Here We Go Again! by Hannah Rowan #RomanceGems

It’s July and it’s time to frolic in the ocean, cavort in the pool, or loll in the lake. Or simply sit by the water where negative ions theoretically give off relaxing vibes while simultaneously boosting energy and alleviating depression.

Yes, that makes perfect sense. And while I crave the feel of sand between my toes and the sounds of waves lapping at the shore, what I’m getting this summer is the sound of shopping cart wheels rolling over pavement.

Moving is supposed to be one of the most stressful activities a person can experience. After living in ten different places during the first 20 years of my life, I was lulled into complacency by settling in a house where we stayed for almost 40 years.

But who needs to take care of a big old house when the kids have flown the nest and there’s always something to fix, clean or replace?

Oh, how delightful to move to a condo community where someone else shovels the snow and mows the grass! How lovely to wander off to a pool someone else cleans. Like the pain of childbirth, the horrendous experience of disposing of 40 years’ worth of accumulated possessions and moving the remainders into a new place fades after settling in.

Or it did, until with very little warning, our landlord decided to sell the place out from under us. Lucky for us, we were able to find a new place right across the street.

Easy, right?

You’d think that after the first round of downsizing moving would be smoother. But no. Right now I’m marveling at the amount of junk we managed to squeeze into a little two bedroom condo. It doesn’t seem to matter if we’re moving across the street or across the country.

The timing is the saving grace. Instead of the usually frantic move-it-all-in-one-day process we’ve done in the past, this time there’s a week between the time we own the new place and the time we have to vacate the current one.  It all sounded so simple in theory.

So here we are, loading the shopping carts so kindly provided so people can transport their goods from the garage to their door, and making endless trips across the street to deposit boxes as we pack them.

What we’ve got here is a prolonged period of not knowing where anything went when we need it and not agreeing where anything goes when it gets there.

Looking back, childbirth was a breeze compared to this. I can only hope that amnesia will set in once we’re finally settled, and we’ll have time to find a body of water where we can soak up some of those negative ions.

A Few of My Favorite Things

by Nora LeDuc

Beach Roses

It's June and romance month. Today, I'll tell you how I discovered some of my best-loved romances. 

A few years ago, before I started writing, I heard that a women who volunteered at my children's school, was a huge reader. I happened to run into her and introduced myself. Soon, the conversation turned to books. She told me how she loved to read and how she set up her shelves of keepers in alphabetical order. What surprised me the most about her? She only bought romances. To be truthful, I'd never met anyone who loved and admitted they were a romance reader. Most likely, if you confessed you were a fan of the genre, people wouldn't take you seriously. My new friend asked if I'd like to borrow a book, and of course, I agreed. And that was how I discovered one my favorite authors, Jude Deveraux.

I devoured every release Miss Deveraux published in those olden days. Like many fans, I could not put down Jude's A Knight in Shining Armor. "New York Times bestselling author Jude Deveraux will capture your heart with a signature classic novel, a time-travel featuring a present-day heroine and a dashing hero from the sixteenth century!" I still have my hard cover on my shelf that is not in alphabetical order.

 

Another author who hits the top of my favorites is Robyn Carr, who wrote Virgin River. Recently, I came across this writer while on a FB thread recommending Netflix shows. Virgin River was on the list. In the first few minutes of watching Episode 1, I excitedly realized I was watching a love story! Yes, I bought the first book of the series and admired how much of the dialog was used in the film production. And now I’m hooked and waiting to find out who shot Jack, the cliffhanger from last season. 

Another oldie I'd recommend is Cry Wolf by Tami Hoag. I found this author while rummaging around at Annie's Book Store. "In the rural parishes of Louisiana, young women are disappearing one by one, only to turn up on the banks of the bayou, strangled and cast aside where they are sure to be found." Yes, this story has it all. I loved the setting of the book. Picture the Spanish Moss hanging from trees. Listen to the voices of the night creatures as you glide through the swamp water with the hero on a hot steamy evening. The hero just happens to be the local rogue who plays the piano in the bar at night and writes thrillers by day. The heroine is a disgraced lawyer who lost her most important case and is seeking to be left alone. Mix the mystery with a strong romance and you're hooked.

