Cookbooks can be false advertising -- Susanna Carr

What is it about cookbooks? I flip through one and all sense of reality vanishes. The glossy pictures show a relaxed and smiling cook as she whips up something delicious for a small army in her state-of-the-art kitchen. I'm rarely relaxed when I cook, and the appliances in my kitchen plot against me, but yet, I think hey, I can make that dish.

I didn't learn how to cook until I was about 20 years old. I had some college roommates who tried to teach me Indian cooking, but they didn't know much more than me. Especially the one who thought if a teaspoon of spice is good, a tablespoon would be better. After sweating and gasping for air through more than one meal, I went and bought an Indian cookbook by Madhur Jaffrey. I eventually learned how to cook through trial and error. I use the cookbook to this day but I know most of the recipes by heart.

Last weekend I decided I was in a breakfast rut and I needed to do make something different. I flip through a beautiful cookbook that promises me a leisurely and healthy breakfast. My day would start out right. My time in the kitchen will be pleasant. No, spiritual. Downright sacred.

I really should have known better. The cook promised that the meal would take no more than 20 minutes but I was still preparing it after the hour mark. The kitchen looked like the cabinets exploded, leaving piles of bowls and utensils.

My stove now needs a thorough cleaning. Have you noticed that those glossy cookbooks never show the pile of dirty dishes in the sink? I have to admit that the breakfast tasted great. If it didn't, I think I would have had a meltdown like Julie in Julie and Julia. But I swear I'm more relaxed scrambling an egg.

Or, even better, pouring milk over cereal. The next time a cookbook promises me a Zen-like experience in the kitchen, I will remember the current state of my kitchen (which I'm still scrubbing down) and decide there is nothing wrong with a bowl of Cheerios. Do you have a favorite cookbook?

Kate Walker: Happy Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s Day in the UK. I know it’s not the same date as it’s celebrated in America – I’ve never been quite sure why there is this difference – but in the UK we’ll be celebrating ‘Mothering Sunday’ on April 3rd. In the Roman religion the Hilaria festival was held in honour of the mother goddess Cybele and it took place during mid-March. As the Roman Empire and Europe converted to Christianity, this celebration became part of the liturgical calendar as Laetare Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent to honour the Virgin Mary and the "mother church".


During the sixteenth century, people returned to their mother church for a service to be held on Laetare Sunday. This was either a large local church, or more often the nearest Cathedral. Anyone who did this was commonly said to have gone "a-mothering". In later times, Mothering Sunday became a day when domestic servants were given a day off to visit their mothers and other family members. It was often the only time that whole families could gather together, since in other days they were prevented by conflicting working hours. This Mother’s Day is going to be sad as well as a celebration for us. I’ll be so happy to see my son and to celebrate with him, but sadly my dear Mother in Law died a couple of weeks ago and so, like my own mother, she will be missed today.

So even more than usual, I’ve thinking about Mothers and their influences on us, and because I’m a writer I’ve been thinking about the books that my mother brought into my life. I don’t know if I would ever have started writing romance if it hadn’t been for the fact that my mother had a great friend who used to write for Mills & Boon in the years I was growing up. Marguerite Lees was a writer of romance back in the 1960s and 70s and she was the first person I ever knew who wrote and was published for a living. My mother had a collection of her friend’s books and I used to sneak a read of them when she wasn’t looking. They weren’t very sexy or even racy, but she still didn’t think they were suitable for me when I was young!

It’s funny though - because she thought that reading the classics like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights was fine. And these books have such strong emotions, such powerful themes of love and passion that they are far more intense and high-voltage than anything I ever read in the early Mills & Boon romances I read. But perhaps the fact that I read these books meant that when I wanted to write then I wanted to create stories that contained such intense emotions and strong feelings as the books I’d grown up with. So perhaps that’s why I now write for the Presents line where this emotional intensity is part of the atmosphere of the stories.

It certainly is there in my newest release – The Proud Wife - which is out in Presents Extra on April 12th. In The Proud Wife, Marina and Pietro married in a rush, early in their relationship, because she was pregnant. They were still in that wildly passionate first stage of love, when you’re blind to everything else. And the baby just seemed like the icing on the cake. But when Marina miscarried, their relationship was tested cruelly. Grief does terrible things to people. Some couples can be drawn together by it, others are torn apart. And because Marina and Pietro didn’t know each other well enough to understand what each of them was going through, it opened up the cracks in their marriage and split them up.

When someone has once loved so very passionately, the loss of that love leaves a hole that is very hard to fill. Marina and Pietro believe that they would be better apart, that their marriage is dead. But when they have to come back together to discuss the divorce, they are forced to think again. I love to write about themes like this - reunion stories are some of my favourites to write. And luckily they seems to be very popular with the readers – and reviewers. Romantic Times has given The Proud Wife 4.5 stars and describes it as ‘an emotionally charged page-turner with plenty of tension and passion. ‘

Which brings me to my really good news – I’m thrilled to be able to announce that another reunion story – The Konstantos Marriage Demand has been awarded the Best Presents Extra (2010) title in the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards. It’s a real honour for me and one I know my mother would have been delighted by. Sadly she never saw my books published - though she knew that the first one had been accepted. My Mother in law read and enjoyed every one of the novels I gave her and she knew about this award when I still had to keep it a secret. I’m so glad I was able to let her know before the official announcement and I’m so sad that I won’t be able to share my books with her in the future.

What about you? Did you get any of your love of books from your mother – or mother in law? – Did she share her favourite authors with you? Or if you are a mother what books have you been able to pass on to your daughter - or your son? I’ve been able to share all sorts of reading with my son but the romances are the books I share with his lovely girlfriend.

I have a signed copy of the award winning Konstantos Marriage Demand to give away to one poster – I’ll get Sid the cat on the job of picking the winner

You can read more about The Proud Wife over on my web site and you can learn all about my news and get all the really up to date stuff on my blog.

