"Location, location, location" -- Or, set your book in a place you love by Vonnie Davis

I had no clue when Calvin and I went to Paris for a few weeks in 2005, that I'd end up setting a romantic suspense series there. In fact I was only "playing" at writing at the time. You know, start a chapter, lose interest, lay it aside and keep on dreaming of being a writer someday. Calvin, on the other hand, was seriously into writing his mainstream novel, The Phantom Lady of Paris.

So while he put pencil to paper at sidewalk cafes, I was absorbing everything around me. My eyes blinking like the lens on a camera, making little snippets of memories that I'd eventually call forth to insert into my stories.

Small cars literally were parked bumper to bumper. All around me were the tatooing of stiletto heels on sidewalks as French women hurried by, scarves artfully draped around their necks. I never saw a French woman who wasn't dressed to the "nines," as we say here in America. Nor did I see any young men with droopy drawers, either. Frenchmen wore their jeans snug across their behinds--not that I was one to notice, mind you. I was charmed by the beautiful architecture, so much of it centuries old. The hiss of espresso machines, a champagne cork popping were merely background noise as the French spoke their native tongue at lyrical, rapid-fire speeds. While walking down streets, delicious aromas wafted from bakeries. Paris truly is a delight for the senses.

That's why I've enjoyed writing this series so much, for it's been like revisiting my favorite city in the world. I've poured over our picture albums, tour books and online sites. Book one, Mona Lisa's Room, is available for purchase. The romantic couple in it are Alyson Moore, an American art teacher, and Niko Reynard, second in command of the French counter-terrorism unit. The villians? A terrorist group called The Red Hand. Communist? No. After a murder or bombing, they donned a latex glove, dipped it into the victim's blood and leave a handprint on a nearby wall. Makes for a macabre calling card, doesn't it?

Here's an excerpt of a scene with Alyson, or Aly as the hero calls her, and Niko. They are in a shoe store--Minelli's--where I found a purse that called my name.

             Niko perched on the stool at Alyson’s feet, opened the first box and deftly flicked back the tissue paper on a pair of black kidskin pumps with skinny gold looking heels. “It’s rumored Da Vinci invented the high heel.” He removed her Birckenstocks and placed her bare foot on his thigh. Warmth from his muscled leg flowed up hers, causing her foot to give an involuntary wiggle.

His gaze lifted to hers and locked. Slowly he slid his hand from her heel up her leg to cup her calf. Thank God she shaved her legs that morning. “Stop.” The rawness of her voice surprised her. His touch made her very aware of her body, and her body was very aware of him. She couldn’t count the years since she was touched in such a manner—if ever.

Still, it was nice to know she could respond to a man’s touch. Thanks to her ex-husband’s avoidance, she thought herself sexually dead, certainly sexually unappealing.

“High heels do wonders for a woman’s figure, Aly. They make the legs look long and shapely, lift the bottom and make the hips sway.” His hands moved in a descriptive manner while he talked. “They make a woman look sexy and confident. Men’s eyes naturally pivot to a woman in stilettos.” Niko shrugged. “We can’t help it. We are men, after all. Weakened by women.”

Alyson stared at him. Men made weak by women? She’d never heard such talk, especially from a male, a very virile male if looks meant anything. He was gorgeous, arrogant as all get out, but gorgeous just the same.

Niko slipped the shoes onto her feet, stood and extended his hand. “Stand. See how you like the feel.” His gaze focused on hers again and for a second or two, when she looked into his eyes, her world stopped.

She vetoed the four-inch stilettos Niko favored in five painful, toe-pinching steps. Good Lord, a girl could get nosebleeds in those things.

Ten minutes later, Alyson wobbled in front of the cashier ready to pay for the black kidskin three-inch Pradas she wore. As soon as she saw the bow at the back of the heel, she fell in love with the shoes. Gwen called her a “bow freak.” When Niko reached for his wallet, she elbowed him. “Look, as long as they take Visa, I’ll pay for my own shoes.”

