Putting the Fun Back in Writing

March 17, 2015Bloginspiration, psychology, The creative neurotic, the creative process, writing, writing and creativityK D Grace

If I’ve promised myself anything this year it’s that I’ll write for fun. It all started out that way, back when I was a kid and wrote my first stories. It was always fun – the writing. It was always magical to sneak away into my head and spend time with the people I made up. Things got more complicated when I began to engage with the world of publishing and, by the time I’d published my first novel, I always had an agenda. There was always at least one novel or story or novella that I was contracted to do ahead of the one I was working on at the time, most often, there were several.

Something about having a full dance card always made me feel like I was a proper writer, like I was legitimate. I never said no. Never! I felt like if I ever once turned anyone down, I’d jinx my success and no one would ever ask me to write for them again. Neurotic much???

Along with my ‘writing legitimacy’ PR, marketing and social media suddenly became essentials. I damn sure wasn’t going to let a book of mine languish after I’d gone to all the effort to write it. But how much is enough PR and marketing? How involved do I need to be in social media? Where and who and how often? And then there were readings and conferences and get-togethers with other writers and readers – all things I enjoyed, all things I tried never to miss. It’s exciting to be able to share my work with other people, and I love that part of promoting.

The thing is, at some point along the line the whole experience became wrapped up in my neuroses. It all became a task I felt I had to do, what I thought was expected of me. It all became wrapped up my fear of what might happen if I said ‘no’, if I chose to take a break. Somewhere along the line there became more and more rules and less and less room for me to play. I’m not blaming anyone. I think this is a struggle all writers have. But once I finished writing Interviewing Wade, I decided that from now on I’d be writing a whole lot more for fun, that I’d be brave enough to experiment again, to play with words and ideas and stories again and to see where those experiments lead me.

If the writing is no longer fun, then it’s not worth the doing. Writing the story has been the passion of my life for as long as I can remember, and I feel extremely lucky to have had some success. I’ve had so many reasons to celebrate because of this writing journey. But success, any success, is a very dangerous threat to fun. After I’ve popped the Champaign corks, after I’ve celebrated with my friends, after I’ve flashed my latest baby all over Facebook and Twitter, when I’m lying in bed in the dark, that’s when I begin to doubt myself, doubt my success, doubt that I’m capable of the next step required to move forward. That’s a real joy-stealer, and one I battle every day, as I’m sure many writers do.

The joy of writing, for me, is in seeing the story unfold and in knowing that I’m the conduit through which it unfolds. Frankly there are times when it feels a whole lot like magic. The fun is in watching the characters surprise me on the written page, the power – my power – comes from the play of it far more than from the work of it. This is a fact, and one I MUST remember at all cost.

Lisabet Sarai wrote a wonderful article for Erotic Readers and Writers Association a couple of months ago called The First Time. The article is about the power of the first novel, and how many first novels became iconic in the body of an authors’ work. Even though those first novels are not the best writing the author will ever produce, even though on the level of the story and the characters they may not be the best, somehow they speak to the readers on a visceral level in ways that later, better crafted novels by that same author just can’t seem to manage. I thought about that for a long time and, as I work to restore the joy and the play in writing, I’ve come up with a possible theory as to why so many of those first novels are so powerful. I think it just might be because those first novels are often writers playing, experimenting, discovering their powers and just trying to see what they’re capable of and what fun they can have with that creative energy. One of my very favourite authors of all time, a goddess in the craft, Diana Gabaldon, says she wrote her stunning first novel, Outlander, for practice never imagining that it would be published!

When I wrote The Initiation of Ms Holly, I wrote it totally as a romp, as a wild raucous joy ride that I absolutely played with and had fun with. At that point I had no intention of writing another erotic romance; I was experimenting. I was having fun. That was nine novels – under two pseudonyms — multiple novellas and a gazillion short stories ago. Though it’s been a fabulous ride, I’ve had to constantly remind myself that I’m a storyteller first and foremost, and I do it for the joy of it. I do it because in my heart, I know I’m not fit to do anything else.

It’s not that I no longer have fun with what I write. There are times when the pure joy of creating a world and characters and throwing them all together to see what will happen is just about as near an ecstatic experience as it’s possible to get on a keyboard. But if there is some truth in the fact that first novels are often so good because their authors are still playing with words, still revelling in the joy of the creative process, then it seems to me that as writers, anything we can do to get ourselves back to that first novel playtime sense of creativity, we most certainly need to do.

What does that mean? What does that even look like? I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that it’ll involve taking some risks, letting go of the white knuckle grip of control I’ve had on my work and my time for the past few years and seeing what happens when I’m willing to just play with it, IF I can still be willing to just play with it.

