Monday Mumblings and Musings

When you're wondering if your writing is up to par, there's nothing like entering a contest to see how you rank. I submitted book two of my "Highlander's Beloved" series--A HIGHLANDER'S PASSION in the paranormal category of the HOLT Medallion Contest. Word of the finalists went out today. And my bear-shifter romance was among them. I was thrilled. Validated. Dancing the happy writer's dance.

Folks, I was feeling my oats, as the old expression goes.

Then I noticed a new review for the book. A two-star did-not-finish review. And there was a wind storm in Lynchburg as the air whooshed out of my ego balloon. I think it was a wake-up call. You're still not writing good enough to please readers. You need to work harder. So, it's back to the drawing board for me.

But we won't dwell on that. I was able to rank in the top few. For that, I'm grateful.

The winner will be notified on June 11th, the day my granddaughter gets married, so I won't be able to attend the luncheon. Just as well. I don't expect to win. I'm just thrilled I finaled.

The really neat thing? Two of my Vixens--my Street Team--finaled, too. And in the SAME category! What are the chances of that? I'm always bragging that I have the most talented Street Team--and I do. I'm surrounded by supportive people. Especially Calvin.

My problem? I'm in a blue mood. I want to try new things but that old rascal self-doubt moved in a couple weeks ago with a three-piece set of luggage. And it doesn't look as if the bugger is moving out anytime soon. I'm beginning to wonder if once this contract is over and my old books are self-published if it won't be time for me to turn off my laptop and call it a day.

I'll be 68 in a week and a half. I'm tired. Writing trends are changing. Reviewers are getting more cruel. My writing career isn't moving forward at the pace I'd hoped. Maybe it's time to make my goals more realistic....and maybe in a few days I'll feel completely different. Who knows? But for right now, my emotions are swinging. I need a vacation, wine, and a girl's time out--and not necessarily in that order.

Write on, my lovelies.

Friday Friends

I've got a dashing visitor from the past on Vintage Vonnie today. More than four years ago, he'd been very important in my life. His name is Niko Reynard, hero of a Romantic Suspense released under the name of Mona Lisa's Room. His first meeting with Alyson, the heroine went like this...

 When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men walked in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of five. Even though the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed glasses riding low on his nose, was handsome in his own right, it was the second male who commanded her attention—and her fascination.

He was striking. Or, as Brooke, her free-spirited sister, would say, “Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.”

While the young man wasn’t blatantly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body responded, which surprised her.

She judged him to be around thirty, with the firm and muscled, yet slender build of many European men. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ model. His eyes were dark and angry.

What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.

The older man sat while Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reigned panther.

“Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”

The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type.

She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his eyebrows quirked in response and a corner of his mouth quivered for an instant as if he were a heartbeat away from laughing at her. She hiked her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds.

Touché.

Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through today, frankly she didn’t give a shit.

This book was the first of three under the series title "The Red Hand Conspiracy." All were set mainly in Paris, my favorite city. Writing them was a blast, like walking back in time, retaking a vacation, if you will.

The series never sold well. Yet, the crazy thing is the books hold the highest ratings of all my books at Goodreads and Amazon. Go figure! Mona Lisa's Room won the HOLT Medallion of Merit for Best Romantic Suspense. But for some reason, it just didn't sell.

Now that I have the rights back for the series, I'm planning to self-publish them. So my Street Team and I have been examining things; looking for what could have caused its failure. Was it the titles? In addition to Mona Lisa's Room, I had Rain is a Love Song and the final book, only two-third's written, called Jazzbeat of Surrender. Can we all agree I suck at titles? Is it no wonder my publishers give me a list of titles and say, "Here are the names of the books you're going to write"? 

Was it the covers? I'd loved them. Each had elements germane to the story within, but since they belong to my previous publisher I'm no longer allowed to use them. Gosh, I hoped it wasn't the writing; not with all the 5-stars they garnered from the few who'd taken a chance on buying them. Perhaps the publisher's lack of distribution? Or my scarcely known name at the time? Not that I'm so well known now. ACK! We could go round and round on all the possible "whys", couldn't we. 