“Please, allow me.”

“Absolutely not. I planned on having an expensive birthday meal at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant tomorrow. With all that’s happened today, that plan is ruined, too. So I’m rationalizing since I won’t be paying for my birthday meal, I can pay this ungodly amount for the shoes.”

Niko placed his hand over hers. “I don’t mind. Let me treat you since I goaded you into buying them.”

“Really, that’s not necessary. Even my husband…er…ex-husband never bought me things. I’ve always paid my own way.”

He leaned an elbow on the glass counter and looked at her. “You’re kidding me. He never bought you little surprises? Little treats? A woman like you should be spoiled, treasured—” his voice lowered as he slowly trailed a finger up her arm  “—loved often and well.” Merciful heavens, he was trying to seduce her in a shoe store. Gwen would squeal in delight when she told her about this.

“Down, buster. American women are different than French women. We’re not so easily seduced by glib words or smooth moves.”

His eyebrow arched and his demeanor turned insolent. “You think I’m trying to seduce you?”

Typical male. He touched her almost nonstop since they stepped into Minelli’s. Now that she called him on it, he wanted to deny everything. “I think you’re toying with me, seeing if you can make an old, lonely American woman quiver at your feet.”

“First of all, you’re not old. Second, if you’re lonely, that’s your fault. Third, if I wanted to make you quiver—” he leaned in, his lips against her ear  “—I damn well could.”

 

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (digital) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisaDigital

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (paperback) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoom

AMAZON (paperback) -- http://amzn.to/QQZGyD

AMAZON (eBook) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoomeBook

Blog of 2012 Award -- by Vonnie Davis

I’m thrilled to receive this blogging award from talented writer and friend, Calisa Rhose. I can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year on Vintage Vonnie than to honor Calisa. This is a woman who consistently opens her blog, also known as the ranch, at http://www.calisarhose.wordpress.com as a place for other writers to promote. In addition to interviewing other writers, she also does cover, banner and video reveals to pay forward to other authors.

We met online via the yahoo loops for authors with The Wild Rose Press. She’s fun, interesting and talented…and knows how to sit a horse. Whereas I know how to sit a recliner, but we don’t need to go there. She also possesses a heart as big as I hope mine will be one day. If she knows you, she loves you. How lucky for her family, whom she loves without reserve. She’s fabulous.

This award is unlike other awards that you can only add to your blog once. This award can be updated with additional stars. For every time your blog is nominated, you get to add an additional star. How cool is that?
 

There are a total of “6” stars to collect. Which means that you can checks out your favorite blogs—and even if they have already been given the award by someone else—you can still make your opinion count and pass it on to them again and help them (or me) reach the maximum of “6” stars.

The rules of the award are simple:

1.      Select the blogs you think deserve the 2012 Blog of the Year Award.

2.      Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen—there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required and present them with this award.

3.      Please include a link back to this page: Blog of the Year Award. http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-rewards/blog-of-the-year-award/ and include these rules in your post. (Please don’t alter the rules or the badge!)

4.      Let the blogs(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the rules with them.

5.      You can now join our Facebook page – click the link here. ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award (http://www.facebook.com/groups/BlogoftheYear/) and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience.

 

And now it’s my turn and a thrill to pay this honor forward by giving the award to the following bloggers:

 

Angela Adams blogging at http://www.authorangela.blogspot.com/  Here’s a lady—and I mean that in every delightful meaning of the word—who loves promoting other writers. She reviews many books and stories on her blog. I met her through RWA’s online site, From the Heart Romance Writers. She’s truly a delight, full of encouragement and support.

 

Then there’s delightful, spirited Mackenzie Crowne blogging at Mad Mac’s Mania, found at http://mackenziecrowne.com/wp/ . Mac and I met on The Wild Rose Press’s yahoo loop. We refer to it as The Garden—not a thorn in the bunch. Mac is like sunshine in a jar of honey. She’s talented and, in my opinion, an up and coming romance writer. I just love her style. I love the design of her blog and get serious blog envy every time I visit, which is often. Her blog is as open to visitors as her heart is to more friends.