Some of that play, some of that experimentation will be coming out on my blog in the future. I learned when I wrote the serial Demon Interrupted that there were lots of ways of using my blog that were far more interesting than saying ‘here’s this book. You should read it’ – whether it’s my book or someone else’s

But if I want to connect with my readers, if they really want to know who I am, then the best thing I can do is share my words, share my creative process, share my stories. Some of you may have already guessed that I’m playing around a bit with the ‘Morphine Dreams’ and the ‘Alonso Darlington’ writings. There’ll be more playing around, and there’ll be more stories, and more experimenting. There’ll still be some ‘read my stuff’ promos and some blitzes and some really fabulous guests. But I’m reserving the right to play – on my blog as well as in the stories I write. Because play is at the centre of my creativity. It’s the place where the next story waits to unfold itself, and without that sense of fun and play what’s the point?

The Lady in the Sunglasses — What the Hell does She Want from Me?

March 15, 2015BlogThe woman in sunglassesK D Grace

As most of you know, I’ve been sharing the strange events and odd encounters that have recently been happening to me, all centring around surgery, drugs and strange, jet-lagged dreams. Not long before that, I shared with you an encounter I had with Alonso Darlington, a wealthy recluse who lives in the Lake District, who bears an amazing likeness to a certain vampire I wrote about recently. In fact, he seemed to take umbrage about that likeness and blamed it on some mysterious unknown woman that he referred to only as ‘she.’ Clearly he wasn’t pleased with her involvement in a situation that, for me, only grew more confusing as time progressed. And to be honest, It’s getting still more confusing for me. But I’ve finally actually encountered the woman I suspect Darlington was talking about. Or at least I think I have. I’m suddenly finding all kinds of coincidences and connections. This being the most recent.

*****

Somehow I suspect that the situation isn’t normal. I suspect that I’m either dreaming or having some sort of weird out of body experience, but for the life of me, I don’t know how, or when I decided to take this brief holiday from the flesh, or even if that’s what it really is.

But I go on about my business like everything is normal, nothing out of the ordinary. And in truth, I’ve often gone to the Twa Dogs Pub in Keswick and ordered a pint. But this time I’ve come alone, which is something I’ve never done before, and I know when I see her sitting at a table in the back of the snooker room that she’s waiting for me. It’s late afternoon, an overcast day, typical Lakeland weather, and yet she’s still wearing sunglasses. But then she was wearing sunglasses that night in Vegas, even in the tunnels.

I sit down across from her and she looks me up and down. Though I can’t see her eyes, I can certainly feel her gaze, like she’s looking right through me, like I’m sitting there naked. I resist the urge to fold my arms across my chest, and she gives a little smirk as though she knows exactly what’s going on in my mind.

My throat’s desert-dry, and I take a good solid sip of my Sneck Lifter and wonder at the wisdom of alcohol on an empty stomach. ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask.

I can see a golden eyebrow raise above the edge of the glasses. ‘I should have thought that would be obvious. You’re a writer, aren’t you?’

‘So? I reply.

But before I can say anything else, I catch a flash of bright eyes over the edge of the glasses and feel as though I’m suddenly glued to the chair unable to move. ‘You’re a storyteller, that’s what you do. You get into peoples’ heads and tell their secrets.’

‘It’s fiction. I make it up,’ I manage. My throat is no longer just dry, but it feels as though it’s constricting, closing, strangling me as I speak.

‘I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself,’ she says. My pulse ratchets up in panic, and I feel like my body is closing in on me, turning into a solid prison from which there is no escape. And just when I think I’ll hyperventilate, she offers me a quirk of a smile, and lowers her eyes to her own drink – whiskey, I observe. ‘Where do you think those stories come from?’ she asks.

‘I make them up, they come from my imagination, like they do with all writers.’

This time she throws back her head and laughs out loud, and I’m stunned by the bell-like sound of it. I’m even more stunned that no one notices. The pub’s not crowded, but it’s not empty either. How could anyone not notice her sitting there. She’s exquisite in a scary sort of way, and yet no one seems to be aware that we’re even there. I remind myself that it’s still quite likely I’m only dreaming.

Then she leans across the table and takes my hand in hers, and as frightened as I was only a moment ago, I suddenly find myself wanting to kiss her. Another indication that none of this is real, I tell myself.

‘Who do you think gives you those stories, Ms Grace?’ Her breath is sweet against my face, like an open field with just a hint of the single malt whiskey she’s been sipping. ‘Oh, I have so many stories I want you to tell, and you’re perfect for the job, darling, because you are so open to going where I want you to go.’ And then she stands, leans over the table and kisses me.

