Written into the Corner

One of the problems writers face is that terrible moment when they write their story into an impossible predicament. The story stops right on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go. This happened to me over the weekend. I needed a conflict, a confrontation, and had no way to engineer it because I'd snowed my characters in. No way to escape, either. Hmmmm.

Disgusted and irritated, I backtracked to see where I was going to have to make changes, only to discover the solution was already there. A small, insignificant detail I'd tossed into the story several chapters earlier saved the day. In fact, it provided the vehicle for the confrontation and the possibility of escape.

I'm a pantster--a writer who sits down and writes without elaborate plotting ahead of time. I have a vague notion of the general outlines of the story, but no written notes. I keep a notepad next to the computer so I can jot down the odd detail for my story bible. You know--things like eye color, hair color, secondary character names, made-up words for animals/plants/stuff in my imaginary worlds.

In my Mystic Valley books, the men wear their long hair in many small braids tipped by special beads called chinkas. That was a detail set up in Dancer's Delight, book one. Where did the name come from? I have no idea. It was just there.

It wasn't until late in book two, Traveller's Refuge, that I found out why the beads were called chinkas. The scene flowed effortlessly as I wrote it:

The light breeze spread the scent of rain and quoltania bushes through the open window. Dancer enjoyed the light cinnamony scent and breathed in appreciatively before shifting to cuddle closer with Eppie. He spread his hand across her belly and rubbed their baby gently, careful not to wake Eppie. He froze when a tiny out-of-place sound wafted through the open window. A few seconds later, he caught the slight brush of fabric and silently he slipped from the bed, moving across the room to the window.
 

Peeking from behind the soft curtains, he saw a man stalking down the path to the back gate. Grabbing his sharda, he shinnied over the windowsill and soundlessly followed him as far as the river. Within a few feet, he knew he was trailing Merlyn but he was intensely curious about what could possibly bring his bond-father out in the rain in the middle of the night.
 

When Merlyn crossed the bridge and headed out into the open field past the training halls, Dancer waited until the buildings were between them and followed. He sank down in the deepest shadow in a dark corner and waited for a few moments, in case Merlyn returned. Just as he was satisfied that Merlyn wasn’t coming back his way, he heard a soft footstep on the bridge and barely made out the figure of Llyon coming his way.
 

Breathing shallowly, he squatted motionless in the dark while Llyon softly passed him in the rain. Slipping around the end of the building so that it was between him and the bridge, he crept to the corner until he could see the field clearly. The fine hairs along his spine tightened as he watched the small group of men in astonishment. There on the field he saw why the hair ornaments were called chinkas.
 

While all of the men stood in a semicircle watching intently, Llyon spun rapidly toward a practice dummy, his braids whipping out around him from the centrifugal force. When he came within reach of the dummy, the chinkas struck it with deadly force, making a very distinctive sound. Chinka, chinka, chinka. Dancer shuddered as he watched Llyon’s lethal dance shred the dummy.

That is an example of my subconscious working independently. If happens often when I'm writing. I could fill a book with examples of small details that take on a life of their own elsewhere in the story. The thing is, I can't plan this. I have tried. It would be so much more convenient, you know?

Instead, when I've painted myself into that clichéd corner, I know it's time to ponder the details, time to pinpoint that small bit that's going to fix my problem. How about you? Do you have a writing quirk that no one else seems to have?

anny

Know Your Target!

I received an e-mail from one of my publishers this morning informing me the first book in my series would be "selling" in early February for free. This is a marketing tactic that's proved successful in the past, apparently, especially for older series. There is a constant turnover in the reader arena and many just might not be aware of a particular series so offering the first book as a freebie encourages the reader to try something new-to-them.

It will be interesting to see if it works. With so many books available, it's harder and harder to stand out, let alone sell. It's not enough to declare in ringing tones that your books receive FIVE stars from reviewers. There's a perception that ALL books receive five stars...probably because nobody brags about receiving two stars. After a while the five star declaration loses some of it's power and punch.

This particular series is about blue people in a closed valley. At one time, that idea was highly unusual and mysterious. Then AVATAR burst on the movie screen and now when I talk about my Mystic Valley series, I receive sly knowing looks and comments like, "Ah...it's like Avatar."

Well, no. It's the other way around. Avatar is like the Mystic Valley books. A friend called me up when Avatar came out. "Did you know they stole your blue people?" she yelled. "They look exactly how you described them in your books!"

No idea is unique. No character description. No plot. Just...no. And while I admit the blue people in Avatar bear a striking likeness to my blue people, that's where the resemblance ends. I believe my own stories have value and merit and a certain uniqueness of character.

When the free Mystic Valley book is offered, check it out. Blue people are cool. Mine are definitely cool. And they don't die...

anny

Up, Up and Away!

Some dreams require compromise. Or taking an alternate route. Many years ago when I was in my twenties, I wanted to be a writer. At the time I had four children, worked nights at McDonalds, went to school full-time, and was stone cold broke.

Setting aside such issues as time and privacy to write, I also didn't have the money for such essentials as paper, typewriter ribbons and postage. So the dream waited on the back burner while I dealt with life.

Time passed. My twenties turned into my thirties. We moved two thousand miles to the other side of the country and were poorer for it. I worked nights in a warehouse so the family could eat. We acquired a Commodore computer and I learned how to use DOS so I could write during the day.

In my late thirties, the warehouse shut down and moved to Tennessee, leaving me unemployed. Instead, I went to school to learn how to be an Administrative Assistant and I found a new job. Went back to college. And struggled to rear four teenagers while the house hunk worked six hours away, only making it home every three or four weekends.

And I scribbled in between work, job, and full-time school, finally graduating in my forties. By then, some of my children were adults. One married and had a child...and promptly moved back home. And life went on.

When I reached my fifties, I had a house full of children, grandchildren, dogs, cats...well, certainly no quiet there. And not much money. You might say I was just too darn tired to write.

And then the house hunk was transferred again--just after we paid off our mortgage. We moved to a new state as empty nesters and tried to adjust. For six months I tried to figure out what I was supposed to be doing with all my free time. At my son's suggestion (actually it was more of a plea) I sat down at my brand new computer and began to write the story that had rumbled around in my head for thirty years.

When I finished, it was two hundred thousand plus words. I loved it. That's when I discovered it was about a hundred and fifty thousand words too long. And after reading the submission guidelines for several small publishers, several big publishers, several medium publishers, I discovered my story had a bunch of other issues.

The internet was fairly new, but I researched, oh yes, I did. I spent hours analyzing what I needed to do to prepare my fabulous book for submission. I spent more weeks and months, cannibalizing my book to produce a story that would meet the guidelines.

I didn't know any other writers. I didn't actually know anyone who read. But I read articles about writing and re-did my story until I couldn't think of anything else to do to it.

Then came the day when I decided I wasn't getting any younger and I submitted it to a publisher. I researched my best options, settled on an e-publisher that was the top of the heap, and blithely sent my story off. One author asked why I sent it to the publisher with the toughest guidelines. In my naivete, I thought why not? Wasn't my story fabulous? Hadn't I been writing for thirty years?

