Experience as a writer’s collector’s item

By Mandi Benet

restaurant photo from pexels.com

Since romance writers are meant to know everything about romance, we’re often asked about the worst date we ever had. I’ve never answered the question because no one can take that much humiliation in public, but bad (and good) dates are great fodder for writing (isn’t that great?!) and here’s one scene I wrote based on a bad date I had that I tried very hard to get out of. My friend Anne, who arranged it, would not back down, however. She said Dennis, a dentist, was all that.

All that what? He turned out to be bald and have bad breath, bad teeth and bad lines. Example: “Why don’t you drink? Are you an alcoholic?” (I’m not an alcoholic. I would just prefer a piece of chocolate cake.)

The next line: “How many times have you been in rehab?” (Not one.)

I managed to scurry away after an hour and a half. Not bad, considering. And I was able to use the time with Dennis as the basis for the following scene, a variation of which is in The Blasphemy Box, my 2013 novel in which fifty-year-old Maddy Nelson’s husband dumps her for his twenty-four-old personal assistant.

*

My friend Cameron could say what she wanted but since this was my first blind date in twenty years, I imagined the learning curve still might be steep. The day of the date dawned cold and foggy, of course, to match my mood, and by the time I arrived at the restaurant Café, a bistro kind of place with a long wooden bar and shiny brass fixtures, my stomach was roiling so much I nearly drove back home and inhaled the bottle of Pepcid sitting by my kitchen sink.

When I walk in, I see a man who fits the description Cameron had given me. He’s sitting at the bar surrounded by several waitresses. So that’s what Cameron meant when she said he was outgoing. He was indeed very good looking, in that preppy kind of way, with a full head of hair to boot, which at this age, by the way, was no minor consideration.

“Are you Gary?” I ask, sliding in between two of the waitresses.

Drink in hand, he wheels around on his stool to face me and then stands up. He’s about five feet three and his face is already flushed from booze.

“Jeez, yes, hi, you must be Maggie. Cameron didn’t tell me you were so tall.”

I want to say, “Cameron didn’t tell me you were so short.” But what I actually say is, “It’s Maddy.”

“Well,” he says, knocking back his drink, “Cameron said it was Maggie.”

I smile, wanting to tell him that a woman I’ve known since kindergarten probably knows my name better than a lush who’s never met, but I restrain myself. This is going south already, I think, but the image of an angry and disappointed Cameron persuades me to soldier on.

“Shall we sit over there, then?” Gary says. I nod. We sit down at a marble-topped bistro table in the bar area. The waitress comes over quickly.

“What are you drinking, hon?”

“Orange juice is fine.”

Gary looks puzzled. “Hmm.” He looks up at the waitress. “A screwdriver for me, then, and orange juice for the lady.”

The waitress heads off.

Just then, two twenty-something women walk in, dressed in tighter-than-right jeans and bra tops. Gary’s eyes bug out, but, to give him credit, he catches short his staring and turns sharply back toward Maddy.

“So you’re getting divorced,” he says.

“Yes. It’s almost final.”

“Bummer.”

“Cameron says you’re newly divorced.”

“Yep. My bitch of an ex-wife, who already took all my money, now wants more, if you can believe that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “The money part of divorce is very frustrating.”

“You bet it is.”

The waitress returns with the drinks. He quickly slurps his and starts listing everything he’s frustrated with in his life: his Presidio Heights neighbor, who is the reason Gary has crab grass and dandelions on his front lawn; his huge alimony payments to his most recent ex-wife, who he says looks like Kim Kardashian without the big butt; President Obama, who should go back to where he came from, which Gary seems to be suggesting is the Gorilla Age; and his patients, who balk at paying his huge fees.

“I went to school for years so I could charge those prices,” he says petulantly. “It’s unfair for people to complain about them.”

I sit across the table looking at him, nodding, smiling politely, wondering if he will ever show any semblance of knowing he’s on a date with a person other than himself.  And as Gary bleats on about how he thought the Middle East problem could be solved with the judicious dropping of an atom bomb, and how young black men should probably stay home more so white police officers wouldn’t be forced to shoot them dead, I think of all the laundry that needs doing.

“So,” Gary says then, “why don’t you drink?”

“I don’t really like the taste of alcohol too much, and it makes me sleepy.”

He looks skeptical.

“I’d rather have a piece of chocolate cake.”

