As I write this, I’m looking at the first snowfall of the season blanketing our lawn and trees. That certainly isn’t a surprise, since it is mid-November, but Clair Brett’s question on the Blog Hop got me thinking… Have you ever had one of your own characters surprise you as you were writing your book? How and did it change the story? My characters are constantly growing and changing as we work our way together through their story. I don’t know if I’ve ever been shocked by something they did, but I am constantly discovering new things about them. I think that’s a good thing. If I’m learning new things about my characters, then the reader must be, too. So it becomes an interactive, spontaneous experience for both of us. I think the biggest surprise a character ever gave me, though, was Red Cat from an upcoming release. He is a stray that pops unexpectedly into a scene. I thought he was just going to be a bit player, but he insisted on reappearing. Turns out, my heroine needed a cat in her life, and Red Cat decided he was it. By the end of the book he’s a sleek, satisfied house pet. I guess he’d just had enough of living on the streets! As a reader, do you like it when a character surprises you? Let me know in the comments, the hop over to A. S. Fenichel to see what her characters are up to.
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All careers and jobs have good and bad points. The trick is finding one where the highs outweight the lows. This week on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop, A.S. Fenichel asks: What’s your favorite thing about being a writer and why? If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome. There are a lot of things I like about being a writer. I like the flexibility. While I try and get my writing done every morning, if I don’t, I can fit it in later in the day. And though most of the time I sit at my desk, I also love to write in my lounger in the front room, in the back yard, in our boat, and while fishing on the river’s edge. I like the creativity. I truly enjoy weaving a story, getting to know my characters and seeing how things will turn out. While the happy ending is always going to be there, it’s the journey that fascinates me. I love having written. Even better than writing itself, I love looking back at what I’ve done, even when I know it still needs work. Seeing the word count add up each day is terrifically satisfying. But if I had to pick one thing as my favourite, it has to be hearing what readers think of my work. And I don’t necessarily mean only the good opinions. Words on the page are just random, scribbled marks unless someone reads them and absorbs them and considers them. So-called “bad” reviews are often the most insightful, and mean the reader really thought about the story. “Good” reviews make my heart sing and can have me smiling all day, of course. Because who doesn’t want to learn that someone enjoyed the story I spent months writing? Travel forward on the blog hop with Jenna Da Sie, next on the roll! I have a lot of writing news to share this week
When I am doing my first draft, I just want to get the story down. I don’t think too much about themes or tropes (I’ll explain that later)…I just listen to the people in my head and put them in situations that will reveal their character and conflict. I usually get stuck about halfway through, though, and when I do, it’s a good time for me to reflect on “What is this story about?” That’s where themes and tropes come in. This week on the Blog Hop, A.S. Fenichel says: Lately I’ve been thinking about the story themes that turn me on and inspire me. List your top ten favorite story or plot themes. It can be anything from Dragons to friends to lovers. Themes are an underlying thread that ties the whole story together. Finding home or good vs. evil or revenge. A trope is the structure the story hangs on. In romance, tropes might be marriage of convenience, friends to lovers, or enemies to lovers. As a writer, my two favourite tropes are friends to lovers and second chance. I’m not a big fan of insta-lust or insta-love (though if handled well can be great) and prefer a slowly growing realization between my characters. Both of these tropes work really well for that. In my upcoming book, I use both, as my hero and heroine were married very young, broke up, and then thirty years later become friends and work toward a happy ever after. I read a lot of Regency romance, and in those I love a marriage of convenience trope. It suits the time period, when women were expected to marry and couldn’t always wait to find their soulmate. These often end up being friends to lovers, too, because a sound marriage usually starts with affection. Other tropes I like to read include forced proximity (can be location or activity, such as career), fake relationship (as long as the two main characters are in it together and aren’t faking out the other), and opposites attract (I think you get this one). What about you? When you think