 

I don’t want to forget another up and coming author, Rachel Brimble. Rachel blogs from her home in England at http://rachelbrimble.blogspot.com/ We also met in The Garden and are now represented by the same agent. Rachel has opened her blog to me several times and also to my husband, Calvin. She’s full of energy and encouragement.

 

THANKS TO THE THREE OF YOU FOR SUPPORTING MY JOURNEY AS A WRITER THESE LAST COUPLE YEARS. ENJOY YOUR BLOG OF 2012 AWARD.

FREE DOWNLOAD TODAY...FREE...FREE...DID I SAY FREE?

THE PHANTOM LADY OF PARIS is a FREE download today at Amazon. Don't miss a chance to visit Paris, 1968, on Calvin's magic carpet ride of words. Experience a step back in time, Parisian culture and a unique, unforgettable love story.

Click on the link to access the FREE download page at Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/The-Phantom-Lady-Paris-ebook/dp/B00584MLVE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1333288937&sr=1-1

A LESSON IN PERSERVERANCE

The Help was turned down by 60 agents before one took pity on Kathryn Stockett, a very determined author with a powerful passion for her story. Bless Kathryn's stubborn heart; she never gave up.

This is a timely reminder for me as I wait for word on two projects--a short story, Waiting on a Dream, written specifically for a submisisons call, and a novel, Mona Lisa's Room, a romantic suspense set in France.

These two elements--rejections and waiting--are part and parcel of a writer's life.

A writer friend of mine recieved word from a large publisher on June 2nd that they loved her book and were moving forward with it to the next committee. She hasn't heard a word since. Nor has her agent after repeated attemps to find out. So, this delightful lady waits-- lurking in the land of publishing limbo.

Before The Help was published, work was already underway for the movie. Yes, the publishing world does move at a snail's pace.


Have you seen the movie yet? Please do. Calvin and I saw it the day it opened here in Lynchbug. For him, it was a visit back to his childhood. For me, it was an education. By the applause that erupted at movie's end, for others in the theater, it was a delight.

Over the years, Calvin and I have shared memories of our childhood. He grew up in the segregated south and I was raised on a farm in Pennsylvania. Early in the mornings, he'd see black men and women, dressed in various uniforms, walking down the streets headed for the bus stop. My early morning activities were herding the cows into the barn for milking and filling their feed troughs with grain. Our formative lives were vastly different.

Yet, one ominous, dark thread of a nasty element in society was woven through both of our lives.

As a black boy he could not lay money into the hand of a white cashier. That white person would not welcome nor accept the touch of black skin against his or hers. As a black teen, working in a white owned store, he could not drink from the employees' water fountain nor use the employees' restroom. This resulted in many a mad dash for home over his lunch break or at day's end.

For me, it was the confusion of being jerked across the street by my good Christian mother before she'd lower herself to walk past a black man. Or watching her participate in fund drives to help "poor little African children" when she wouldn't tip the black woman who cleaned the public restrooms along Main Street in our town. I grappled with the inconsistencies.

I grappled with the same inconsistencies in the movie. White women turned their babies over to black help to raise and bathe and kiss, but refused to allow these same black women to use their bathrooms. Heaven forbid they should have to place their lily-white bottoms on the same toilet seat once used by a black person. It was almost as if they valued their bottoms more than their babies. But such were the morals, the thinking of the time.

Calvin claims whites were as trapped by segregation and Jim Crow as blacks. It made for discord and prejudices all the way around. I hope we've moved beyond all that. I hope so. I truly do...

LIVING WITH A WRITER

Many of you know I'm married to a writer. I've talked about his upcoming book, now released. Yay! I have pictures of his bookcover and links to his book trailer here on my blog. But what is it REALLY like living with a writer? What's the down-low?

When Calvin and I married in 2003, I was playing with writing. You know, a few paragraphs written when it fit into my schedule. I was still afraid to jump into it fulltime. So, when I married a writer, it was a bit of a shock. I mean, the man wrote EVERY day!!!