For a split second I have sense enough to worry about what the rest of the people in the pub will think of the girl-girl lip-lock in which I find myself. A split second more and I realise no one even notices. ‘You,’ she whispers against my mouth, ‘have been writing stories for me for a long time.’ Her tongue darts playful in between my parted lips. ‘I figure it’s time you know what I expect of you.’ She pulls away just enough to look at me over the top of her glasses, and I suddenly feel as though my very heart is freezing solid in my chest. ‘Things are about to get complicated Ms Grace, and you are about to become a very, very busy woman.’

She kisses me again, like she’ll never stop kissing me, and I feel like the floor to the pub has just caved in beneath me. Behind my closed eyes, I see familiar flashes of a ritual in a mirrored room, couples having sex all around me, candles on an altar, a mirror that contains a monster, a ghost who has been hung for a murder she didn’t commit, a succubus devouring thought and ego and giving it back in exchange for the blood of a vampire. Death walking in Vegas, enthralled by a siren, whose voice can calm or kill. I see, in strobe-like flashes of light, an exquisite woman in a ruined garden walking among statues, statues that look so lifelike and so disturbing in their poses that I feel goose flesh climb my spine. That same woman walking the endless halls of a library filled from ceiling to floor with books bound in the
flesh of the stories they contain, shelf after shelf of books, stories I’ve written, written at this woman’s command. And as she touches each of those books in turn, I realise the stories I’ve written give her power over the people in those pages, and she, in turn, gives me power to write the next story, and the next and the next.

Then suddenly I’m back in the Twa Dogs with her voice a soft vibration low in my chest. ‘You work for me, K D. You always have. You just didn’t know it,’ she whispers against my ear. Then she inspects me with another brief glance over the top of her dark glasses and brushes my icy cheek with her warm palm. ‘I thought it was time you knew the truth. That knowledge could serve you well in the near future.’

And when she removes her hand, when I can no longer glimpse the bright glint of her eyes behind her glasses, I fall with a jerk back into my chair, like I’ve had one of those falling dreams. I open my eyes to find my husband staring at me across the table. ‘You alright?’ He asks.

I nod, for a moment unable to place where I am.

‘You want another pint of Sneck Lifter?’ He nods at my empty glass. ‘You sucked that one back in nothing flat.’

A crack of a cue against a ball on the snooker table and a half-laughed curse in a soft Cumbrian lilt and the world comes back into focus. I am indeed in the Twa Dogs, and my husband and I have come to the Lake District on a holiday. As he heads to the bar for another pint, I rub my eyes and breathe deeply while the world around me comes back into focus.

‘I think you dozed off there for a minute, Sweetie,’ he says when he settles back across from me, raising his pint in salute. ‘Were you dreaming?’

I nod and gulp back a hefty drink from my pint. ‘Must have been.’

‘You look a little pale. Her again?’ he asks.

I only nod my response, my eyes locked on the half empty shot glass sitting on the table next to ours, rimmed in icy pink lipstick. ‘She says I work for her.’

‘Yeah? Did she give her name,’ he asks.

‘No.’ It surprises me to find how relieved I am that she didn’t, and yet, as I sip my beer and over at the whiskey glass, I know that she will. Very soon she will, and then what?

Out Now – Cowboy Up 2 Boxed Set!

March 13, 2015Guest Bloggerallison merritt, autumn piper, boxed set, cowboy up 2, cowboys, d'ann lindun, leslie p. garcia, melissa keir, new release, romance, sara walter ellwoodK D Grace

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Saddle Up with the best-selling authors who brought you Cowboy Up… And fall for Six more Cowboys ready to steal your heart!

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1HsUw5n

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Good Ride, Cowboy by Allison Merritt

Sometimes all you need is one good ride to clear your head.

Thanks to her ex-boyfriend, Sommer Allen’s life is in shambles. She’s headed home to Courtland, Texas for her sister’s wedding, but when a quick stop a gas station ruins her plans, she’s left stranded and at the mercy of a handsome cowboy.

Perry Glidewell is on his way back to Texas after winning another championship in the arena versus a bull. When he finds Sommer having a meltdown in the middle of a parking lot, he knows he can’t leave her alone. Since her hometown is near his, it makes sense to hit the road together.

Sommer never imagined falling for a cowboy. His manners and gallant attitude win her over quickly, but with her future uncertain, she’s not quite willing to give her whole heart to Perry. He’ll do whatever it takes to break the walls around Sommer’s heart, because beneath her tough-talking exterior, he sees she’s the type of Texas girl he’s always dreamed of.

EXCERPT:

Perry opened the door. “What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to steal my truck?”

She glowered. “Of course not. You snore. I thought I’d be able to sleep out here. I was asleep, until I turned a little and set off the alarm. I’m so sorry.” She handed him the keys and knocked something off the dash.