So off it went.

About six weeks later, I received an e-mail asking me to send the complete manuscript. And about six weeks after that, I was offered a contract for Dancer's Delight. I was on my way to completing my dream.

As I look back on it now, I view my absolute self-confidence with disbelief. Perhaps that is what saved me that first year as a published author. The longer I am in this game, the less confidence I have. I'm more aware of my short-comings as a writer.

Yet, I wouldn't change anything. I still hone my writing skills, still work to improve my stories, still try to learn from every editing experience and every review. My dream isn't exactly how I thought it would be. Publishing has changed so radically, I suspect that dream is long dead and gone.

Readers, real people, total strangers buy my books and read them. And they write letters to me. Me! I still find that amazing! As I work on book twenty one, I shake my head. My dream came true.

I took the long way around, but I made it.

anny 

Hot Summer Reading II

MysticValley, Book One

Fed up and heartsick, Dancer, virtuoso violinist and assassin, decided to retire despite the angry objections of his boss. On the run for his life, he headed for a hideaway in the mountains. Safe in the warm shelter of his cave, Dancer awoke to the strong perfume of flowers. His investigations revealed a tunnel leading to another cave and a beautiful valley. After a quick survey of his new surroundings he was shocked to find that the tunnel had disappeared, trapping him in Mystic Valley.

A gardener and amateur botanist, Eppie spent her lonely days searching out new plants for the inhabitants of Mystic Valley while she waited for her destined bond-mate to find his way to the valley. Now time is running short. From the instant they forged a mind bond, her body began schalzina, the biological preparation for physical bonding in valley women. Each new occurrence of schalzina is stronger and nudges Eppie another step closer to the final consequence—death—unless Dancer reaches the valley in time for their oath-binding and physical bonding.

Will he agree to an immediate joining with this beautiful stranger?

Book two in the Sequins, Saddles and Spurs series.

Lola Lamont leaves Vegas with two pals, never imagining they’d break down in small-town Texas. So what’s a former showgirl to do when she runs smack dab into the hottest sheriff south of the Mason Dixon line? Why, jump his bones, of course!

Sam Campbell takes one look at the Vegas Bombshell and knows damn good and well she belongs in his bed. She probably has the words gold digger tattooed to her ass but he’s ready to take what the sexy blonde has to offer. Vowing to protect his heart, Sam rocks her world. Too bad she’s rocking his right back. Sam is more than ready to handle some sass, spunk and sex, but is he willing to gamble on love?

Imogen, Gage and Liam relax at a luxury resort for a week’s vacation and some extra-hot ménage sex. The gardens are beautiful, the meals are delicious and the facilities are excellent—swimming pools, beach, tennis and golf. The men are delicious too, and Imogen is having a wonderful time—until bossy Gage makes a few autocratic decisions that remind Imogen of her manipulative father. Imogen has to decide whether the best orgasms of her life are worth risking potential heartbreak.

See something that looks interesting? Just click on the book cover for more information!

anny

MORE Summer Reading!

Looking for summer reading with less of a "hotness" factor? Here are some great stories to grab for that entertaining afternoon at the beach! Want to know more? As usual, just click on the book cover!

Gone to the Dogs by Marianne Stephens

As a suddenly jobless and newly jilted fiancée, Katie moves from NYC to Kansas. Her new job is to help the financially struggling Yipsey Dipsey Company market and sell a new drink, Whoopsie, before the company goes bankrupt. However, there are others who would rather see the company sold. Then someone tries to kill her.

She plans to ignore handsome fireman Mike Marino, who's out to win her heart. She wants no ties to Kansas as she isn't going to stay there. But Katie finds it impossible to escape the lust-filled mutual attraction pulling them together for passionate kisses and frenzied lovemaking trysts while the situation at Yipsey Dipsey becomes increasingly complicated.

Dancer's Delight by Anny Cook

Fed up and heartsick, Dancer, virtuoso violinist and assassin, decided to retire despite the angry objections of his boss. On the run for his life, he headed for a hideaway in the mountains. Safe in the warm shelter of his cave, Dancer awoke to the strong perfume of flowers. His investigations revealed a tunnel leading to another cave and a beautiful valley. After a quick survey of his new surroundings he was shocked to find that the tunnel had disappeared, trapping him in Mystic Valley.

A gardener and amateur botanist, Eppie spent her lonely days searching out new plants for the inhabitants of Mystic Valley while she waited for her destined bond-mate to find his way to the valley. Now time is running short. From the instant they forged a mind bond, her body began schalzina, the biological preparation for physical bonding in valley women. Each new occurrence of schalzina is stronger and nudges Eppie another step closer to the final consequence—death—unless Dancer reaches the valley in time for their oath-binding and physical bonding.

Will he agree to an immediate joining with this beautiful stranger?
Vampire Island - Book One of the Hunter series by Sandra Cox

My name is Zoe Tempest. Just let me say, I had no intention of becoming a vampire hunter. My world revolved around the trendiest clothes, the boy of the week, shopping, and texting. My life was as close to perfect as a seventeen year old can get. I had everything. Then my parents were murdered and my world came crashing down.

After their funeral, I went to live with my uncle Julian Kilmer. That’s when everything changed. In a manner more terrifying than anything I could have imagined.

Fabulous reading from three great authors!

anny

Dancer and Eppie's Interview with Anny Cook Part 2

After fortifying themselves with quoltania wine, Eppie Llewellyn and her bond mate, Dancer Devereaux continued their interview with Anny Cook.

Eppie: Dancer had some difficulties with the language differences when he first arrived. How did you deal with this problem?

Anny: Oh, I compiled a glossary. So helpful, you know? Of course, there aren't that many differences...and I'm thinking about posting it on my webpage so that readers have access to it.

Eppie: Webpage? What is a webpage?

Dancer: Something for the computer, Eppie. Remember when I showed you my laptop?

Eppie: Oh, yes. Is this webpage something important?

Anny: Well, on the outside, yes. For instance, my webpage lists the books I've written with some short excerpts from them. And of course there's a biography about me. And um, there's a map of the valley plus a map of Lost Market, where you live.

Eppie: You're writing about where we live? With a map? What if everyone decides that Mystic Valley's a wonderful place to visit? Where will we put everyone?

Anny: No, no. I don't tell them how to get there. I would never do anything to harm the valley.

Dancer: (scowling at Anny) I hope you didn't mention personal stuff in that book!

Anny: Define personal...Oh! You mean you don't want the readers to know you wear a skirt?

Dancer: Sharda! It's called a sharda! It's NOT a skirt!

Anny: I liked the shardas. I especially liked the reason for the sharda. Availability, wasn't it? I bet the ladies among my readers will like that idea, too. Hey! It might even catch on outside the valley. Especially if they find out what you wear beneath your sharda...

Eppie: (confused) Underneath their shardas? They don't wear anything under their shardas. How would they be available if they had something--

Dancer: Hush! Don't give her more ammunition!