Obviously, I have a lot to do to prepare this series for the Indie market where no one knows me at all.

I've changed the title of book one to--

NIKO

Love and The Red Hand Conspiracy, Book One

I'm having a new cover designed with a picture of Niko on the front along with the bloody handprint, the macabre calling card of an International band of terrorists who call themselves The Red Hand. In each stand-alone book, a segment of The Red Hand is eliminated at the end of the story. By the end of book three, the reader learns the identity of The Architect, the shadowy, demonic leader of this band of deadly radicals.

Book two will be named for its hero: JEAN-LUC. BASTIEN is book three's hero.

I'm part way through NIKO, improving my prose and laying strong, yet hidden hints for identity of The Architect so when he appears, the reader will think I'm not surprised rather than No, freaking way!

The book is longer than I like so I'm trying to tighten the writing and delete some things yet still retain the charm, the suspense, and the passion of the original story.

Dressed, Alyson stood beside the bed as if frozen to the spot. Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide with fright. Being scared was one thing, but being immobilized with terror would not help her. She had to be able to move, to run, if necessary. He had to make her angry, hoping to tap into her passion. What could he say to piss her off again?

“Well, Mrs. Moore, you no longer resemble a sloppy American.” Fact was she looked good in that low-cut sundress. Damned good. While he’d always been a leg man, he had a healthy appreciation for the breast portion of the female anatomy, and her breasts were quite eye-catching. The wide skirt that emphasized her trim waist skimmed shapely calves. The woman was trouble in a sexy little package.

His calling her Mrs. was evidently like a cold slap to her face. She gave the desired response. “Let me give you a lesson in life, Niko. Never call a woman who endured twelve years of a cold marriage to a cheating husband by the title Mrs.” She grabbed her hellacious ugly baby-shit-colored purse and slung it over her shoulder.

He fought back a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Lesson number two. Never call a woman, who is one day shy of turning forty, ma’am. My first name, Alyson, will do nicely.”

He retrieved her carry-on from the bed and opened the door a crack. After checking the hallway and finding it empty, he glanced back over his shoulder, winked, and purposely lowered his voice to a sensual purr. “Anything else you’d like to teach me, Aly?”

Niko is watching me very closely as I edit and update, don't think he isn't. He's second in command of the French Counterterrorism Unit. Mr. Alpha is used to giving orders. And I'm not the best at following them. We've knocked heads before and I suppose we'll be eyeball to eyeball, yelling at each other again. I can't wait for the fun to begin!

Two Months Until Book Three Releases!

Bearing It All, book three of my Highlander's Beloved Series, releases two months from today. I've tried very hard to make each book different, yet keep the Matheson family and Effie alike. You can read each as a stand alone or in order as a set. Will there be more? My editor says she'd like to see books four and five, depending on the sales of book three. Although, the editorial team isn't sure how they want me to write those future books--more romantic, more paranormal, or more historical.

The whole series has been a hoot for me. I used to say, "I write all sub-genres of romance except paranormal. I don't have the mind for that."

SO WHY BEARS?

 

 

Creativity attacks us all differently. Musicians scribble lyrics on napkins or envelopes. Artists often draw on any flat surface. Writers, who write by the seat of their pants, rely on inspiration. Mine comes to me in the form of handsome males, typically at night just as I’m drifting off to sleep. They tell me about themselves, their loves, and ask me to write their stories.

Roughly three years ago, I had surgery to remove a cancerous cyst from my saliva gland, a rather involved four-hour surgery that’s left part of my left cheek and ear numb. About a month post-surgery, two golden spots appeared at the back of my mind. These round spots glowed, and I freaked—OMG brain cancer. The surgeon didn’t get it all and it’s spread to my brain. So I googled brain cancer like a mad woman, reading all I could on symptoms and nowhere did it state patients complained of seeing glowing spots in the backs of their minds.

I hated to call my cancer doctor, knowing he’d put me through a battery of tests only to prove what I already knew. I had brain cancer. I picked up the phone to call and the golden orbs blinked. Blinked, mind you! Eyes? These are eyes? And they blinked again.  Well shoot, I didn’t need a cancer doctor. I needed a shrink! I’ve got freakin’ eyes in the back of my head, glowing and blinking  and watching.

