roses,” she said.

“Roses, indeed.”

“You know, you really are rather sweet,” she said.

She heard his soft laugh and wondered why he hadn’t laughed in front of her.

“And you’re drunk. You need to sleep that off or poor O’Saidh will have to hold a cold cloth to your forehead in the morning,” he said.

“More like hold me head while I puke,” she said.

“Lovely image, dedushka, and here I was, wishing I were there,” he said.

No, she told herself, don’t say you wish he were here, too.

“I wish you were, too,” she said. Damn.

“Somehow we’ll have to muddle through the next couple of weeks until Paris,” he said.

“We’ll always have Paris,” she said.

He laughed, full-throated and uninhibited, and she so wanted to see it. “What’s so funny?” she said.

“Nothing, nothing at all, just you making drunk transatlantic phone calls to tell me you miss me. Get some rest, and I’ll see you soon. Take care, Mai, and remember what I told you about taking Holt’s shit.”

“‘Bye,” she said, but it was already to the carrier wave.

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day Three

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I’m building up a little cushion because I have to go out of town (again) this weekend, so 3,655 words today. That puts my three-day total at 9,828. Man, just seventy-eight from 10,000!

Our little romance was progressing so sweetly, I figured it was time to throw in a little angst. Here’s an excerpt from today’s work (unedited, of course):

Mai decided not to pass up the loo before the ride back to London, and when she emerged from the stall, she saw a British Airways flight attendant standing by the sinks. Mai gave her no heed and began to wash her hands; then, she sensed someone close. The flight attendant was now next to her, practically in her personal space. Mai straightened and pulled some paper towels free to dry her hands.

“Do I know you?” Mai asked, her eyes taking in the uniform and the name tag. Lots of piping, so a senior flight attendant, whose name was Pamela Higgins. Mai judged her to be mid-thirties.

“I thought I should warn you,” Higgins said, her accent the one trained into flight attendants who served first class passengers, one good enough to fool Americans or anyone else but easily recognized as affected by the English.

“Excuse me?” Mai said.

“The man you were with, Alex Burke,” Higgins said.

Alex Burke? No, wait, that’s his alias, Mai thought.

“I think you should know something about him,” Higgins said.

Mai sucked in a breath but caught her reflection in the mirror. She was betraying none of the sudden turmoil churning her guts.

“Like what?” Mai said, surprised at how calm and normal her voice sounded.

“I dated him for more than two years,” Higgins said.

Past tense, Mai noted. Dated.

“And when he’s done with you, you’re dropped like a bleeding hot potato,” Higgins said, bitterness leaching away some of the sophisticated accent. Her face had twisted a bit, but it softened. She gave a slight smile and said, “You’re so young. I never thought it was— I mean, I never realized it was because he wanted someone younger. My god, are you even twenty, honey?”

“None of your fecking business,” Mai said. “And that’s ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘honey.’” No, Mai, you’re not sounding so calm now, if you’re falling back on that bloody title to score points.

“I won’t apologize,” Higgins said. “You need to know he can talk a really, really good game, but he’s not relationship material. I found out the hard way, but there’s no need for you to.”

Mai tossed the towels, which she’d used so roughly they were now mostly tatters, into the trash can.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch, Ms. Higgins?” she said.

“I just got off one. Look, let me buy you a coffee and—”

“And what? We’ll compare notes? Not bleeding likely,” Mai said. She wanted to turn and run to her car, but for some reason she wanted the high ground. “You delivered your message. Run along,” she said.

All those centuries of class consciousness won out. Pamela Higgins almost curtsied before she left the loo, hauling her roller bag behind her.

Both arms braced on the sink, Mai took deep breaths. You knew this about him already, she told herself, why are you letting it get to you?

Because she hadn’t wanted it to be true, because she wanted to believe him when he’d asked for a chance to prove the rumors wrong.

“Silly git,” she murmured, garnering a frown from a woman who had stepped up to wash her hands.

By the time Mai reached valet parking and claimed her car, she’d already chalked the weekend up to a character-building experience. Nothing more.