about your reading, are you drawn to specific type of story? Leave a comment below, then hop over to Leslie Hachtel. In case you missed it last week, Leslie has a new book available for preorder from Amazon! Two women. Years apart. Linked by common experience and a cottage that has survived since the Civil War. Evelyn Smith has changed her name and is running from an abusive husband. She buys a cottage in Florida that has its own history, only to experience an attraction to the previous owner. Rebecca Faber has rescued a Yankee soldier and fallen in love, but circumstances have forced her to marry an evil man who killed her father. When Rebecca reaches out from the past, Evelyn finds it life changing. And in their own times, each must find discover strength and fight to find and keep true love. As authors, we tend to focus on sight and touch. But there are other senses that can really evoke a response. This week, Leslie Hachtel says: Scent is very important in life and in our stories. Tell us your favorite and why it inspires you. If you joined me from Clair Brett, welcome! As with many things, it is hard to narrow down a favourite scent. I prefer light, herbal scents to heavier perfumes, though. Lemon, mint, and rosemary are definitely at the top of the list. But when it comes to a scent that inspires me, I think I will go with lavender. I love to put on lavender hand cream before bed. It is soothing and relaxing, and as I always read for a lengthy period of time before going to sleep, I associate the smell with one of my favourite things! The other reason I love lavender is that is reminds me of Provence. In 2017 my husband and I took the trip of a lifetime with my parents and spent time in Belgium (where my mother was born) and the south of France. The lavender fields were just coming into bloom, but the scent was already noticeable. It is a wonderful memory. This blog is a good reminder to me to put more scent into my writing! It can initiate very strong emotions, and is a great way to set a scene. How about you? What scent do you prefer? I love to hear from you. Then be sure to hop over to Leslie Hachtel and discover her favourite scent.
This week on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop, we are pulling back the curtain to reveal the mystery of how we write. Clair Brett commands: Give us a glimpse into your “process.” Are you a pantser/plotter/hybrid, night owl writer/early morning, etc. If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome! There are as many ways to write a book as there are books. Even an author with dozens of novels under her belt will find that her process adapts and changes from story to story. That being said, it is widely believed there are two main types of writers. “Pantsters” write by the seat of their pants. They just sit down and start typing and see what happens. “Plotters” were accountants in another life, and map out their books like a general planning a military campaign. In reality, I think most writers are a mix of the two, and that goes for me as well. I used to do a lot more plotting, working with spreadsheets that listed each scene. But I found that most of my stories veered off in unexpected ways at somewhere between the 30% and 50% mark. I learned to embrace that. After all, if I don’t know what’s going to happen, then the reader must be surprised, too! Up until 2020, I did all my writing in the evenings and on weekends, since I was working fulltime. Since then, I have switched to writing in the mornings. Not too early – I still like to ease into my day with coffee and a few minutes of yoga. Then in the afternoons I work on editing projects (either my own or freelance for other authors), and in the evening tidy up a few things that might have been missed over the day. Of course, it’s not quite that cut and dried, but that’s the general gist. One other thing I do as part of my writing day is read. More authors that I would have guessed don’t read much, especially when they are writing their own book. They say they are too easily influenced by the tone of the author they are reading, and worry it will creep into their own story. For me, reading throughout the day is a must-do stress reliever. Now, hop on over to A.S. Fenichel and see what her writing process is like! It's been just over a week since Richly Deserved was released! Thanks to everyone who purchased their copy already. If you haven't, this is what readers are saying about it: "I enjoy Margriet's stories for the layered details that hold the reader close while cheering for the hero's and heroine's, as well as the secondary characters' successes." (Writer with a View - 5 Stars) "...parts of this story will have you in tears. I highly recommend this book..." (Penny L - 5 Stars) "Excellent writing, intriguing and relatable characters, engaging and original plot!" (Carolinexlt - 5 Stars) Read it for yourself - find it at your favourite e-retailer here! Do you like a little demon with your regency romance?
