Finding My Voice Again

A writer's voice is very important. It's how a reader instantly recognizes your work. The way you put words together or begin a story or set up a scene. Somewhere along the way, I lost mine. Or had it edited out of me.

I was told to dummy down my writing. Use smaller words. Make my plots thinner...heck, if I could make anything thinner it would be my waistline. Write younger and not like an old woman. Hell, I'm 68, how am I supposed to sound? And, a toughie for me, no humor.

So I tried to write according to the criteria dictated to me and lost myself and my voice in the process.

I'm working very hard to get it back. How? By writing. Writing and more writing. I wrote a novella for Christmas and it took me forever because I didn't know how to be me anymore. I rewrote that dratted thing several times. My first draft was as dry as an over-roasted turkey. Nothing made me smile. I went over it again. Deleted. Added. Cried. Reworked that sucker. Cried some more.

Eventually, UP THE CHIMNEY, was ready for self-publication. And today, I got a five star review that made me smile until my cheeks hurt. I'll share the first paragraph ... "I love Christmas but I don't ever read Christmas stories, or stories about Christmastime. I just don't care for them. But c'mon! This is Vonnie frikkin' Davis here! I LOVED her Highland Series and I'm a fan. And with VD (heheh) ya know it's gonna be a good experience (chuckling). This story is par for the course. Starting out the gate with humorous action, immediately roping in my interest."

AMAZON BUY LINK: https://amzn.com/B01LLZWUWI

A DEAL AT 99 CENTS.

A Christmas Present in July--A Free Read by Vonnie Davis

Over a year ago, I wrote a Christmas novella about the men of a fire and marine rescue station in Clearwater, Florida. I designed Santa Wore Leathers as a kicking-off point for a series of books about these hunky heroes, even though the romance was about a man-shy reporter with a thong-stealing German shepherd and her new muscle-bound next door neighbor. Oh ladies, Dan "Wolf" Wolford was the kind of man to get all the women hot and bothered...especially her.

So, here we are in July and book one of this Firemen's Wild Heat series--TO CATCH A FLAME--releases on October 2nd. If you haven't read Santa Wore Leathers, you didn't get to meet Wolf's youngest sister, Cassie. Now Cassie is a bit of a dreamer, a spitfire and she's had a crush on her brothers' co-worker at the station, Quinn, for three years. But Quinn doesn't think he's good enough for her...besides relationships aren't his thing.

As a bridge between the Christmas novella and the book coming out in October, here's a brief segment. A special moment between the hero and heroine of the novella AND the first teeny-tiny step of Cassie and Quinn coming together.

A FREE READ! 

Christmas in July...what could be better?

CHRISTMAS DAY WITH WOLF AND BECCA

Becca was so stuffed from Christmas dinner, she didn’t think she could move from her spot in the corner of Wolf’s sofa. Every one of his siblings had brought a side dish and dessert, while he’d baked ham and steamed shrimp and crab legs. You had to love a man so secure in his masculinity, he could man the kitchen to cook for his family. Her gaze swept over her muscled hunk in his black leather pants and Santa hat. He could do his fair share of cooking in the bedroom, too, and the shower and the kitchen counter…and on his Harley. She squirmed a little. Didn’t her bottom still bear the imprint of his bike’s speedometer?

As if he sensed her movement, his attention turned to her and a slow, sexy smile spread. His eyebrows rose for a fraction of a second almost to signify he read her thoughts. Now that they’d worked through their issues of trust and desertion, they’d grown closer; if that were possible. He was so intuitive to her moods and needs.

“Want more wine, sweetheart?” Wolf whispered a kiss across her lips. “Might help ease that sore bottom.” Low laughter rumbled from his chest.

Her nipples peaked so they could hear his almost silent message. “No, I’m fine.”

“Indeed you are.” He winked and moved across the room to offer April and her fiancé more pinot grigio.

Soft holiday music wove through the crevices of the raucous conversation between his entire family. They certainly knew how to fill a house with teasing and laughter. Wolf’s large Christmas tree was surrounded with wrapped gifts. The largest one—the stroller for Jace and Wendy Anne’s unborn baby—sat off to the side, wrapped in Santa paper and red ribbon.

Cassie flounced onto the sofa next to Becca. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face pinched. She clasped the younger woman’s hand. “No word from Quinn?”

She shook her head and leaned her head against Becca’s shoulder. A long sigh shuddered from her slender body. So, Christmas wasn’t merry and bright for everyone. She wrapped an arm around Cassie and looked for Wolf. He’d know how to handle his baby sister. Their gazes connected, and he reached for something on the window sill.

“Hey Cassie, you’ve got mail here.” He handed her some envelopes. “Thought you had your address forwarded.”