And the winner is . . . .LENI!


Leni please email me kate AT kate-walker.com and I'll send your prize book on to you

Vonnie Hughes: Exotic Locales For Books

When agents and romance publishers says they accept “exotic locales” for book settings, they tend to mean “within reason.” I have a book coming out soon from The Wild Rose Press, and I commend that publisher for not tampering with the setting. But I went through about ten agents and seven publishers first who all said something akin to “I wouldn’t know how to market it because of the setting.”

So you’re thinking, “This stupid woman set her novel in Orehevo-Zuevo or Bujumbura, didn’t she?” No, actually, I didn’t. I set it in New Zealand—the place that sits on the Pacific Rim of Fire and which, like Japan, recently suffered an almighty earthquake.

Now, my family was born in New Zealand, although we now live in Australia. And the book that gave those hesitant agents and publishers pause is titled LETHAL REFUGE. What worried them was that the New Zealand policing system is based on the English one—unarmed constables in vehicles or on foot forming the basis of the structure. Yes, many police are armed e.g. detectives on certain occasions, units assisting the Drug Squad on drug busts and of course the Armed Offenders’ Squad (equivalent to the American SWAT teams) are all armed.

But New Zealand has policing by consent. Their policing base is in the community and they are taught verbal skills just the same as the British Police and the Norwegian Police. They rely on public support. Now I don’t want to end up in a debate on this, because I’m sure scores of New Zealanders are yelling, “Arm the police! The crims have all got weapons!” For every opinion there is a counter-opinion. I’m just telling it like it is. And remember that New Zealand only has 4 million people and their arrest rate, therefore, is very high. Let’s face it; in a small community like that everyone knows somebody who knows somebody…

So the agents and publishers aforementioned had a point when they said they didn’t know how to market it. They probably thought: no guns, no excitement. (And of course they might have been being polite; maybe they hated the story).

So how exotic is exotic? I can’t say I’ve ever thought of the country of my birth as being exotic! Lots of farmland, clean and green when compared with other countries and beautiful. Ravishingly beautiful in romance terms. There is nothing to beat the Southern Alps (in the South Island of New Zealand) etched against a deep blue autumn sky with a clear lake reflecting the mountain peaks. There are a couple of photos of New Zealand on my blog at http://vonniehughes.blogspot.com/

So when you think of exotic locales, spare a thought for New Zealand, will you? Exotic? Heh!


Vonnie writes Regencies and romantic suspense. Her latest Regency, COMING HOME, was published in hardback by Robert Hale Ltd. It is available (post-free, yay!) from The Book Depository at http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9780709090052/Coming-Home   Her romantic suspense, LETHAL REFUGE with The Wild Rose Press, does not yet have a release date. Keep an eye out for it!

http://www.vonniehughes.com/

Lisa Plumley: Single Fathers in Fiction

Okay, so I have an experiment for you. First, picture a handsome, hunky, tough-guy hero. Got him? Good. Next, put a baby in his arms. Can you picture it? Great! Now, what do we have? Well, if you're like me...instant awww! Adorable, right?
There aren't many things more appealing than a macho guy who's also nurturing and protective. I think that's why I love reading about (and writing about) single fathers. They're strong and capable (because they're romance heroes, duh!), yet they're also responsible and caring. Even if they sometimes seem a little out-of-their-depth about the details involved in taking care of children (occasionally to hilarious effect), these single-dad heroes are true heroes in every sense of the word. My newest single-father hero is a former rascally ne'er-do-well in the Old West who's doing his best to stay out of trouble for his daughter's sake. He doesn't know it yet, but temptation is right around the corner! After he wins a "bride for a week" in the town's latest raffle, he realizes he's in way over his head. Before he knows what's hit him...
Well, let me just introduce you to him, all right? After that, I hope you'll want to find out what happens for yourself!

Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory
June 1883

On an otherwise unremarkable day in Morrow Creek, Owen Cooper stood in the modest quarters where he lived atop his livery stable and made himself a solemn promise: he was going to learn to braid his daughter's hair even if it killed him.

It looked as though it might. Already, Owen had made more than one attempt. He'd been defeated every time. Still, ten-year-old Élodie appeared to believe he could finish the task.

With every appearance of certainty—in a braiding prowess Owen strongly doubted he possessed—Élodie stood with her back to him. With pint-size eagerness, she wiggled on her tiptoes. Then she craned her neck, trying to glimpse one of her pigtails.

"Are you done yet, Papa? Can I look?"

"Not yet. Keep holding still."

"I am! I'm pretending my feet are glued to the floor!"

Hmm. For an instant, Owen contemplated the potential merits of actually gluing Élodie's high-buttoned shoes to the floor, then allowing her to step into them like a pony in a stall. Such a tactic would doubtless make mornings like this one easier. As it was, Élodie had been fidgeting nonstop—even before she'd begged Owen, over breakfast, to take on this delicate maneuver. He squinted, newly determined to master this task.

"Remember, both braids are supposed to be exactly the same!" Élodie reminded him earnestly. "Nice and neat, too."

Nice and neat. Frowning at the twin fistfuls of coppery hair he'd been bundling and twisting in his hands for the past fifteen minutes, Owen shifted his feet. He felt his frown deepen. What he'd accomplished so far was poor, he realized. And raggedy. The horses he boarded at his stable sometimes boasted fancier plaits than the ones he'd created for his daughter.

He'd have to try harder. He could do it. After all, he'd already learned to do so many fatherly tasks that had fallen to him in the years since he'd lost Renée. Owen was proud of the progress he'd made, too. So when Élodie had begged him to braid her hair in a new fashion today, he'd thought the undertaking would be simple enough to accomplish, especially for a man like him—a man who was reasonably intelligent, occasionally clever, and always skilled with his hands.