I used to say he agonized all morning over whether to put in a comma and then agonized all afternoon if he should take it back out. If we went away for the day, as soon as we got back home he'd hurry into the den, close the door and write like a fiend to make up for ignoring his writing, his passion all day. I was alone for the rest of the night and I just couldn't get it.

Then there were evenings when, in the middle of a movie or a TV show, he'd get antsy, shifting in his chair. He'd kiss my hand and say he had to go work on his story. He'd leave me alone again, and I just couldn't get the pull of the story. Why...how did it pull at him? I'll even confess to being a little jealous of the book. Did it mean more than I?

I won't even mention the times he'd jostle me out of a sound sleep to tell me he had to get up to change a paragraph. Did I understand? Not for a nano-second.

But I was a writer. Wasn't I? Shouldn't I have understood?

Then one day, Calvin said, "Time to stop with the excuses. Time to write. You're retired. Write." I listed my excuses: housework, laundry, cooking...et al. He turned me toward the tiny bedroom that held my computer. "Go. Write. Your muse awaits."

Calvin did that for me. He made me face my muse. Now finally, as the release date approaches for my own book, I get his devotion to his craft.

I understand all the hours he devoted to the phantom lady. All those hours he mentally retreated to Paris, the setting for his book. I'd watch him pour over street maps of the City of Light to make sure he had the streets correct. He spent hours online making sure the cafes he remembered from his time there in '68-69 still had the same names, especially the cafes where he wrote every day.  

Thanks to Calvin, heart of my heart, I get it.

Lucky me, I'm a mentor...

I'm a firm believer in giving back. That's why I judge writers' contests and spend hours giving the writer tips rather than criticisms. We all need help from time to time, gentle nudges, words of encouragement and heaps of praise for small accomplishments...and of course hugs for the big achievements.

That's why I also mentor other writers.

We start out with an agreement to try it for a month. After all, they might find me too picky or not helpful in any way. They email me a chapter and I use tract changes to mark things up and leave comments. I look for pov issues, passive verb usage, holes in plot or weakness with character development. I make comments and send the chapter back. What do I expect in return? Improvement.

Why, when time is so crucial to a writer, do I mentor? Because everyone needs help to reach their goals...to climb toward achieving their dreams. I have a mentor, too: my husband, Calvin. He is my cheerleader, my go-to-guy for answers, my support system, my hero. I would not be writing fulltime--a dream I held in my heart for 50 years--without his gentle nudging. In less than a month, I'll be holding my first book because of him. So, I'm passing it on, paying it forward, if you will.

I mentor two writers--a lovely lady in Boston and a sweetheart in Arizona. Both are growing as writers. Getting stronger. Their writing is becoming more vivid. Not because I'm such a great teacher, but because I can point out things and offer suggestions. I nudge them.

Their writing talent is already there--blooming in their souls. All I do is water the bloom and nudge it with the sunshine of encouragement.

Our mentoring relationship is a two-way street. I'm learning from them, too. In addition, I've made two wonderful friends. Somehow they always seem to know when I'm down or not feeling well and they email, and I smile. Lucky me, I'm a mentor.  

TRAVEL HORROR STORY -- PART TWO

We got into our rental car and drove through storm ravaged streets to reach our hotel. Because of airline delays, we'd missed Bob's viewing, which was just as well given Calvin's reluctance of seeing the body of his friend, once a vibrant and jovial soul.

Other alumni of Calvin's high school class were flying in for Bob's funeral from Texas and DC. We'd agreed earlier to stay at the same hotel so we could also visit during our time there. We met the next morning for breakfast. We each had airline horror stories to share thanks to the system of storms that whipped through the southern states the previous day.

When we went to leave for the funeral, the battery on our rental car was dead. We ended up calling a taxi to get us to the church for the services.