Eppie: (sly smile on her face) Did you explain about schalzina and the schela?

Anny: Of course! I thought the locking part was the most interesting. Imagine being locked together--

Dancer: No! No locking! For crying out loud, woman! Is nothing private with you? Do you think I want my friends to know that Eppie and I are locked together for that long?

Anny: (with bright professional interest) How long would that be? Ten minutes? Twenty?

Eppie: Oh, longer than that usually. Sometimes, he just dozes off. But if I squeeze his kzusha just right, well he wakes up in a hurry! (Giggles) He looooves my schela.

Dancer: (groans and hides his face) Now you've done it! Every guy in the world will be trying to find the valley. They'll all want their own bond mate so they can lock together!


Drop by tomorrow for the last installment of Dancer and Eppie's interview with Anny Cook. Until then, drop by Amarinda's Place at www.amarindajones.blogspot.com and Kelly's Blog at www.kkirch.blogspot.com to check out how things are going in their worlds. Blessings on your day!

Dancer and Eppie's Interview Part One...

Hello there! My name is Eppie Llewellyn and I'm the heroine in Dancer's Delight. Dancer and I were quite surprised to find that someone actually wrote a book about us. After all, we're pretty ordinary people. I know, I know there's the whole blue skin thing and pointy ears, but really, after a while nobody even notices.

In the beginning when we found out about the book, we were so excited, but then Dancer asked me, "Who is this woman, anyway? And why is she writing about our private lives?"

Do you know, I have to admit, I began to wonder about that myself. So we decided to interview this Anny Cook character and see for ourselves whether or not we even wanted her to tell our story!

Eppie: How long have you been writing Ms. Cook?

Anny: I've been writing since I was in my twenties. Hmm. Well, it's a long time. Then a little over a year ago I sent in my first submission--your story, dear--and I was offered a contract. Boy, was I shocked! And excited! And thrilled!

Dancer: So, why did you pick our story? There must be millions of other stories out there. Why not write about Eppie's mom and dad. They're unusual and exotic.

Anny: (Cough, cough) Well actually, I did write a book about them. I called their story Everything Lovers Can Know.

Eppie: You've written two books? Wow!

Anny: (Clearing throat) Um, I've written nine books. Currently I'm working on Bishop's story. I, uh, like to keep busy.

Dancer: Wait a minute! You never explained why you picked our story!

Anny: Surely you know that your story is wonderful! It has romance, suspense, adventure, passion... Well, it has everything readers want to read! Why just the bonding ceremony alone would be interesting!

Dancer: Never mind about the bonding ceremony! You didn't tell anybody I passed out, did you?

Anny: I, uh, might have just mentioned it. Just a little....

Dancer: Oh, man, the guys will never let me live that down. Never!

Eppie: I'm sure it will be okay, dear. Really, as long as she didn't tell anyone about the time we--

Dancer: Eppie! Don't give her anymore ideas!

Anny: I really don't understand why you're so upset. Readers find the details interesting. That's why I told them all about the time Wrenna gave Traveller a massage.

Dancer: In our book? You didn't!

Anny: No, no. That's in their book. Traveller's Refuge.

Eppie: Another book.

Anny: Another book.

Dancer: (Sigh.) I think we need a drink. Or two. Quoltania wine, anyone?

Anny

Stop in at Kelly's blog for the latest info about what she's up to at www.kkirch.blogspot.com and then hop on over to Amarinda's Place to find out about traveling in the country Aussie style at www.amarindajones.blogspot.com Blessings on your day!

Expectations

In a little over six weeks I will gather with many of my fellow writers at the Romantic Times 25th Booklovers Convention. Most of us will be meeting for the first time. There is much anticipation and excited planning going on in the background. There are several special events that the authors are invited to attend and all of them require fancy dress.

Since my idea of fancy dress is an unpressed pair of grannie jeans and a t-shirt, there's been some heartburn at my house over the entire shopping and acquiring event. I'm not much for shopping in any case, but shopping for fancy stuff is way down on my list of favorite things to do. I misplaced my girly-girl genes a long time ago.

There will be a host of workshops and getting-to-know you events. I don't do well in huge crowds but I plan to give it my best shot because there are people I need to know and things I need to learn. It amazes me that some authors actually look forward to mingling with strangers.

Perhaps the events that both terrify me and excite me at the same time are the two book signing events. One is an e-book signing where I'll be signing cover flats for three of my books, Chrysanthemum, Honeysuckle, and Cherished Destinies. I understand that the companies that market e-book readers will be there demonstrating their wares. The other event is a print book signing. I'll be signing my first print book, Dancer's Delight.

It's a scary prospect. What if no one comes to my table? What if no one wants one of my books? Will I sit alone at a table in a sea of tables crowded with eager readers? I'm a new writer. To paraphrase... "What if they gave a book signing and nobody came?"

I suspect that there are other new authors having similar thoughts to mine. At my age, there are so many new experiences that I seem to be facing every day. One side of me says, "Who cares?" And the other side admits that no one likes to suffer humiliation. There are echoes of those long ago school days when I just died because I was always chosen last. That's generally your fate when your always the new kid in class. By the time I made friends we were off, on the move again.

So I've decided to look on this as a once in a life time event--an unlooked for opportunity to meet men and women face-to-face that I've met via the Internet. We all have expectations about what the other ones will be like in person. I'm pretty sure that the others will be surprised when they meet me. To put it bluntly...I'm a grandma. People who are familiar with my work always look at me with this wounded look and moan, "But you're a grandmother!"

I know.

My pert and perky days are past. Now I'm in the rocker and chocolate chip cookie phase, seasoned with a liberal helping of support hose and Miss Clairol. I still suffer from a certain wistfulness for those younger, skinnier, whisker-free, more limber days of my youth, but they're long gone. So I'll just have to settle for not trying to scare the patrons away. And I'm reasonably secure in the hope that my fellow frogs won't notice that I'm a strange shade of blue.

Anny

Amarinda is off in the hinterlands of Australia, scouting out locations for her movies. Check out her blog anyway at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ And Kelly is contemplating her navel but we won't tell her that everyone has one at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ Blessings on your day!

Burnt Oatmeal

Yesterday morning I burned the oatmeal. This is not a new occurrence. Rather it is the norm. My friend Jane and the house hunk don't even find it a subject worth discussing as I always burn the oatmeal. You might ask why make oatmeal if you always burn it? Because I need to eat oatmeal. There's always enough unburned oatmeal to satisfy my needs.



Why does it burn? Mostly because I have too many things going on at one time. I set the timer and then immerse my concentration on some other project to the extent that I don't hear the timer. It burns. I scrape off the top layer and put the pot in the sink to soak. And move on.



Life is pretty full of burnt oatmeal. All those wrong turns and bad choices we make in life have consequences. How we handle the inevitable consequences determines what our life is like. We can wail and gnash our teeth and cry over our burnt oatmeal. We can beat ourselves up or blame some one else for calling us on the phone while our oatmeal was cooking. But the truth is that none of those things really address the fact that we still have burnt oatmeal.