Then you'll adore A. S. Fenichel's Demon Hunters series! Now with sleek new covers! Read more about it here! A.S. Fenichel has set us a tricky topic this week on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop. She says: Pick a book or story you’ve written and tell us where the inspiration came from. If you joined me from Clair Brett, welcome! Inspiration is an odd thing. It can be like waiting for lightning to strike. Sometimes is just a sentence that pops into my head. Or I read something and wonder what happened next. Sometimes it is more deliberate, like AFTER WORDS, my first seasoned romance. Here’s how AFTER WORDS came about. I knew I wanted to write a romance with older characters. I was also toying with the idea of writing a dual timeline story – one where plots in the present day and in the past run concurrently and are linked in some mysterious way. I also knew I wanted to write something that was Canadian. In my wanderings on the internet, I came across the Canadian Letters and Images Project, which preserves the memorabilia of soldiers. That’s where I found the diary of William Henry Smith – and the rest, as they say, is history. You can find out more in the Acknowledgements section of AFTER WORDS (which is available now at all e-retailers. You know. Just in case you haven't read it yet...). For my upcoming release, RICHLY DESERVED, I wanted something “the same but different” as AFTER WORDS. I live less than two hours away for the famed gold rush town of Barkerville, and had always thought it might be interesting to write something tied in with that. As I researched the history of that town, I came across the biography of William George Richardson Hind, one of the only artists known to have visited Barkerville during the height of its fame. The idea of centering a mystery around an antique painting caught me, and so Titus and Claudia’s story was born. I can’t wait for everyone to meet them on March 29! Are you a creator? Whether with words, paint, clay or some other medium? I’d love to hear how you are inspired. Then hop over to Jenna Da Sie to see what gets her creativity flowing.
I took a few weeks off from the weekly blog hop to celebrate the end of 2020 and welcome the beginning of 2021. But it’s time to get back into the groove (especially since I have a new release coming up in March. More on that in future blog posts!). This week, I challenged our members to write Flash Fiction using the phrase/words: Happy New Year, cigars, and orchids. If you joined me from Clair Brett, welcome! Here is my contribution: Eloise had never felt the slightly hysterical excitement so many others did watching the seconds tick down to the new year. It was a completely arbitrary distinction between one moment and the next, something dreamed up by whey-faced administrators centuries ago. There was no magic in it. Nothing ever changed. It was the same old same old, just with a new number next to it. She had planned to sleep away the last hours of the year, much as she'd slept the last week away. Instead, she found herself curled in bed, the glow from her phone the only light in the room, streaming the countdown from New York City that had already happened three hours ago but was being replayed for those in the Pacific Time Zone. Just one more indication of how fake the whole celebration was. Like another version of the movie Groundhog Day, only without the saving grace of Bill Murray’s comic insanity. “Happy New Year!” the crowd in Times Square shouted. “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled. “Happy freakin’ New Year.” The doorbell rang. Eloise blinked. Had it really been the doorbell, or was it one of the bells and whistles shrieking from the video on her screen? She muted her phone. The doorbell rang. Who could possible be at her door at midnight on New Year’s Eve? Well, it was New Year’s Day, she supposed, but midnight New Year’s Day was still twenty-four hours away technically, so it seemed calling it New Year’s Eve made more-- The doorbell rang a third time, cutting off her dribbling thoughts. She flung back the covers, trod barefoot through her darkened home to the front door, and peered through the sidelight. Jax stood on the stoop and she recoiled, pressing her back against the wall, her heart racing. Rapid knocks thudded on the wood panels of the door. “Eloise! I know you’re in there. Please, I just want to talk.” “Go away!” The words blurted out and she shoved her fist against her mouth. Damn it. If she’d stayed silent, he would have left eventually. Now she’d given him proof she was home, he’d never leave. “Please, Eloise.” His tone softened. “I made a mistake. It’s a new year. Can’t we start over?” A mistake. Hah! That’s what he called it? “Go back to your whiskey and cigars or whatever it is you rich people do on New Year’s,” she said bitterly. “I’m just the poor waitress you had a fling with. No need to worry about me.” “It was more than a fling,” Jax said. “Really? Then why did you pretend you didn’t know me?” What they’d had was still so new, they’d agreed that meeting each other’s families over the holidays would put too much pressure on their relationship. But that meant they wouldn't see each other for a few days, so when she’d gotten off work earlier