Bob's widow had told me during a phone call the color scheme of the funeral was black and ivory, that friends and family were to wear either black or ivory. The color scheme also pertained to the flowers. Only black and cream flowers were allowed around the casket. Flowers of different colors were set to the side of the sanctuary. I confess to ignorance in this area, not knowing if this was a regional or racial preference.

As we sat, waiting for the service to begin, Calvin's hearing aide broke. Thus, he couldn't hear the sermon or any remarks made to honor his best friend.

That night in our hotel room as he tugged off his t-shirt, one of the ear pieces to his glasses broke off. There was no way we could repair them. "What else can possible go wrong?" he grumbled on his way into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the commode overflowed. Yes, folks, the trip had gone to pot.



The following day, when we went to check in at the airport to fly home, the lady at the desk said we still owed for our tickets. Thank goodness I'd printed ticket confirmation when I booked online. She pressed several keys and fiddled and fumed until she found her sought for information.

Unfortunately when she entered our information, she entered us as buying a one-way ticket minutes prior to boarding which sent up red flags to homeland security. They were waiting on us once we passed through normal security screening. I suppose the fact that I was leading Calvin around since he couldn't see well without his glasses only added to our plight.





No, this is not me!!

Security guards seperated us and began questioning. Now remember, Calvin's hearing aide was broken, so he could not hear what was being asked. And with his glasses broken, he couldn't even see the man's mouth move to know the man was speaking. At one point I heard the security guard scream, "What's wrong? Can't you speak English?" Calvin has a Masters in English and can speak it quite well, thank you very much.

Seeing that he needed help, I said to the guard questioning me, "Excuse me, I'll be right back." I left him to hurry over to the guard questioning Calvin to explain that without his hearing aide and glasses, he really was at a disadvantage. The rude guard looked at me as if I were insane.

Meanwhile, the guard I'd just walked away from must have thought I was trying to escape and he called for backup. Security guards, their hands on their sidearms, came running toward me as I tried to explain to Calvin's guard why he couldn't answer his questions. We were both slammed up against the wall and frisked. At the time, I was 60 and Calvin 76, neither of us had ever been frisked before. Suddenly, fear rushed in! OMG, we're grandparents for heaven's sakes...law-abiding senior citizens. This IS America, isn't it?

Two security guards grabbed me and hauled me to the other side of the area. Calvin yelled, "Get your filthy hands off my wife." Probably not the wisest thing to say at this point, but one must understand my husband is very protective. He was once more slammed up against the wall and roughed up. I'm crying.

They tore the linings out of my new shoes, searched my handbag and, of course, raised their eyebrows when they found Calvin's insulin and needles. They threw away my lipstick--we all know how dangerous a tube of lipstick can be. By now I had images of being locked away--forever. We were shoved around, yelled at and repeatedly searched. Then, that suddenly, they said we were free to go and they walked away from us.

Calvin and I embraced as he kept saying, "My God, my God, I can't wait to see the hills of home." Over the intercom came our names. The airlines was holding the flight for us and this was our last call. We ran to our gate, fearful we'd miss our flight. Thankfully we made it. So, tell me, what's your travel horror story?

A TRAVEL HORROR STORY -- PART ONE

I think we all have our travel horror stories: squabbling kids in the back seat, car breakdowns, crappy hotels, food poisoning and airline snafus. I once went on a 7-day cruise while my luggage went to another continent. The cruise ship gave me another suitcase, and I bought new clothes only to have the new luggage fly to Texas while I flew home to an airport on the eastern coast. So I lost my luggage coming and going on that trip.

Even so, nothing beats the horror story of our last trip to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Bob, Calvin's best friend since elementary school, passed away. He and Bob not only went to school together, but joined the Army together after getting their bachelors and then attended graduate school with each other once their duty to Uncle Sam was complete. They had a strong bond. Bob had recently retired as head of the biology department at Southern University. Although we knew of his heart problems, his death came as a shock. He'd been talking on the phone to his momma when his diseased heart simply gave way.