Or we can salvage what we can, put the pan to soak, and move on. There will likely be a lot of pans of burnt oatmeal in our lives. If I waste time obsessing about the burnt oatmeal, that's time I've lost forever. Time I could have put to more constructive use. Oh yeah, and while I'm moaning and groaning the salvaged oatmeal is getting cold. Who wants to eat cold oatmeal?



There are things I can do to "pretty up" my oatmeal. I can add nuts, raisens, peanut butter, brown sugar, nutella, or cream. All of those make the oatmeal more palatable. And unless I tell someone, they'll never know that I burned the oatmeal. See? Life is what you make it--even burnt oatmeal.

Anny

Only three more days for the February Scavenger Hunt at http://www.annycook.com/ Check out the Contest Box on page two for the rules and clues. The prize is a free e-copy of any of my current releases.



Isn't that a pretty book cover? I'm so pleased to announce that Dancer's Delight is now available in print from the Cerridwen Press. If you're just dying to get your hands on a copy, you can order it from http://www.jasminejade.com/p-3932-dancers-delight.aspx?skinid=13 for $5.99! Now that's a bargain for sure!

The cover gods at Ellora's Cave sent me the cover for Kama Sutra Lovers today. I can't show it off, but once it's approved by the powers that be, then I'll post it on the right side with the rest of my covers. I've been very, very lucky with some lovely covers.

It doesn't seem possible that it's only four more days until March. The year is flying by with unusual speed, isn't it? In April, I'll be at the Romantic Times Convention in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The exciting part is that I'll be taking part in the e-book signing on Wednesday, April 16th and also the print book signing on Saturday, April 19th. I hope to see some of you there! For more information, see my webpage or the RT Convention site.

Finally, I want to urge you to stop by Amarinda's Place at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ and Kelly's Blog at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ They start my day every morning with their wit, humor, and insightful observations. Don't miss out! Blessings on your day!

A little Dancer's Delight

So! Have you sent in your answers to the Eternally Yours Contest?


What could you spend an eternity doing? What is your passion? Your hunger? Your deepest desire? Ten authors will complete the line, "My darling I could spend eternity…" on either their blog or website. Collect all ten answers and e-mail them to anny@annycook.com with Eternally Yours in the subject line to win some hot, romantic books. There will be three lucky Valentine winners.

The prizes –1st prize--5 books

2nd prize--3 books

3rd prize--2 books

Hurry and get your entry in. Entries must be in by February 16 at midnight EST. All books and prize winners will be drawn randomly.





Sandra Cox Silverhills
Mona Risk To Love a Hero
Brynn Paulin Tribute For the Goddess
Bronwyn Green Mystic Circle
Cindy Spencer Pape Stone and Earth
N.J. Walters Seduction of Shamus O’Rourke
Elyssa Edwards Mating Stone
Amarinda Jones Shades of Gray
Kelly Kirch Time for Love
Anny Cook Honeysuckle


A little over a year ago, my first book was accepted at Cerridwen Press. I thought perhaps you might enjoy a little excerpt from Dancer's Delight.

Quiet fell over the concert hall as the orchestra moved into the first notes of the closing composition. Perched on a stool in the center of the stage, the musician known simply as Devereaux calmly waited for his cue before launching into his signature piece, Devereaux’s Dance. The guitar notes seemed to leap into the air, glittering and dancing as his fingers flew across the strings. When the last note shimmered across the hall, a deep moment of silence preceded a storm of applause. Devereaux bowed low, accepting the audience’s acclaim, then strode from the stage, his mind already occupied with the next step in his plan.

In his dressing room, he quickly stripped off his formal clothing and stepped into the small shower stall. His friend and agent, Jake was waiting when he stepped back into the dressing room naked except for a small towel wrapped around his hips. Jake waggled one eyebrow in query. “No encore?”

When he shrugged in reply, the blue and green dragon tattoo that stretched across his left shoulder and biceps rippled. Jerking on the clothing laid out—gray silk boxers, soft faded jeans, plain navy blue t-shirt and polished black cowboy boots—Devereaux nodded once. “I’ll give them one. Two minutes, Jake. After the encore, I’m out of here. No interviews. No autographs.”

Jake soberly studied his friend and client. The hard, honed body usually camouflaged beneath a specially tailored tux was obvious in the soft comfortable jeans and shirt. Devereaux’s golden hip length hair, normally tucked out of site beneath his jacket, slithered across his taut butt, confined in an elaborate French braid. “You’re really coming out of the closet, Dev and going out there like that? Your fans don’t know what a predator you really are.”

“They’ll get over it,” Dev replied shortly while he shoved his wallet into his back pocket and slid a handful of change and his keys in his front pocket. “Next week, there will be a new sensation and they’ll be saying ‘Devereaux who?’ “

Jake snorted in disgust. “Right! How many virtuoso musicians of your caliber play to sell out crowds? Violinists at your level are rare enough, but you play nearly every stringed instrument that exists! I’m not announcing your retirement. Go on this search you’ve planned. Find your damned mystery woman. When you get her out of your system, let me know and I’ll arrange another tour.” Shaking his head, he slammed out the door.

Dev surveyed the small room and pondered how anxious Jake would be to arrange another tour if he knew that it was just a cover for Dev’s day job as an assassin. With the grim black humor he’d developed over the years, he decided that he should have acquired business cards with the legend Troubleshooter for Hire. Maybe print it in blood red ink with a black rifle underscoring the title.

Once Jake was gone, Dev retrieved his personal weapons from their hiding places and swiftly distributed them about his person, before shrugging on his long black leather duster. He strapped on his chrome watch, slipped tiny gold hoops in his ear lobes and slid his passport in his inside coat pocket. As a final touch, before leaving the dressing room, he put on his dark glasses and ducked to survey himself in the mirror. Not many dressing rooms were designed for someone over six four. Grinning, he shook his head, snagged his black cowboy hat and departed.

Stunned silence rippled across the auditorium as he strode confidently to the center of the stage with a sexy loose-hipped motion, took his violin and bow in hand and with no further ado, leaped into his most recent solo composition, never before performed in public. The reviewers the next day raved about the appropriately titled, Dancer’s Delight, while avidly dissecting his changed appearance. What was not reported was the fact that Devereaux vanished when he walked off the stage after his final performance.

Buy here: http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419909566


If you would like more information or a chance to read other excerpts from all of my books, then check out the bookshelf at my web page. http://www.annycook.com/ And while you're there stop by the Contest Box and enter one of my February Scavenger Hunts to win free prizes!

There are also maps, family trees, and other information about the Mystic Valley series and the Flowers of Camelot. Feel free to explore all the possibilities.

Anny

Kelly has part two of her Friday story, Family Business at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ and Amarinda will be offering hints for the Eternally Yours contest at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ Blessings on your day!

What's holding you back?

"Don't let the fear of striking out hold you back."--Babe Ruth

A year ago this month, I received an e-mail from an editor at Ellora's Cave/Cerridwen Press asking me to submit my full manuscript. Quite frankly as my friend Amarinda would say, I was gobsmacked. I couldn't believe it. A mere six weeks before I had sent in my submission package with the belief that it would be rejected.