I’m sure you have plenty of favorites on your shelf at home. Let me know their titles. I may fall in love with them too. 

Don't forget to follow me on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter. Amazon

And it's almost Christmas in July! Don't miss my book Christmas at the Easy Breezy, only .99. "From the moment Darcy stomps snow from her boots in Leo's restaurant you are rooting for them to get a HEA. And this book delivers BIG TIME." 

 ❤️ Take Care, My Friends 📖

CELEBRATING JUNE By Kathleen Lawless @kathleenlawless

 

June was likely named for the Roman Goddess, Juno, patroness of marriage and well-being of women, so no wonder this month holds a special place in my heart.

Some of the things I love best about June, in no particular order are:

-Life feels less frantic.  This dates back to my own school days, and then my kids’ school years where, as June wound down, there was no jumping up and racing out the door five days a week. 

-Evenings bring that magical, long-lasting twilight that makes it conducive to just hang outside and enjoy the evening stillness or watch the birds come for a final bath or feeding before bed.

-Local strawberries.  No explanation required.

-Flowers and fragrances are amazing.

-Farmers’ Markets.  Now my mouth is watering at the thought of garden-fresh treats.

-People seem friendlier.

-Street musicians pop up all over downtown street corners and at the markets.

-Summer clothes.  Can you say flip-flops?

-Barbeques and picnics.  Dining al fresco is my absolute favorite.

-Lazy days in the hammock with a good book.

 I found this quote from Nathaniel Parker Willis that sums things up for me.

“It is the month of June,

The month of leaves and roses,

Where pleasant sights salute the eyes,

And pleasant scents the noses.”

What do you love best about June?

Just because it’s June, doesn’t mean I get to slack off.  In fact, I am releasing a brand-new book today.  

ONE FANTASY FALL is a clean and wholesome contemporary romance that revisits Blue Sky Island, home to several other books in this series.  The hero, Blaze, is a Hollywood stuntman and Kaitlin’s ‘fake date’, who is reinventing himself after a failed stunt where he almost died.  Kaitlin is also reinventing herself, and despite teaming up for a worthy cause, she and Blaze both feel their lives are spinning them in opposite directions.

A couple of advance reviews: 5 * NEVER DARE A DAREDEVIL

“I enjoyed this straightforward, page-turning story with two people, neither looking for a relationship, brought together for an event as dates. The story has a great cast of people, plenty of angst and emotions, including a few surprises.”

5 * Sweet small town romance

“This is a sweet small town romance. I really liked it. It has wit and charm, and has great characters.”

Kaitlin started down the stairs, following the soothing sounds of a waterfall on the street level of the hotel where lush green plants ringed the mini-oasis. Water fell from a height of about twenty feet into a square, man-made pond that flowed beneath the tiled floor into a second pond directly behind her. The rocks edging the water looked real and she bent down to touch one.

“They’re real.”  Blaze spoke behind her. “Barnacles and all. I already checked.”

Kaitlin felt a warm flush tinge her cheeks as she slowly straightened.

He closed the distance between them and placed his finger beneath her chin. “Amazing,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anyone blush quite so attractively as you do.”

Kaitlin met his gaze. “Blushing is a wretched nuisance.”

He gave a crooked smile as he released her. She wished he’d take a step back because her own feet refused to move and he was standing far too close for comfort. “I like it.  Lets me know you’re not quite as unruffled as you seem.”

Kaitlin felt a cold chill travel the length of her spine. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

His voice dropped an octave. “In some ways I feel as if I’ve known you forever, Kaitlin Ross. I understand your dreams, your goals, and your drive to succeed.”

She wasn’t sure if the rushing sound in her ears was due to the waterfall behind her or a defense mechanism for the way he was looking at her. She shivered as they exchanged looks, not one stranger to another, but something far more intimate. So powerful she could almost believe he meant what he said.

“Will you be at the tournament tomorrow?”

She nodded.  “I got a press pass so I can pretend to be busy and important.”

Blaze took her arm.  “Speaking of busy and important, we should get back to the party.”  He brushed her lips with his thumb smearing her lipstick and giving her hair a tousle.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving people a reason to speculate where we snuck off to together.  And why.”

