This week on the blog hop, A.S. Fenichel says: It’s been a while since we shared anything about our own books. How about we share an excerpt from our work in progress and the inspiration for the book? I have two works in progress right now. One is the start of a new series about a book club that is so much more than reading and drinking wine. I’m still feeling my way around those characters and settings (though you can be assured it is set in Prince George as usual). The other manuscript I’m working on is my next release (I think it will be ready for the world in January 2021). It is called RICHLY DESERVED, and features a heroine who runs a frame shop and the bald, bearded artist she is trying to lure into exhibiting at her brand new art gallery. Once again, the characters are around fifty years old, and bring with them baggage from past relationships, family and careers. This is how their story begins: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a businesswoman acting as her own general contractor must be in need of a large hammer. With which to hit recalcitrant sub-contractors on the head. Unfortunately, bastardizing Jane Austen wasn’t going to fix the current situation. Claudia Aronson bared her teeth. The grizzled man in front of her jerked a shoulder toward his ear and looked away. “Tell me again, Cecil, why the paint on that wall is not the colour I chose?” Cecil spun the roller in his hand. Claudia took a step back to avoid the drops flicking off the fuzzy head and almost stumbled, her heel catching in the drop cloth protecting the floor. Her temper flared and she clamped down on it. “You said you wanted white,” Cecil said, waving a hand at the wall behind him. “This is white.” “I chose Dove Wing in a matte finish,” Claudia said with what she thought was admirable patience. “This is Super White in glossy.” Cecil squinted at the wall. “Well, sure. But they’re both white. And this was on sale.” “I don’t care. It is not the white I chose.” She nudged the paint can with the toe of her shoe. “Return this, get Dove Wing, and redo the wall. And if there is no refund, you’ll have to absorb the cost of the correct colour. I did not order Super White, so I am not paying for Super White.” Without waiting for a reply, she sailed through the door leading to the main room. Thank goodness she had caught Cecil’s error before he’d finished more than one of the smaller walls in the rear of the gallery. The main exhibition area was still in the throes of renovation, but Claudia could already see the finished space in her imagination. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips and let the vision that had been dancing in her head for months erase the tension of the last few moments. The entire front of the building was a wide expanse of glass that allowed muted daylight in—enough to give the room a natural glow but not enough to cause issues with potentially fragile artwork. Of course, it would be supplemented by discreet, appropriate lighting where necessary. Half the space soared two storeys high, while the other half had a twelve-foot ceiling that didn’t detract from the lofty, airy feel. The walls, now a bedraggled canvas of unfinished Gyproc and drywall mud, would be the soothing, classy shade of white she’d lost sleep deciding on, now that she’d sorted that issue out. Drawing a deep breath through her nose, she reminded herself there were still four weeks until her soft opening, and there was plenty of time to correct Cecil’s mistake. He wasn’t all bad, after all. While he might have rebelled over her choice of paint colour, he had followed her instructions exactly when it came to the false walls she’d had him construct. These were currently lined up like dominoes, waiting for their own coats of paint, but when completed she’d be able to place them in various locations throughout the space, giving her the ability to customize traffic patterns and displays. She’d even gone to the considerable cost of having an electrician run wiring under the floor—being careful to preserve the original hardwood as much as possible—and installing discreet outlets in a number of places so that the portable panels, each wired internally, would have proper lighting. She heard the backdoor slam shut and deduced that Cecil had left to get the correct paint. Stepping carefully around the piles of construction paraphernalia, she manoeuvred toward the folding banquet table placed near the front windows that was serving as her desk until her office—in the back, next to the smaller gallery that was also going to be a client lounge—was completed. Her heels clicked on the floor, which still needed to be sanded and refinished, but that would be one of the last steps to avoid any potential damage. The deep honey colour she’d chosen for the stain would soften the white of the walls even further and