Then why send it in?

Because no publisher can accept what you haven't submitted. So even though I thought it would surely be rejected because after all the odds were not in my favor... still there was that miniscule chance that I would be the one who made it.

If I had a nickel for every person who's ever said to me, "I always wanted to be a writer, but..." I would be very rich. But what? But I don't have time to write? But I'm afraid that I'm not good enough? But the editor might not like it? So what? But someone might not buy it? Well, on the other hand, someone just might buy it!

Someone might buy it and read it and then send you a letter telling you how much they enjoyed it--and please when is the next one coming out? Yep, that just might happen. And then, just imagine what you would miss out on all because you were afraid of striking out.

Each time I submit a book I go through the same thing. What if my editor doesn't like it? What if? What if? But if I never submit it, then she can never tell me either way. What's the worst that can happen? I make changes and resubmit it. That's what.

Because if I let fear keep me from swinging with all that I have, then I've lost before I began.

Life is like that. How many things have we set aside, afraid of failure? What's the worst thing that could happen? We start over again and make the necessary changes because we learn from our mistakes. Sometimes we learn more that way.

The first time I changed my first baby's diaper, let me tell you, it was not a thing of beauty. But I got better at it. I reached the point that I could change his diaper in the dark with one hand behind me.

The first time I got behind the wheel of a car, I froze. I was twenty-three. I learned. I drove. A few years later I drove by myself from Texas to New York learning stick-shift along the way. I'll never forget being stuck at a stop light, paralyzed because a gigunda tractor trailer was behind me. I heard the whoosh of the brakes. Then this long drink of water in faded jeans and cowboy boots moseyed up to the car, nudged his cowboy hat back from his face and drawled, "None of us are goin' anywhere until you do, darlin'." Funny. That was the last time I stalled that car.

Anny

Dear me, just see where Amarinda left me hanging...

Leonardo switched on a nearby radio. He knew he had pushed his luck too far. The only way to deflect PJ’s mind energy was by radio waves.“PJ worries me,” Leonardo admitted. “She is not like an ordinary woman.” He both feared and admired her. She was a vengeful, strong woman who wanted payback.

“She’s a freaking nightmare mate,” snorted Sam as he scratched his butt. “What you ever saw in her I’ll never know.”

Leonardo smiled softly. “She has her moments.”

“You know you’re going to have to kill her.”

“Oh yes, but I might have a little fun with her first.” PJ was built for fun.

But I was not defeated! No, I stepped up to the plate and hit a home run! Right?

PJ leaped lightly over the battlement and paced down the stairs to the inner tunnel leading to Leo’s quarters. As she lightly stalked from one door to the next, she thought there really should be a spy thriller sound track to her journey. Then as she approached Leo’s door, she realized that there was dramatic spy thriller music playing. Trust Leo to have his fun at her expense.

She stopped outside the sturdy wooden door and twirled her machete once more. This was it. It was time for Leo to surrender a piece of tail or die. On that thought she shoved open the door and rushed inside.

The room was empty—completely bare of furniture. In the middle of the floor a radio blared with dramatic music. Behind her the door slammed shut. She heard the heavy bolt pop in the lock.

A small window opened in the door and Leo peeped at PJ, standing there stiff with anger. “Hallo, Penelope Jessamine! Make yourself at home. I have this silly coronation to attend to and then I’ll be back to visit with you.”

There was a muttered conversation in the hallway. Then Sam peeked in at her. “Hi, PJ. How’re you doing?”

“Drink zuukerwash and die,” she snapped coldly. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Funny you should mention zuukerwash. I’m here hiding out from Emmeline for a while. Do you happen to know where she is?”

Just then he heard a terrible thunk followed by a groan. A firm tap on his shoulder alerted him to the awful truth.

“Hallo, Sammie. I’ve come to get my boys back,” Emmeline whispered. Then she smiled.

Don't forget to stop by Kelly's blog at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ and check out what she's up to and then stroll on over to Amarinda's place at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ to get her take on life's little adventures. Then have a good day!

Contest winner, Word List, and the Were-Tick Story

It's Friday the day I promised a contest winner and the complete list of words submitted for the Scrabble contest. The winner (scientifically decided by husband drawing names from a hat) is Georgie! I'm offering an e-copy of any of my current releases--Dancer's Delight, Traveller's Refuge, or Chrysanthemum. Georgie e-mail me with the title and format you would like!

Word list--in no particular order--a lot of "q" words:
ai, aa, qwerty, onyx, quiz, leeward, knout, mewing, zax, qat, imp, pi, pate, spate, haj, toxic, quetzal, queazy, quartz, muzjik, onomtopoeia, plethora, pukeable, haiku, quark, zenon

If you can't confound your Scrabble competitors with some of those, get back to me. We'll run another contest, maybe.

Yesterday, fool that I am, I undertook to write a story about a were-tick. In case you don't know what a were-tick is, don't feel bad. No one else does either. Of course, that's the beauty of the thing because I get to make up the rules as I go along. Remember earlier this week I wrote about making up rules?

Well, here's where that's going to come in handy. A were is a being who can shapeshift from his animal shape to a human shape. So first of all, I've chosen for my were-tick to be a male whose name is Titus. Titus the tick. That's pretty much how far I've gotten at this point, but never fear, I have the story of Titus the were-tick percolating in the back of my brain. I should have something ready for prime-time by next week. I'll keep you up-to-date.

There is also a rumor going around that I'm probably part-alien, possibly with blue skin and pointy ears and fangs. To this, I plead the fifth. Good thing I live in America, eh? Why do you think I picked here when I beamed down from the mother ship. Imagine, I could have picked somewhere else like Amarinda. Or I could have decided to live all over the place like Kelly, but no-ooo. I settled on the ocean. My flippers are more comfortable in the water, you know?

It does make it difficult to go to the laundromat or shopping, but hey! Nothing much keeps me down. Not even dealing with a blog story that morphs with every episode. Today was Amarinda's turn. I tell you the woman has a fascination with that weird Queen. If you haven't read it yet, hop over there at http://www.amarindajones.blogspot.com/ and see what she's done now. Kelly has a great interview with Silhouette author Michele Hauf at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ so check that out.

Pop in tomorrow to see what new twist I put on the blog saga. Until then,

Anny

The Nature of Work

Well, Kelly has once again led us down the garden path with the blog saga. Make sure you check it out at www.kkirch.blogspot.com and then of course tomorrow Amarinda will jog off in a totally different direction so check her out at www.amarindajones.blogspot.com today to read her take on winning the lotto.

This morning when I booted up my computer I was confronted with a news story titled "Oldest worker in America at 101"--man declares he will never stop working. Well, okay. Goody for him. It beats sitting at home on the porch. I'm wondering if there can't be a medium point, though.