She swallowed thickly, finding response impossible given the way her heart was fluttering in her throat.  Blaze was a little too good at this fake date stuff.  For a second there, it felt like he cared.

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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.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell Three Times As Sweet ~ by M.J. Schiller

 Moms, roses, and romance. Hmm. I know my mom has read some of my romances, but I don't like to think about that, so we'll skip the mom part and focus on the roses. And I know the roses are supposed to be tied in with mom, but when I think of roses the first thing that comes to mind is the year I received three dozen roses for Valentine's Day. 

No, my husband isn't some kind of massive Romeo. Actually, I can count the times he's purchased flowers for me on both hands, and we've been married for coming up on thirty-three years, been together for thirty-five. But the story I'm thinking about happened some years ago...

The year was 1990. We were fresh out of college, having moved out of state and to a city where we didn't know a soul. My husband had begun his career at the Fortune 500 company he hopes to soon retire from. I was teaching junior high school English and Composition to freshman at the junior college. A huge ice storm had most of the city, well, frozen. With no heat, we went to the mall to watch Driving Miss Daisy and keep warm. (This was back in the day when malls had movie theaters. Remember that?) When we got back, my husband expected there to be a dozen roses there for me, but, alas, they were missing. After a call to the florist-- who was extremely apologetic--we received two dozen roses to make up for the mistake. A half-hour later, the neighbor knocked on the door with another dozen roses, which she'd accepted delivery on for us. Whoops! Three dozen roses in the little townhouse we lived in when we first moved here was pretty overwhelming. Needless to say, I haven't seen the likes of that since, nor would I have expected to see that ever again. It was kind of nice, though.

So, that's my rose story. Of course, as a writer, it got me thinking of roses in my work. With twenty-six books out, I'm sure I'm forgetting some significant rose scenes, but the two that come to mind are creepy, not romantic. In THE HEART TEACHES BEST Laney's sister's murderer sneaks into her bedroom when she's asleep and leaves a rose on her pillow. Later, he leaves one on a carousel that Laney was on to taunt Cooper, her policeman love interest, and show him how close he was able to get to her despite Cooper's best efforts to protect her.

In BETWEEN ROCK AND A HARD PLACE, rock star Jasmine Barrett finds her best friend murdered in the singer's bed. The killer dipped a rose in her friend's blood and left it, theatrically, beside the body. Later, a key clue comes from a vase of roses in Jazz's dressing room. The killer leaves a coded message with the bouquet that doesn't seem like a clue until someone casually mentions one of the words on the card much later. That offhand remark leads Heath to the realization of who the murderer is. But will he get to Jasmine before the killer does?

Maybe it says something about me that the only significant scenes with roses from my books that I can come up with are not some grand romantic gesture by the hero, but instead they are foreboding messages from the villain.

What about you? Do you have a favorite story about a time you received flowers? Do you receive or purchase flowers often?

Thanks for reading! Come back for more tomorrow from another fabulous Romance Gems author!

She Plays a Mother on TV by Nora LeDuc #RomanceGems

TV Moms are one of my favorite subjects. Take your pick, you can find all kinds of mums on the small screen. I've chosen a few for us today.

Every Wednesday, we can tune in to "The Goldbergs." Here we have a prime example of an embarrassing, meddling smother-mother. Beverly Goldberg. She's the kind that's always at the school, making sure her children are treated fairly and perfectly because her kids are...perfect. (I bet we've all known a few women like Bev.) Although Beverly learns a lesson about parenting from her misguided efforts, she can never quite cut those apron strings. I've always been more intrigued by the history behind the scripts that are inspired by Adam Goldberg's video recordings of his family's lives. Yes, Beverly is his mother who occasionally makes an appearance in the show. More than once I've read the true-life happenings of the clan had to be toned down for a G audience. Darn.

Another popular TV mom is Marie Barone of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Marie is the parent of two grown men, Raymond and Robert. Raymond, the oldest, continues to be Marie's obvious favorite. This does not go over well with his younger brother Robert, but doesn't stop Marie. She also feels free to give unwanted advice to her sons who are often too afraid of her to cross her. As a mother-in-law, Marie knows little about boundaries and often barges into Ray and his wife's home without a knock and usually at inconvenient times. If you think about it, Marie might remind you of a relative or a friend who means well but is a little too close. And here's a trivia fact for authors-the actor who played Marie's husband, Peter Boyle, was a cousin of Kensington Editor Kate Duffy.