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day Two

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Two sessions today. One in the morning at home. The other at my regular Monday afternoon write-in. A total of 3,270 words today; 6,173 words total. That’s a good pace and gives me plenty of breathing room in case I don’t get any writing done on Saturday, when I have to go to a meeting in Richmond. So, woo-hoo, 43,827 to go!

Here’s an excerpt from today’s writing (just remember, unedited):

Mai closed the pocket doors to the library and walked to her desk, O’Saidh trailing her. Mai thought about sitting behind the desk but decided to lean against the front of it.

“I’m certain you’ve called Roisin to tell her I had company last night,” Mai said.

“She should know,” O’Saidh said, her chin coming up.

“It’s my fecking house. In fact, all of it belongs to me, including the house she lives in. The lot of you need to start remembering that,” Mai said.

O’Saidh flushed, but Mai couldn’t read if it were embarrassment or anger. Bukharin would have been able to tell. The man could pass for a mind-reader.

“I’ll have whatever company I want,” Mai said. “Mr. Bukharin is staying the weekend, so tell Roisin that if you must, but it won’t change anything. And you can have the weekend off.”

“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m not having your disapproving puss everywhere I look, O’Saidh, because himself and I’ll be having sex. A great deal of it, and we’d prefer not to have an audience who’ll report stroke for stroke to my business manager.”

“I would never—”

“Of course you would. It’s your job. Your weekend off starts now,” Mai said.

“All any of us have in mind is your happiness, Mai. You know that,” O’Saidh said, her tone easing.

“Right now, I’m happy. That’s all you need to know.”

O’Saidh had to purse her lips to keep her comments to herself, but eventually she asked, “So, we’ll be seeing a great deal more of himself, then?”

Would they? Would she? No, he’d as much as said he didn’t bother with relationships. This was exactly what she expected it would be, a weekend of great sex. Nothing more.

“No, I suspect after this weekend, you won’t see much of him at all.”

NaNoWriMo 2015 – Day One

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If it’s November, it must be National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and if it’s NaNoWriMo, I must be participating. Of course, I am!

This is my eighth NaNoWriMo. My first one was in 2008, when I still had a full-time job. A full-time job, which sent me on travel for thirteen of the thirty days in November. Somehow, I managed to write just over 50,000 words in seventeen days. It was my first attempt at linked short stories, and it pretty much sucked.

But I was thrilled with the NaNoWriMo experience. I’ve “won” all previous seven years, and several manuscripts, which I’ve edited and revised to the point I feel no qualms sending them out to agents, are, well, waiting for me to send them to agents.

This year, I’m mixing it up a bit. I’m taking my usual spy characters and changing the back story of how they met, and, well, I guess you’d call what I’m writing a romance because I’m focusing on the relationship and not the missions. So we’ll see if I can be a romantic without my jadedness coming through. I’m calling it a “romantic thriller” or a “thrilling romance.” We’ll see.

So, word count for today: 2,903. A good start, which included a great write-in with members of Shenandoah Valley Wrimos at a local Panera.

Here’s an excerpt of what I wrote today, and bear in mind, it’s not edited:

The kitchen was a complete surprise, well-equipped and well-stocked. He accumulated the makings for a florentine omelette and set to work. Mai perched on the counter and watched him, asking questions about why he did something a certain way.

“You don’t cook at all?” he asked.

“Why? Is that a deal-breaker?” she replied.

“No. I don’t mind cooking, but what if O’Saidh were to quit?” he asked.

“The O’Saidhs can’t quit. Family business and all that. I personally think how the families are intertwined is some big, dark secret that I’ll only get told when I become chair of the board when I’m twenty-five. And I make a decent bangers and mash.”

“That’s it?” he asked, though he gave her a sidelong smile.

“I’m hell with a French press,” she replied, grinning at him. “Wait until you taste my coffee.”

“Bangers and mash and coffee?”

“Well, I’m certain I can follow a cookbook,” she said. “Enough about my lack of upbringing. So, you don’t cook breakfast for all your bed partners?”

The question was not particularly out of left field, as it were, though he wanted to answer it in a way she wouldn’t think him a total libertine.