Years ago, Owen had earned a good living with those hands. Not good in the sense of untarnished and pure, of course; those were concepts Owen had had only a passing acquaintance with until he'd met Renée, and she'd begun to reform him. What he'd earned with his hands and mind all those years ago had been a profitable living. A frivolous, fun-loving, profitable living.

The truth was, Owen had always enjoyed a talent for the disreputable. Minor thievery had come easily to him; so had running a swindle or delivering a punch or seducing a woman. These days, Owen regretted his rapscallion's past—but he saw it for what it was, too: a cockeyed blessing. If he'd been a better man, he knew, he might never have met Renée outside his favorite gambling house in Baltimore. As it was, he and Renée had taken instantly and wholeheartedly to one another…never mind that his future wife had been crusading to shut down the place.

Renée, scarcely nineteen and staunchly naïve, hadn't known then that the sizable nest egg Owen had brought to their marriage had been the result of gambling, conning, and generally charming the world at large. Owen, already a hell-raising bachelor at twenty-two, had been too smitten to risk enlightening her. She'd discovered his faults quickly enough, though—and had set out to reform him of them straightaway. Two years later, Owen and Renée had taken those savings with them from Baltimore, intending to start a new, more respectable life together with their toddler daughter in California.

Instead, his wife's journey westward had ended in the Arizona Territory, in the picturesque mountain town of Morrow Creek. After losing Renée, Owen had decided to stay there, too, with tiny Élodie. In the years since then, he'd done his best to care for his daughter the way Renée would have wanted him to.

That meant fancy pigtails and ribbons were his duty.

They were damnably difficult to master, though. Far more so than he'd imagined they would be. But Owen was not a man who entertained the notion of defeat. Not when it came to Élodie.

When it came to his daughter, Owen had to succeed. He was all Élodie had…and she was all he had. He would have died before giving up on her—even when it came to inconsequential matters like intricate braids and froufrou ribbons.

From the book THE BRIDE RAFFLE by Lisa Plumley
Imprint and Series: Harlequin Historicals - Publication Date 04/11
ISBN 9780373296354 - Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Plumley

See? Owen's doing his best for Élodie, and he's doing pretty well. But once traveling cookery book author Daisy Walsh shows up, all bets are off! I had a terrific time writing The Bride Raffle, the latest in my Morrow Creek series for Harlequin Historicals. There are seven interconnected books/short stories now, with more on the way! But if you haven't tried any of them yet, don't worry! Although all the books are set in the same Arizona Territory town and feature some overlapping characters, the individual books definitely stand alone. I hope you'll drop by my Web site to read the first chapter of The Bride Raffle today.

In the meantime, what are your favorite books with a single-father theme? Or, if you don't like books about single fathers, why not? I'm love to know. Let's dish!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lisa Plumley is the USA Today bestselling author of more than two dozen contemporary, historical, and paranormal romances. Her newest historical romance, The Bride Raffle, was awarded 4 spurs from Love Western Romances, 4 stars from CataRomance.com, and 5 blue ribbons from Romance Junkies. Her most recent contemporary romance, Holiday Affair, was a featured selection of the Doubleday, Rhapsody, and BOMC2 book clubs and was awarded 4½ stars from Romantic Times magazine, 5 hearts from The Romance Reader, and 5 blue ribbons from Romance Junkies. You can find Lisa on Facebook or Twitter, or visit her Web site to read first-chapter excerpts from any of her books, sign up for new-book reminder e-mails, and more!

*****Leave a comment for the chance to win a book autographed by Lisa! Three winners will receive a copy of the UK edition of Mail-Order Groom. Good luck!

Lynn Raye Harris: RT Booklovers Convention & Me

Here's me running late! Yikes! No matter how often I think I have my calendar under control, it's inevitable that something will throw me for a loop. Right now, that something is the RT Booklovers Convention taking place next week in Los Angeles. I'm frantically running around and trying to get all my lists straight. I have to pack -- and there's a lot of stuff I have to pack!

But I love the RT convention. This is only my second one, but last year was such fun. I went with the expectation that I'd just take it all in and see how it went. I had no goals, other than to enjoy myself and see what it was all about.

Of course I had a blast! I went with fellow Presents author Kimberly Lang, and we spent days wandering around the convention, meeting booksellers, readers, librarians, and booklovers of all type.

As much as I love the RWA conference -- and I do, passionately -- RT is a bit different. Not everyone is a writer or an aspiring writer. Some people just darn well love to read romance novels, and they come to meet their favorite authors and eat, talk, sleep, and breathe romance.

It's a grand time, and I'm really looking forward to it this year! If you're going to be there, you can see me at a number of events: I'm giving a workshop with Kimberly Lang and Kira Sinclair called "Walking the Line: Writing the Sexy Series Romance for Harlequin." I'll also be in Club RT, where Kimberly and Kira and I are giving away a Kindle and six ebooks, and I'll be one of the hostesses of the Lights, Camera, Action party!

And of course I'll be at the Giant Book Fair on Saturday, from 11 to 2, where I'll be signing copies of The Devil's Heart, which just hit store shelves last week!

A diamond, and a deal with the devil…
Francesca D’Oro was just eighteen when darkly sexy Marcos Navarre swept her up the aisle—then fled before the ink on the marriage licence had dried. Marcos might have given Francesca a jewel for her finger, but he stole another: the Devil’s Heart—a dazzling yellow diamond he believed belonged to his family…
Years later Francesca, no longer so youthfully naïve, is determined to reclaim the precious gem! But she’s forgotten that Marcos lives up to the treasure’s name—and dealing with the devil is always dangerous!