Retirement is around the corner for a large segment of our population. Many of them look forward to it only to find that there are real pitfalls in moving from a daily work schedule to a life of leisure. Others never retire for fear of boredom or lack of money. Surely there is a middle ground.

One of the things I've observed is that too many retirees fail to plan what they will do after leaving their jobs behind. Then what? It's all well and good to ensure the financial security, but what about everyday life? If the individual was active and social before retirement, how will they cope afterwards--especially when the social aspects are much less?

Loneliness is the bane of retirement. On its heels is the feeling of uselessness. Since I'm in that age bracket, I'm talked to many retirees and many looking forward to retirement. Here's what I've noticed. If the retiree has a hobby or interest that keeps him or her busy and fulfilled then all goes well. But if he or she has failed to look past that day when they walk away from work, then they often suffer from depression and withdrawal.

I am officially retired. I receive a small retirement check every month which allows me to stay at home. I worked in a very high stress office environment and friends declared that I would be bored at home. Not a chance. There aren't enough hours in the day to do everything I want to do. And that was BEFORE I started writing!

I believe that psychologically, we are engineered to work, to be productive. When we are unable to contribute something to society in general, even if it's only beautifying our surroundings by gardening or crocheting, we feel like failures and are disatisfied with life.

That is the inherent nature of work. In the following excerpt from Dancer's Delight, Dancer ponders his choices in a place that really doesn't need his skills.

“Can we go find Eppie now?”

“In a few minutes. Aside from bonding with my daughter, what are your plans for your future?”

“How the hell would I know?” Dancer demanded irritably. “I play music and kill people. It doesn’t seem to me that there’s much call for either skill here in your little lost utopia.”

“I wouldn’t say that. We have a great need for a capable trainer for our warriors. I suspect that your skills are more than equal to that task. And we’ve had a need for music for a long time. Over the past few years, I’ve taken to collecting any old instruments I could find. When things settle down after your oath-binding, maybe you’ll want to look at them and see if any are suitable for the purpose of training our valley children.”

“If I’m to support your daughter, what I need is a job, not just make-work to keep me busy.” Dancer sat back and drummed his fingers restlessly on the table. “This just sucks. There’s nothing here for me to do except this weird bonding with your daughter. You can only spend so much time making love. Surely there are other, more suitable men in this valley?”

“None that she wanted,” Merlyn pointed out dryly. “Since the women make that choice here, I believe that you’re stuck. But we have a barter system here, Dance. Teachers are highly regarded and are afforded high credit for their skills. If you choose to teach either warrior skills to our older young men or music to our youngsters, you will make more than enough barter credit to cover your family’s needs.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it. Can we go find Eppie now?”

Want to know more? Check it out at http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419909566

Anny

The ring of authenticity

I write fantasy romances. That's a minor sub-genre in the vast romance category. There are a few people who believe that fantasy is the least difficult of all writing. After all, you make everything up...right? So your characters can do anything you want them to. Your world can be anything you want. How tough can that be?

I suppose it depends on whether you want the reader to be able to suspend belief or not. That's the ability to become so involved in the story that you "suspend" your belief in reality for the duration of the story. And that my friends requires some heavy duty world building.

I was recently interviewed for an e-zine (electronic magazine) and some of the questions were about the world building in my Mystic Valley series. How did you decide this? Why did you decide that? Those are the answers you come up with before you start writing a fantasy.

Decisions range from clothing and character appearance to culture, government, and monetary systems. What type of housing and furnishings are there? What type of occupations? What do they eat? How sophisticated are the sanitary arrangements? How do they get around?

And how does the author keep track of the details? Every fantasy writer has some type of system to keep track of decisions they've made along the way as they write. Sometimes you hit a point in the story where you have to stop and consider what long range consequences the action will have on the world you've spent so much time building. Then you have to go back through your notes. How will this change what you said back in book one?

The bigger the cast of characters you have, the more details there are to keep track of. My primary family in Mystic Valley, the Llewellyns, have sixteen children, each unique and special in their own way. In the early books, the younger children have cameo spots where they walk onto the stage briefly, but eventually all of them will take center stage, so every single one has to be thought out carefully.

There are villagers, out-valley people, in-laws, out-laws and what I call the incidental people that walk on and off the stage for one short scene. Readers are sharp-eyed. If you use the name Bob for that incidental person in book one, they'll notice if you use Bob in book three--especially if Bob has a different occupation in book three.

What about climate? Does it snow? Rain? Is it hot in the summer?

What about holidays? Religions? Education? All of those have to be accounted for one way or the other. Plants and animals have to be considered. Will the author use familiar animals from earth or will they make new ones up. What will the plants be like?

I had a wonderful time inventing the world of Mystic Valley. I hope you'll have a wonderful time discovering it, too. Just to give you a little taste, I've posted a bit from Dancer's Delight. Enjoy!

The path that led to the village wandered through a new section of woods. Immediately, Dancer knew that he was in a fantasy forest. As they walked along the trail, he took note of the plants, both familiar and strange. Unlike the last stand of trees he’d encountered, most of these were very strange, indeed. There were huge trees with odd dark blue leaves. One lonely tree had smooth, glittery black bark. Back from the path, he saw a pair of trees with orange bark and triangular purple leaves. Occasionally, he spotted pine-like trees with shiny red needles. The undergrowth was a multi-colored riot of prolifically flowering shrubs and a bright blue runner vine. Suddenly, without warning, the path took a sharp jog to the right and they stood at the edge of a thriving village unlike anything he had ever seen.

Circular adobe cottages with smooth, domed adobe roofs were arranged in concentric circles around a cluster of larger square stone buildings. The cottages ranged from small, one circle buildings to a very large compound of multiple joined buildings. Without hesitation, Eppie headed for the compound. Following on her heels, he observed as much as he could, noting the neat yards and gardens enclosed with low stone walls. Some had blue or green birds similar to chickens pecking at the dirt. In a couple of yards, enormous long-haired creatures that vaguely resembled dogs, silently eyed them as they walked by.

On the front steps of the compound, two huge cat-like animals were curled up, sleeping in the sun. The long-haired orange one’s ears twitched as they went by and it opened one green eye before settling back into slumber. The chocolate and cream animal opened both eyes, yawned mightily, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth and stretched before curling back up and snoring lightly. “Those are Tyger and Llyon’s packits,” Eppie commented briefly before opening the door and entering the cool darkness of a wide foyer.

Dancer merely nodded and followed her inside, completely resigned to the odd and amazing. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowy hallway, but when they did, he observed a entryway like he had never imagined. A huge exquisite woven tapestry covered the wall on the left. The deep jewel colors shone vividly, even in the dimness. On the right, three unframed landscapes were arranged above a long narrow carved table. There were no artist names on the paintings, but it was obvious the same individual—in a style reminiscent of Goya—had painted them all. Bold bright colors portrayed life in the valley. The table below them had elaborately carved legs and skirt. When he bent over to study it, he saw the carvings were leaves and flowers.