“Only when I want to prolong the experience,” he said, and studied her face carefully.

“Good answer,” she said.

“English may be my second language, but I’ve invested in understanding the nuances. Breakfast is ready.”

She slipped down from the counter and handed him the plates before she went to the French press and strained the coffee. She poured two cups of dark, foamy liquid and brought them to the eat-in table in the kitchen. She paused before she set them down.

“Unless you’d rather dine formally in the dining room, Mr. Bukharin,” she said, her tone teasing.

“I left my tux in the hotel room,” he said. “This is fine.”

He had divided the omelettes between the two plates, and he waited for Mai to sit. The table seated four, and instead of sitting across from her, he sat to her right. She poured a generous amount of cream into her coffee, and again he opted only for sugar. The coffee was dark and strong, not at all bitter, and he liked it a great deal.

“You, indeed, are hell with a French press. I confess despite having quite the gourmet kitchen at my apartment, I have a rudimentary coffee maker,” Alexei said. “How’s the omelette?”

“Absolutely incredible.” She leaned toward him. “Excellent in bed, and he cooks. Why is there no Mrs. Bukharin?”

“Not the best kind of work to try to maintain a family life,” he murmured. He wondered if he should tell her about his son. “I, well, I was married in the Soviet Union,” he said.

“You had to leave her behind when you defected?” Mai asked, nothing except polite curiosity behind it, he could hear.

“Not exactly,” he replied.

The memory, which he could never fully repress, returned. The bodies covered in sheets lined up on the sidewalk outside the smoldering factory, the policeman flipping back a sheet to reveal a body covered in blistered flesh, parts of her hands, feet, and face cooked off the bone.

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” he said.

Again, her hand came to rest on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch on something you’d rather not think about, but, for my own conscience and the fact I don’t really want to go to confession along with O’Saidh, just assure me you’re not married.”

“I’m not,” he said. “She died before I defected.”

Her hand came up and brushed his cheek, her fingers lingering for a moment, as her thumb traced his chin. Then, she went back to her breakfast. That unraveling of something inside his chest happened again, and he didn’t want to think what it meant.

Interview–Debut Romance Author Margaret Locke

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MLHeader2Debut romance author Margaret Locke has a great novel out, A Man of Character. I’ve reviewed it, and you can click here to read the review or click on the “Book Review” tab above and select it from the drop-down menu. Below is a refreshing interview I conducted with Ms. Locke. Authors of any experience level can relate to her experience–and her joy at seeing her first novel in print.

PD: You’ve spoken in other interviews about your agent-querying marathon, so we won’t go into that here, but what was most appealing, artistically, about indie publishing for you?

LOCKE: I did want that brass ring, you’re right. I wanted it desperately, as “proof” I was good enough. But I realized the brass ring came with encumbrances that seemed more detrimental than beneficial, especially after I listened to other authors share their experiences. The idea of not controlling my publishing schedule, of not having final say over edits, over cover art, over the title of my book—I couldn’t imagine it. Many traditionally published authors also told me they have to do nearly all their own publicity. Not as much control, smaller royalties, and still having to do all the promo? Indie publishing suddenly sounded much more appealing.

I’m so happy I chose this path. I admit, I felt I’d failed, at first, in not securing an agent, and that publishing on my own was somehow lesser. I’ve come around on that idea 180 degrees. Now I relish being completely in charge of my own career—for better or worse—and the creative freedom that comes with that. If I want to write a series in which the first book is a light paranormal romantic comedy, the second a time-travel romance, the third a straight Regency tale, I can. And, uh, I have. It’s a joy to have such freedom.

PD: Regency is a popular setting for romance writers. What’s your strategy for making yours stand apart in a crowd? And, without using the words, “Fitzwilliam Darcy,” what appeals to you about that era as a setting?

LOCKE: Oh, gosh. I have to have a strategy? I do hope my sense of humor brands my books as mine. I’m also partial to quirky, flawed characters. But those things don’t mark me as special; most authors incorporate those these days. Most authors also write series in which characters are interlinked, so I’m not treading new ground there. However, I plan to take familiar tropes and spice them up a bit, do a few unexpected things, have fun with the genre and its expected conventions.