I hope to see you there! :)

Lynn Raye Harris is a USA Today bestselling author who writes glamorous, sexy romance for Harlequin Presents. You can learn more about Lynn and her books at http://www.lynnrayeharris.com/. You can also follow Lynn on Twitter @LynnRayeHarris or visit her author page on Facebook, http://www.facebook.com/AuthorLynnRayeHarris

India Grey: The Ideas Factory

I’m writing this at a desk that still buried under piles of books, paper, cups of unfinished tea in various stages of bacterial culture (so that’s why there are no mugs left in the kitchen) chocolate wrappers, and post-it notes bearing cryptic messages that must have made sense at one time. I pressed ‘send’ on my latest manuscript less than twenty-four hours ago, and feel like I’m just emerging from months of solitary confinement into the real world again.

This is the day I’ve been looking forward to for weeks: the morning when I’d wake up naturally rather than being catapulted violently out of sleep at about 5am by my brain shrieking ‘deadline’; when I’d actually have the time and the inclination to put on make-up and proper clothes (rather the grim jeans-and-several cardigans combo I wear to write), and when I’d eat something wholesome for breakfast instead of skipping it and eating Kit Kats at my desk all day. It’s also the day when I’d finally be able to clean the kitchen floor, meet up with friends, bake cakes with my children, talk to my husband and not obsess about fictional characters at all.

Except it never quite works out like that.

One of the things that seems to make otherwise ordinary people into writers (whether they’re published or not is immaterial) is the way their brains don’t really get the concept of ‘down time’. It’s like there’s a little Ideas Factory in there that never shuts.  Today, the manager of my ideas factory clearly is clearly concerned about letting productivity slide and has flagged up about ten things already this morning that would make potential starting points for a new book, and fill several scenes in it.  

There was the man on the radio as I drove back from the school run, talking about being a career poker player and earning a million dollars by the time he was 25. (hello, card-shark, bad boy hero who pulls himself out of his wrong-side-of-the-tracks background), and also the pregnant weather girl on our local news channel (clever girl heroine who made one stupid decision and risks everything she’s worked so hard for) There was the song ‘Warwick Avenue’ by Duffy playing in the supermarket when I went in to re-stock the empty fridge. Standing in front of an array of green vegetables trying to remember what to do with them, I decided there was definitely fifty thousand words-worth of love and loss and conflict in there, and began to wonder what that story might be…

Before I wrote my first book I worked in a marketing agency writing copy for brochures and radio ads and direct marketing shots. One day the Creative Director told me about an experiment in which three advertising gurus were sent to a client, where they were given a brief for the same advert. None of them were aware that certain things had been set up to occur along their route to the venue – an argumentative cyclist waving his fist at the taxi driver, a child letting go of a balloon and wailing, a man spilling his Starbucks coffee – things like that. They probably didn’t even consciously register them, but when they submitted their ideas for the ad, one or more of those events featured in all of them.

I often think about this when I’m writing a book. I think it probably shows that while the ideas factory is in constant production, we’re much more aware of its output at some times than others. I’ve must have seen that weather girl every day for months without noticing anything other than if she’s predicting sunshine or rain, but suddenly today I’m imagining all sorts of possible scenarios for the poor girl…

I think the kitchen floor might just have to wait.

India’s next Presents ‘The Secret She Can’t Hide’ is out in May. You can keep up do date with her news at: www.indiagrey.blogspot.com

Lori Wilde: A Book By Any Other Name

While you might not realize the extent of it yet, Dear Reader, you and I have just stepped into a time machine together and the future is upon us.


All you have to do is download a book on your e-reader or computer and boom—we are in direct communication. Magic. What was once the stuff of science fiction is now our daily reality. The invention of the E-reader is the biggest thing to hit publishing since Gutenberg’s movable type.

The paradigm has shifted. The revolution has begun. There’s no going back to the old ways.

As with all change, it’s a mixed blessing. To some the change is frightening. To others, exhilarating. For every positive there is a negative. For every dark shadow exists a bright sun. Some mourn the old days. Others fearlessly embrace the new. Most fall somewhere in between.

Those of us who grew up with actual books still have a need to touch and smell paper and there’s just something about a shelf full of books that makes us feel warm and cozy and safe. But the new generation born into technology, and reared with a deeper appreciation for ecology, feels no melancholia for books with spines.

When I was a girl living on a farm, I’d tuck a book under my arm, escape from my three younger brothers by heading down to the creek and climbing my favorite tree. It was a Chinaberry with a thick branch shaped like an L. I’d nestle back in the nook of that tree, stretch out my legs and slip into the story. When I got hot, I could flip the book upside down over the limb and drop down into the creek to cool off. Future budding authors can’t take that risk with their E-readers. Water and electronics don’t well miss. Then again, they wouldn’t have to trudge all the way to the house to get a new book when they finished the old one.

Do we really have to chose digital over print? Can both still co-exist? For publishing, it’s the new Wild West and we’re holding our collective breaths to see how it shakes out.

But when you get down to it the only thing that’s really changed is the delivery system. Our communication is more immediate, true, but walk through the aisle of any bookstore and reach out your hand. You could be transported to a whaling vessel via Herman Melville or find yourself watching a mongoose and cobra battle through the words of Rudyard Kipling. Mark Twain will take you down his Mississippi or Harry Potter will show you around wizard school. You can dance macabre with Stephen King or have bounty hunting fun with Stephanie Plum.

Now, you can simply push a button and get those same stories anywhere, any time. (Even in a Chinaberry tree if you have 3G) Convenient. Ecological. Instant gratification.

While the future might be scary, there is one thing we can always count. Stories matter. Whether printed on paper or nestled in our e-reader, stories are never going away. Stories have power. They entertain, provoke, enlighten. Stories enrich the fabric of our lives. Stories create a sense of wonder. They show us that the world is a much larger place than we ever imagined.

But you already knew that, didn’t you? Because you’re here with me, reading the words that I have written on the magic of technology. We need each other to make this story thing work.

Your e-book is our time machine. Stories are our guide. The universe—past, present and future—belongs to us. Isn’t it a great time to be alive? Where would you like to go?

