Book Signing... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

Sneaking in here on a Surprise Day to invite you to a book-signing I'm sure you won't be able to attend. I'm doing this for more than one reason, though. Aside from the obvious and embarrassing self-aggrandizement, I'd love to hear from other writers--and readers!--about book-signing experiences, both good and bad. Thank you for sharing. 

From Legacy Outfitters and Black Dog Coffee at 116 S 6th St, Logansport, IN.

"We're so exited about our upcoming Book Signing and talk by author Liz Flaherty next Saturday, June 26th from 11am to 2pm. Liz is one of our favorite customers and her 'Window on the Sink' columns in the Peru Tribune are now in book form.

Romance readers know her as the author of over 20 novels published by Harlequin, Kensington, Carina Press, and The Wild Rose Press. Her work has also been in The Saturday Evening Post, Ladies Home Journal, and the Christian Science Monitor. But it's her Window on the Sink essays she's most happiest writing. Each essay is a personal, thoughtful slice of life, recalling moments spent in the small town of Macy where she and her husband, musician, Duane, live and raised their kids. As one reviewer says, 'Family comes alive in this book and you'll laugh and cry and feel good all over.' Copies of her book are available now and at the signing."

Lipstick on the Cup and Other Memories by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I hope you've all had a lovely May, complete with romance, flowers, and wonderful Mom moments. I have had, from start to finish, but I must admit when I tried to write a post about it today, nothing came. So I went looking into my blogging past and found one that brought some sweet memories back. I hope you don't mind reading it again.

"Flowers in the city are like lipstick on a woman -- it just makes you look better to have a little color." - Lady Bird Johnson

Several months ago, I put on makeup to go out and realized I looked better with it on. My friend Nan and I were off on a weekend soon afterward and did a little high-school-freshman shopping at Walgreen's or CVS and I added to my cosmetics supply. On her advice, I even started wearing eye shadow. I'm still not good at it, but I'm getting better. Whether I like to admit it or not, the truth is that when I look better, I feel better. That being the case, I wear makeup nearly every day, even if I'm not going anywhere. The roommate likes me in it, too, and mentions it, and while I don't think I'd wear it for that reason alone, the "new look from an old lover" doesn't hurt.

A few days into my makeup-wearing adventure, I looked at my coffee cup and saw lipstick on its edge. My first thought was, I'll admit, "Yuck," and I grabbed a napkin to rub it away. My second thought was of my mother-in-law, who left lipstick on every cup she drank from and, more importantly, on everyone she kissed hello or goodbye.

In short, lipstick was part of Mom's telling you she loved you. I think of her every time I see my "Tickled Pink" lip print on my cup. And I leave it there.

You might wonder, and rightfully so, what lipstick smears have to do with writing romance or women's fiction. The only time the prints show up is on murder mystery covers or if a wayward husband is having an affair.

But my kids grew up with their grandma's lip prints on their foreheads and their cheeks. It is a memory that has a place in all our hearts. It gives joy to me each time I look at the pink spot on my cup.

As an author, this is what I want to give to people who read my stuff. They don't have to remember all my titles, protagonists, or story lines. They don't have to finish a book if it doesn't click after the first chapter, although I thank them for trying.

But, if they remember Grace Elliot saying "geezy Pete," or Lucy Dolan's cat, Kitty Kinsale, or that Cass Logan made the best gingerbread men in Christmas Town, I'm happy with that. I hope they are, too. I hope it's the lipstick print on their cups and that they smile when they remember.

Showers of Riches by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

A week or so ago, when I said, Sure, I'll write a post for a vacant day, I threw that title up there at the top to save my place. "Showers of Riches." Because, you know, showers for April. Riches because...well, because no one had used it yet. And because, when I went to adding them up, April does indeed offer an abundance of them.

Both of my parents were born in April, as were my oldest son and two of my grandkids. That same son married my beloved daughter-in-law 31 years ago on the 30th. I am grateful beyond measure.