As for what appeals about the Regency—I wish I had an answer. I think that era is a period in time that feels at once familiar and distant. Familiar, because it’s not all that long ago, relatively speaking. Many people, I’m guessing, can more readily envision Regency England than, perhaps, ancient Greece or medieval Germany. And distant, because social structures and social mores have shifted over the last two hundred years. With the Regency, we get a society we can understand fairly easily, overlaid with the whole fantasy element, that romantic idea of Once Upon A Time, especially since the Regency period is known for its grand balls and dukes and barons—all elements familiar to most modern folk from fairy tales we heard growing up.

PD: Describe your writing process. What do you keep around you for inspiration?

LOCKE: My writing process is erratic and not what it needs to be. Random thoughts, plot points, character ideas, snippets of dialogue, hit me at the most inopportune times (just before drifting off to sleep, while out running errands), and I’m frustrated that I don’t capture more of those thoughts (although I am finally using the iPhone’s voice memo option!).

I wish I had a more structured schedule to which I adhered. I always plan on that, but life (and social media) get in the way. However, I’ve long known I work best in the morning, and I work best when I can have a two-hour (or more) time period in which I know I won’t be interrupted. When that happens, I can ensconce myself in the Writing Cave and write—sometimes with inspiring instrumental music playing in the background, other times in silence. When I’m in the zone, I don’t need anything around me for inspiration, because I’m so lost in my own alternate reality that I don’t notice my real life, anyway.

PD: You’ve indicated A MAN OF CHARACTER is book one in a series of five (or six?) What are your plans beyond that, or is that thinking too far ahead?

LOCKE: I don’t know exactly how many books will be in the Matters of Love series. I suppose I should nail that down, but every time I decide I’ve thought of all the characters and stories I want to include in that series, something else pops up, and I think, “Oh yeah, I could write a story about that!” I do have eight potential books loosely sketched out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if secondary characters from those novels demand their own stories. After that, we’ll see. I recently discovered some ideas I’d written down years ago, when I was in my 20s, and a few aren’t half-bad. Then there’s a whole flip-the-fairy-tales-on-their-heads set of ideas that I’ve loosely planned out. I could be writing for a very long time.

PD: What would you say to someone who doesn’t normally read romance to get them to try A Man of Character?

LOCKE: I’ll bake you cookies. I’ll massage your feet. I’ll clean your house for month. No, just kidding. (You wouldn’t want me as your housekeeper, anyway, given the state of my own house.)

I do claim AMOC is not a typical romance, and yet I don’t want people to think I’m trying to distance myself from the genre. Exactly the opposite. I love romance and would love to encourage people to give a well-written romance novel a shot. They’re so much more than the stereotypes. Is a relationship at the center of a romance? Sure. Is the Happily Ever After a requirement? Absolutely.

But romances are no more formulaic than any other genre fiction. (Can’t write a mystery without solving it, right?) Romances tell women’s stories (or gay/lesbian/transgender stories—there are subgenres for everyone). The hero is crucial, of course. You can’t have a decent romance without an enticing (albeit flawed) hero.

But it’s the heroine with whom we as readers most closely identify, I would argue. It’s she we want to see overcome a variety of obstacles, she we want to achieve self-satisfaction—within and outside of the central relationship. Romance (most of it, at least) provides that. Much romance is much more feminist than most people realize: a story in which the woman’s journey is central? In which her emotional and sexual satisfaction are legitimate, worthy, and expected goals? Yes, please.

I don’t know if that answers the question, so I asked my husband what he would say. (He read the whole book in one day.) His answer? “Tell them they might just enjoy the story and might learn that some of the things they thought about romance were wrong.”

Yup. What he said.

PD: What are some words of encouragement to would-be authors out there, in any genre?

If you want to write, write. Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t study the craft and learn the ins and outs of your intended genre. You should—if you plan to put your work out for public consumption, at least. But don’t let the Eeyores drag you down. Keep writing. Keep reading. Join a critique group. Find some beta readers. Go to conferences. Get to know authors on social media.