Gary frowns. “You know sugar’s really bad for your teeth, don’t you? But no, really, are you in rehab or AA or something? Do you not drink because you’re an alcoholic?”

“No,” I say, “would you please excuse me?” and I get up and run as fast as I can toward the bathroom. Once in, I flatten myself against the wall and breathe deeply. How could Cameron fix me up with this cretin?

When I get back, Gary is chatting up our waitress, who is flicking her long blonde hair from side to side. I say, “I hope you will excuse me. I just got a text from the babysitter, and she said one of my twin boys is feeling poorly.”

“But if the babysitter’s there, why do you need to go home?” he asks. He’s slurring his words a bit from all that vodka.

“Because I am a mother and…”

“OK,” he says grudgingly.

I hold out my hand to shake his. “Thanks for the drink, and nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” he says. “I’ll call you.”

I just smile and leave as quickly as I can.

Soon after I get home, Cameron calls. “How did it go? He’s really good-looking, right? And rich!”

“Well, yes, all that is true, but he’s really not my type. We didn’t hit it off. ” I can feel Cameron reproaching me down the telephone line. “Too short?”

“No. Too drunk.”

“Too bad. He’s such a catch.”

Yes, I think. I’d have to catch him as he fell off his barstool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Mandi B's Magic! | 11 Comments

It’s Release Day!: By Rose Lange

OnAGamble400   Release day jitters. Nerves. Huge ass butterflies in my stomach, and pretty much wanting to crawl under a rock and hide!  You name it, I’m feeling it, and have been for the past several days. You’d think I’d never done this before, and that this was my first book, well, nope. Even though I now have two book babies, two years, and nine days apart I am admittedly just as nervous, if not more so, this time around.

This book has been nearly three years in the making. Years, months, weeks, and days of re-writes, edits, submitting, editing, contracting, nail-biting, blood, sweat, tears, doubts, wondering why I’m doing this. Will anybody even care, will this matter? Well, I could go on and on. All this madness came to fruition with one line, “You’re a woman.” I thought that was a hell of an opening line, or any line for that matter. I’ve had it saved, and written on the back of a notebook since January of 2002. I know what you’re thinking; damn, that’s a long time! Yep. I am a notorious saver, but I knew someday the story would find me. The right stories always seem to find me at the right time. I have so many scraps of paper, notebooks, folders, anything I could get my hands on, full of ideas waiting to be written. Heck, the other day, I was sitting next to a beautician while my son was getting his haircut, and I overheard (and wrote down) yet another story idea! It is juicy, I will admit. Involving a single mom and a sexy doctor in the ER.😉 But I’m getting sidetracked here.

Charlie and Alex’s story was “born” in my mind starting on October 27, 2013 as a very, very rough brainstorm. (I’ve been a pantser since I started writing, and it’s still how I roll, tee-hee). Once the idea grabs hold in my brain, I allow it simmer, stew, and percolate if you will. Then when I feel it’s the right time, I sit down and begin to write all my ideas down, everything. Even if it will never make it in the book. Even if it seems meaningless at the time, I still write it down, lest I lose that spark, that idea, that something that I might be able to use. After that, I do character sketches, go digging on Pinterest for inspiration of my setting, characters, etc, and then, I fly by the seat of my pants, and GO! I went on November 24, 2013, and it took me on an adventure that surprised even me, through twists and turns I never saw coming, and did not expect. It’s really true what they say, you create the characters, you nurture them, and as soon as they hit the page. Bam! they do anything they damn well please.

Despite all these hurdles, and surprises, beginning a new story, and giving life to new people in my mind, is exciting! And that word doesn’t even fully describe the feeling. Likewise, finishing a story, is bittersweet, and like saying goodbye to a friend. I become so emotionally attached to my characters. I fall in love with my hero oddly enough, and find myself sighing out loud when re-reading parts of the story (which I’m told is a great thing). I lovingly call them “my people,” and that’s why I have difficulty detaching, beginning a new story. It takes me a couple days, or weeks, to start something new, but once I’m in the groove of a new story, I’m excited again. That fire, that passion to start something sparks again. It’s that transition period that is hard for me. But I have to take a few deep breaths, release this new book, and move on to my next one. Which, I plan on doing just that this weekend, revising a book that needs my attention.