To get to Baton Rouge quickly enough to attend the funeral, I made online flight arrangements taking whatever flights I could find. This created a hodgepodge trip connecting from Lynchburg to Charlotte to Memphis to Baton Rouge. All went reasonably well until we reached Memphis where heavy storms were rolling in. Airline personnel announced that the restroom on our flight was out of order and we should use restrooms in the airport prior to boarding.

Once onboard, the flight attendant announced that the air conditioning system on the plane was not working either. A few minutes later she informed us that there was no personnel to load our luggage onto the flight and our luggage would arrive in Baton Rouge the following day. However, if we really needed our luggage, we were welcome to load it ourselves. Bob's funeral was in the morning to say nothing of the viewing that evening, so yes, we needed our luggage. I got off the plane in the wind and the rain, along with many other customers, and heaved our luggage into the bowels of the commuter plane.

So, now I'm wet and wind-blown, scrunched into a seat on an airline with no fresh airflow. Varying degrees of human hygiene are perfuming the hot, stagnant air. And I'm trying to keep my over-active bladder from focusing on having no usable bathroom onboard.

Then, the hostess announces the plane is overweight and they need 5 passengers to get off. Seems the airline was out of fuel in Baton Rouge, so our plane had to carry enough fuel to fly from Memphis to Baton Rouge and also to make the return trip back. Two people got off. Again the hostess speaks to the passengers. The pilot refuses to take-off until 3 more disembark. No takers.

Meanwhile it's getting stuffier onboard, AND my bladder is whispering, "Now...now!!"

We sat there for hours while the hostess went from person to person, asking, pleading for people to get off the plane. The storm is rolling across the airport and the plane starts rocking on the tarmac. My bladder is now screaming, "Now...I need emptied now." Finally, 3 people agreed to get off. We sat there for 3 and a half hours, missing Bob's viewing.

At last one commuter plane, rank with human smells and no operating restroom, was airborne. We landed in Baton Rouge to a dark airport. Tornados had wiped out electrical service. Everyone hurried off the plane stampeeding to the nearest restroom in semi-darkness thanks to security lighting. By now, my bladder is screeching!!!

Calvin and I tramped to the car rental part of the airport to pick up the car I'd rented online. The person at the counter bemoaned the fact their computers were out and she'd have to fill out the forms by hand. Oh, gee, poor thing! We stepped out into the hot, muggy night to the parking lot to get our rental car. As soon as I saw it, I knew we were in trouble...

Stop back tomorrow for the rest of the story on our trip. Meanwhile, what's the worst experience you've had while traveling?

The Phantom Lady Comes to Visit

The proofs for Calvin's book arrived yesterday. He signed the contract in August, so it's been a while to move from point A to point B. The publishing world moves at its own speed.

Non-writers often don't understand. If you tell them you've signed a contract, their face brightens and they ask, "So how soon will it be in the stores?" When you respond, "In a year or two," they resemble a fish out of water--slack-jawed and beady-eyed. "Huh, why so long?"

It's easy to understand their disbelief. We live in a world of instant gratification. Pizza in five minutes, microwaved meals, faster Internet speeds, complete novels downloaded to eReaders in forty-five seconds. Frankly, I'm surprised doctors haven't figured out a way to speed-up a woman's reproductive system so the baby gets here quicker than nine months.

Granted smaller publishers have a shorter turn-around time. Often three to four months from contract signing date. ePublishers are quicker, too. The advent of smaller publishers and eBooks are challenging the larger publishing giants like David with his slingshot.

In my opinioin, these changes are long overdue.

Pardon me while I go help Calvin read and correct his proofs. We have company, you know--The Phantom Lady of Paris.

Counting one's blessings...

One of the things I learned from my mother was to count my blessings. Odd that we have a national holiday set aside to do that. Shouldn't that be a part of our daily lives?

Our society is so focused on the quest to obtain "more," that we forget to give thanks for what we already have.