than expected on Christmas Eve, she’d gone to his apartment, hoping to surprise him before he joined his family that evening. Instead, she’d been the one stunned when he’d opened the door with a tall blonde in a sleek, simple black sheath that screamed expensive draped over him. He'd stared at her in shock as the heavy scent of orchids had wrapped itself around Eloise, the woman’s perfume as cloying as the smirk on her face. “Who’s this, Jax? A friend of yours?” she’d said. Which was when Jax had broken Eloise’s heart. “No,” he’d said, “she’s not a friend.” She hadn’t stuck around to hear more, simply spun on her heel and fled. Now, in the silence of a new year, his voice came muffled through the door. “I was surprised to see you,” he said, “but I didn’t say what you thought I did.” “Oh, trust me, I heard exactly what you said.” The words were branded on her brain, still sizzling and smoking more than a week later. “You heard the words, Eloise. But you didn’t hear what I meant.” “What the hell does that mean?” “You aren’t my friend. You’re so much more.” Eloise realized she was standing with her palms pressed against the door's surface as if she could reach through to Jax’s warmth and strength. “I’m wh-what?” she stuttered. “I love you, Eloise. Please, let me in so we can talk properly.” “If you love me, then who was that with you on Christmas Eve?” “My sister.” Eloise closed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.” “Her name is Helene. We were driving to my parents together that night.” “If that’s the truth, why didn’t you call me to explain? Why did you wait until now to come see me?” “Because I was scared. I was scared you wouldn’t listen. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I didn’t realize how much it would hurt, to have the person I love distrust me.” They came from such different worlds. The dress his sister had worn was probably worth more than Eloise’s monthly rent. But when she was with Jax, all she could feel was how right they were together. Did she love him enough to work through her issues, to find the trust he deserved? She opened the door. I hope you enjoyed this little story. Now hop on over to Jenna Da Sie https://jennadasie.com to see what she came up with! I just spent fifteen minutes writing and discarding introductions to this week’s topic. I give up, so I'm just going to dive in. This week on the Blog Hop, A.S. Fenichel says: December seems like a good time to tell us all about your writing plans for next year. Tell us what’s upcoming and why you’re excited about it. I am really hoping to finish my current work-in-progress before Christmas. That means I will have worked on three manuscripts this year, which for me is amazing. That includes AFTER WORDS, which I completed in January and published in September. The other two stories are what I am planning to release to the world in 2021, and I am very excited about both of them! RICHLY DESERVED will be the second in my TIMELESS Season Romance Collection. I need to write the formal description still, but here’s the gist: Claudia owns a frame shop and is opening a private gallery. Titus is the artist she lures into doing her grand opening exhibition. They become involved in a mystery that involves Barkerville gold miners and long-lost artwork. I just sent the second draft off to my editor, and I’m hoping to release this in March of next year. THE ROOTS OF THINGS will by my third seasoned romance. It revolves around the search for a child given up for adoption sixty years ago. Aubrey and Phillip, the main characters, are the daughter and nephew of the birth parents, now in their 80’s, who are reunited in a seniors residence. They have their own troubled past, and I am having a lot of fun exploring their relationship. The plan would be to release this book in September 2021. If 2020 has taught us anything, it’s that plans can change at a moments notice. But having goals is healthy, as long as you can roll with the punches, be flexible, and look for the positives. Now hop on over to Jenna Da Sie to see what fun she has in store for next year! Make sure you don't miss out on any book announcements by joining my newsletter! I usually only send it out once a month unless I have really exciting news. You get a free short story just for signing up, will be able to tag along on my dog-walking adventures, find out what I'm reading when I should be working, and other randomness…along with all my writing news, of course! Just click here. 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! I never considered my self a terribly social creature, but the last few months have shown me that I may have taken for granted the joy of simply sitting and talking with someone face to face. Which makes this week’s blog hop topic a little...unsettling. Leslie Hachtel asks: If you were stranded on a desert island, what three books would you want with you and why? If you joined me from A.S. Fenichel, welcome! I suppose a deserted island would be the ultimate in social distancing, wouldn’t it? 😊 Not very long ago I might have yearned for a chance to read uninterrupted by other human beings, but it doesn’t seem quite as appealing right now. That being said, here’s my list:
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