So, it is with a hard lump in my throat, a nervous belly, a heavy heart, and a soggy tissue in my hand, that I send another book child out into the world.

http://wwww.roselange.com

Facebook: Rose Lange, Author

Twitter: @writingdiva82

Email: rose@roselange.com

 

 

 

Posted in Rose In The Garden!, Soul Mate Publishing | 4 Comments

Tell Again Tuesday Tackle Big Events While Writing

C.D. Hersh

Tell Again Tuesday

A blog series where we shamelessly share posts from others that we have enjoyed.

Does anyone else include this while writing?

Tackle Big Events While Writing

Posted on June 22, 2016 by Beth Carter

It’s easy to write about boy meets girl or girl meets boy. Insert a villain, some scenery, conflict, the use of senses, a bit of backstory and foreshadowing, and you’re done, right? Wrong. It’s much more interesting when you throw in big (or even small, intimate) events. Whether they are a fact of life (like a birth or death), a crazy family reunion or a tragic occurrence, your writing will be enriched and become much more realistic by adding these details.

Here are examples of . . .

For the rest of the blog go to:

https://smpauthors.wordpress.com/2016/06/22/tackle-big-events-while-writing-by-beth-carter/

 

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Taglines and Author Branding

I love the line from Taylor Swift’s song New Romantics “the best people in life are free.” I think it’s a clever play on the phrase “the best things in life are free” and a great hook for a song. It got me thinking about taglines – for our books and for our brand as authors. A tagline is a short burst of words that capture the essence of our writing – our personality and the tone and genre of our stories. A tagline has to quickly capture the reader’s interest. My favourite taglines are simple phrases that sound catchy and have a double meaning.

There are a lot of famous taglines for products or movies:

Who you going to call?    Ghostbusters

Where’s the beef?     Wendy’s

It takes someone strong to make someone strong. Thanks Mom    Procter and Gamble

And they’d make good bumper stickers:  Jesus loves you. But I’m his favourite.

businessman-1370983_1920

Here are some awesome author taglines:

Joanne Guidiccio – On the road to reinvention

C.D. Hersh – Two hearts…creating everlasting love stories.

Addie Jo Ryleigh – Where happily ever after meets tall, dark and handsome.

Christina Kirby – Let me tell you a story.

S.C. Mitchell – Hidden strengths. Adventurous hearts.

L.D. Rose – Romance at its darkest.

Stephanie Berget – Romance beneath a rodeo moon. I also really like the tagline from her new anthology Cowboys, Bulls and Buckles – Riding hard and loving harder.

Under ten words, a tagline is powerful because it evokes emotion and quickly gives a gestalt of the tone of our writing. It’s unique and sets us apart from other writers writing in the same genre. I use mine as an inscription when I autograph my books and hope that it provides a bit of inspiration to the reader.

What are your favourite taglines?

Laugh every day. Love every minute.

Linda

 

Cover PerfectlyHonest600Perfectly Honest

You never know where your words will take you. . .

When Mikaela Finn agreed to be Sam’s ‘fiancée’ for a weekend, she probably should have told him that she’s a doctor. Sam O’Brien, aka ‘Dr. Eye Candy’, is trying to shed his playboy reputation and convince a small town hospital that he’s ready to settle down. But when his ‘fiancée’ helps deliver a baby in the middle of the meet and greet, it’s a bit of a shock. If he’d known the whole truth, he might have done things a little differently because somehow his ‘fiancée’ ends up stealing his job and his heart. Not exactly the change he wanted.

Lies and deceit – it’s a match made in heaven!

Posted in Linda's LoveLines, Soul Mate Publishing | Tagged , , | 8 Comments

It’s National Left-Hander’s Day! by Char Chaffin

left5So there I was, in a grocery store in Las Vegas many years ago, with a toddler in the cart, digging for the checkbook so I could pay for my groceries. As I whipped out a pen and started to write, the grocery clerk took note of what hand held the pen (why, I suppose I’ll never know), and asked, “Do you find it a handicap to be left-handed?”

I gawked at her in shock. Nobody, including the nun in my Catholic grade school who tried to change me into a rightie (using a metal-edged ruler over my knuckles, I might add), had ever asked if I thought of myself as handicapped due to my hand preference. It took me aback. In the nun’s case, she just decided all on her own to change me. No asking was involved.