So, for a month, they waited and willed me to speak to them. Well, my darlings, I might be half-crazed, but I know enough not to speak to something that shouldn’t be there in the first place.

Then one night, when I was almost asleep, these eyes left my head and floated to the foot of our bed into a large bear. Now, I often think characters search for the right author to tell their stories. So I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t write children’s books.” He shook his head. “Oh, you’re not that kind of bear?” He shook his head again and shifted into this dark-haired, muscled, kilt-wearing Scot. He sauntered toward my side of the bed and I reached for my glasses. I mean, wouldn’t you? Would you want to miss one gorgeous inch of this guy?

Again, I apologized. “Hon, you’re still in the wrong writer’s house. I don’t write paranormal.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and I scooted over to make sure his fine kilted behind had plenty of room. “Aye, lassie, but ye will. Me name is Creighton Matheson. In Scottish, mathe means bear and I am laird of sons of bears. Have ye ever heard how bears came to be extinct in Scotland?” I shook my head. I mean, how could I talk with a mouthful of drool? He told me this fantastical story of how the Vikings killed off the male bears and imprisoned the sow and baby bears in a cave along the coastline.

The next morning I googled “Are bears extinct in Scotland?” Chills slithered up my spine. They were. Sources claimed the extinction was due to over-hunting and the government was trying to reintroduce them into the Highlands. But I had a better story; one from a bear-shifter, himself.

Now bears can be determined creatures and mine would have no rest until I started his book. So I set aside my work in progress for a month and wrote a few chapters to quiet the bear. By then I was in love with my bear-shifter, this sexy man with a duality that both wounded my soul and charmed me. I needed…needed…for him to have his HEA.

I was also plagued with a huge problem: I didn’t know the paranormal romance genre. I felt like a fake for even trying to write one. So, I read Terry Spear and her wolf-shifters and Eve Langlais and her Furry United Coalition.

Still, the question remains: Why bears? From my research, bears are a healing totem, one that requires you to rest (hibernation) and to find your strength. Mine certainly helped me through my six months of recovery and to strengthen my writing.

I used it as my play story. Whenever I hit a wall in whatever book I was writing, I’d hop over to my bear story for a week and play. There’s a relaxation in writing something you know no one else will ever read. It gives your mind a chance to work through the corner you'd written yourself into in your WIP. My agent, at the time, knew about it, because I’d told her I was taking a break from this book or that to work through a problem by playing with my bears.

An editor at Random House Loveswept read something I’d written and called my agent to ask if I had anything not yet contracted. Dawn replied I didn’t, but I did have this bear-shifter story I worked on from time to time. “Send me the first three chapters,” the editor commanded.

I was not happy. I told my agent I wasn’t writing this for anyone to read. It was a relaxation tool for me. We argued. I sent in the chapters (I’m such a wuss). Two days later, the editor asked how soon I could have the book done and three were contracted. Maybe I should play more often.

You can pre-order at http://amzn.com/B00TCI2A5E

or Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bearing-it-all-vonnie-davis/1121772576?ean=9780553394658

 

Writing the Final Book of a Series by Vonnie Davis

As a typical practice, publishers like to contract books in series of three. Sometimes more, but three seems to be their "go to " number. I'm writing book three of "A Highlander's Beloved" series. Book one of my bear-shifter romance came out in September this year.

Hoping it would eventually end up as book one of a series, I made it easy on myself and put three brothers in the storyline. I also made up a character sheet I opened every time I worked on a book. I made four columns--character's full name and age; occupation; role in the story; and physical description. I didn't want the mother to have blue eyes in book one and brown eyes in book three. Or a twenty-eight year-old woman be twenty-five in the next story. After all, I'm the only one allowed to get younger. All point of view characters were written in red; the rest in black. You can imagine by book three, the list is quite long, but my characters are consistent. The groomsman in book one is not the gardener in book three. I even list people who are only mentioned, but are never "on stage" in the book.