But this is a writing blog, isn't it, and my writing life hasn't been quite so enriched in past years. While I'm happy for those who've had great years and who are embracing the changes I can't quite keep up with--actually, there's no "quite" to it; I can't keep up, period--I've spend most of the past several years wondering about my place in publishing. In the inimitable words of Clash, "Should I stay or should I go?"

Of course, it was never a real tossup. I'm staying. Probably until they withdraw the mouse from my cold, dead hand. But I've talked about quitting so much my friend Nan rolls her eyes and my husband completely ignores me. (He does that on other occasions, too, but we're not talking about that today.)

So I did what writers always do. I asked my friends what it was like for them.

Kari Lemor said, "Every time I look at my dashboard and see days and weeks of no sales, I think 'what's the point?' But then the stories in my head nag at me to write them. I'm not really given a choice."

Well, yes, there is that...and Nancy Fraser agreed. "Like Kari, the stories that pop into my head keep me going. I'd hate think how crowded it would get in there if I didn't get them out."

Marcia King-Gamble said, "After writing as many as five books a year, and managing a demanding full time job, traditional publishing underwent a change.  Publishers began buying  a different kind of book. Sex really does sell. My income took a hit, but I couldn't not write. There's still a market out there for readers who want good stories with a slower sensual build."

From Bonnie Edwards: "I'm not sure what my mind would be full of. Without writing I envision a huge black void, like the deepest reaches of space...infinite, cold and alone. What would I fill that with if not characters and stories?

The whole idea is terrifying."

M. J. Schiller said, "I've never thought of quitting, but scaling back on marketing, yes! I have a few more books I want to get out and aggressively market and the others I will take more time with and make it more of a hobby than a job."

From Jan Scarbrough: "Writing is part of my identity. When I was getting chemo last summer, I couldn’t volunteer, I couldn’t go horseback riding, but I could write."

Kara Watson says: "I keep publishing so I can make my characters real. If they stayed in a manuscript on a laptop, no one else would ever get to know them. And that's so sad to me."

From Amie Denman: "Writing makes me happy, and I need a place for all the stories in my head!"

For myself, once I asked this question, I thought over and over about how many 1000s of words I've written since the beginning of the pandemic. Did it make my voice different? Uh-huh. But it gave writers an endless and bottomless place to put our frustration. It reminded us every day that even masked and distanced, we could still laugh, love, and work. 

Quit? Oh, no. Not going to happen.

Thanks to everyone for their answers to my "help me with this!" question. Both the variety and the sameness in the answers reflect back to the blog title, don't they? Whether we are traditionally, indie, or hybrid published, our voices and the methods in which we use them are indeed showers of riches. 

Of course, that prose is a little purple: showers of riches, indeed. Hmph. Obviously, I need an editor. 

Lucky in Love, Happily Ever After, and the Last Man by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I didn't marry the first man I was in love with. Instead, I married one of his friends--who he introduced me to. To make our beginning even more auspicious, the friend didn't like me. Not even a little bit. Which was okay with me because, you know...I was in love with the other guy. It was fast with him, all heat and adrenalin and being thrilled and scared. Is this it? I'd wonder with my heart thumping. Will I always feel like this? Will HE always feel like this? Will we grow old together?

However, sometimes love stories that flash heat and excitement in the blink of an eye go to hell in a handbasket that fast, too. Such was the case of the guy I loved first and me. And it was messy. My heart was broken. Shattered. I wanted to...well, not die, but I wanted it to be all right again. To feel all that heat and sparkle and anticipation. Grow old together? I didn't even get to be 19! 

His buddy had been drafted into the army and was going to be leaving soon. We'd become friends by that time. Did I want to go out? 

Sure. Why not? Life as I knew it was over anyway.

He left in July. Came home in December for leave before shipping out to Vietnam. We saw each other almost every day. By the time he left, we were in pretty serious like. He proposed and I said No. I was still carrying a torch for the first guy, too. 