Don't you dare open your mouth when I'm asking you questions.

Before I finish, I must add Clair Huxtable from the former "The Cosby Show" to this list. (Forget Bill.) Every Thursday night, I loved to see what Clair was wearing. Her colorful style of clothing fascinated me. She seemed able to put on anything and look wonderful, but the character of Clair was so much more. As the stable center of the family, she was a wife, a lawyer, and a mom of five who actually talked to her children about their problems. Then, she gave them good advice. She could be funny, but stern when needed. Clair showed us that although mothers worry about their children or make mistakes with them, they will turn themselves upside down to love and guide them into happy, well-adjusted adults. That's a mother.

I have written two stories with moms. My latest, Christmas at the Easy Breezy, takes places in the White Mountains of NH. If you're looking for a happy uplifting book this story is for you. The main character, Darcy Malone, is divorced and a mother of a five-year-old. Darcy is desperately seeking to connect to the family she's never known. Little does she realize what she'll find when she arrives at the Easy Breezy Diner and meets the sometimes-grumpy owner Leo Homes.

Please Follow Me on Social Media and Stay Healthy, Nora.

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On the Road Again by Hannah Rowan #RomanceGems

 My sister once told me she knew it was time to move when her oven got dirty or it was time to wash the curtains.

We lived in the same house for almost 40 years before renting the place where we live now, rented mainly because we sold the house but couldn’t figure out where we wanted to go next.

Selling a house you’ve lived in that long means leaving so many things behind. I wonder if the new owners will decide to dig deep into the garden and find the pet cemetery. I wonder if they’ll know the spots where the irises come up in the spring or know not to trim back the gigantic aster bush because it will bloom in the fall. I knew all the plants in the yard and all the strange spots in the house where you had to turn the doorknob just so and to pull the door a little toward me in order to get the key to work. I knew the stain where my mother in law spilled grape juice on my brand new light gray carpet the first time we had a family dinner after we bought it.

More importantly, I had my people and my places. The convenience store where I went for coffee, the dry cleaner where I felt I’d won a victory when the owner finally said hello after grunting at me for several years, the ladies in the library who asked if I was okay after seeing that I checked out several books on depression for writing research, and who admitted they’d been discussing the issue with surprise because I always seemed so cheerful. I knew that the cashier, George, in the grocery store was writing a book and that clerk Janice was studying to be a medical assistant.

Our daughter was horrified at the thought of us selling “her” house even though she said she had no intention of ever moving back to New Jersey. Our son wondered what took us so long.

But now, after a few years in our rented place, I have new people and new places and a landlord who surprised us by telling us he was selling the place and it’s time for us to go.

This move should be easier because we’ve already sold, given away, or tossed huge piles of things. And we have lots of things…um…already packed.  (Never unpacked!)

Moving is an adventure, I tell myself.  Moving is also one of the most stressful things a person can do.

At least we didn’t stay here long enough for me to have to clean the oven or wash the curtains.

  ~  Happy Mother's Day!  ~

 

What on Earth Are We Saying? by Hannah Rowan #RomanceGems

Writers, of course, have an affinity for words and too much curiosity, which can send us spiraling down some weird mental pathways. So when my fellow Gems chose April showers as this month’s theme, “raining cats and dogs” immediately popped into my head.

What kind of crazy thing is that to say, anyway? Off I went on a Google search that informed me of two very disturbing situations. Apparently in 17^th century England it sometimes rained so hard and so long that the bodies of dead animals, including cats and dogs, washed up in the streets. Ick! Then again, some people speculate that in a heavy rain the bodies of small animals washed out of the thatched roofs of the cottages, landing on the heads of the hapless inhabitants. Either way, I’d recommend umbrellas and boots.

While the British cling to the somewhat factual cats and dogs, people in other countries use different expressions to describe heavy rains.  The most common seems to be pouring buckets or being doused by a watering can, which is kind of boring but sensible.  The Cantonese, however, say it’s raining dog poo, no kidding! We should all probably stay away from that part of the world, or at least remember that umbrella.