I suppose I mumbled something to the grocery clerk in response as I ripped the check free and slapped it down on the counter. In those younger days I was plenty shy and never said much. Of course, I came up with several solid zingers, once I loaded my bags and the kid into the car and headed for home:

“Why, no. Do you find it a handicap to be stupid?”

“Not at all. Actually, I can punch out your lights with either hand.”

“Nope. In fact, you should see how I shoot as a leftie.”

Did I think of anything fast enough? No, no, no, dang it all.

It’s a right-handed world, or so everyone tells me. But twenty-five years ago somebody—left-handed, to be sure—decided there should be “National Left-Hander’s Day,” and so there is. And it’s today, in fact. I have to grin because I have a day solely dedicated to being a leftie. Pretty cool.

left3

But every day is Left-Hander’s Day to a leftie. And yes, most lefties run across challenges in their daily lives. Vegetable peelers are often slanted the wrong way. Regular scissors don’t conform properly. Spiral notebooks open the wrong way, resulting in the danged spiral constantly in the way of the side of our hands. Knife blades are wonky. Many lefties slant their paper in an awkward direction when they write. And so on. But lefties are an industrious lot, and we can get around any obstacle.

Heck, I can even button my blouses without developing finger-cramps, and I use rightie scissors. Always have. As for those blasted spiral notebooks, I simply flip the thing over so the spiral is on the right side. Sure, I’m now writing right side up in an upside down book, but nobody will ever know unless I tell them.  ::shhhhh::  left1

As a leftie, my right hand is just about useless. I can iron clothes with it, but that’s pretty much it. Everything I do, from the most menial to the most complex, leads with my left hand. I probably list to the left when I walk, and nobody’s been frank enough to tell me. One of these days I’ll tip over, and then they’ll come up to me and say, “Oh, forgot to mention, you list to the left.”

I come from an entire family of lefties. My paternal grandfather. My father. Both my brothers. One of my nieces. I kept hoping my daughter would take up the leftie banner, but she grabbed that crayon in her two-year-old right fist, and I didn’t have the heart (nor a ruler nearby) to attempt adjusting her. So I wisely let it be.

left6I have hopes for my four-year-old granddaughter. Then again, in a recent photo I got of my mini-Sweetie-Heart, I saw a paintbrush in the wrong hand . . . Might have to get out that virtual ruler. Obviously the Leftie Dynasty in my bloodline has come to a screeching halt. I try not to dwell on it.

Being a leftie makes you more independent, did you know that? Without a single leftie female in my general family vicinity while I was growing up, I had to teach myself to crochet, embroider, knit. I stirred cookie dough in the wrong direction, according to my mother. Of course, she couldn’t do a thing for me except grind her teeth each time I folded egg whites into cake batter counter-clockwise. I took golf lessons from a rightie golf pro, and after six lessons he declared me hopeless. Again, I don’t dwell on it.

Honestly, I don’t.

I’ve heard lefties are more creative, better able to solve problems, more amenable to the world around us and its complexities. Well, sure. We see that dumb veggie peeler and our hackles rise. Those of us militant enough to refuse running to the nearest store in search of a left-handed peeler must immediately apply ourselves to re-adjustment. But once we learn to use something—anything—originally slated for a right-handed existence, we’re fine. left2

I even got used to the metric system because my glass measuring cup has the ounces listed on the other side. But do I complain? Nope.

Okay, maybe a little, but it matters not. Because with re-adjustment comes megalomania.

My veggie peeler knows who’s boss in the family too, better believe it. The first time Mr. Don had to use it, he couldn’t understand why the peel wasn’t coming off the cucumber. Then he realized my left-handedness had affected its cutting surface forever.

Such power I have, Bwa Ha Ha HAAAAA . . .

It’s National Left-Hander’s Day, and today I am Queen. Since that calls for a celebration, I’m going to break out the right-handed glass measuring cup, grab the flour and sugar, and make myself a celebratory cake.

I’m gonna stir counter-clockwise, too.  left4

 

 

 

 

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The Eyes and Ears of a Writer

statue

A few days ago I woke up and began my day with a typical morning routine—let the dog outside, brew a pot of coffee, check emails, and so on. With a mountain of tasks looming ahead of me, I scurried around, grabbing car keys, filling bowls of water for the cat and dog, and turning on the air conditioner as I prepared to leave the house. While driving with my daughter, she burst out laughing at something I’d said aloud.