There's a lot more to it, but it's not just my story to tell, so I'll stop it there. Except that when he came home 14 months later, I asked him to marry me because I was afraid he wouldn't ask again. 

He said Yes. 

We have nothing in common. Through our married life, we have been at different times labor and management, morning and night, liberal and conservative (that part changed), Protestant and Catholic, country and city, talkative and quiet (and vice versa), writing and music, clumsy and athletic, cat person and no-pets-preferred. I like country roads, he prefers interstates, I could travel once a month forever, he could go forever and never travel again. His favorite color is white. Yes, white. My favorite color is all the others.

But this is where you get to the Gems' theme of the month, the whole "lucky in love" thing. In May, we will have been disagreeing about everything for 50 years. I think it would have been more peaceful if we'd had more in common--you accumulate a lot of emotional scar tissue in a long marriage to someone who's wrong about virtually everything 😄--but it wouldn't have been more fun. We didn't get married because we thought alike; we got married because we loved each other. 

We need a better term for Happily Ever After, don't we? So many of the Ever After days are sad, angry, or dreary. There are door-slammers, suitcase-packers, and don't-talk-to-me periods among the waking hours. There are times of intense loneliness and times you'd sell your soul for just a few days alone.

But I hardly ever think about the first guy I loved, whereas I start and end every day with his friend. We've said "I love you" every day for 50 years. And done our best to show it. (Sometimes "our best" sucks. Just sayin'.) Lucky, yeah, but luck in love needs to be intentional, doesn't it? 

First love was fun. Exciting. That flash of heat. Last love, though--it's just the luckiest thing there is. 

Can I Still Write A Book? by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

Yesterday I submitted a proposal for an imprint I've never written for before, although it's not a different publisher or a different editor. I'm so enjoying the writing that I went beyond the "first three" that traditionally goes with a proposal. Although I hated the required synopsis, that's not a big deal--I hate all synopses, including everyone else's. I wrote what I called (with some embarrassment) a "scrap-paper" proposal for a series that would stem from this book. I just suggested two additional books. In truth, I really only want to commit to one, but I can do two. Any more than that worries me because I'm slow anymore--I'm not sure about...well, you get that.

I don't know how many books I've had published. Writing novellas and the occasional short story for box sets or anthologies confuses the count for me, so I always just say "20-some" and let it go at that. They have almost all been fun, especially in these later years of worrying every time if this will be the last book. I am a hybrid author, but I prefer traditional publishing. For two reasons I can pinpoint--one being that that was where I "cut my teeth" and the other being that I hate promotion and marketing all the way to the bottom of my soul.

The infodump above is so you'll understand what I'm really here to talk about. It's about how different having a project rejected feels when you are many years into a career. It wasn't just any project, but one I poured months of working, a great deal of heart, and a pinch of my soul into. I loved the story. I loved Banjo Creek. I revised the proposal in ways my editor suggested and sent them back. I liked them. He liked them. 

The senior editor did not. The rejection didn't invite me to try the same story again, although they did urge me to send them more ideas. 

This isn't different, is it? Or it shouldn't be. Most of us have dealt with professional rejection at some point. But even knowing that, this was was different. I hadn't been that devastated in years. And I shouldn't have been. Several months later, I still can't fully understand why I was. Except that it planted a seed--no, something bigger, maybe a bulb--in the back of my mind that maybe I could no longer write books.

I am a professional, so after considerable cursing, wailing, and threats of quitting (maybe I'm exaggerating...), I sat back down to write. I have not stopped.

But it left a mark. I've never been over inundated with self-confidence anyway, and this hit was hard and relentless and the feeling of failure hasn't gone away even though I've released another book and written a couple of novellas and today, finally, sent out a proposal for a series. 

