When my first book was released I deliberately tried to store up memories, believing that I would never feel the same way again. I was wrong. Every single book still brings that indescribable feeling... accomplishment, pride, astonishment, terror. Terror, you ask?
Of course. Terror that readers won't buy it or won't like it. Putting your baby out there for sale is like standing naked on the street corner--a bit drafty.
This is also the day I feel the most kinship with other authors. Male or female, young or old, we all arrived at this point pretty much the same way. We sat in front of a computer and let our imaginations soar. That's a pretty scary thing to do. It reveals the inner man or woman in a way that no other endeavor does. People look at you strangely. As one author reported, a friend asked her "Is this really how you think?" Well, yeah.
Readers frequently mistake our stories for who we are. Just because I've never been an assassin or met a blue person or taken part in a bondage scene doesn't mean that I can't imagine those things. After all, much of our lives are lived in our imagination. The difference is that I write parts of my inner life down. As I said, that's the scary part.
So my baby is out there available to all who want to read it and find out about the blue people, the pointed ears and the fangs. Do Traveller and Wrenna get together? Do they let love win out? I would guess that you'll have to read Traveller's Refuge to find out for sure. But I'll give you a beginning peek at Trav just so you see what kind of man he is...
His knees cramped and he slowly straightened his long legs until they were flat on the floor. Sitting there with his back against the wall he listened intently to the storm suddenly intensify. In seconds the wailing wind was howling and shrieking around the corners of the building from the other direction. No one commented on the fact that the man who had gone to the roof had never returned. Trav hoped he had ID on him so they could identify him if they found the body.
He took a deep breath, then let it go as he pulled his legs up close to his body and wedged his size twelve Nikes flat on the floor. Damn, his ribs hurt! Tucking his bag beneath his bent knees, he leaned his head back and allowed his eyes to shut. He was so weary and a long way from home.
When rescuers finally arrived, it was a damp bedraggled group that that greeted them with dull relief. The flooding was devastating and everything in the area except the building they occupied was gone or under water. Helicopters airlifted them from the shredded tatters of the roof—children, women and finally the remaining men. Trav was the last one hauled aboard.
When his head cleared the doorway, he found a pistol trained on him dead center. Lifting his tired eyes, he saw the face of a man he could have sworn was a friend. “Welcome aboard, nest egg,” Marco said cheerfully in Cherokee.
“I’m not sure I want to,” Trav replied dryly in the same language. “It doesn’t sound as though the ride is going to have a happy ending for me.” He noted the safety on Marco’s weapon was on and flashed a glance at the others slumped in the copter. “You figure we’ve got ears?”
“Ears, eyes and itchy fingers.” Like an Old West gunslinger, Marco twirled his pistol over his finger and settled it in the waistband of his battered jeans. “Lucky for you, I’m the one that drew this little rescue mission. Llewellyn put out a contract on you, amigo. Big bucks. Dead or alive.”
Trav’s gut tightened. “Dancer?”
“Did a Houdini last week. Walked right out of a concert hall in Berlin under their collective noses, carrying his violin and guitar cases. On top of that, he was dressed in his western get-up complete with black cowboy hat and boots. Llewellyn is pissed.” Marco settled back against the open doorway and pulled Trav up next to him with Trav’s bag between them. “They’ll be waiting for you back at the drop-off point. They have a pretty good description too. What happened to your hair?”
“I tucked it under my windbreaker.”
“Fuck! I thought you cut it off! Good thing you’re wearing a cap. That red hair of yours is like a beacon. You have somewhere you want us to set you down?”
“How far are you going?”
“Da Nang but they’ve got that sewn up good, buddy.” He stared at Trav with worried eyes. “You wouldn’t make it ten feet.”
Trav concentrated, pitting one option against another. “Drop me at the crossroads north of Quy Nho’n,” he said in sudden decision. “I’ll make my own way from there.”
Marco shook his head. “I’m not asking and I don’t want to know. But when we get close, you better make it look good.”
“No problem. I owe you a big one.” Trav settled back with his eyes closed and tried to work out a plan. When they passed the outskirts of Quy Nho’n, he slipped Marco’s pistol out of the man’s waistband and pressed it against his ear. In careful Vietnamese, he gave him directions to set him down. Marco shouted over his shoulder to their pilot and minutes later Trav pointed to the spot where he wanted to get off. Dropping down into six inches of flood water, he splashed to the edge of the clearing before turning to face Marco. He hurled Marco’s weapon back into the chopper and disappeared into the jungle, his mind occupied with one burning question.
Where was Dancer?
Hope you enjoyed! Want to read more? http://www.ellorascave.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419910593
Or maybe you'll want to start with the first book, Dancer's Delight at Cerridwen Press http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419909566
PS: If you thought the Crazy Blog Serial was wild yesterday... well Amarinda added a bugle. Check it out at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ Of course, if you missed yesterday's, then you'll want to hop over to Kelly's place http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com