warm the space from industrial to natural. Flipping open the lid of her laptop, she began reading and replying to emails. While the gallery was taking up a lot of her time and energy, she still had her framing business to run. Its decades of success were the foundation on which she was building this new venture, and it deserved her attention. Dreams were all well and good, but they needed to be rooted in practicality. She had worked her way well into her to-do list when a shadow crossed her desk—and stayed. Assuming it was just a lookie-loo wondering about the work going on in the long-abandoned space, she ignored it. When, after long moments, it didn’t move on, she looked up. Silhouetted against the sharp June sunlight was a man. A large, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head, heavy eyebrows, and a short dark beard. He wore stained, ripped jeans and a slouchy black hoodie and stood with his hands in the pockets, staring intently past her into the interior of the gallery. Still expecting him to move on, she waited. He didn’t appear to have noticed her, tucked into the corner against the wall, and his gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. An uneasy feeling trickled down her spine. No artwork was stored in the building yet, but the tools and supplies visible were worth hundreds if not thousands of dollars. She reached slowly for her phone, before remembering with relief the front door was locked. The movement must have caught the man’s attention, though, as he turned his head toward her. The glass did nothing to dim the concentrated focus in his eyes. Claudia blinked, frozen with one hand on her phone and the other gripping the edge of the table. “Can I come in?” he asked, his voice muffled but audible, and moved to the door. Not on your life, Claudia thought, and remained in her seat. He grasped the handle and tugged firmly, rattling the frame. “It’s locked,” he said, though this time Claudia couldn’t hear the words, could only read his lips. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, gesturing her to approach. Cautiously she rose, circled round the table, and stood in front of the door. Now she was no longer seated, she realized he wasn’t quite as tall as she’d thought, probably only a couple inches taller than herself. But since she was wearing two-inch heels and was five-eleven in her socks, that still put him well over six-feet. “What do you want?” she said. “Are you Claudia?” he said. “Claudia Aronson?” Most of the tension leaked out of her shoulders. “Yes. And you are?” He placed a small square card flat on the glass. A stylized rendition of a mountain framed three words forming two lines of text. Titus Wilcox. Artist. She unlocked the door. #### Titus was used to being regarded with caution. His size made many women—and some men—step warily around him. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t one for small talk, didn’t enjoy meeting strangers, and was happiest on his own. If others preferred to keep him at a distance, he was fine with that. Once he’d made up his mind to interact with someone, he wanted to get it over and done with. Claudia Aronson had initiated the contact, so now she’d have to deal with him on his terms. As he waited for her to release the deadbolt, he scanned the small, professional printed sign fastened to the glass just beside the door. Future home of FAUNA, it read in large font, and below, in smaller type, Art Gallery Opening Soon. He liked the name. It gave him a good vibe. Claudia swung the door open, stepping back to allow him in. “Thanks.” He moved past her, deeper into the large room. The multi-level ceiling gave it character, made it feel less warehouse-redone chic. “Nice,” he said. “Versatile. Location’s a little out of the way, though.” “Prince George isn’t a big city. Nothing’s that out of the way,” she said with a faint bite. He imagined she was holding back a none of your business retort. “We’re only a few blocks from the downtown core.” “In a light industrial area.” “It’s changing. There’s a craft beer pub just down the street and a communal artists workshop one block over.” He’d obviously poked a sore spot given the blue fire in her eye and the faint flush rising to her pale cheeks. He liked the vigour of her response, though. If he was going to allow her to show his work, he’d want her to tap into that passion to make sure it sold. “You never replied to my emails,” she said. “I read them. That’s why I’m here.” “I appreciate that,” she said, not hiding her sarcasm quite as well this time. She hadn’t moved from position near the door. She stood straight-spined with her hands clasped at her waist like a nun in a medieval painting. An Amazonian-nun, he thought, one confident in her height and voluptuousness. An electric blue skirt clung tightly to generous hips and her white blouse was