At the end of the day, and at the end of this too-long post, I have to own my fear of failure and admit that there are parts of being a published author that haven't changed a lick in the 20-some years I've been one. I don't know whether I want to curse and wail again 😭 or if I should suck it up and be grateful to still be in this business that I sometimes hate almost as much as I love. 

Thanks for listening!

Other Hearts Whisper Back #RomanceGems

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. It's the day that, as Laura mentioned on yesterday's post, the naysayers come out of the woodwork to "poke fun at romance."

It's the Romance Gems' day to celebrate love. All kinds of it--we all have families and friends--but especially romantic love. The single rose, dancing in the kitchen, walking two-by-two in the moonlight kind.

Come celebrate with us, if you will. Here are some of our favorite celebration books. We hope you try some--or all!--of them as part of your own Valentine's celebration, and we hope you enjoy them. 

Wishing you love from the Romance Gems. 

In Marcia King-Gamble's Ring in the Moment, Keisha Wilson gets the surprise of her life when her boyfriend, Brian O'Connor dumps her, and right before one of the biggest holidays of the year. Brian gives no explanation, and although Keisha is hurt she has no choice but to move on. What else can she do?

Brian has never stopped loving Keisha, but he's reluctant to drag her into a mess. A past indiscretion has come back to haunt him, and until he can get that situation handled, he's in no position to make a commitment. But when Brian realizes that Keisha isn't going to sit home and mope, and he may lose her, he decides it's time to take action.

Portia, the woman back in his life, has other plans, She's not going to walk away without a fight. Brian. responsible as they come, has to take a hard line if he wants to win back Keisha.

But given Brian's secret, will Keisha take him back? Can love survive deception?

In By Heart, also by Marcia King-Gamble, Cynthia Lawsen (Cyndy) first introduced in By Design is totally off men. Her last romantic encounter was not a pleasant one. The only good that came of it was her beautiful son, Eli. Eli is her entire world until Jacques Moreau comes along. Half Algerian, sexy as they come, and a talented sculptor, he's everything Cyndy has dreamed of and thought she could never have. But Jacques has his own secrets, and she suspects he's in love with someone else. And although Cyndy knows he's completely out of her league, she's determined to live in the moment.

Jacques' goal is to sweep this delightful woman off her feet. But the elephant in the room remains --- the matter of the other woman or is it women? Is Cyndy a fool to hang in there, or should she move on and find someone completely monogamous?

Peggy Jaeger offers up 3 Wishes. Do wishes have expiration dates? Valentine's Day is chocolatier Chloe San Valentino's favorite day of the year. Not only is it the busiest day in her candy shop, Caramelle de Chloe, but it's also her birthday. Chloe's got a birthday wish list for the perfect man she pulls out every year: he'd fall in love with her in a heartbeat, he'd be someone who cares about people, and he'd have one blue eye and one green eye, just like her. So far, Chloe's fantasy man hasn't materialized, despite the matchmaking efforts of her big, close-knit Italian family. But this year for her big 3-0 birthday, she just might get her wish!

A Valentine's Day offering from the Christmas Town bunch is only $1.99! Gem Liz Flaherty's contribution in Be My Heartwarming Valentine is A Place to Hang Her Heart, but there are eight stories by Harlequin Heartwarming authors to...er...warm your heart. 

Christmas Town to the rescue!

An abnormally cold and snowy winter wreaked havoc in Christmas Town. Pipes froze, snowy roofs caved in, and even the famed gazebo in the town square was blown over! But the hardest hit was the historic town library, where pipes burst – flooding the main floor and destroying all the books and computers. While insurance helps, it won’t cover everything. Christmas Town’s solution?

Calling all bachelors!

The Knotty Elves decide a Valentine’s Day Bachelor Auction kills two birds with one stone – raising money to save the library while working their matchmaking magic. From a personal chef to the town’s snow plow operator, there’s one thing all these handsome, homespun heroes have in common: they’re about to find love, Christmas Town style.

Be sure to check out You Bet Your Valentine by Anna J Stewart, the prequel novella that starts all the Valentine’s Day fun!