Since we’re discussing the origins of expressions, and I’m sure most people never wonder these things at all, I’ll admit that while calling bingo at the assisted living facility where I work, I tend to say “by George, you’ve got it” when someone calls out the correct winning numbers. But one day someone wondered…who the heck is George?

Sure, Henry Higgins said that in My Fair Lady, but why? He couldn’t have been the first person to use that expression.

Inexplicably, “by George” is a battle cry uttered by soldiers before charging into battle, again originating in Britain.  Or if you believe other sources, “by George” is a substitute for saying “by God.” I’m not satisfied with either explanation.

Again with the bingo crowd, because bingo leads to deep thoughts, people who are off by just one number often bemoan the fact that they “almost” won. Inevitably someone else will comment that “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

Why? Naturally, I had to look it up.

Maybe I’m the last to know, but it seems in horseshoes as long as your horseshoe is close to the stake it doesn’t have to actually encircle the stake. Or the person closest to the stake wins. Or something.

The hand grenade thing is self-explanatory.

And by George, maybe I shouldn’t think so much.

 

HERE'S A LUCKY SALE FOR YOU!

by Caroline Clemmons

Our theme this month is Lucky in Love. Anyone who is in love with a person who loves him or her in return is indeed lucky. That means I’m included. My Hero and I have been married since dinosaurs roamed the earth—almost. Today, I want to share the love with a special on one of my books.

 

Through midnight March 22,

THE TEXAN’S IRISH BRIDE

is on sale for 99 cents!

https://www.amzn.com/B008V1UG54

 

Cenora Rose O’Neill knows her father somehow arranged the trap for Dallas, but she agrees to wed the handsome stranger. She’d do anything to protect her family, and she wants to save herself from the Irish Traveler bully, Tom Williams. A fine settled man like Dallas will rid himself of her soon enough, but at least she and her family will be safely away from Tom.   

Texas rancher Dallas McClintock has no plans to wed for several years. Right now, he’s trying to establish himself as a successful horse breeder. Severely wounded rescuing Cenora from kidnappers, Dallas is taken to her family’s wagon to be tended.  He is trapped into marrying Cenora, but he is not a man who goes back on his word. His wife has a silly superstition for everything, but passion-filled nights with her make up for everything—even when her wild, eccentric family drives him crazy.

 

Warning: Lately all my books have been sweet. This one has sex, but it’s between a husband and wife.

Her rose scent filled him, and he thought he would never tire of it. She fumbled with his shirt buttons then pushed it from his shoulders.

“Yours is a very broad chest.”

Her fingers skimmed across him, and his need for her magnified. When she traced the whorls of his nipple, he thought his knees might give way. He stilled her hand.

“There’s something I want from you, have wanted since we met.”

Fear sprang into her widened emerald eyes and she paled. Dang, he cursed himself for frightening her and her for not trusting him.

Her voice trembled. “Wh—What would you be asking?”

“Dance for me.” He knew it sounded crazy, but he’d imagined this for days.

She looked askance. “Here? But ‘tis your bedroom, and not a note ‘o music playing.”

“This is our bedroom, and you can sing or hear the music in your head to keep time.”

“But—”

“Please? Not for coins or where others can see, but only for me.”

A slow smile spread across her face, and she cocked her head to one side. “Aye, I see now. If ‘tis for your pleasure, then ‘twill be mine.”

After she took off her shoes and stockings, she spun away. But not in the regimented dance he’d seen when other women accompanied her. This time she took the red scarf from her waist and used it as an instrument meant to entice a man.

Her man.

Him.

She twirled as if to a measured rhythm only she heard. Her green skirt and white petticoats billowed out to reveal long, perfect legs. Legs he wanted around him. She slid the scarf in imitation of a caress along her slender arms. Then she moved the red silk along her body.

Dang, he was hot as a gunslinger’s pistol and just as hard. His manhood strained against his britches until he thought he’d pop through the fabric. He loosened the buttons and stepped from his clothes, never taking his gaze from her. Reaching behind him, he turned back the bedding and sat on the sheet.

