"Mona Lisa's Room" is a Double HOLT Medallion Winner!

I am so toe-curled happy I can barely think. I just received word that MONA LISA'S ROOM is a double HOLT Medallion Winner. Mona won an award of merit in both the Romantic Suspense and Best Book by a Virginia Author categories. I wasn't sure how readers would enjoy a suspenseful run through the streets of Paris, but the characters wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote their story. My heroine travels to Paris to celebrate her 40th birthday and unwittingly foils a bombing attempt in the Salon de Carre which houses the famed Mona Lisa. Alyson is put into the protective custody of French counterterrorist agent, Niko, who is ten years her junior. From that point on, they are on the run from the diabolical Red Hand terrorist group, whose macabre calling card is a hand print of their victim's blood.

Paris in September by Vonnie Davis

Calvin and I have scheduled a research trip to Paris for a couple weeks in September. I have a few story lines brewing and wanted to get up close and personal with some locations, take lots of pictures and ask several questions. One of my ideas will be partially set during WWII in Paris, so will require a lot of research. Since I love the Left Bank and know it best, I'll probably set the stories there. It's been a little over five years since our last visit and we're both eager to return to the City of Lights again. Having lived there for a year, this is like going back home for Calvin. He often says he was born in Lynchburg, Virginia, but his soul came to life in Paris.

I have to confess my first impression of the city was less than enthusiastic. We'd flown overnght in a cramped airline for nearly nine hours. Our seats were three across. Calvin sat to my left and the seatmate to my right had the breath of an orangutan--and I hesitate to make that comparison for fear of insulting the orangutan. The thirty-something male was on his way to ski in Russia, or so he told me while I held my breath in hopes of avoiding the noxious fumes eminating from his mouth.

Once on the ground, we were delayed in customs while they searched our luggage. Later, we were hiking down a concourse of Charles DeGalle Airport when the new carryon I'd bought from AAA's literally exploded--the seams ripped, causing its contents to spill onto the floor, one wheel popped off and I went into hysterics. I leaned against the wall and laughed like a lunatic. Calvin failed to see the humor in the situation, but not this exhausted old gal. I was in full-giggle-mode.

Our driver was waiting, holding a large sign with our name printed on it. I walked over to him and in my six-word French vocabulary haltingly told him we were the Davis's. He replied in rapid-fire French. I turned to Calvin, who is fluent in the language, to interpret. My husband is very hard of hearing--except when I'm angry about something and grumbling under my breath, THEN he can hear just fine, but that's a topic for another time. Calvin stood in front of the French driver, listened to what he had to say, then turned inquisitive eyes on me. "What did he say?" Oh, I knew we were going to be in trouble. Calvin, who spoke French, couldn't hear it. I could hear it, but couldn't begin to repeat it. Oy!

The driver hefted our luggage into the back of his van and we began the hour-long journey from the airport to our hotel on rue Bertholett. I had no idea we'd have to drive through the slums of Paris to get to the beautiful parts featured in all the pictures. Here in America, most large cities have down-trodden sections in the middle with the more appealing areas on the outskirts. Paris is the exact opposite. Their high-rent district is in the middle of the city. I suppose I was just too fatigued to appreciate the ride. What I desired most by that point was a bed in a quiet room. What we didn't know was the extent of a health condition I had at the time. Really, I should never have made the trip. But I did and certainly haven't regreted pushing myself. Oh, the lovely places I saw.

 

Unfortunately, we could not get into our room on our first day in Paris until 4:00 that afternoon and it was shortly after ten when we checked in. The hotel allowed us to stow our luggage in a special closet for weary travelers like us who arrived too early. No problem Calvin insisted. We'll just walk and see the city. Did I mention I wanted a bed? So for six hours we walked and sat at cafes and saw the sites. Part of me did, anyway. The other part was whining for a place to lie down.

We decided to go a different route this time and rent a Parisian apartment. One we could enter upon arrival and nap for a couple of hours to recoup sleep lost while enroute. Interestingly enough, the one we found through VacationInParis.com is right across the street, or rue, from the hotel we'd stayed at last time. We'll have three rooms and bath. This rental company based in NJ was a dream to work with. They answered my many questions and put up with our changing dates--all with polite professionalism. They even asked questions about our books--a surefire way to my heart. LOL

 

The windows in the sitting room open to a lovely wrought iron balcony covered in ivy and jasmine.

 

 

I might even cook a few meals in our small Parisian kitchen.

 

 

Mostly, you'll find us at cafes, sipping espressoes and absorbing French culture.

 

 

PARIS IN SEPTEMBER...I CAN'T WAIT!!!

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.

THE STRANGE DREAMS OF A WRITER --

I'm working on a book set in Paris, one of
my favorite cities. When one hears the word, Paris, one thinks of beauty, art galleries, stunning architecture, museums and, of course, romance.

Calvin first took me to Paris five years ago. He wanted to introduce me to the city he adored and where he lived for a year, writing at sidewalk cafes. There I discovered a different culture, a different way of thinking and, frankly, I fell in love.

My novel, Mona Lisa's Room, is a selfish endeavor, for in writing it I get to revisit all the places I so enjoyed. The story begins with my heroine standing in front of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. There she unwittingly foils a terrorist's bombing attempt. She is put into protective custody with Niko as her reluctant guardian. Sparks fly as soon as they meet, but they're certainly not sparks of attraction--or are they?

Niko is a native Parisian, devoted to his job in the counter-terrorism unit. He'd rather be in the thick of things than guarding her. He is arrogant and opinionated, not only with my heroine, but with me. Yes, my character bosses me around. Not when I'm awake, mind you, but when I'm asleep. He invades my dreams in that know-it-all, demanding way he has.

I suppose a bit of explanation is necessary or you'll think me mad. The first dream invasion happened the night after writing a scene outside a famed bookstore in Paris, Shakespeare and Company. I'd made it a romantic scene between the two of them. But in my dream, Niko and Alyson played the scene out for me not once, but three times until Niko yelled, "Now do you see why this scene won't work?" I crawled out of bed and powered up my laptop. I was not pleased. Still I had to admit the scene was better his way. Drats!

Then, last Thursday night while I was sleeping, Niko stormed into a room and slammed the door. The sound woke me and, bleary-eyed, I looked around our bedroom. What was that noise? Nothing seemed amiss so I rolled over and went back to sleep. Bamm! went the door again. This time Niko looked at me with his one eye-brow cocked as if to say, "Are you getting this, woman?" Frankly I wasn't. I snuggled against Calvin and was almost asleep when Niko whispered, "Don't go there. You know I'll slam the door again. Pay attention!"

I flopped onto my back, muttering, "If I could get my hands on you, you little rat-fink, I'd choke you. What is it you want to show me?"

Then he played it out. He stormed into an interrogation room and slammed the door (I wanted to tell him I already HAD that part). Sitting in a chair, her hands tied behind her back and wearing a blindfold, was my heroine. Then the vision faded...

That's all? That's all you're going to give me? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you so angry? Are you angry with her or her situation? You woke me up for this???

I had to write four scenes to set up the door slamming scene, finally writing it yesterday. I can hardly wait to see what else Niko has in store for me. What about you writers? Do your characters invade your dreams? Tell me I'm not the only weird one out there!! Please!!!