What If Something Happens... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I'm sitting here at my desk on January 30. Watching the clock. Because my phone says that in 15 minutes, snow flurries will start. And over the course of the next day or two, something like 10 inches of snow should arrive. Since we are retired and since we have plenty of milk, bread, coffee, and toilet paper, I'm not worried a lot about it. My husband's not looking forward to dragging out the snow blower, for which I don't blame him.

And there's always this little itch at the back of my mind that I can't reach to scratch.

What if something happens?

We are what is euphemistically referred to as elderly, so it's always a bit of a concern, I guess, although I doubt we worry as much about it as our kids do. We have lived long and prospered, not to mention we've loved and laughed a lot. And we've been happy. 

But that's not even why I brought that up. I brought it up because What if something happens? is the beginning of every story we tell. The only advice about writing I ever give with any surety is to start the story when something changes. 

When something happens.

This seems...no, it is a simple concept. It's also one I have some trouble with. Because I like introspection. I like dialog. I love humor. I tolerate conflict. I can go on for days writing those things, and sometimes that's exactly what I do. Of course, all the time I'm writing this lovely prose, nothing is happening in the story.

The word for it in publishing is "pacing." I know this because it's been mentioned to me so many times. Usually, the word "slow" is in there somewhere, too. 

I know I'm largely preaching to the choir here, but the lesson is a good one. I hope I learn from it by writing this. Now, snow flurries are supposed to have already started. They have not, but one of the cats is meowing worriedly, and bare branches are moving fretfully against a moody sky. 

Something is going to happen.

***

The Healing Summer is one of my favorites of my own stories. I hope you give it a try, and that you like it, too.

When Steven Elliott accidentally rides his bike into Carol Whitney's car at the cemetery, the summer takes on new and exciting possibilities. Long friendship wends its way into something deeper when their hearts get involved. Feelings neither of them had expected to experience again enrich their days and nights. But what happens when the long summer ends? When Carol wants a family and commitment and a future, Steven isn't so sure. He's had his heart broken before-can he risk it again?

The Blank Page by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I couldn't think of anything to say. When I opened this page to write my post, I still couldn't. Although 2020 has been comparatively easy for me, I am ready for it to be over. But then I really looked at the screen. 

And thought how lucky I am.

Because there it is waiting for me, the greatest gift a writer can have. 

The blank page.

It can be horrifying, of course, when you can't think of a publishable word to put on it. Can I have a show of hands from everyone this has happened to? Oh, forget that--there is a sea of hands out there. How about a show of hands from everyone it hasn't happened to? Yep, there are a few. I envy you, but I don't have a problem with envy. It makes you keep trying.

However, the blank page can also be so exciting. It's how every single story you've written started. Especially if you're a pantser, because then it's just one piece at a time until the puzzle is...less puzzling. It's on that blank page that your favorite hero of all time introduces himself, the heroine ends up being a short blond instead of a statuesque redhead, and the setting is a town called...what? Peacock? Really?

Blank pages make me remember--and I know I'm dating myself here--new notebooks when I was a kid. Unopened packages of lined paper and crisp folders and Bic pens with clear barrels. I always got them for Christmas. If I ever wondered why I so often start new stories after the holidays, that memory is a reminder. All those blank pages and smooth ink and pocket folders that ended up containing so much of my heart.

I ended 2020, writing-wise, by publishing Window Over the Sink, a compilation of columns of the same name, and submitting Life's Too Short for White Walls, my latest completed manuscript. The one I expected to sell to Harlequin and didn't, that made me trip and stumble and try to decide if I should retire. 

But I can't, you know, because there are too many blank pages out there. Waiting. 

Happy 2021. I hope it's a wonderful year full of blank pages.

Thank you, Berta Ruck by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

In this month of American gratitude in 2012, the Word Wranglers (another blog I write for) chose one person they were grateful to in the business of writing. Narrowing it down, D’Ann Lindun said, was going to be tough. It was for me. Would it be for you? Give it some thought and let us know which ONE person you’re grateful to. 