Lori
http://www.loriwilde.com/

Two Reasons to Celebrate! by Linda Conrad

April will be a special month for me. To start, the third book in my Desert Sons series for Harlequin Romantic Suspense is on shelves now! Lots of readers have been waiting for Tarik’s book, and SECRET AGENT SHEIK is his story. It’s a fun adventure that takes place mainly in Rio during Carnivale! I just love that sensous city as a setting for a story. I was born in Rio and it holds a special place in my heart. Of course, the book is sexy and suspenseful and brings two people together who’ve never realized they needed anyone.

Here’s an excerpt from when the two are literally undercover -- just to tease you:

What is Tarik saying?

Jass struggled to come out of her haze and listen, but the blood boiled in her ears. With her pulse screaming through her veins as though she were pulling down five Gs, her body throbbed with passion. And all because of the masculine body currently lying suggestively between her legs.

Geez. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to snap herself out of it. They were supposedly working a sting. She was Celile. But he was not the real Zohdi.

Work. Work. Work. Rember, this was an important assignment and not the most intimate experience she’d ever had. Worse even than the idea of taking a risk with her career, there’d been a camera trained on them this whole time.

She’d lost her mind. But, oh man, what a terrific way to go insane. The sexual chemistry between the two of them left her soaring. Tarik’s mere touch jolted her with an intense excitement, sparking a conflagration that had sent her down in flames. His naked and aroused body surprised her, but it shouldn’t have. He was so much more than she imagined. The most potent male she’d ever seen.

Like spontaneous combustion, she’d found herself wet and set to explode. But they were only acting at their mission. Right? Remember the mission. “Hold on.” Tarik left her long enough to drag the covers up and over their heads, covering them completely from view How could he remain unaffected? Well, not totally unaffected, she’d noticed. He was hot and pulsing…and huge. He’d been ready just like she was.

But his mind had stayed in the game. A trait she’d better learn how to mimic.

“Laugh,” he demanded in a raspy whisper. “Or giggle. Anything that makes it seem as though we’re doing what it looks like in this bed.”

His words actually made some sense through her clearing fog. At last. She wiggled out from underneath his body and rolled over to face him—while both of them remained hidden under the covers.

Watching him closely, she opened her mouth and let out one of the loudest moans imaginable. “Ah. Ah. Ah.” She forced the volume higher. “Oh, Zohdi. Oh. Oh.”

Finally, she wound herself up and screamed incoherently. A thing she had never done during the throes of passion in her entire lifetime.

Tarik actually smiled as he murmured low, “Nice work, agent. I’d like a repeat performance someday. But not for the cameras.”

That did it. He had to move away. Now.

“Get out of bed and turn off the lights, Zohdi.” She gritted her teeth. “And then bring me a robe.”

Why hadn’t the man thought to turn out the lights in the first place?

In a hushed tone, Tarik answered. “Okay, but I’m betting turning off the lights won’t help. The camera is probably NVC, night vision capable. Most surveillance equipment is set up that way. I’ll gladly get the robes.” He scowled and rolled out from under the blankets, leaving her covered and furious.

Seconds later he pulled down the covers and immediately threw one of the terry bath robes over her. “Get up, Celile,” he announced in a loud voice. “You need a shower and I have work to do on the laptop.”

“What did you say?” It was easy to fake a little indignation. She felt every bit of Celile’s part.

Tarik turned his back. “Get up.”

“Well, isn’t that romantic? You bastard.” She shoved her arms into the robe and stood. “I’m going. But if you think for one minute that you’re in for a repeat performance tonight, you are out of your mind. You and your damned laptop can sleep out on the terrace.”

Grasping the robe around her like a shield, Jass marched into the bathroom and slammed the door. Once alone and out of camera range, she leaned both hands heavily on the countertop. Hanging her head and breathing in and out through her mouth, she tried to calm her shaky nerves. Realization began to sink in. He had actually picked a fight in order to save them from having to sleep together tonight. The whole scene back there suddenly became clear. Everything he’d done in the bedroom—stripping himself and not her, carrying her to the bed and covering them from view—all of it was done for her benefit.

To save her from embarrassment.

From the book: SECRET AGENT SHEIK by Linda Conrad Harlequin Romantic Suspense April 2011 ISBN 978-0373-27722-3 Copyright 2011 ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher

Great excerpt, right? It’s one of my favorites.

Now, on to the next most wonderful thing taking place in April. My fabulous Harlequin editor, Keyren Gerlack, is getting married! And she and her husband-to-be are tying the knot in Germany at the same little chapel where her parents and grandparents were also married. Sigh. Romantic.

Keyren is so stylish. (and I’m so NOT) She bought her dress at the bridal shop in New York where they shoot “Say Yes To The Dress” for the TLC cable channel. Isn’t that cool? For those of you who don’t get the TLC channel or who live in other countries, the show is a reality series where they televise women choosing and being fitted for their wedding dresses. The show features all the drama attached to such emotional chores. Keyren will not be on the show, by the way.

Now, I know some little girls dream of being married in a big white dress, but that was never me. Or my sister. Or my mother, for that matter. Both my mother and I were married on about two weeks notice. I remember it was all I could do to buy a new white suit that fit me before the wedding day. (which I never wore again, BTW) But it did look nice in the pictures and my husband says he thought it was spectacular.

All this thinking about weddings again sent me to the Internet to research the history of wedding dresses. Both Brides.com and author Shirley Thomas say that white has not always been the color of choice for weddings. White apparently came into vogue with Queen Victoria’s wedding to Albert in 1840. Before that anything except black and red would do. Today the color choices seem to be limited to white, ecru, off-white or ivory. Every now and then a bride chooses pink or blue. I saw one woman on the TV show who insisted on red. And one Goth girl who wanted her dress trimmed in black. Everybody to their own dream.

What do you think? Did you dream of your wedding dress as a child? Did your mother save her wedding dress or your grandmother’s dress for you to wear?