A lacy bra landed on his bare feet. His gaze shot straight to her chest. Sommer’s t-shirt was tight around her breasts and her nipples made perky bumps in the material.

Perry clenched his teeth. Of all the damn things to notice. He bent down and picked the bra up by the strap. “Think you lost something.”

She snatched the bra out of his hand. “You try sleeping in one of these.”

“Not really my style, sweetheart.”

“It’s not like I have a garment bag to store it in. Anyway, you snore really bad. It’s like the cross between a wood chipper and a rabid lion. I can’t spend the rest of the night listening to you.”

“You could have woke me up instead of alerting the whole world to where we are.” He shook his head. “You’re one strange lady.”

“Am not.” Her lower lip slid out and she folded her arms under her breasts, pushing them up higher.

About Allison Merritt:

A love of reading inspired Allison Merritt to pursue her dream of becoming an author who writes historical, paranormal and fantasy romances, often combining the sub-genres. She lives in a small town in the Ozark Mountains with her husband and dogs. When she’s not writing or reading, she hikes in national parks and conservation areas.

Allison graduated from College of the Ozarks in Point Lookout, Missouri with a B.A. in mass communications that’s gathering dust after it was determined that she’s better at writing fluff than hard news.

Cowboy in Waiting by Leslie P. Garcia

She’d buried a hero. She wasn’t looking for another. But her cowboy in waiting was far from a hero…

Bury enough dreams, and you’re bound to grow up.

Diana Salas Chester is a rancher’s daughter and a hero’s widow. There isn’t a lot she can’t do, from raising her daughter Gwen to facing down the loss of dream after dream. And then a birthday celebration goes wrong, and Diana winds up in Border Patrol Agent Ray Bennett’s bed.

Not many of her acquaintances approve of Ray “Baby” Bennett. But is he just the cowboy she’s been waiting for? Ray Bennett spent his life running away from the demands of his cowboy brothers and the ranching life. So when he wakes up in bed with his Border Patrol partner’s sister, he doesn’t want the complications. But suddenly the choice isn’t his to make.

EXCERPT:

Across from him, Di straightened in her chair. He looked her over appreciatively. The halter dress she wore plunged deeply, the icy blue contrasting with a smooth, even tan that went enticingly lower than he would have expected. Compassion headed toward desire. Hell, toward lust. Maybe if the night went suddenly better…

She tilted her head a little, then shook it. “You…what kind of car do you drive?” she asked abruptly.

“Yellow Corvette.” He waited for the gleam of appreciation.

“Then you’re the idiot in the yellow car!” She closed her fingers around her drink glass so hard he thought it might break, and gulped half the drink before slamming it down again.

“I will never forgive Rachel for this—this nightmare! My best friend? How could she set me up with some stupid, stuck-up, oversexed jerk in a yellow car? Damn you, Rachel!”

He gaped for a moment, then slowly closed his mouth. “Just one thing,” he asked. “Who’s Rachel?”

About Leslie Garcia:

Leslie P. García grew up lost among a crowd of six siblings and a menagerie that included more than twenty horses and ponies, uncounted dogs and cats, possums, raccoons—even a lion and monkeys. Then she moved to Texas, fell in love, was disowned—and embarked on her real adventures, raising 4 children, teaching hundreds, and loving 9 grandkids through forty years of marriage. The fabric of that colorful life has always been writing. In A Cowboy Heart, Leslie celebrates two of her passions—cowboys and the ever present chance at redemption in spite of past mistakes. Leslie loves hearing from readers and can be found all over cyber space, including these places:

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest | E-mail: lesliegarcia2000-author@yahoo.com

The Heartbroken Cowboy by Melissa Keir

Love isn’t found at the bottom of a bottle…

Johnson O’Neill joined The Heartsong Ranch to escape his addiction. One night at a friend’s wedding, stress causes him to fall off the wagon and into the arms of the woman of his dreams.

Debra Donahue lost her husband to alcohol then pulled herself up by her bootstraps becoming a million-dollar selling real estate agent. One night with a sexy cowboy and a bottle of whiskey, Debra falls hard.

Can an alcoholic cowboy and a brokenhearted woman find love despite their fears? Or will the bottom of a bottle claim another happily ever after?

EXCERPT:

“I don’t drink, but could use a strong one, right now. Not this sissy stuff.” He lifted the glass to his lips, downed the contents, and shoved his now-empty champagne flute away before he leaned in toward her. The smell of alcohol on his breath hinted that he’d already had too much to drink. “Know anyone around here with some whiskey?” The dark sapphire of his eyes chilled her. This was a man used to getting what he wanted. “I’d even share.” His voice deepened and became husky with his offer and she shivered.