“I did, but you know the mail system. If my name’s spelled different, it doesn’t get pushed on through.” She shuffled through them. “A bill. Ugh. Two credit card offers. What’s this? Looks like a Christmas card. No return address.” She tore it open. “Merry Christmas to Someone Special.” She flipped it open and gasped. “It’s from Quinn. He didn’t forget me after all. Oh, look, he wrote ʻTo the sweetest pain in the ass I knowʼ. How romantic is that?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Jace laughed. “Quinn’s not big in the romance department. He’s not a believer, sis.”

Cassie held the card to her chest. “You just give me time. I’ll make a believer out of him.”

Wolf handed Becca an envelope. “You’ve even got mail coming here.”

She took the envelope. “Me?” She turned it over, read the printed label. “Must be an ad of some kind.”

“Open it.” Cassie elbowed her.

Wolf leaned a hip against the arm of the sofa to read over her shoulder. “Better not be from a damn man.”

“Oh, shush.” She slipped her finger under the seal and tugged on the card. “This can’t be for me. It’s an anniversary card.”

“Really?” Wolf took the envelope and studied it. “Read it out loud, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Wendy Anne chimed in. “Maybe we can figure out who it’s supposed to be for.” A chorus of agreement followed.

“It’s a fiftieth anniversary card. How did it get sent to me?” She opened it to hunt for a signature and found, instead, a long hand-written note.

“Read it to everyone.” Wolf nudged her.

“ʻHappy Anniversary, my love. You’ve given me many wonderful memories over the years. I never thought it was possible, but I love you more now than I did the day I proposed.ʼ” She glanced at the family gathered around her. “Oh, this is too personal to read. I feel as if I’m eavesdropping. Is there a return address on the card? I need to see the right woman gets this.”

Wolf extended it in front of her so she could see. “Nope. Read on, sweetheart. Maybe there’s a clue. A name. Something.”

“Okay… ‘Do you remember the day Einstein stole your red thongs…’” She glanced at Wolf. Darn if he wasn’t wearing an innocent expression. Note to self: Don’t play poker with this man. “ʻ…and I chased him around the yard? Or the time I fell off the ladder because I was looking at you in those leather pants you wore? Then there was the day you broke your nose and had that cute lisp. And the night—Christmas Eve—when I pulled the Harley into a cove of palm trees and palms and we made love against the handlebars. I remember all those things and more. But mainly, I remember our first Christmas together when I pro…’” her vision flooded with tears and she blinked them away. “ʻ…when I proposed to you in front of the whole family.’”

The card fluttered to her lap and she wiped the tears from her eyes.

Wolf was on bended knee in front of her, an opened ring box in his large hand. “Will you marry me, Becca Jade Sinclair?”

She slipped off the sofa and pushed Wolf back to the floor, straddling his hips. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.” He slipped the square diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds from the jeweler’s box, kissed it and then slipped it on her finger. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled her over to kiss her as only he knew how to kiss—and her toes curled in the new stiletto boots he’d given her for Christmas.

Everyone clapped and cheered. Einstein, thinking it was play time, trotted in from the kitchen wearing a sweater that proclaimed “I’m the ring bearer.”

“Where did he get that sweater?” Her heart was practically bursting with happiness.

“Cassie knitted it for him.” Wolf nuzzled her neck.

“So the whole family was in on this?” She glanced around, noting everyone was wiping away happy tears.

Wolf nipped her jaw. “Hey, this is the Wolf pack. We do everything together.” A slow grin spread and his hand gently caressed her sore bottom. “Well, almost everything. I love you.”

When she’d least expected it, she’d found her alpha, her love and her family. What a difference a year had made. “I love you, too, Wolf.” 

AMAZON BUY LINK: http://amzn.com/B00GFD6X34

Miss Feather's School for Refined Ladies of Culture andProper Decorum by Vonnie Davis

Coming Later This Month

FEBRUARY 19th

Set in the fictional community of Cicero Creek in the Wyoming Territory in 1871, this sometimes humorous, sometimes suspenseful novella will be available in both paperback and eBook versions.

BLURB:

Annalee Gallagher loses her parents, home and business in the Great Fire of Chicago. When she travels to Cicero Creek in the Wyoming Territory to start a new life, more heartache awaits her, so do the attentions of several men—for good and for evil. Why was her stagecoach attacked and was the shot that zinged over her head one night, a wild bullet or a bad aim?

 

Boone Hartwell, the marshal of Cicero Creek, suspects someone is out to kill the new spitfire in town. She amuses him and touches a lonely part of his soul, but can he keep her safe? More importantly, can a white man raised as Cheyenne win her heart? Can he rise above all her other suitors? For one thing is for certain in his determined mind: He’s the man for Annalee.