Leave your comments here and tomorrow I’ll draw one winner for two prizes: an autographed copy of SECRET AGENT SHEIK and a box of Ferrero Dark Chocolate Truffles! That’s Two Reasons to Celebrate!

For more information about Linda's Desert Sons series or to enter her website contest, go to: http://www.LindaConrad.com

Jessica Barksdale Inclan: Why We Need Retreat

For a week during the summers of 1995 and 1997, I left my husband and two sons to go to The Flight of the Mind women’s writing retreat Mackenzie Bridge, Oregon. Back then, especially the first time, this was a hard, terrible thing for me to do. First, it was hard because we were so often broke, and my leaving cost us plane fair, full tuition, some babysitting expenses, and a lot of arranging. The good news was that this retreat happened during the summer and my husband was off, and the bad news was that it happened during the summer. My husband had to take care of all the activities, the meals, the driving. In the summer, that meant three full meals to prepare—no school bag lunches or quick breakfasts. It meant swimming lessons and play dates and just all the long, hot stuff that goes on in kids’ lives during summer vacation.

I bargained, I prepared, and I bartered. I probably cried. I did all that I had to do in order to make it happen. At the time of the first retreat, I was living in a 650 square foot house with three other people, my computer on a card table in my bedroom. I was able to write only when my kids were playing or watching television. I was working five days a week at a local college, teaching five classes, participating on committees. Because my schedule was slightly more flexible than my husband’s, I was pick up and drop off person at the kids’ school; I was drive to tutor person; I was make the dinner person. I was still all those same people in 1999,but we’d moved to a bigger house. My desk was still in my room but I had more room.

But both years, I wanted so badly to go away for a week to study with writers. I needed it. The Flight of the Mind women’s writing retreat starred some amazing poets and fiction writers: Grace Paley, Ursula K. LeGuin, Naomi Shihab Nye, to name a few. The site was set in the most incrediably verdant, green swath of nature I’d ever seen. There we were, writing in nature, by a river, in the middle of green. I would be “alone” to write but also surrounded by other writers. I would be able to focus on something I was trying to focus on all the time but didn’t have enough space to do so: space in the literal and figurative senses.

We arrived by rented bus and we were,immediately in a different environment. From the moment we arrived, it was clear we were paying honor and homage to the writing process. It was important. Retreat was necessary. Retreat made a difference in our lives, our writing, our work. We needed to honor that, and we needed to focus on what other writers had to say, not just the teachers. Words were important. So were we. We had things to say.

Praise everything! I thought.

And it was at The Flight of the Mind that I met two people still in my life, two people important to my writing and my career. More importantly, these people are important to my soul. I can still see Kris standing in the Eugene Airport, her back to me, a tattoo on one tanned shoulder, her long hair flowing down her back. There is Darien, sitting at the table, even at 26 ready to organize the world. Today, they are there ready to read, to talk to comment, to share. I came home each time inspired, enthused, in love with writing.

I came home remembering that what I was trying to do—the evidence of which in the real world was only a handful of published poems and stories—was important to people out there. I realized it was and had to be important to me, too. And in the next year after that last retreat, I moved into a more dedicated writing practice, writing as though it were important and did matter, and by 1999, I had the draft of my first novel.

those two retreats, I wouldn’t have been able to jump over the broomstick into a relationship with my writing self. I would have been able to stand up from the desk and walk away, not able to remember it was something I wanted to do.


Jessica Barksdale Inclan

Re-energising by Natalie Anderson

Image by Winnond. www.freedigitalimages.com

I’m in that wonderful phase of having just turned in a story to my editor and am brainstorming up the next while waiting on her thoughts. It’s a time to refill the well, to look around and think about doing some house work (just think mind), to organise some trips for the kids and myself to take some time out to relax.

We’re taking all four children to the ballet next week, it’s the first for the four year olds, so that will be ‘fun’. We did have an orchestra concert scheduled to attend in Christchurch, but I think that is likely to be cancelled because of the earthquake. But we’ll find something else – I love taking the littlies to concerts and shows, watching their rapt expressions seems to magnify the magic for me too.

Today is a glorious day so we’re going to head either to the park or the beach and go for a walk. I’m going to breathe deep and live in the moment.

And in terms of reading (one of my favourite ways to grow inspiration) – well, it couldn’t be a better time to be choosing some books to get stuck into what with the RITA finalists just announced! I can’t wait to curl up in my chair with all those fabulous books. Huge congratulations to those finalists – and a special shout-out to Kelly Hunter – my fellow Riva author has her third RITA final – this must be her year!

So what do you do to re-energise when you’ve had a spell of full on work? What’s the best way to reinvigorate – I’d love to hear what works best for you!

Amanda Ashby: My current obsession

By nature I'm pretty lazy, so my version of obsession isn't actually that daunting. It doesn't involve stalking or a compulsive need to know someone's star sign or favorite color (though in the case of David Boreanaz, there has been a bit of drool from time to time, but hey, I'm only human). However, for my current obsession, it does involve a lot of listening to the one song over and over again and that song is "Someone Like You" by the beautiful Adele.

I first heard it when I watched a Youtube clip from the Brit Awards (which by the way is always one of the best award shows to watch because someone normally always misbehaves) and since the CD came out I've been listening to it non-stop, to the point where my husband is probably going to drop something on it soon. But seriously, I'm addicted and I can't see it ending anytime soon. On the plus side, as a writer, it's always wonderful to listen to how someone's words, when filled with emotion can really move you (yup, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!)




So what about everyone else? Does anyone have a current obsession going on that I need to know about? Inquiring minds would like to know!

Amanda Ashby
Fairy Bad Day Puffin June 2011

Helen Bianchin: Cats and dogs in the life of an author ...