Eppie barely paused before leading him into a larger room with an empty fireplace and a large varied collection of chairs. Standing in the doorway, he stared around in amazement. Every chair was occupied. Near the center of the room, he picked out two people he thought must be her parents. After focusing for a moment, he realized the rest were probably her siblings… and there were a lot of them. Every single male, from the youngest through the eldest, was dressed in the skirt-like garments. Some had on loose over-wrapped shirts, but most were bare-chested. And all of them had their hair neatly arranged in the narrow braids ending with the tiny jeweled clasps.

The man in the center stood and came forward, offering his hand in a gesture that was the first familiar thing Dancer had encountered. They shook hands as the man said, “Welcome. I’m Merlyn, that’s my wife Jade,” he nodded toward a very youthful looking red-head, “and the rest are our children, who I won’t overwhelm you further by introducing.”

“I appreciate that,” Dancer replied dryly.

“Come in and rest,” Jade invited with a lovely smile. “Arturo, please bring tea and wafers. The rest of you may satisfy your curiosity later. I’m sure you all have someplace to be. If not, I’ll be happy to find something for you to do.” In seconds, the room echoed with emptiness as they quietly vanished.

Unable to help himself, Dancer began to laugh. “I’ve never seen a room empty so fast.”

Want to read more? Go to http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419909566 to check out Dancer's Delight.

Anny

Don't forget to stop at Amarinda's blog to check out what she's done with Louella, Sam and Jonas...and Emmeline at www.amarindajones.blogspot.com and then pop over to Kelly's blog where she's interviewing one of her characters, Sir Marcus, at www.kkirch.blogspot.com

The Fan Letter

Hello, I have just read Dancers Delight, wow! I have also read Chrysanthemum, made me feel good. I am hooked on both. Writing is such a gift and you have it. Thank you. Regards, Jennifer **

I loved Dancer's Delight and can't wait for Travellers's story! Oh what a wonderful thought to escape to Mystic Valley. hmmmm... Jamie **

Just another person telling you how much I enjoyed your book. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I came to your website to see if you had any other books out. Sandy **

Normally, I'm not one to post fan letters. It almost seems like the worst form of narcissism. "Look at me--I'm so wonderful!" I post these excerpts to make a point, however. Fan letters don't need to be long or complicated or detailed in order to get the the author pumped. Just a simple sentence or two will do it.

Fan letters are far more important than formal reviews because they're from readers--real everyday people who paid good money to buy your books, enjoyed them, and then took time from their day to write to you and say, I like your work. Because they are strangers, their words and approval are powerful. They provide the impetus to go back to the computer and work on that difficult scene, to wrestle with that impossible character, to finish that never-ending chapter. That short little letter provides inspiration when the temptation to quit is almost over whelming.

Approval from your peers is a different thing entirely. They are looking at technical aspects of your writing. After a while, almost every book an author reads is analyzed somewhere in the back of their minds for grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and story line. It's almost impossible for a writer to read a book any other way.

The average reader on the other hand is looking for entertainment and enjoyment. My readers are teachers, secretaries, stay-at-home moms and nurses. They're young, older, and live in cities and in the country.

I don't aim my books at a particular type of reader. I just write. So when I receive a fan letter, it's a thrilling experience for me. I'll tell you a little secret. I have a special file that I keep all my fan letters in and when things are tough for me, I open that file and re-read them. They are my validation that I'm doing something right.

I suppose that there are authors out there that receive a lot of fan letters. Maybe they receive so many that the excitement palls. I can't imagine ever reaching that point. So if you read a good book this last week--a book that touched you or made you laugh or cry--take a few minutes to send the author a short note telling her or him about it. It only takes a minute. After all, didn't your mother teach you to say, "Thank you"?

Anny

Traveller's Refuge Released Today!

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

Anny

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

Be careful what you ask for...

Early this morning I posted a short post on my author's loop, bemoaning the fact that we needed rain. Mentioned that our grass was pitiful burned straw. Somebody was listening. For the last half hour it has POURED. We now have a pond in the back yard with water rushing down the hill. Of course, the ground is so dry and hard that the water is mostly not soaking in--just washing away. But I ran out onto the balcony and quickly lined my potted plants up on the railing to catch whatever water I could. Hey! It's free and unprocessed. The radar shows another storm cell headed our way so I'll leave them up there a while...just in case.

Someone evidently complained about the hot water so now we're back to barely warm temps. It's not even hot enough to wash dishes. And shower? We're back to being able to shower without turning on the cold water at all. Sigh. Like Goldilocks and the three bears, it's either too much or not enough. Someday it'll be just right.

Food is often like that. Have you noticed? You order your scrambled eggs done. Notice I didn't say "well" done. When they arrive, either they're runny or crispy brown. Same with the hash browns. Either they're lukewarm, barely past the frozen stage, or they're charred. Wonder why that is? And toast? Don't even go there.

It seems some days as though you'll never quite have things just right. When was the last time you looked around you and said to yourself, "Things are just right?" Are we getting too picky?Waiting for perfection? I don't know.

Well, I'll be happy with the rain we received. If nothing else the bushes and flowers received a good soaking. And maybe one day we'll have the kind of rain the says "all day." You know the kind of rain I'm talking about? It just keeps gently falling out of a heavy gray sky. That's the watering kind of rain. Slow but sure. Just right.

For a couple of "Just Right" reviews of Dancer's Delight (available now from Cerridwen Press) please follow the links!

Fallen Angel Reviews http://www.fallenangelreviews.com/2007/July/Marlene-DancersDelight.htm and Jacqueline Roth http://jacqueline-roth.livejournal.com/

anny

Crazy Blog Serial Episode Five

I'm posting this quite early as I have bloodwork first thing in the morning and then a full day of chores and obligations. Things I would rather not be doing, but there you go, life just sucks sometimes and we have to do stuff whether we want to or not.

This will be the last post of the Crazy Blog Serial for this week as we've decided that we'll take every Sunday off to regroup and recuperate from our labors during the week. On Monday, Kelly will once again take up her pen and march into the fray.

I haven't quite figured out why I've been nominated as the Crazy part in our serial title. Blue people with fangs and pointed ears seem perfectly normal to me. Really. However that may be, everyone else seems to think it's strange. So I thought I would give you a little peek from Traveller's Refuge, my uncoming sequel to Dancer's Delight. As always, it is subject to change.



In this scene, Trav has been injured and Wrenna's family is trying to heal him.



Deep in rapport with Trav, Wrenna was barely aware of movement around her. This was not how she had envisioned meeting her bond-mate, even in her wildest imaginings. The broken, pain-driven man she was linked to bore very little resemblance to the man to whom she’d struggled to explain their future relationship. That man had been strong, dominant and confident even while his life was in danger.


Subconsciously, Traveller was reaching out for Dancer, anxious because his brother wasn’t present. Anger welled up in Wrenna’s chest when she thought of Dancer’s focus, not on Trav’s injuries but on his own sense of betrayal. Trav sensed her disturbing thoughts and fought to break their rapport.


Abruptly, he threw off their link and demanded blurrily, “Take me to your leader!”