Before his heat warmed the cool fabric, she pulled him to the middle of the room and circled around him. He pivoted, naked as a newborn, and watched her every move. Dipping, fluttering, and arching her lithe frame, she lured him with each sinuous flow of her body.

Flush with the throbbing pulsating through him, he pictured himself plunging into her again and again as she wound around him. Her erotic gyrations set his already heated blood at a boil, but he stood mesmerized by her and the dance.

Her flaming hair streamed around her in a fiery cloud. She looped the scarf over his head, and the red silk left a tingling trail across his shoulders and down his right arm. Then she threaded it around her own shoulders and sawed it while she shrugged first one shoulder up and then the other one. Fabric of her blouse pulled taut against her full breasts and pushed the peaked nipples into view.

Dang, he couldn’t take much more of this, or he’d explode like fireworks on the Fourth of July. On and on she whirled and kicked, first coming near to brush against him, then moving back with a captivating smile. Teasing him with the piece of silk as she pulled it across his body, she seared him with her touch and made him part of her beguiling ritual.

When he could stand it no longer, he said, “Come here, let’s dance together in bed.” To his ears, his voice rasped hoarse with the need that burned inside him.

She approached slowly, seductively, with fluid grace. As she moved, she drew off her remaining clothes. Twining the scarf around his wrists, she pulled his arms high until she slid under them, imprisoning him and herself in their circle.

“Now we are truly bound together,” she said, her voice breathy from her exotic dance.

“Am I your prisoner, then?” he asked, amused at her tempting play even as her touch fueled his need.

“Yes, and I am yours.” She met his gaze, but her jewel eyes held uncertainty. “Did I please you then, or was I too forward with meself?”

“You are beautiful and graceful, and your dance was even more special than I’d hoped.”

She breathed a big sigh. “Then you approve and will be taking me to bed now?”

“I suppose I must do as you say, since I’m your prisoner.” He nibbled at her neck, and she released the scarf binding him. The silk fell from his skin as her arms slid around his shoulders.

 

If you haven’t read this book, I hope you’ll take advantage of the sale. I admit I love THE TEXAN’S IRISH BRIDE. Of course I love Cenora and Dallas, but I also love the O’Neill family—even grumbly Mac.

Have a great month! 

A Little Bit of Luck by Hannah Rowan #RomanceGems

 “You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from,” according to novelist Cormac McCarthy.  While the Dalai Lama says that “sometimes not getting what we want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”

I’m not sure I agree with either of them.

I can’t say I wanted anything except to get home for dinner after a day of college classes when a tractor trailer popped into the driver’s side door of my VW Beetle, picked me up, and carried me down the interstate highway. It was one of those moments when time slowed to a crawl. Hmm…there’s a truck in my window.  I climbed over the gear shift and into the passenger seat, inexplicably still holding the steering wheel as though I thought it would help the situation. Eventually my car bounced off the truck’s grill, spun across a few lanes, and landed in the median facing the opposite direction.

I was surely lucky that day, although I was really annoyed that I’d just spent several hundred dollars putting a new motor in the car and now it was totaled. I didn’t have any injury except mild hysteria. And the insurance money financed my first trip to Disney.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it to the age where I was old enough to drive a car.

As a curious child, I inserted a metal wire into an electrical outlet just to see what would happen. What happened? A jolt that felt like the pins and needles you get when a limb goes to sleep magnified a few thousand times as I was catapulted across the room. But no permanent damage that I’m aware of. I guess I was lucky.

Undeterred, I was playing by an empty warehouse that had a slanted driveway leading to the underground garage door. The driveway was filled with water, and I’m still not sure what happened except that when I touched a pipe, I felt that now-familiar jolt of electrical energy. Lucky again.

There were so many things I did growing up that, looking back, I marvel that I survived. Racing my brother across a railroad bridge to get to the other side before the train came. Riding a dinky little rubber raft down a river into a reservoir with no lifeguard, not to mention lots of rocks and dangerous currents. Bringing home what I thought was a sweet little lost dog who turned out to have rabies or distemper or whatever it is that causes a dog to foam at the mouth and try to bite a person’s arm off.

I could go on, but the pertinent fact is that I survived all of it, which I probably shouldn’t say because it might be unlucky.

Maybe Mr. McCarthy and the Dalai Lama have a point after all.

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!