I'd like to be a beautiful woman: long curly hair, blue-violet eyes, slender figure, long shapely legs. But folks, it ain't happenin'.  I will share with you that having had my hair go scalp-seeing thin a couple years ago thanks to the removal of my thyroid, I'm thankful for the hair I now have. My brown eyes can see the beauty of my family and friends just fine, even with those early cataracts. To see the people one cherishes is a great blessing, to say nothing of looking at the sky, the mountains, flowers and artwork. I'm even thankful for my cottage cheese thighs because I'm still able to walk wherever I want; I'm not using a walker or confined to a wheelchair.

Every morning when Calvin turns on that same opera CD, I take pause and think how grateful I am I can still hear it. Life without classical music and Stevie Wonder and Bob Dylan or Aretha Franklin would be a cold, silent vacuum.

What I'm slowly getting at here is sometimes we get so caught up in our wants and desires, we forget to count the many blessings we already have. Yes, one needs ambitions; one also needs to take stock. Take stock of ALL you have.

At our ages (I'm 62 and Cal is 79), we're very grateful for our good health and that we are active. We count our children (Amy, Steve, Mike and Kelly) as our greatest achievements. Raising them was a joy for both of us; they've given us great memories. Our six grandchildren (mine actually, but they've wormed their way into Cal's heart, as well) are a delight. We celebrate every achievement they have--both academic and sports-related. We also cherish our ever-increasing circle of friends. Lucky us to have met such interesting people!

We've both been blessed with a deep-seated desire to write. As a result of our passion, we both have book contracts. Words cannot express our gratitude for these gifts.

God has blessed us with so many things, large and small--the most-appreciated gift being each other. After living alone for so many years, residing in different states, it was God's hand that brought us together. And isn't it a blessing that we live in a country where we can chose to worship any way our spirit leads?

At times, one has to feel content with his or her surroundings. No, we don't live in a large McMansion. We love our little cottage; it's filled with love, after all. No, we don't drive a Lexus; our Camry has a smooth ride and it's paid for. No, we aren't young and beautiful, or slim and shapely. We are us, comfortable in our wrinkled skin, happy we can still learn something new every day, thrilled with our family's accomplishments, awed that our dreams are coming true and thankful--extremely thankful for all we have.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Decisions...Decisions...

I cannot begin to explain the scope of my emotions these past two weeks. As a writer, I should find this an easy task. Working with words is my thing, after all. But when a long-held dream comes true, words do tend to fail. 

I'd started penning short stories in the fourth grade. They were comical little pieces about a little man from Mars who came to Earth, trying to make sense of things we humans did. He was constantly getting into trouble. Picture Lucy (of I Love Lucy) with green skin, a large pointy head and four-foot stature. I fell in love with my classmates' laughter as they read those goofy stories. This is what I want to do, my heart cried. Write!

So I promised myself that once I got out of school, I'd write a book. As with the dreams of so many people, life got in the way. Marriage, children, family responsiblities, college, work...excuses all. I was afraid, if the truth were told, afraid to try. What if I tried and failed? Then my dream would die. Thus I held my dream close to my heart, afraid to share it.

Now, as a parent I would never have allowed such nonesense from my children. I'd have encouraged, pushed, proded, yelled until they threw their fears aside and pursued their dreams. Yet I was afraid to pursue mine.

Enter stage left: Calvin Davis. A man I fell in love with and married late in life; a man who asked me what my dreams were. When I shared, he told me in no uncertain terms that I must write. I frantically looked around me for excuses--I'm so good at that, you know. He would have none of them. "Write," he'd say in that school teacher voice of his.

So I began and shared my floundering efforts with him. He edited, and I sulked. How...how could he be so harsh when my writing was so "wonderful?" I began reading articles and books, soon to realize that I was doing many things wrong. I began to grow as a writer.

Two weeks ago, my agent started "shopping out" Storm's Interlude. In less than a week, I had a contract offer. This week, I've had another. After all those years of fearing I wouldn't be good enough, two publishers want my romance novel. Mere words could never describe my feelings. For dreams can come true, once you cast aside your fears.