“I don’t drink with men I don’t know.” Debra stuck out her hand. “I’m Debra, and you are?”

The man grabbed another glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and guzzled the drink in one swallow. “The name’s Johnson O’Neill. Now about that whiskey.” He reached out and drew her up to standing then tugged her in close to him. Wrapping his arm around her back, he moved her body in a slow two-step motion.

Debra gazed into his eyes. “You don’t have to seduce me for the whiskey.” She stepped out of his embrace and put her hands on her hips. She frowned.

“That’s not why I drew you into my arms. You were tapping your foot when I arrived—and I thought you might like a dance. A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be sitting alone.” He stretched his palm out again in a plea.

About Melissa Keir:

Melissa Keir has always wanted to be an author when she wasn’t hoping for a career as a race car driver. Her love of books was instilled by her mother and grandparents who were avid readers. She’d often sneak books away from them so that she could fantasize about those strong alpha males and plucky heroines. In middle school and high school, Melissa used to write sappy love poems and shared them with her friends and still has those poems today! In college her writing changed to sarcastic musings on life as well as poems with a modern twist on fairy tales and won awards for her writing. You can find many of these musings along with her latest releases on her website and blog.

As a writer, Melissa likes to keep current on topics of interest in the world of writing. She’s a member of the Romance Writers of America, Mid-Michigan RWA Chapter, and EPIC. She is always interested in improving her writing through classes and seminars.

Melissa doesn’t believe in down time. She’s always keeping busy. Melissa is a wife and mother, an elementary school teacher, a movie reviewer, an owner of a publishing company as well as an author. Her home blends two families and is a lot like the Brady Bunch, without Alice- a large grocery bill, tons of dirty dishes and a mound of laundry. She loves to write stories that feature happy endings and is often seen plotting her next story.

Cowboy in Trouble by Autumn Piper

A cowboy on the run and a girl on the rebound make for a messy fling.

Colby may be having the worst day ever. He wakes up at gunpoint, “hired” by a stranger to do a new job he doesn’t want. Worried the load he’s hauling is contraband, he walks off the job once he’s out of sight of his new employer. Running may not be his best plan, but he needs time to find a way out of this mess.

Delta’s day starts off rough when her pickup stalls on the side of the road. Lucky for her, a handsome cowboy comes along and works mechanical magic on the poor old truck. They strike a deal: he’ll help her out around the farm in exchange for a place to lay low for a few days. He turns out to be handy in all the right ways. A real keeper…not that she’s interested in keeping a man right now. She can afford a rebound fling, but nothing more.

Besides, once Colby gets rid of the crime boss breathing down his neck, he’ll hit the trail. A rodeo circuit cowboy from Oklahoma wouldn’t want to stick around on a little farm in Colorado. Or would he?

EXCERPT:

The door across the hall opened and by the time she turned around, Colby stood there in nothing but a towel. Hubbahubba, a very small towel, since she kept her nice big ones downstairs and hadn’t remembered to provide him one.

Um. Dripping, mostly naked, and looking as surprised as she felt… Wow. Those shoulders looked even better without a shirt. He had the prettiest eyes. Did guys like their eyes being called pretty? Whatever. Nice green-gray. And oh, how she’d appreciate a wardrobe malfunction right about now, just a little slippage of that towel. Although the healthy bulge beneath might not allow it to slip far.

“Ahem.”

“Er,” she answered ever-so-intelligently. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” he said at the same time. “Forgot my bag in here.”

Caught leering. Her face must be flame-red. “Thought I had time to make up the bed for you.”

“I’ll just…” He indicated his bag on the floor by the window.

“Oh. Sure.” She stepped aside so he could get to it. Lord, please grant us a wardrobe malfunction…

He picked up his bag without the towel slipping, although she had to say it had soaked up water in some prime spots and clung just right.

As he passed by her, he paused, and she tore her eyes away. Reluctantly. God. Her mother had definitely taught her it was rude to stare. The poor guy probably worried she’d attack him in the night. He was hot enough, it had probably happened before.

“Ditto,” he said.

“Huh?”

With his free hand, he rubbed his thumb over her chin. “Whatever you’re thinking, right back atcha.” Looking up into his eyes was like riding the downhill part of a rollercoaster. Her heart screamed Weeeee!

About Autumn Piper:

Born and raised in itty-bitty Rifle, Colorado, Autumn Piper studiously avoided trouble…but is now inclined toward it, particularly in her novels. She thinks the best things in life are funny, and the runners-up, romantic.

An admitted carb addict, Autumn writes, edits, manages two teenagers, two cats, a box turtle with a huge personality, one husband and many supersize houseplants, and does the cooking and cleaning when forced to.