OK, well, those are all the things I did. I don’t know if they work for everyone else. I think the biggest thing is, write if you want to. It might take a while to find the right writing community for you, but keep seeking one out. Sabrina Jeffries told me, “Don’t write in a vacuum.” I 100% agree. Find your groove, and find your group, and don’t give up.

PD: Describe your book launch day, i.e., for those who’ve never experienced it; the emotions, good and bad. Was it everything you expected and hoped for? What will you do differently next time?

It was amazing and surreal, exhilarating and exhausting. There had been some build-up: the first time I saw my book’s listing on Amazon, the first time I held a copy in my hands. (Yes, I shrieked and hopped up and down both times.) But to know on launch day that my baby (warts and all) was out there for all to see—and potentially criticize—was terrifying and elating, at the same time.

If I had to do it all again, I would’ve done more promo prep before launch day. I probably should have contacted book bloggers. I could have created more visual memes. I might have had all the potential excerpts and quotes and promo posts already drafted. I didn’t. But I had fun anyway. And I’m doing some of those now, hoping that “better late than never” still applies.

Confession: I also don’t want to be strung out on chocolate on my next release day. It was such a whirlwind week, I’m not surprised I fell face-first back into the sugar. By actual release day, I was a mix of exhausted and over-sugarfied. Not really a good combo, on Launch Day or otherwise.

PD: You’re barely taking a break, in that your next book in the series comes out in the fall. Give a brief sketch of what it’s about, and dare we hope it involves Eliza and her duke?

LOCKE: The only reason the “break” is so short is that I have the second book already written. (Thank you, NaNoWriMo 2014!) It needs heavy editing, but the basic parts are there, so I think (I hope!) my late fall deadline is workable. And yes, it most definitely involves Eliza and her duke. In it, I introduce you to the Mattersley family—the family around which all my original story ideas were based, before Cat leapt into the picture. I hope y’all have fun reading about Eliza’s struggles to come to grips with what it actually means to live in a different era and to deal with a man who doesn’t necessarily agree that he’s her soulmate.

PD: In your “Acknowledgements” section, you included your writers group, Shenandoah Valley Writers. How are writers groups important, in general, and, specifically, how did yours help you?

LOCKE: How did it not? To be a part of a writing community, to put myself out there and call myself a writer, was one of the greatest feelings ever. I was doing this. And I was doing it publicly! To hear about others’ struggles, successes, strategies, systems…all have helped me grow in my own process. I’ve met amazing people and developed incredible friendships. We’ve gotten together in person. We’ve cheered each other on, helped each other up, told the world about each other.

In fact, it’s hard to remember life without all these writer people in it, and yet that was the case just, what, two years ago? Three at most. Surrounding myself with people who love what I love is amazing! (Even if it bores all my other friends to hear me talking writing all the time. Sorry, guys. I’m trying to find balance.) So thank you, Maggie. Thank you, Rebekah, Annika, Tamara, Foy, Taryn, Allison, Sydney, Morgan, Lindsey, Josette, Christy, Sara, and Audrey. (Eek! I’m sure I’ve forgotten people!) Thank you to the Flash Friday community. Thank you to the writer friends I’ve met online. Y’all are amazing. And you brought me to this place. I’m sure that if I were going this alone, I would not be published.

The first time I joined a critique group, I was terrified. The first time I put myself in the hot seat and let people critique my work, I thought I was going to throw up. And yet I could see how valuable it was to get multiple sets of eyes on my work, to hear from them what worked and what didn’t, whether or not I was on the right track, etc. So find a writing group, find beta readers, but also find a critique group. It might take a few tries to find a group of people with whom you click, with whom you feel safe, a group that has the same approach when it comes to critiquing (I value positive, uplifting interactions, even when giving suggestions for improvement). But it’s worth it.

PD: Finally, what would you like to say–anything at all–on becoming a published author?