unbuttoned at the neck, not indiscreetly low but enough to hint at abundant breasts. Her shoes were an eye-catching blend of colours with slender heels high enough to emphasize the strong curve of her calves. “I rarely do exhibitions,” he said, wandering around a pile of supplies to get a closer look at a row of unfinished, free-standing panels. They were placed like books on shelf, spines facing out, each about ten feet square and fifteen inches wide. “I know. But you’ve just moved to town. I’m opening a new gallery. It would benefit us both.” “I’ve been here ten months.” And would be moving on in two more. A year was the most he stayed in one place. “I hate schmoozing.” “Ten months is nothing. I’m good at schmoozing. And making sales.” “I don’t need the money.” “Everyone needs money. But I agree, it’s not about the money. It’s about sharing your art.” He shot her a glance over his shoulder. Did she really understand that was the basis of all creativity? Or was she just that good at her job? She had left her sentry post and now stood a few feet away, neat and pristine in the middle of renovation rubble. Her blond hair was textured and wavy, slightly longer than chin length, and if it was coloured to hide the grey a woman of her age might be expected to show it looked natural and flattering. Her blue eyes met his with calm assurance. Before he could say anything further, the front door opened, reflecting light like a sword-stroke across the room. Claudia turned her back on him. “Mae,” she said, striding toward the young woman standing uncertainly in the entrance. “Is it that time already? I’ll be ready for you in a moment.” Titus noted the narrow, rectangular, paper-wrapped package clutched in Mae’s right hand. Was she another artist Claudia was courting? The young woman had straight dark hair and, next to Claudia’s vibrant persona, appeared slight and frail. When Claudia gently took her arm and escorted the younger woman toward the table in the corner, he noticed tiny arms and legs dangling from a baby-carrier strapped to her front. Claudia hurried across the dusty floor back to him. “I’m sorry, I have another appointment.” “That’s okay, I can wait.” “But—” “I want to get a feel for the space,” he said. “It will help me decide about the show.” “It’s a construction zone.” “I’ll use my imagination. I am an artist, after all.” He nodded at the panels. “Movable walls?” She nodded. “Yes. Almost any configuration you want.” “Excellent.” She hovered, a frown creasing between her brows. “Go.” He shooed her away with one hand, and she went, giving him one last puzzled glance over her shoulder. Like AFTER WORDS, there is a mystery that Claudia and Titus need to unravel in RICHLY DESERVED. This one involves Barkerville, its rich Chinese heritage, and the search for gold. I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek!
Now, on to Leslie Hachtel and her work in progress!
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This week on the RWW Blog Hop, Lyra Parish asks: How many words have you published or written? Wow! That's a really interesting question! Let's take the easiest answer first. I have published about 215,000 words, if we are talking strictly my three romance novels. That may sound like a lot, but it less than one Diana Gabaldon book in the Outlander series! But I still remember how amazed I was when I finished my first book. It was 55,000 words, and I had sweat over every single one. I was (and am) still so proud of it! I am hoping to bump up that published total soon, as my fourth romance is just about ready to be published. It will add another 80,000 words to my total. Now, if we move on to the second part of the questions – how may words have I written? – I don't think I could even calculate the answer. For every word that makes it into a finished manuscript, I've probably written or re-written at least that many. And then when you take into account the job I held for most of my professional life – a TV commercial writer/producer – well, then you've got to had hundreds of thousands more. How many words has Leslie Hachtel written? Find out here! This week on Romance Writers Weekly, Leslie Hachtel asks: What memories of summer make you feel good all year 'round? Here in Northern BC, there certainly are parts of winter I absolutely love. Fresh, clean snow shining on a cold, bright blue day is a wonderful image to take out and remember, even in the heat of August. But there is definitely something special about summer memories. Maybe it’s the laziness that a hot sun and cool breeze invokes. Maybe it's the chance to get together more often with friends and family outside of the usual hectic school year. No matter what it the reason, the memory of summer that make me feel good all year round is time in our boat with Mr. C. Whether we're alone or with friends and