To sign up for Autumn’s occasional newsletter: http://mad.ly/signups/105424/join

A Cowboy’s Heaven by Sara Walter Ellwood

From the hell of lost love, can they find heaven together?

Katie Chester is alone in the world. After losing her husband and then her parents, she’s left to run Heaven, a thousand-acre ranch encompassing nearly an entire Montana mountain. She rents out a suite of rooms, but ends up with a boarder who shakes her to her foundation.

When Pennsylvanian ex-Army doctor Collin Kirkpatrick lost his wife a year ago, he lost his world. He needs to escape the pain, and where better than in an isolated town in the West? He answers an ad for resident doctor in Evansville, Montana, but is surprised to find Heaven and the angel residing there.

But can they leave their grief and pain in the past to blaze a new path into the future?

EXCERPT:

He smirked at her as he sat beside her on the hay bale. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Not at all. You’re actually a pleasant surprise, Dr. Kirkpatrick.”

“I hope in a good way.” He winked at her and quirked his lips up into a lopsided smile, then turned his attention fully on the cow and calf, and leaned over his long legs with his elbow planted on his knees.

The calf suddenly lurched herself onto her back feet and Collin grinned from ear to ear. “She’s a beauty.”

Dear God, he more than surprised her, he overwhelmed her, and yes, it was in a good way. A very good way.

Katie let out a breath and violently shivered. He picked up the discarded blanket and pulled it over her legs. “You’re going to catch your death. Were you out in this cold all day?”

She nodded and swallowed. No way could she tell him that the sensation had nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with him.

With a deep breath to steady her racing heart, she watched as the calf latched onto one of her mother’s teats and started sucking with loud, hungry pulls.

“We can go inside in a few moments.” Sweet mercy, was that low, husky voice hers?

Collin only nodded as they watched the miracle of life before him.

About Sara Walter Ellwood:

Although Sara Walter Ellwood has long ago left the farm for the glamour of the big town, she draws on her experiences growing up on a small hobby farm in West Central Pennsylvania to write her contemporary westerns. She’s been married to her college sweetheart for over 20 years, and they have two teenagers and one very spoiled rescue cat named Penny. She longs to visit the places she writes about and jokes she’s a cowgirl at heart stuck in Pennsylvania suburbia. Sara Walter Ellwood is a multi-published author and publishes paranormal romantic suspense under the pen name Cera duBois.

Cowboy Proud by D’Ann Lindun

She left town to chase her dreams… He stayed and ignored his… Can they find their dreams together?

All Madeline Harper ever wanted was to escape the tight fences of Black Mountain, Colorado. Nothing would stop her from pursuing her goals–not a devoted boyfriend or infant son. Leaving everything behind, she landed her dream job as a Western Girl jeans model. Her sister’s wedding is the only thing that can entice her home. What she learns upon her return shakes her to the core…and changes everything.

For the last five years Shan Ellis’ life has consisted of taking care of his son and being a cowhand on his parents’ ranch. He scarified everything to be a single dad. College. A career. Girls. Now, the one woman he can’t forget is back in town. Can he take a chance, and risk his heart, or steer clear and never know what might have been?

EXCERPT:

This is how Shan had always pictured his life.

Doing what he loved with his wife and children.

Like him, Mason lived to be with the horses and cows. Too bad his mother hated the cowboy lifestyle with a passion. Shan couldn’t forget that for a second. Madeline Harper had ripped out his guts once before—he’d be damned if he’d let her do it again. Even if she wore a mile-wide smile and looked as at home on the back of a horse, herding cows as well as any cowgirl she wasn’t happy here. He couldn’t make her love the life, their son or him.

His good mood faded.

Last night, Callie Donovan had all but mounted him on the dance floor. He liked her well enough, but turned down her advances because he couldn’t get his mind off the dark-haired beauty from his past. In the five years since Maddy left town he’d held onto to the hope she’d return.

He was a fool.

Nothing had changed. He wanted a family; she craved fame and fortune.

About D’Ann Lindun:

Falling in love with romance novels the summer before sixth grade, D’Ann Lindun never thought about writing one until many years later when she took a how-to class at her local college. She was hooked! She began writing and never looked back. Romance appeals to her because there’s just something so satisfying about writing a book guaranteed to have a happy ending. D’Ann’s particular favorites usually feature cowboys and the women who love them. This is probably because she draws inspiration from the area where she lives, Western Colorado, her husband of twenty-nine years and their daughter. Composites of their small farm, herd of horses, five Australian shepherds, a Queensland heeler, two ducks and cats of every shape and color often show up in her stories!