Squashing the angry frustration, Wrenna silently soothed him. It’s all right, Traveller. Dancer will be here soon. Relax…

She felt the rigidity in his body subside and realized that Dai had indeed returned with Dancer and Eppie. With Dai’s added strength, Mali and Jonas were able to block his pain more completely.


Llyon sighed softly in exhaustion. “Dancer! I’m glad you’re here. Wrenna needs help with Trav. We’ve blocked out as much of his pain as we can. We need to straighten and immobilize this leg. Try to distract him!”


Dancer cleared his throat and asked his brother, “I’m not their leader but will I do?”


Traveller, obviously in pain, very slowly turned his head and studied Dancer with foggy blue eyes that moved incredulously from Dancer’s face --taking in the changes in his appearance--down to his soft purple sharda. His eyelids fluttered closed and he moaned. “What have they done to you, Dance? You’ve turned into a blue Vulcan!”


Unable to contain his amusement, Dancer laughed out loud before leaning down close to Traveller’s ear and murmuring, “And that’s the least of it. You must get well as quickly as you can, Trav. I found my woman—and our grandfather. I have a lot to tell you once you’re better.”



See? Nothing weird or strange about that...



If you missed part four of our Crazy Blog Serial, then you'll want to catch up at Amarinda's blog http://amarindajones.blogspot.com/. If you missed the first three, they're all posted at Kelly's blog http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/.



So last chance to read all the other parts first...going, going, gone!




Shrugging, she slipped the laser saber back into the harness and adjusted the goggles back over her glowing eyes. “Your brother escaped and he’s hiding with the zucchini dealers in the turquoise mountains. I know how to find him. If you want him back, all you have to do is hand over the chocolate.” Sauntering away into the darkness, she paused, confident that he would follow her. “And of course, there’s that other thing I promised you…”


“Yes?” He stopped short of bumping into her, realized how very close she was, and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. So close he inhaled the scent of marigold on her breath. That would have been disastrous. If you were wise you never, ever touched one of them without an invitation, especially when they were in chocolate withdrawal. He sneered, curling his luscious upper lip back to reveal the glint of fangs. “What would that be?” he demanded.


“If you return my peeler, I won’t have to make you scream.”

Anny

Life of a Writer

Word count - 512
Previous - 4,665
Total - 5,177

Well. Sigh. I did a little better today. Tomorrow, I foresee a writing marathon. I did a LOT of writing today. None of it was on the work in progress (Daffodil) except my paltry 512 words listed at the top. That means that I have considerable writing ahead of me to make up the missing words. When you get behind on writing, it's similar to getting behind on your car payments. Seems like you never catch up.

I did have a great time on the Cerridwen Chat Loop today meeting other authors and some of our readers. One of the writers, Janice Bennett, and I had an impromtu writing contest where she wrote a few sentences, then I wrote a few, in a nonsensical tale about a blue man disguised in a pink bunny suit who meets up with an injured man in a Santa suit. It was going pretty good, but then we had to stop and go back to work. Too bad.

I posted quite a few segments of Behind the Covers--Characters interview Anny Cook. Those seemed to be popular. I think it's because Dancer and Eppie are funny and smart. I've carried them around in my head for a very long time, so it's really neat to finally see their story published.

Readers, friends, family, even fellow authors sometimes ask, "How do you think this stuff up?" I have to tell you, I truly don't know. It just seems that I start with a very simple idea and my brain says "What if...?" Before I know it, I have some weird story line that's going places I never dreamed of it going and I'm not in the driver's seat anymore. Actually? I don't think I've ever been in the driver's seat.

I can't imagine how I could write if I was a plotter. I know what would happen. Right from the first paragraph my characters would refuse to listen, refuse to follow the script. By paragraph two, they would be ripping the script to shreds and there you have it. Confetti. Since I don't believe in wasting paper, don't want to vacuum up confetti, and don't have the energy to wrestle with my characters, I pretty much let them do what they want. I know. Bad parental skills. Sigh.

Take my current story for instance. I had settled on who the bad guy was. And then today, I found out he wasn't a TOTAL bad guy. Man, don't you hate it when bad guys have redeeming qualities? It is such a pain in the patooty to deal with bad guys with redeeming qualities. See if they're totally, totally bad, then you don't feel bad if you kill them off or whatever, but shoot! When there's something good about them, then you can't just knock 'em off.

And my good guy? Well he's a heck of a lot more stubborn than I counted on. He's gonna be big trouble, I can see. Trying to get him to stick with the program is like trying to lasso a cat. I sure hope Daffodil has more steel in her spine than I've seen so far. She just might surprise us all, though. Just maybe she's one of those "still waters run deep" kind of women. We'll see.

Anyway, that's the way it goes in the life of a writer. You live with a whole host of people inside your head, carrying on conversations while you're trying to talk to your husband or people on the phone. I know sometimes they all think I'm deaf when I shake my head and holler, "What? What did you say?"

It's because of the noise in my brain.

And I bet you just thought I was odd.

Anny

Dancer's Delight Released

Word count- 196
Previous - 4,469
Total - 4,665

Well, didn't do so well writing today as I spent time promoting my book and doing laundry. Tomorrow will have to be better. It has to be, simply because the laundry will be done. And I will be rested. We have one of those memory foam pads on our mattress. Yesterday something was spilled on the bed. Changing bedding was simple, but the pad had to be cleaned and dry out. So last night I slept on a rock hard slab of a mattress. Or rather I sort of slept, waking up this morning feeling like I had slept on a slab of rock. Out of sorts and aching in most of my joints, I spent the day posting excerpts on the Cerridwen Press chat loop http://groups.yahoo.com/group/cerridwenchat/ and checking our author loop for information about the RWA. I recommend you checking out the chat loop for some great excerpts and a series of mini-interviews my characters conducted.

If you're not involved in the writing profession, you've probably never heard of the RWA (Romance Writers of America). You might think of it as a professional organization for writers--romance writers specifically. This week is the yearly gathering. I believe it's called a conference. And at this conference they unveil changes and/or improvements for the coming year or future. It seems that this year's changes were not popular. Enough said on that subject. I merely explain this so that you know how I spent the day.

Then around three o'clock my husband arrived home and we went off to the laundromat to do several mountains of laundry. By the time we finished, it was seven o'clock. Time to fix dinner, eat, check e-mail and write my blog.

I admit that I was getting to the dreary "let-down" stage you reach when a much anticipated event is over. Sort of like Christmas after you open the presents and are left with a pile of shredded paper and ribbon. So it was a very pleasant surprise to receive a late e-mail from a friend who accused me of being an evil woman. It seems that she started reading my book.

And became so involved that she never got around to her own writing. She was waiting for her PDA to recharge so that she could finish it. So I'm torn between being thrilled that the book captured her and terrified that she won't like the ending. How schizophrenic is that?

I have to say, though, that it was the perfect ending to my day. I'm smiling. And everyone should go to bed with a smile on their face. Everyone. So to my friend--Thank You! You know who you are. And if it means that you like my book, then I'll happily continue being that Evil Woman!

Anny