“What?” I turned in her direction, baffled by her reaction. “What’s so funny?”

“You are.”

I wrinkled my brow, swivelling my eyes back to the road. “Why?”

“You’re always telling stories.”

That made me pause. I slid her a sideways glance. “As in telling lies, or telling stories?”

My daughter smiled. “Stories.”

“Oh, good.”

As the blur of the highway and the trees flashed by, I silently concurred my daughter was right. My life is a road map of characters and stories, either partially constructed or waiting in the wings. Ideas come at the most inconvenient moments and life seems so busy it’s hard for me to carve out time for writing. But I need details for my stories. The problem seems to be time and it’s becoming more of a challenge as I take on more and more things in my life.  Worse than that, however, is the realization that running full-tilt day after day prevents me from soaking up the moments of each day. Small moments and details matter.

Following my conversation with my daughter, I decided to slow my pace a bit and pay closer attention to my surroundings—as a writer should and would normally do. That evening, as I walked to my dragon boat practice, I gave myself extra time to absorb my environment and engage my senses far more than I usually do as I rush from place to place. I noticed for the first time a small cafe tucked away on a side street and the sky-blue color of a store sign. I smelled the charcoal, musky scent of grilled meat from a nearby food cart, observed rows of white sailboats bobbing in the harbour and the restaurant patrons sitting at their tables. My ears perked up at the rustle of the tall grass lining the sidewalk. I felt the hard, unforgiving pavement beneath my water shoes and the slight sting of my shoulders chafing under the life jacket swinging across my back.

As my teammates and I set out on the lake, I sniffed the rotting, briny smell of algae as my hands dipped into the cool, dark blue water. White buoys dotted the surface of the lake and logs lined the shore. Mounds of bright green grass stood out, encircled with trees and benches. Scuff marks and water bottles cluttered the bottom of our boat as we raised and dipped our paddles into the water. I listened too, to the thud of paddles hitting the side of the boat, random shouts from passersby on shore and on nearby boats, and I concentrated on the sound of water rushing beneath us as we picked up speed— 8 knots, 10 knots, 12 knots . . .

The lesson I took away seemed obvious—look up and pay attention! But in reality, it’s a learned behaviour and a habit. One I lost sight of. I gently reminded myself to spend more time, every day, noticing these details so that I may enjoy them. Sometimes we all need a pat on the back, a prod, to step back, even just a bit, and see, feel, smell and listen to the life surrounding us. I learned this week how slowing down allows me to feel more relaxed and then details become clearer. When I make the time to write my next chapter, I won’t have to rely on long-term memory as much, for the details will be right in front of me—if only I take the time to see them. As a writer, I love details—they serve as the backbone of all stories. I cannot write without inspiration, which stems from experiences and how I perceive the details of those experiences. Time to stop and smell the roses, each and every one, because in that rose might live a ladybug, or a new scent or color . . .

blushiest roses in office

 

 

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The Write Word with Wareeze

Hello again readers and writers alike. Thanks for allowing me to share a little of your busy day. Today let’s discuss an important issue in a story, action and the reaction to it. Action and reaction is totally different from Scene/Sequel. I’ll leave that for another day. Today is the time for action. There can be no action without a reaction just as reaction isn’t possible without the action first. Action can merely be part of speech without physical movement other than the mouth or actual physical action.

Sample of action, reaction from An Enduring Love:Final An Enduring Love (small)

ACTION:   “Devil a bit!” Rebecca stood and began to pace, agitation in each step.

REACTION:   With his brows pleated in a frown, Lord Lethebridge scolded, “Granddaughter, such language.”

ACTION:  “Beg pardon.” She grimaced and forced down gulps of air to expand her lungs against the smothering tightness in her chest. “Still, I will not be left behind as if I am some weak—female. I will not, I say.” She rounded on her grandfather. “I intend to take Henry with me and leave for London at once.”

REACTION:   “Rebecca, what are you about?” he asked, alarm stamped on his features.

ACTION:   She gestured towards the door. “You saw him. Rhys is so weary he could barely walk. I must ride after him, help him in some way if I can. Anything is better than sitting here twiddling my thumbs.”

REACTION:  “But, Rhys….”