D’Ann loves to hear from readers! Please contact her at:

Website | Facebook Page | Twitter | Amazon Page | Email: dldauthor@frontier.net

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Sleepwalking the Dog: More Morphine Dreams

March 11, 2015Blog, Inspirationcreativity, journal, Morphine Dreams, my writing process, writingK D Grace

Drugs, hospital stays, going under the knife. I’ve only ever had that experience three times in my life, and once was when I had my tonsils taken out as a very young child. Frankly it was a lot scarier as an adult. Things go wrong. People go under anesthesia for a simple surgery and there are complications. I’m a horrible patient under the best of times, but when control, everything, ALL OF IT, is taken out of my hands by anesthetists and surgeons, even when it’s for my own good, I wonder how I’ll come out on the other side. I wonder IF I’ll come out on the other side. I distinctly remember waking up in the recovery room after both my surgeries as an adult and my first feeling being an incredible sense of joy. Maybe that was just the drugs, but my first real thought, both times was, ‘I made it!’

There are no dreams under anesthesia or at least I’ve never dreamed. It’s like I’m conscious one second and then for however long the surgeon works on my, I no longer exist. I’m just not there. And frankly recovery afterwards demands too much attention to really consider the thought of where I went while I was somewhere else. Perhaps the anesthetist took ME out of my body and put me in a Mason jar by the side of the operating table until the surgeon was done, and then she stuffed ME back into my flesh.

But if I really was somewhere else, and it wasn’t a Mason jar by the operating table, then where was I? Surely I had to be somewhere. And that begs the next question. Wherever I was, was I there alone? And if not, is it possible that just maybe I didn’t come back alone? Sorry! I’m having a goose bumps moment here. Both times following surgery, I’ve come back to myself wondering if I’m still the same me. There are parts missing, parts repaired, parts bruised and stitched and stapled, BUT that’s just flesh. The first surgery, there was blood – someone else’s blood, transfused into
my body, but surely that’s just flesh too. I was just as gone then as I was this last time, and for a whole lot longer. And it only now occurs to me that it was after that first surgery that the stories began to flow fast and furious, and I couldn’t write them down fast enough. Oh I’d always written, always been good at it, but everything I wrote up until that point felt more like stuff I’d just made up. After … well after that first surgery it was different. Afterwards, wherever the stories came from, more often than not it felt like it wasn’t from me. It felt like someone opened up a place in my unconscious and dumped them into me, and I became the conduit, the scribe, nothing more. Sometimes I was a good scribe. Sometimes I could have been better because the material dumped into the conduit made me uncomfortable, made me squirm, and I didn’t want to write it. But if I didn’t write it, if I didn’t get it right, well the characters haunted my dreams, and they weren’t always very nice about it either.

Strange that it took a simple knee surgery to bring all this stuff back to me, to make me think about where I go, where I’ve been, and what that has to do with how the ideas get in my head. But maybe it’s not so strange at all, since the first surgery was major and all of me was much more taken up with recovery. But so many of the pieces fit together now. Where do I go when I’m not there in my body? Well at least this time, I went to Vegas, where I communed with a big-ass dog, a dark man who was brooding and beautiful in a scary as hell way; and a woman with the most incredible hair I’ve ever seen. Surgery, jet-lag, pain meds, and I find myself sleepwalking that big-ass dog through the streets of Vegas.

Well, actually it’s more like the dog is sleepwalking me. I wake up in the Elara, where I always wake up, and it’s late. It must be long toward morning because some of the brighter lights on the strip have been dimmed, and Vegas is as quiet as it ever gets. It’s the dog licking my face that wakes me. And the next thing I know I’m wrapped in a sheet toga-style and I’m following the dog down the Strip heading toward Caesar’s Palace. I don’t know why I keep following the dog. He’s not my dog, and he clearly doesn’t need me to look out for him. He clearly outweighs me, and his teeth are a lot bigger than mine. But I keep following him. It seems essential that I follow him. The Strip is strangely quiet, and dark, and then I realize it’s because I’m not actually on the Strip any more, but I’m down below it, in some strange tunnel.

I dream of tunnels a lot, so that doesn’t surprise me, and neither does it surprise me that though it’s pitch dark, I can see enough to follow the dog. I notice the smell of ozone, like you smell just before a coming lightening storm, and the fine hairs on my arms bristle. The dog stops, and I’m standing next to him peering out into what looks like a large ballroom. People are dancing to strange music, slow dancing, close and sensual, and my skin prickles all over. Then I realize I’m standing right behind the dark man and the woman with the hair, who are watching the goings on of the dance floor. I’m standing there, and I’m listening.

‘You promised me anonymity when I came here,’ the man says to the woman. There seems to be some sort of breeze coming from somewhere, teasing and caressing her hair and making it dance and sway against her back.

She laughs softly. ‘Surely you don’t think it’s your story I want to her to tell. Your story has been told ad nauseum.’