July 2011 - USA



My widowed grandmother owned a fox terrier of indeterminate age who crossed the Rainbow bridge in my 7th year. Replaced, after the requisite grieving period by a young very active and excitable fox terrier pup called Buster who on introduction promptly bit my left eyebrow - blood was shed, cries of pain, and Buster's brother was deemed as not the wisest choice of pet to add to our family. A kitten, on the other hand, would be perfect. I'll never forget the day he arrived. So tiny, his fur so soft and black, he curled into my lap, purred ... and it was mutual love at first sight. Well, second sight, given we'd viewed each other cautiously for all of ten seconds before he decided I passed inspection. We became inseparable. He slept at the foot of my bed, snuggled up whenever I was sick, and waited at the gate for me to return home from school.



And so began my love affair with cats. I'm pleased to say Billy survived three moves and lived to a ripe old age. Memories come to mind of him curled into a fork of an apple tree in our yard as I sat in an opposite fork reading a book. The way he looked at the suitcase on the spare bed in my room as I packed to embark on a working holiday in Australia. The day I left he sat in the doorway and I swear he knew it was a last goodbye.

Fast forward a few years to marriage, life on a tobacco farm, the loss of our first child ... and the gift of a kitten, who grew into a beautiful cat acquiring numerous skills, such as herding chickens, alerting the presence of an occasional snake, and ruler of the roost - literally.



Munchkin - overseeing the writing process



My parents' ill health meant a return to New Zealand for several years, and of course, a cat. With three children there had to be a cat. Plural. Although we did begin with one. Yet another black cat, Sootsie's only failing was a tendency to wander, he adored exploring, showing no concern whatsoever at jumping a neighbour's fence, and another - although he always returned to be fed, checked the house, the yard, and slept on one of the children's beds overnight, only to disappear on another exploring venture the next morning. Then one afternoon he didn't return home, nor did he reappear the next morning. There was a very sad tale involving a car, and given the copious tears of heartbroken children I promised we would adopt another kitten. Except there were no kittens to be had anywhere. Believe I tried. In desperation I pleaded with the RSPCA, citing heartbroken children, tears - the whole bit. A kind lady on the other end of the phone took my number in the unlikelihood an abandoned cat was brought into the shelter. Anxiously we waited for the phone call - which eventually came. A mother cat with a newborn litter had arrived at the shelter and were facing euthanasia. I begged for one of the kittens to rear by hand. Please. With a warning re chance of survival, I brought the tiny newborn home. Our daughter named her Pebbles. Hourly feeds with animal formula administered by eye-dropper, then a doll's bottle - and Pebbles survived. With no memory of her feline mother, I became her maternal substitute. She'd curl up at my feet or sit on my desk, uncaring of the incessant clack of the manual typewriter. A wonderful paperweight, she would mind the increasing stack of paper comprising each manuscript. I often wondered if my editor discovered a stray black hair among the pages ...



Misty, the choc-point Birman as a kitten



Over the years there have been a few more felines who've come into our lives. And two dogs. A Sydney silky named Benji, whom we brought over from New Zealand when we once again crossed the Tasman sea to Australia. Then there was Baci, a Maltese terrier puppy who bonded with the resident cat, Miscka - they played together, tumbled and chased each other, and even slept together. Miscka knew he was a cat. Baci only thought he was a cat.



Currently two beautiful Birmans allow us to share the house. Munchkin (he really should have a stellar name to match his pedigree) is a seal point. Misty, a few years younger acquired from the same breeder, is a choc point. They each have distinctive personalities. They have their own beds, but they prefer ours. Their dining times are strictly adhered to - or if I'm at the computer attempting to finish writing a scene, they will not wait. Munchkin, the elder by 3 years, merely sits beside my desk and complains. Misty, on the other hand, jumps onto my desk and sits with his back to the monitor as he eyes me over the keyboard. It's time. Food time. He dismisses promises of soon. Ignores my suggestion I'll write much more quickly if I can see the screen. And so we play the game where I lift him off the desk - whereupon he jumps straight back again and assumes his position between monitor and keyboard. I ignore him, and receive a firm head-butt in silent remonstrance. He extends a paw and scatters my flash-drives. Munchkin yawns from the floor and gives a meow - whether in encouragement or warning, who knows? Five minutes - ten. Who'll give in first? Definitely not Misty. Even a firm remonstrance to the effect my writing pays for their food has no effect whatsoever. Fifteen minutes, max, it's game over. The cats have won.




Munchkin, the seal-point Birman on top of the bookcase after leaping from the printer



I'd love to hear stories from cat and dog lovers, how they've affected and shared your lives ...

Helen



Barbara Bretton: Grandma and the Prince - Part 27

<--The ship Grandpa served on during WWI. (It was recommissioned as the USS Huntington around 1917.)

The months are zipping by too quickly for me. Thanks to Lee for the gentle reminder! I needed it.

Here is part one of my Grandpa Larry's World War I stories. The last surviving veteran of WWI died a few weeks ago and with him went all the first-hand accounts of the Great War. I'm so glad I have these transcripts and hope other families hung onto their treasures too. Enjoy!

* * *

Under Sealed Orders - Part 1

We weighed anchor in North River and headed for the Narrows. It was the usual sailing, fully fueled, tank full of fresh water, supplies, provisions, and ammunition on board. As we neared the Narrows, I was assigned to the port chains. The chains is a steel frame extending about four feet from the side of the ship and about seventy-five feet aft of the bow of the ship. A wooden grill is fitted into the frame and at each corner is a steel stanchion about four feet high with a ring at the top Through the rings of the stanchion, a chain is threaded through and each end is secured to the lifeline of the ship. Thus the platform is logically called the chains which prevent the seaman from falling overboard while he is performing his duties.