family, fishing or exploring, remembering our time out on the water is always sure to lift my spirits, not matter how depressing and gloomy the day is. It's not a big boat. It's not a fancy one. We don't always go to the same lake and don't always have the best of weather. Sometimes we have trouble at the dock, sometimes the motor doesn't work or the gear gets mangled. But we always enjoy our time together – and that's the best memory of all. Feel free to leave me a comment about your favourite summer memory. And after you've done that, be sure to hop over to Leslie's blog. Since she was the one to propose this topic, I'm sure she's got some great memories she wants to share. You'll find her thoughts here. This weeks challenge for us Romance Writers Weekly members comes from Carrie Elks: “Stephen King famously said that it's necessary to 'kill your darlings' when editing your work. Do you have anything you had to remove from a book that you're still proud of? Or something that embarrasses you so much it will never again see the light of day? If you're feeling really brave, share some of it with us!” If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome! It is often a single image that inspires me when I am thinking of ideas for new stories. For my novel “No Life But This”, that image was a young woman spinning a globe, longing for excitement and adventure. Many of us have done this – watched the world blurring by, then tapping it with one finger and saying “There, that’s where I’m going.” My heroine, Abigail, does exactly that, and finds love on the tiny, little known Portuguese island of San Miguel, Azores. After I’d written the manuscript, I sent it out into the world of beta readers. And almost every single one of them said they enjoyed the book once the romance got going, but that it started soooooo slowly. So I tightened up the beginning – and more readers said exactly the same thing. In the end, I hacked off about five chapters, before I finally found what I feel is the right place to start the story. But I still have a soft spot for the original opening scene. It was this image, this atmosphere, that sparked the entire story. Maybe a reader doesn’t need it, but as a writer I think I needed to put it into words, so that the rest of the novel was infused with the thoughts and feelings I wrote about. Here it is. Abigail's fingers bumped gently across the globe. The surface was irregular, as if it truly was a miniature world - Everest shrunk to the height of a fingernail, the waves of the oceans smoothed to an infinitesimal roughness. Its high gloss finish glared where the light from the floor lamp struck it. I’m so glad I had a chance to share this scene with you! Now I invite you to move on to J.J. Devine and see what darlings she’s had to “kill”.
This week, Raine Balkera wants to know what everyone is working on. Oooh, this is going to be fun! She wants details & conundrums, plus we get five bonus points for including a wee bit of our favorite scene. Well, that won’t be hard at all – oh, wait – favourite? I never know how to choose! If you’ve wandered over from Katie O'Connor’s blog, what did you think of her work in progress? As for me, my writing time is limited, so I generally work on only one project at a time. Right now, that project is tidying up WHEN TIME FALLS STILL, my fourth manuscript. DETAILS: Professor Charlotte Girardet is focused on one thing – getting tenure at a large, prestigious university. Her career is firmly on track, but her life is complicated by her attraction to rough and rugged security guard Justice Cooper. Unable to resist his confident persistence, Charlotte proposes they enjoy a short-term affair. Struggling to balance her ambitions and her growing passion, life is further complicated by Justice’s ex-wife and several vicious attacks on female students. Her strict schedule and well-defined goals, Charlotte takes a leap of faith, and trusts Justice with her deepest secret - an operation she had as a teenager has left her infertile. This announcement forces Charlotte and Justice to redefine their relationship. As they attempt to do so, Charlotte is kidnapped by the assailant that has plagued the university all year. Trapped and tormented, Charlotte uses all her ingenuity and strength to resist her attacker, holding strong long enough to be rescued by Justice. Charlotte must now decide whether to follow her long held dreams or risk a new life with Justice. CONUNDRUMS: This didn’t start out as a romantic suspense. But I couldn’t help realizing that many of the scenes in the first few chapters simply screamed out for a thriller sub-plot. I find writing believable suspense very difficult, especially in regards motivation for my villain. So right now that’s what I’m working on – I’m editing to give him (or her, you never know!) a good reason for his/her