It’s surreal and exciting and…surprisingly not all that different from my life before I was a published author. Am I part of the club yet? It doesn’t feel like it. I still wrestle with self-doubt, still wonder if I’m good enough, still fret over whether I’m doing it right (whatever it is: writing, editing, promo). Sadly, I haven’t made a bazillion dollars. I still have laundry to do and meals to cook. My kids still squabble. I still have to grocery shop and serve as Taxi Mom and deal with my own character faults.

Rats. I was kind of hoping once I was published, I’d hit glamour status. Nope. Now I’ve got the pressure to write the next book, and the fear it won’t be as good as the first.

I guess that’s all normal.

But what do I also have? The unbelievable, nearly indescribable feeling of accomplishment. I said for years I was going to write romance. I finally did. I really did it.

You visit Ms. Locke’s blog and sign up for her newsletter by clicking here. You can purchase A Man of Character on Amazon.com. 

Friday Fictioneers Fluff

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Not that I think Friday Fictioneers is fluff. No, no. I’m talking about the sixteen or so inches of snow which fell in my area on Thursday. Digging out doesn’t have the appeal for me it used to, when in my old neighborhood, we got together and shoveled everyone out. We started out with hot chocolate in the morning and progressed to mulled wine in the afternoons. Great times. Here, it’s every house for itself, and, frankly, I’m well-stocked with food and drink. If my driveway doesn’t get shoveled for a couple of days, I’ll just stay in and write.

And it’s Valentine’s Day, which is my bah-humbug holiday, and that’s not just because I’ve been single for almost nine years. I wasn’t too thrilled with it before. Too much pressure. My ex (before he was my ex) and I agreed that birthdays and Christmas were sufficient opportunities for significant gifts. A nice dinner out was fine for anniversaries, so I never got caught up in the Valentine’s Day hype.

Friday Fictioneers LogoSo, when today’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt showed up, I was in a quandary. Do I go for the schmaltz or give into my personal bitterness? I posed that question to my online writers group, Shenandoah Valley Writers, and got the advice, “Schmaltzy, with a twist.” Now, we all know my twists can go toward the bizarre, and I hope “Sweets to the Sweet, Farewell!” doesn’t disappoint. As usual, if you don’t see the link on the title above, scroll to the top of the page, click on the Friday Fictioneers tab, then select the story from the drop-down list.

And if you’re snowed in somewhere, take it easy and enjoy the scenery.

Hopeless Friday Fictioneers Romantic

/ unspywriter / 2 Comments

A good writing week. Well, any time I’m writing, it’s good. There’s one exception, though. I wanted to enter a contest whose deadline is May 17. The story can be up to 8,000 words, which, after all my flash fiction writing, seems like an enormous amount. I’m trying to adapt a chapter from one of my novels, but it’s not quite working out; however, I’ll keep at it until the deadline and make a decision then.

Tonight is the fifth anniversary of Charlottesville, VA’s WriterHouse, where you can find a quiet place to write and some excellent writing and publishing workshops. At tonight’s party, there will be a contest: You had to submit a 500-word story based on the theme “emerald.” (Emerald is the fifth anniversary gem stone and Pantone’s color of the year for 2013.) So, I’ll be there tonight for the live judging of my story, one of thirteen. An actor will read each story to the assembled masses, and then we vote. Fingers crossed they’ll like my little fantasy tale, “Marakata.”

Friday Fictioneers LogoA great photo today by Friday Fictioneer Ted Strutz brought back memories of various pick-up lines tried on me in bars. I remember one alleged Navy pilot who tried the “there-I-was-at-10,000-feet-with-MiGs-on-my-tail” approach, who then slid away after I questioned his aviation knowledge–he didn’t know I was a pilot. It was obvious he wasn’t after just a few sentences. Ah, good times.

For some reason Ted’s photo brought out the hopeless romantic in me and resulted in “If at First You Don’t Succeed…” Light and airy and very different from what I usually do, which is dark and dense, so I’ll need to go write some mayhem to restore the balance in the universe.

As usual, if you can’t see the link on the title above, scroll to the top of the page and click on the Friday Fictioneers tab. Then, you can select the story from the drop-down list.