 

Examples of action, reaction based on more of the physical from A Lady’s Vanishing Choices:WW_ALadysVanishingChoices_400x600

 

Action: The wind picked up and tangled through Bethany’s hair with a whisper of the storm to come. Startled, she jumped as the swaying branches deposited a wayward twig in her hair. Shivering as dark clouds covered the afternoon sun, she cast a concerned glance at the deep shadows and the strange shapes fluttering across the path seemingly alive with threats.

REACTION: “I hate storms.” She hurried a little faster as lightning danced in the distance and flared in her eyes.

ACTION: The boom of thunder rolled closer and closer heralding the arrival of the storm. The smell of rain hung in the air, swirling around her.

REACTION: Glad to have made it to the manor before the storm broke, she took a deep, thankful breath.

From the same book, A Lady’s Vanishing Choices, more verbiage. :

ACTION:  She stepped into the side drawing room where her aunt could usually be found at this hour of the afternoon. Finding her aunt reposed in her favorite chair before a tall window, Bethany offered her the message. “Aunt, a letter arrived for you.”

REACTION: Gertrude lifted her gaze and, without a word, held out her hand for the note. Bethany passed her the folded sheet and turned to leave.

ACTION: The rustle of the paper being spread with ruthless dispatch sounded behind her. Before she reached the door, a screech echoed through the chamber.

“Betha, who delivered this note?”

REACTION: Alarmed, Bethany turned back to her aunt. “A stranger. A young boy came up to the house. Is there a problem?”

ACTION: “Find that boy at once. I must speak with him.” Gertrude clutched the crumpled note in her fist and waved it at Bethany.

REACTION: “Aunt, he is long gone. He ran off through the woods towards the village immediately after he handed me the note.”

ACTION: Gertrude threw her head back and glared at Bethany. “No matter. You know everyone in that blot on the map called a village. Fetch him to me at once.”

 

This does need a reaction—desperately. That’s why the reader keeps turning the pages.

 

Another sample from one of my earliest attempts at writing. Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman is another Regency romance twisted with suspense.

Conduct Unbecoming a Gentleman.jpg

 

 

ACTION: Adron dismounted and strode toward the house at Landings. A few paces from the door, he heard a screech and pounding footsteps followed by a scream. He bolted into the house and up the stairs where he encountered a maid wringing her hands. “What’s amiss?”

REACTION: Essie poked her nose out of the parlor with Percy behind her as the butler and a couple of footmen came tearing from the back of the house. Everyone stared at the maid.

Her hands were trembling. “I was putting some linens in the closet in the back hall and I heard someone in the attics. Lady Laningham has been searching the house all day so I thought to give her a hand. I opened the door and a man wearing a mask was standing over her. She was limp on the floor like she was dead.” The maid covered her mouth and spoke between her fingers, “He come flying at me so I ran. And I screamed.”

ACTION: Adron took the stairs two at a time and drew his pistol before he shoved into the attic. At the sight of Laurel crumpled on the floor, his heart seemed to flip over before racing until he thought he would choke. Glancing around, he rushed over to kneel at her side. Adron stroked her hair away from her face. When he touched her, she moaned and seconds later opened her eyes.

REACTION:  “My head hurts.”

ACTION:  “Laurel. Thank God. What are you trying to do to me?” He lifted her into a sitting position with one arm and examined her scalp only to discover a lump trickling blood onto his hand. Someone had attached her and rage boiled inside him. He managed to force it down. “Someone knocked you on the head. Let’s get you downstairs into bed.”

REACTION:  He gathered her in his arms and placed a kiss on top of her head. “You frightened me half to death. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Carrying her gingerly down the stairs, he placed her on her bed. “I’ll send one of the maids to assist you into bed. Then I want to know exactly what happened.”

ACTION:  After the servant helped her settle, Adron stalked into her chamber leaving the door ajar and pulled up a chair. He forced his temper down. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear this is no place for you at present.”

REACTION:  Laurel leaned up on one elbow. She caught her breath on a half laugh and half gasp of pain. “That hurts.” She sank back onto the pillow. “I apologize, Adron. I thought you would be here to protect me else I wouldn’t have come.” Laurel stopped to catch her breath.

Hopefully the reader will want to know what happens next. The point in action, reaction is to bring the reader into the story. For more information about my books and my present work in progress, visit my website: I don’t think it’s against the law at Soul Mate to add my other information. If it is, I apologize, but here goes anyway.

Thank you for allowing me to share my thoughts with you. Until next time, have a lovely reading time.

 

Wareeze Woodson

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