The main duty is to heave the lead in order to keep the Bridge Officers informed of the depth of the water under the ship. Two seamen stand in the chains, one of which is the Leadsman and the other, the Lee Leadsman. On this day, I was the Leadsman. The leadline is a line similar to an old-time clothesline, about 125 feet in length and quite a bit of memorizing is required to be an efficient leadsman, and efficient you must be. Otherwise the ship might run aground and then you would be in bad trouble. I am sure you realize that. The lead line is divided into fathoms. A fathom is six feet. The even fathoms on the lead line are called Deeps and the odd fathoms are called Marks. Hence if your lead line showed six fathoms, you would sing out to the Bridge, “By the deep six.” In other words, you would have 36 feet of water under you. The line is marked every two fathoms by a piece of rag, a strip of leather with a hole in, or two or three holes, or one, two, or three knots. Each Mark denotes a certain number of fathoms and the Deeps are halfway between the Marks. All this you must memorize.

The lead itself is shaped something like a milk bottle and has a hole at the top to attach the line. The lead itself weighs fifteen pounds. About 12 feet from the lead on the line is attached a toggle which you grasp in your left hand when you are going to cast the lead. Now I am sure you understand all of this, so we will prepare to go to work.

You climb through the lifeline to the chains and your helper comes with you. First, you attach the bitter end of he line to one of the outboard stanchions to prevent losing the whole works overboard. Then you carefully coil the line in your right hand so that when the lead is released, the line will pay out without fouling. I now take the toggle in my left hand and start swinging the lead forward and back, the lead higher and higher each time, until at last I can bring it around in a full circle that will be 30 feet in diameter. After three full circles, on the fourth as the lead is rising, I release it and hopefully it will sail out toward the bow of the ship (65 or 70 feet.) As it hits the bottom and comes straight up and down, I read the mark at the water’s edge and call out the depth of he water to the Bridge. “By the Mark Seven.”

The duty of the Leadsman is to haul in the line and lead while it is being recoiled for the next cast. This procedure continues as the ship glides between the buoy lining the channel. Spar buoys on the starboard and (inaudible) buoys on the port until we reach deep waters, at which time we leave the chains and return to our regular duties. At last we reached the Ambrose Light Ship which no longer exists, as it has been replaced by an anchored, electrically controlled light buoy, but which still has the same characteristics as the old ship. (Interval between light flashes, I mean.)

The Ambrose Light is the point of departure which means that it has the exact latitude and longitude which he ship’s navigator to place on his chart for the purpose of starting his Dead Reckoning for navigational purposes. I realize that all this has nothing to do with the story I hope to tell, but just to show how things were in those bygone years before the advent of radar, sonar, distance tinders, and computers which the modern navigator now uses.
As we proceeded past point of departure, it became clearly evident that we were not picking up a convoy. Scuttlebutt rumors started to fly. The scuttlebutt on a war ship is like the water cooler in an office building. It is the breeding ground of rumors. One soon started which proved to be correct, that we were sailing under sealed orders for 24 hours on an unknown mission. The scuttlebutt runneth over with rumors. One popular one was that we were out to intercept a reported German raider heavily armed and disguised as a merchant ship that had been preying on isolated shipping. Either cargo ships that preferred to travel alone or stragglers that had become separated from their convoys for one reason or another. This rumor proved false.

We were cruising on a zigzag course of roughly 90 degrees. The next day, as the 24 hour period came to an end and the Captain opened the sealed orders, we made a drastic change in course. We had been sailing in a generally due east direction for the last 24 hours. Now our course was changed from 90 degrees to 310 degrees.

Now you can rest assured the scuttlebutt went to work again. It did not take the amateur navigators long to figure out that we were heading in a general direction of the Canadian Maritime Provinces. That proved to be a good guess. Some thought we were going to pick up a convoy of Canadian troopships. This proved to be in error. When we finally made a landfall, it was at the entrance to the harbor of Halifax, Nova Scotia where, coincidentally, Barbara, your other grandfather was living and working at the time.

(Part 2 next month.)

* * *

Thanks so much for sticking with me!

Finding a Quiet Place Inside Yourself- Melanie Milburne

I don’t think there has been a time in history where women have been under more pressure: Work, family, career, health and fitness, keeping up with friends and doing our bit for the community. We are expected (by others and by ourselves) to achieve so much on one day. I seem to fly from one commitment to another, wondering if everyone else is feeling as stressed as me or whether I’m just a stress bunny who attracts it. I am a type A personality which means I am driven and energetic, nothing is too hard a challenge and I thrive on them, the harder and more unattainable the better. But sometimes I just wish I could be one of those serene personalities that soothe rather than rev up. I have many friends who are like that and they are like a balm to my soul. I just love the sense of quiet I get around them. The funny thing is they love my energy and get a boost from being around my crazy million-miles-a-minute pace!

The important thing for me just lately is to look for a quiet place inside myself to ease that bubbling stress. I had a few days away recently at our beach house as we are renovating at home and that is a whole lot of other stress! Workmen, cement trucks, machines, painters… honestly, I was going nuts! I couldn’t string a thought together let alone words.

But now that I am home again and back on the treadmill I make myself travel back to the coast just for a few minutes and think of that glorious sunset or the Aurora Australis I saw one night or Southern Lights as it also called. It was majestic and so was the brilliant night sky with stars dotted like diamonds on a black velvet blanket.

Or I think of kayaking down The Swan River where I heard warblers and finches and parrots that were so beautiful it was like music. Then there was the sound of the waves, and then on calmer days just the gentle hiss and suck of the water as they lapped at the shore, and that magical infinitesimal moment between those little waves when there is absolute silence. Have you ever heard that? It is truly the most amazing thing. It’s like the world has taken a breath and held it for that tiny moment before releasing it again.

What do you do to calm yourself? I have a new Medical out soon called The Man With the Locked Away Heart. Marc Di Angelo is a city cop with a lot of stress in his life and he goes out to the bush in an attempt to re-evaluate his life. Local GP Gemma Kendall certainly shakes him up a bit which is just what he needs.

I will send a signed copy to someone who tells me how they relax.

Happy reading!

Melanie Milburne