Now I must decide which publisher to go with...decisions...decisions.

Too much of a good thing can be overwhelming!

Things have been crazy here at our house this week. Every action, thought, conversation has centered around writing.

The lady, who designs book covers at Second Wind, emailed Calvin with a list of needs: a brief bio, a book blurb for the back cover, a photo and any ideas we had for the cover design. This request set off a flurry of activity--and male grumbling. "I do not want my picture on the cover." When I told him he did, Calvin's chin got that mulish set to it. Few men are as unpretentious as he.

I recieved word that my short story, "To Love and Lose," won honorable mention in a Writer's Journal contest. My first win; I was shocked, believe me.

My agent, Dawn Dowdle, read my manuscript. Bless her, she'd send me updates via email and texts. "I'm loving it," she'd say, which, of course, only added to my angst over whether it would be good enough. "I've laughed out loud at several unexpected places. Good work!" I yearned to be in her office, leaning over her shoulder to see and hear her reactions. When I opened her email that asked for a synopsis, I groaned. I'd been putting it off. I mean, I had a five page boring-as-watching-paint-dry synopsis, but she wanted it whittled down to two pages. Not an easy task for a wordy person.

For me, writing a synopsis is akin to removing a hemorrhoid by putting a pair of tweezers in my mouth and forging a path through my gizzard. It's painful. How can one possibly capture the essence of a three-hundred page manuscript in two?

I'd no sooner emailed her that infernal synopsis, when she emailed me the manuscript with tract changes. Now folks, this is a new skill for this old bird--tract changes. But with Dawn's guidance, I was able to whiz through all her corrections and suggestions in two days, accepting or refusing each one with a click of the mouse. I admit to being "comma challenged." In my estimation, Dawn removed every comma I had in my manuscript and put commas in places I'd never think about putting them.

Of course, hovering over me was another email from her. She wanted additional information needed to "shop-out" my manuscript to publishers. I nearly bawled when I read the first one: a ONE sentence tagline to entice your readers. "One...one sentence?" I gasped, reaching for the bottle of antacids that had gotten me through the horrors of whittling my synopsis down to two pages. Next on her list was one to three paragraphs to interest readers (more weeping and gnashing of teeth). She asked for a bio (would "I live. I love. I write." qualify?) My marketing plans with specifics (I reached for the tissues and smelling salts). Marketing plans? I'm a writer, not a marketing guru! And a list of similar books and authors (if there are books already out there like mine, why would someone buy the one I've labored over? I asked myself, my eyes scanning the titles on my crammed bookshelves). I've relegated this project to when I'm half-watching, half-listening to the football games this weekend.

I'll also be catching up on homework. You see, I'm taking an online course through Florida Romance Writers on "How to create sexual tension." I wonder if I could develop a course on "How to handle the tension of life as a writer"?

Still, life moves on. I'm going shopping this afternoon and then stopping by to see a friend. I need a break. I need chocolate!!!

Oh, and wait till you see the handsome picture of Calvin on the back cover of The Phantom Lady of Paris.

The right word makes all the difference.

I am an ordinary writer. My writings are not literary. Every so often I can turn a dynamic phrase, but it takes real effort. My writings are more conversational, folksy, elementary. My husband, on the other hand, is an artist with words. He can paint a blank sheet of paper with a broad spectrum of verbal colors--vivid and in odd combinations that make me sigh and think why, oh why, can't I think of phrases like that?

Perhaps it is knowlege of vocabulary and the power of words that make his writing more literary, while my efforts remain on the everyday plane. As a college student, Calvin read and studied Word Power. He is a whiz at the entomology of words. He loves to read the dictionary for heaven's sake. His user vocabulary is larger than mine.

This is a condition, a weakness I've long recongnized in my writings. I have a large understanding vocabulary, but a smaller user vocabulary. Sure, I know what many, many words mean when I see them...I just never think of them when I'm writing. Perhaps I need to read the Word Power, but then, perhaps I do have "word power"--in my own way.