My aunt had more books than you could shake a stick at. She bought them from a book club back in the…well, way back, and they resided with paper covers intact on a tall shelf in the corner of the living room. I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Joy In the Morning, The Hoosier Schoolmaster, Elsie Dinsmore, Rose In Bloom, the Pollyanna series, and a plethora of Gene Stratton-Porter books, to name a few. I sat cross-legged with my back against the wall and lost myself in the South, in New York City, in backwoods Indiana.

And then I read His Official Fiancée by Berta Ruck.

Oh, my God.

          The book was written in 1914, one of 80 novels published by Ms. Ruck. There were two movies made of the story, the first one silent. It was hilarious. It was loving. It was…oh, Lord, it was so romantic. It was written in the flowery, Britishy language of old movies and it was…did I say it was romantic?

          I don’t remember if it was the first romance I ever read, but it’s the first one that made me go “ahhh.” I already knew I’d be a writer—Louisa May Alcott taught me that—but Berta Ruck is the reason I write in the language of Happily Ever After. She died in 1978 at the age of 100 years and nine days. She published books from 1905 – 1972.

          Wow.

          Thanks, Berta Ruck.

***

If you haven't visited Dickens, a glorious, snow-covered little town in New England, now's your chance. Not one but 10 stories of love and laughter and the mending of regrets. Berta Ruck would have a ball there, and so did we!

 

December starts tomorrow. Enjoy every day!

On the Crossbar by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I have spent the evening doing what I often do--thinking about what I should be doing. It's not that I'm lazy. Exactly. It's that my concentration is...lacking. It's not my fault if the sunset is glorious, is it? And that there's a utility pole standing at attention there. It's one of those wooden ones with a crossbar and a row of glass conductors on the bar and it looks as if the whole row is staring mesmerized at the pinkish-orangey-purply western horizon. So, can you blame me? If even a light pole can't look away, how can I?

Like every other time of year, this is my favorite. The colors have been spectacular here in the Midwest this fall, and they've hung on much longer than usual. It's like Mother Nature is patting us and saying, "There, there," because 2020's been so difficult and beauty makes everything more bearable. 

It's been a hard writing year for me. A year of maybes and outright rejections, of career corners that I can't seem to find my way around, of winding down before I'm sure I'm ready. I haven't completed a full-length book, although I'm close. And I may never write another one. That thought doesn't hurt as much as it used to, although there's still some sting to it.

But in this season of...not discontent, exactly...more like autumn itself, such lovely things have happened. My story, Something New, was part of Last Chance Beach: Summer's End and my novella, Wisdom of the Heart, is in Christmas Comes to Dickens. As a writer, there's not much that's better than being nestled in among talented friends. Writing these short stories and having all the feels while doing so have made the colors last so much longer and brighter and better than they might have. 

Stories always have beginnings, middles, and ends. Sometimes the middle sags, but sometimes you want it to go on for a really long time because even if the end is wonderful, you don't want the story to be over yet. That's where I am in my writing life. There on the crossbar watching the sunset. And hoping it lingers a while.

***

Speaking of Facebook--weren't we?--we hope you join us tomorrow for a Facebook party. There will be lots of conversation, fun, and maybe a giveaway or two. https://www.facebook.com/groups/christmasindickens/

At the End of the Day... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I wrote this a long time ago and have used it several times. My apologies if you're seeing it again, but my parents' wedding anniversary would have been this week and they've been on my mind. 

 

In 2013. I had a book out called A Soft Place to Fall, about a marriage gone wrong and how two people found ways to make it right. I still have a soft spot for that book and for long marriages. I regret that I sometimes get a little too glib when I talk about it--I make it all sound easy when it's not at all. At the end of the day, though, marriage is private and what goes on within it is not to be shared. No one really understands anyone else's. Looking back on this, my feelings toward my parents' marriage haven't changed, but I have come to realize that--at the end of that day I just mentioned--it wasn't really any of my business.