Book two releases on April 7th and it's available for pre-order now. The hero and heroine have a past history. There's a lot of pain to overcome and a lot of trust to rebuild. Love can be scarred and dented.

A wounded heart can take a lot of time to heal. One minute you feel good about the other person and ten minutes later, old doubts resurface.

I've also worked hard to make sure each brother has a distinct personality. Creighton, the eldest, is overly protective of everyone and blusters a lot. Since his dad passed when Creighton was ten, he's taken to heart being the head man of the family. Bryce is the youngest and feels the deepest. His wife died in childbirth and he's the single dad raising and worrying over his daughter, Colleen. He's also struggled with letting go of his grief of losing his wife at such a young age. Then there's the middle son--Ronan.

My Street Team's Slogan

Ronan is more of a loner. He gets tired of being polite to guests at the family lodge and, every so often, he and his inner bear take off for a cabin he built higher in the rugged Highlands. He needs the solitude. He needs to treat his bear with the freedom to run, which is what his bear was doing when a woman parachuted from an aircraft and landed right on him. Here's a sneak peak--

A sound snagged his attention. A whooshing. His bear stopped and tilted his head, seeking the direction of the unfamiliar noise. At first, he suspected something…a tree, perhaps…had fallen across the stream, blocking the natural flow of water and creating the strange racket but, nay. This was different and growing louder.

He stood on his hind legs to get a better view.

“Oh shit! Oh holy shit! Ohhh blessed mother of Prada, holy effing shit!” A strange human shrieked.

He glanced skyward at a person plummeting toward him, tied to a billowing red parachute.

Shift!

Nay, buddy, ye take care of the intruder. Roar yer furry arse off.

The bear roared and waved his upper legs in a threatening manner.

The trespasser yanked like crazy on the ropes as if they’d swerve him in a different direction. It didna matter. He crashed into the bear with a potent combination of weight and the force of his speed, his knees ramming the beast’s shoulders to the ground. Fer an instant, the wind was knocked out of the bear as both he and the person from the sky fought to push away the silky fabric. Fer a few fear-filled minutes, the two made eye contact and the dark-lashed person screamed so loudly, the bear glanced back over his head at the forest behind them for a quick retreat from the infernal racket.

The skinny human’s heart beat like a frightened rabbit. It had an odor of wild strawberries and arms that wouldna be still as the person fought to escape the bear’s hold. And its persistent high-pitched screeching made the animal’s ears ring.

Finally, the person stopped screaming and spoke, “A b-b-bear! I’ve landed on a wild and wicked bear! Christ, I’ve escaped the CIA only to become a bear’s dinner.” The person reached between them and unclicked the belt holding the parachute apparatus before slipping his arms free, tossing more of the red silk over the bear’s head, and rolling away from the parachute.

Ronan’s bear fought to work his way from under the soft batch of fabric and with one eye exposed, lay still to watch his advisory roll toward a tree and stand.

The human was a woman.

A frantic woman with arms that waved as she grumbled.

“A bear! A freakin’, smelly, hairy bear. Survival classes never taught me proper procedure for landing from a jump with my crotch under a bear’s chin. Damn incompetent instructors. Hell, they claimed they were preparing us for anything and everything we’d encounter.” She slipped off her backpack. “Calm down.” Both of her opened hands made a pushing down motion. “Calm down. I’ve read several survival guides. I know what to do. I can handle this. I can.

“Do not run from a bear. Make yourself a large target and yell to scare the bear away. Bears are easily frightened unless it’s mating season.

“Oh, wouldn’t it be just my freaking luck to fall on a horny bear? Oh, hell and shit.” She stood on her toes, her arms upstretched, and her hands poised like claws. “Roar! Growl! Snarl! Hiss! Run, you hairy bastard!” She bellowed like Colleen, Ronan’s niece, when she was throwing a tantrum.

Even with his bear at the forefront of their dual persona, Ronan rolled over and laughed. Laughed like he hadna in years. Me God, what a gutsy woman. Funny and plucky at the same time.
 

 

I'm going to have a hard time saying goodbye to these characters when I finish this book. My editor mentioned if I started gaining a following, there would be books 4,5 and 6. Dare I hope?