actions. EXCERPT: (This isn’t the first time Charlotte and Justice meet – but I love how this scene turned out.) A high-pitched squeal echoed through the trees. "Damn it. Chaucer! Come!" Justice raced around the bend in the path in time to see his rock-brained dog bounding away from a dark figure supine on the ground. "I said Come! damn you." Grinning as only a dog can, Chaucer galumphed to Justice, who quickly snapped on his leash and anchored him to a sapling. His victim had struggled to a sitting position, dark curls tumbled about her face. Justice took a knee next to her. "Are you all right?" The woman tossed her hair out of her eyes and stared at him. He stared back in dismay. "Professor Girardet?" "It's you. Of course it's you." She closed her eyes briefly. "Is that your dog?" Her tone was not complimentary. "He didn't mean to frighten you." "He didn't frighten me. He knocked me down." She sounded breathless. Justice glared at Chaucer, who ignored him and lifted a leg to pee against a tree. "Did he hurt you, Professor?" "Only my pride. And since your dog just bowled me over I think you're allowed to call me Charlotte." She motioned him out of the way. "Let me help you." Justice rose and held out a hand. She stared suspiciously before accepting it and allowing him to haul her to her feet. She pulled free as soon as she was upright and stepped away. "Sorry again about Chaucer." "Your dog's name is Chaucer?" She arched an eyebrow. "As in the poet?" He dipped his head acknowledgement. Her dark brown eyes slid from him to Chaucer—now industriously licking his butt—and back. The tip of her nose twitched. "It was—interesting—meeting you and your dog." She edged around him. "I'd better get home." "You live around here?" He shouldn't be surprised. Residents used the greenbelt trail often, but few strangers found their way onto it. Although he hadn't seen her before, and he and Chaucer walked it most days. "Yes." She circled past Chaucer, who woofed as she neared. She jerked. Damn it, his fool dog had scared her, no matter what she said. "How about a drink?" She wasn't wearing her hat today, but a grey, bulky knit scarf puffed out under her chin. Sunlight gleamed on the dark strands of her hair. "A drink?" "In apology. For Chaucer knocking you over." He didn't like the thought of her being scared. Of anything. Maybe spending some time with the dumb pup would help. "I've got to get back to work." He frowned. "It's Saturday." "I'm doing research. Being a professor isn't only a Monday to Friday job." "It won't take long to have a drink. Hot chocolate?" A hint of humour creased the corners of her eyes. "With marshmallows? Mini ones?" She licked her lips. His gaze zeroed in on her mouth, pink and unpainted. With an effort he dragged his thoughts away from how she would taste, how she would feel. "Or Baileys, if you want to be grown up." The rapid-fire rattle of a woodpecker cut through the forest. She looked over her shoulder, indecision on her face. Her coat was thigh-length, but he could see damp patches on the backs of her legs. "You're wet." His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. "From falling in the snow. You can warm up at my house." "I really should go home." She took a step back. "My place is right there." He pointed through the trees. All that could be seen was the wooden fence bordering his back yard, the gate in the middle propped open as he had left it. "Oh." White teeth worried her bottom lip. The attraction he'd been denying flared. With a tug of one hand he released Chaucer's leash from the tree. The pup reared onto his hind legs in delight. He jerked the leash firmly. "Off." When the dog was under control he pointed to the snowy path leading to his gate. "I'll keep Chaucer away from you. Watch your step." He guided Charlotte toward it, his free hand on the small of her back. She resisted at first, but then with a faint sigh gave in. "One drink. A quick one. And then I have to go." Well, what do you think? Let me know in the comments. And now I invite you to move on to Collette Cameron and see what she’s working on right now. If you like to read romance novels of all genres, join the writers of Romance Weekly every Tuesday for our blog hop. We'll be answering the same questions, or writing the same flash fiction, or offering our favourite recipes. Once you've read my blog, the link below will direct you to another. Tell your friends and feel free to ask questions or make comments. If you're joining me from fellow Canadian, Victoria Barbour, welcome! She's the author of the Heart's Ease series, set in Newfoundland - I highly recommend it. Here are this week's questions: You’re moving right along with a storyline and suddenly it takes an unexpected twist. Do you go with the flow and follow where the twist leads you or do you conform your story to your way?