“A great marriage is not when the 'perfect couple' comes together. It is when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences.” ― Dave Meurer

On September 28, 1935, my parents went to a minister’s house and got married. My dad wore a double-breasted suit and my mom had on a hat. They stayed married through the rest of the Great Depression and three wars, through the births of six children and the death of one at the age of three, through failing health and the loss of all their parents and some of my father’s siblings. Dad died in 1981, Mom in 1982. They were still married.

From the viewpoint of their youngest child, who was born in their early 40s when they thought they were finished with all that, it was the marriage from hell. I never saw them as a loving couple, never saw them laugh together or show affection or even hold hands. They didn’t buy each other gifts, sit on the couch together, or bring each other cups of coffee. The only thing I was sure they shared was that—unlike my husband and me—they didn’t cancel out each other’s vote on Election Day.

“Why on earth,” I asked my sister once, “did they stay together all those years? Mom could have gone home to her family, even if she did have to take a whole litter of kids. Heaven knows Dad could have.” (He was the adored youngest son and brother—he could do no wrong.)

Nancy gave me the look all youngest siblings know, the one that says, “Are you stupid?” When you’re grown up, it replaces the look that says, “You’re a nasty little brat.” But I regress.

“Don’t you get it?” my sister asked. Her blue eyes softened. So did her voice. “They loved each other. Always. They just didn’t do it the way you wanted them to.”

Oh.

I remembered then. When they stopped for ice cream because Mom loved ice cream. How they sat at the kitchen table across from each other drinking coffee. How thin my dad got during Mom’s long illness because “I can’t eat if she can’t.” When they watched Lawrence Welk reruns together and loud because—although neither would admit it—their hearing was seriously compromised.

And the letters. The account of their courtship. We found them after Mom’s death, kept in neat stacks. They wrote each other, in those days of multiple daily mail deliveries, at least once a day and sometimes twice. When I read those letters, I cried because I’d never known the people who wrote them.

I have to admit, my parents’ lives had nothing to do with why I chose to write romantic fiction. I got my staunch belief in Happily Ever After from my own marriage, not theirs. But how you feel about things and what you know—those change over the years.

As much as I hated my parents’ marriage—and I truly did hate it—I admire how they stuck with it. I’ve never appreciated the love they had for each other, but I’ve come to understand that it never ended. I still feel sorry sometimes for the little girl I was, whose childhood was so far from storybook that she wrote her own, but I’m so grateful to have become the adult I am. The one who still writes her own stories.

But—and this is the good part—these are the things I know.

Saying “I love you” doesn’t always require words. Sometimes it’s being unable to eat because someone else isn’t. Sometimes it’s stopping for ice cream. Sometimes—and I realized this the other day when my husband and I were bellowing “Footloose” in the car—it’s hearing music the same way, regardless of how it sounds to anyone else.

Marriage is different for different people. So is love. So is Happily Ever After.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

If you don't have it yet, run by Amazon and order Last Chance Beach: Summer's End. It may be the best 99 cents you'll spend this week! 

For girlfriends and readers... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I didn't realize that when I write blog posts, which I truly love to do, I tend to aim them at writers as well as readers. Because virtually all writers are readers and a good many readers are writers in their hearts.

They run together in my mind.

However, being reminded that this blog is intended for readers meant getting rid of the post I'd already written. It was about that picture up there in the corner. About having stories rejected and how it feels and about why stories get rejected. I'll use it later, on another blog.

That's what we do with stories that don't quite work in a certain place or a certain time. When you hear one of us complain (who, us, complain?) about having to dump a whole scene because it was crap, we don't really dump it--we put it into a file folder with a businesslike label that says something like "crap I've dumped" and then we pull it out and use it later. In another time and place.