EXCERPT:

 

       Annalee didn’t know which was more disconcerting: the fact she’d fainted or that the marshal now held her like a baby. She shifted in his arms, nervous at being held this close. Her burns throbbed so badly, she could barely think. “I can walk, you know. I only fainted.”
 

       “You might have hit your head. Caused an injury.” He tilted his head to the side and stared at her, an unsettling warmth in is brown eyes. “No need to frown like that. You’re not heavy. As soon as the doc’s through with your shooting victim, I’ll carry you inside.”
 

       “I did not shoot the driver.” She pursed her lips and glared at him. Up close, the marshal had an interesting face. A bump on his nose indicated it had been broken, probably in a brawl or two. His square jaw proclaimed stubbornness—something she could relate to—and a scar from the corner of his lower lip to the cleft of his chin no doubt signaled a life of violence. Dark, wavy hair hung over his jacket collar and nearly brushed his shoulders.
 

       Boone cleared his throat, arching one dark eyebrow. “Are you through with your examination? I could take my boots off so you can count my toes.”
 

       Her hackles rose at his remark. “Put me down, you annoying man.” She shoved at his hard chest. His hold tightened, increasing her pain. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out.
 

       The lawman tilted his head to the side again and his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I wonder…”
 

       “What?”
 

       “Were you born cranky or have you been practicing on a daily basis? Frankly, I’ve never met a more peevish woman. Now Widow Morrison, she’s a mite cranky, but rumor has it she’s got trouble with her bowels…”
 

       Annalee gasped, her cheeks heating with the blush of embarrassment. “Shut up. I’ll have you know there’s nothing amiss regarding my disposition. Why, I’m a graduate of Miss Feather’s Finishing School for Refined Ladies of Culture and Proper Decorum.” She gave an imperial sniff and hiked her chin a notch.
 

       He grinned, a sight that made her insides flutter, before he inclined his head and whispered, “You flunked that part, didn’t you?”      
 

       His warm breath against her ear caused her toes to curl in her black leather, high-button shoes and a shiver to race through her system, reactions she found troubling. She pierced him with an imposing glare. “I beg your pardon?”
 

       “The decorum part. You flunked that, didn’t you?” The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile. “Because every time you get riled, your mouth turns as nasty as a cowpoke with saddle sores.”
 

       He had her there. Her “devil tongue,” as Miss Feather called it, had earned her more demerits and kitchen duty than she cared to admit. Thus she’d been dubbed with the disparaging title of the “Demerit Damsel.”
 

       She’d not share that morsel of information with this infuriating stranger. She shot the marshal a sideways glance. For some reason, he grated on her nerves. “You, sir, have a brainless tongue that goes off half-cocked with what little sense God gave you.”

MAKING A PURSE OUT OF A SOW'S EAR

Idle time for a writer is not a good thing, especially in my case. Bordom sets in. I've emailed my romantic suspense, Mona Lisa's Room, back to my agent with the first round of tract changes completed. We'll go through this process once more before she feels the manuscript is good enough to "shop out" to publishers. Keep your fingers crossed, folks. An editor at The Wild Rose Press has my short story--or novella, if you prefer that term--and will get back to me by July 5th on Waiting on a Dream. So, what do I do now as I wait?

Dawn Dowdle, my agent, suggested I dust off Indigo Blooms, my first novel. She loved the story and fell hard for Fae, the little girl who wanted a Mommy. I must admit Fae was my favorite character in the book, too.


Dawn said since my writing's so much stronger now, perhaps I could polish the book into a more marketable format. In Pennsylvania Dutch lingo, she's hoping I can make a purse out of a sow's ear--a sow being a female pig. Perhaps now you're getting a visual of what I'm facing.

I rewrote the entire first chapter. Changed a lot of the back story. One could say the plot has many holes. And, honestly, at times it reads like it's written in a different language. Gee, and I thought it was so perfect at the time...sigh... Passive language, point of view issues and characters that overreact. No wonder she couldn't sell the thing.

I'm not sure Wonder-Woman-Writer could salvage this story. Still, fool that I am, I'm trying. I think it's because I want you to meet Fae, the real heart-stealer in the book. Of course her veterinarian father, muscled hunk that he is, can make a woman's heart stutter at twenty paces. He's worth the trouble, too. The heroine, her heart locked in a protective vault, has no defenses established against the charms of an exuberant child--who does?


How much do I keep? Dawn's already told me I need to take out two chapters that make the story "too dark," according to publishers she queried. So do I lighten up on the tension or just hit the delete key? What will I put in its place? Or do I simply start fresh with that section and go in a completely different direction? What to do...what to do...

Tell me, how do you revamp a weak story? How do YOU make a purse out of a sow's ear?