I struggle with this decision for sure. I do believe you have to listen to your characters and your story – but in the end, I am in charge. I find if my story veers too far from my original outline, I run into real editing issues. While I love tweaking a line here or there to make the writing stronger, I really dislike having to edit my plot because I've forgotten what the main goal was. What time of year is your best time for writing? Winter, Summer, Fall, Spring? I get the most work done in winter. In Northern BC, winter days are very short, and I love to curl up on my couch and write during the cold, bleak evenings. Because beautiful summer days are precious, I don't like to miss them hunching over a keyboard. I compromise by writing outside as often as I can, but my word count truly does suffer in the summer months. When looking for a publisher do you chose a traditional press, indie route, or one that does both e-book and print? With my first book, I didn't care how it got published – I just wanted to see my name on the cover! I have a full-time job and a busy family, so I didn't consider the Indie route for long. I simply don't have the time to do everything that is required. And as MOUNTAIN FIRE was picked up by only the second publisher I pitched it to, I don't regret that decision. At first it was only an e-book, but then the publisher offered print-on-demand copies, so I actually got to hold my book in my hand. It was quite a thrill! Now it's time to toodle on over to visit Raine Balkera. Have fun! I'll post something more in depth about the Surrey International Writers Conference next week, but I thought I'd give you a taste of what it was like. There were three workshop and/or panel blocks (with multiple choices in each block) Friday and Saturday, two more on Sunday, keynote speakers at every lunch and dinner, and chances to meet agents, editors and authors. There were workshops for writers of children's fiction, romance, sci-fi, non-fiction and more. It was hard to decide which to attend, so I decided to see the presenters I wanted to see, regardless of what the topic was. I heard much I had learned before, but hearing best-selling authors reiterate what I'd discovered on my own made those lessons that much more credible. In many cases they took the nugget of knowledge I already had and expanded it further, which was fabulous. The weekend was a tad overwhelming, to say the least. For a while I felt as if I needed to scrap all my writing and start over, but I'm talking myself off that cliff. Sure, my manuscripts need work, but I'm hoping it is just a few (okay, maybe several) tweaks here and an upping of tension there. I've acquired some great hints and tips on how to do just that. For now, I'm sitting in the Vancouver Airport waiting for my (delayed) flight home. And itching to get writing. Get your mind out of the gutter, right now. Just because I'm a romance author doesn't mean I'm smutty.
Well, maybe a little. But that's not what I'm talking about right now. I'm talking about the phrase “New Year's Resolution”. (Sorry-- “My Favourite Dirty Phrase” just didn't have the right ring to it.) I've been reading a lot of blog posts from all kinds of people about how to make your New Year's Resolutions actually work. One of my favourites is to focus on one resolution a month. New habits take a while to form, so by focusing on one specific goal a month, you have a better chance of building on each months success. My husband and I joined the hordes every January and renewed our gym memberships. I've been three times in eight days. Not too shabby, but already one day less than I had planned (I was aiming for three times each week). The problem I have is guilt. I know I need to be more active (really, I do), but I also want to keep on track with the revisions on my work-in-progress. So it is a matter of balance. And isn't that what life is anyway? Finding the right balance, for everything from chocolate to chin-ups? I am sitting in a warm ski lodge, working away on two manuscripts and this blog while my son and his friends speed down the slopes.
I've been known to strap on skis and give the hill a try, but my best friends wouldn't call me athletic. I did stagger through a 5K "run" about a year and a half ago, after months of training. But I haven't stayed with it. I kept waiting for that "high" that runners say they get. It never showed up. I do get a "high" from a lovely turned phrase, the perfect verb, the sentence that says exactly what I want it to. That's probably why I don't mind revising too much. The "Find" function is my friend when I'm cleaning up my first draft. I scoured the web searching for lists of “weak words” (that, really, almost, etc), compiled them, and saved them. Then, while I was writing, I paid attention to the words I use as crutches (I'm very bad with 'just' and 'only') and add them to my list. Now that the manuscript is done, I use "Find" to trace those weak words. Often I find I can simply delete them, but I'll rewrite as necessary. I find this process quite soothing. It feels so good to purge those useless, soft words and make the story tighter, better. |