In the post that isn't here, I was whining about being told I didn't start my story in the right place and about how I use too much backstory. I was pretty devastated by that because I love backstory. Not just writing it, but reading it, too. And there I go again, having readers and writers running together in my mind. But, hey, as a reader, how do you feel about backstory?

I hope you readers (who aren't writers) understand how we feel about you. You're girlfriends who go to the beach with us, who sit in tearooms and coffeehouses and the occasional pub with us. You build us up, support us and our writing habit, and sympathize when that thing up in the corner happens. We thank you for all of it. I can't begin to tell you how much we appreciate you.

My goodness, I do go on, don't I? Thanks for listening to me complain. But, come on, girlfriends, lets head on down to Last Chance Beach. It's Summer's End and there are 14 good stories I was talking about just waiting for you. And a free book of cocktails. Sit still and read--we'll fix you one.

Comment with your email for a chance to win this month's prize!

It Was Just the Best Day by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

I switched days this month. Usually I post on the 31st. (What that means is that I, being the lazy Gem, only have to blog five times a year.) But I was so happy to write today because July 30, 1990, was one of the Best Days. It was exciting and so much fun and one of the most emotional experiences of my entire life--which is quite a while by now.

Aren't we lucky to have Best Days? I've accumulated a lot of them, but this day 30 years ago was the day Tahne, my beautiful and brave daughter-in-law, called me upon leaving her doctor's appointment and said they told her to come home, but she wasn't sure about driving. Because, you know, pains. I told her I'd be right there.

Mari Flaherty Gridley

Looking back, I'm sorry our son couldn't be there--he was in the army most of the way across the country--but mostly I'm glad I could. Mari Elizabeth Flaherty, our first grandchild, was born that evening. My daughter and I stood in for Mari's dad (admirably, we thought) and I still remember the excitement, the overwhelming rush of love, and how proud I was of Mari's mom.

It was, oh, yes, the best day ever. My husband was on a business trip, but when he got home in the middle of that night, we still went to the hospital.

Tahne and Mari stayed with us until after training, when they could be together as a family again, and it was a precious time. My eyes are leaking a little even now as I remember it.

Some of the other Gems and I have had some Best Days lately, too, writing and promoting Last Chance Beach: Summer's End. We've learned things, made mistakes, sent Joan Reeves and the rest of the production team over the edge more than once, and produced 14 stories we are proud of, excited about, and--at the risk of sounding truly sappy--in love with. If you haven't ordered yours yet, go ahead and do it now--I'll wait. It's truly a wonderful way to spend 99 cents!

Speaking of Best Days, share one of yours with us in comments below. We'll celebrate with you and I'll send out a goody bag to a commenter on the post, chosen at random. No picture of it because I don't have it assembled yet, but I'll try to make it fun and I'm sure some of it will taste like chocolate!

Don't forget to enter for the monthly giveaway, too, and take a look at the Last Chance Beach page here on the blog site.

I hope this is a Best Day for you. Happy birthday, Mari. Papaw and I love you thiiiiiiissss much!

You can dance... by Liz Flaherty #RomanceGems

My husband is a musician. He sings and plays guitar with a group named (by me) Three Old Guys, because...you know, they're three old guys. Music is to Duane what writing is to me. I used to say our house was cluttered with books--because it was--but now it's just furnished...with books and guitars. I'm good with that.

The music, like writing, has been an integral part of our life together. If he goes a day without playing, I'm afraid he's ill. If I'm not in my office, he wonders why not.

Something Duane often does, because he feels every song he sings (side note, if you want emotion from a guy, put a guitar in his hands), is look up the story behind the song. One of his favorites is "Save the Last Dance for Me." When I first heard the legend of Last Chance Beach the lyrics of the song began their dance through my head. Go ahead and look them up--I'll wait.

It's such a romantic song, isn't it? And such a romantic story. And...Last Chance Beach. It's going to be romantic, too. I just know it is.

Keep an eye out...

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Don't forget the giveaway!