I can see the man bristle with her words, and I know his pride has just been stung. His response is soft, and I feel it more than hear it. ‘They’ll be telling my story long after you’re gone.’

She laughs again, and I find myself fascinated by the sway and shift of her hair with the movement of her body. I find myself wanting to reach out and touch it. ‘No doubt,’ she says, ‘but nonetheless, it’s not your story I want her to tell.’

At first I think it’s the dog growling, then with a shiver, I realize it’s the man. ‘You bring her here to my realm, where you know damn good and well she doesn’t belong and then you tell me it’s not about me?’

‘She’s a scribe,’ the woman says unperturbed. ‘That means there’s no place that she doesn’t belong, no boundary she can’t cross, and right now she works for me. If I want her to tell your story or the story of your mangy dog, or the story of some reclusive blood sucker across the pond, it’s not your business. You’d do well to remember that.’

I work for her? It is at that moment I realize the woman is talking about me! Suddenly I have the overwhelming urge to turn and run, though I’m not sure my legs will support me any longer. Besides I realize I can’t begin to find my way back. I followed the dog. I feel like my whole body has turned to ice, and I can’t move. I literally can’t move!

For a moment there’s silence. The music stops, but the people on the dance floor don’t seem to notice. They keep swaying and undulating as though they still hear the melody in their heads, and the rising wind I think I hear in the tunnel is only my own efforts to breathe.

‘Who then?’ The man asks at last. ‘Whose story do you want her to write?’

She leans forward and whispers in his ear, and I see his shoulders stiffen and his whole body convulses.

‘Who?’ I ask. ‘How can I know whose story you want me to write if you don’t tell me?’ But the woman doesn’t hear me. Neither of them do. And I’m shocked at the sound of my own voice. I haven’t agreed to write any story for her. Why would I? Why would I do anything for either of them? And yet I have to know! I have to.

‘Goddamn it, if you want me to write a story then tell me who it’s about,’ I shout.

And then I jerk awake as though I’ve just fallen from a great height. My knees hurt like crazy, and I’m trembling and sweating in the hospital bed. My husband is gripping my hand. The look on his face tells me that he’s concerned, that my dreams have bled into the waking world. He’s called the nurse. She takes my temperature and blood pressure, gives
me more pain meds and tells me to get some rest.

After she’s gone, my husband says, ‘you weren’t dreaming about a waterslide that time.’

I shake my head.

‘Was it bad?’ he asks.

‘Just strange. I was sleepwalking the dog,’ I manage just before I plunge back into drugged oblivion.

Morphine Dreams

March 9, 2015Blogjournal, Las Vegas, Morphine Dreams, Vegas HazeK D Grace

Most of you know by now that I just had surgery on both knees a month ago. You probably saw the ghastly picture I posted on Facebook while under the influence of some seriously yummy pain meds. Sorry about that. Lots of strange things happen under the influence of strong pain meds, including bizarre dreams. And the thing is that sometimes I wasn’t actually, really asleep … I don’t think. I remember plummeting slo-mo down a water slide in the sunshine, though my husband assures me I never left the hospital bed. I’ve always liked water slides.

In addition to the waking dreams, I had some very strange sleeping dreams as well. I dreamed of walking the Strip in Vegas with both my knees still wrapped and my hospital gown gaping at the back – a thing that fortunately no one noticed in dreams. Not that I’m sure anyone would notice in Vegas anyway. I certainly saw some pretty strange stuff when I was there last spring.

When I was there last spring I was way more jetlagged than I can ever remember being, and there were several occasions when I woke up in the middle of my bed not knowing where I was or how I got there. Of course the disorientation passed quickly and by the time I got to my sisters in Oregon five days later, I was back to sleeping normally. But I don’t recall ever being affected quite so strongly by jet lag.

Vegas is a strange place at the best of times, but seeing it through a haze of jet lag or dreaming it through a haze of pain meds makes it really hard to sort the reality from the dream. I’m bringing up Vegas now, almost a year after the fact because the drugged dreamscape kept taking me back there and kept reminding me of things that happened in my jetlagged state … or at least I think they happened. It’s like the meds sort of nudged me, jogged my memory, bringing back things that I honestly don’t remember. But it was all so clear from my drugged state. I recall every detail, the sun beating down, the smell of dust and sweat and rubbish, the push and shove of people on the strip. And I awoke in my hospital bed as though I had just been there.

One day while I was there, I succumbed to the double-decker bus tour. Not one of my wisest tourist choices. Honestly with the traffic in Vegas, I really do think I could probably have walked the tour route faster. It was still too early in the year to be hot yet, so I sat up in the open upper deck of the bus and listened to the tour guide yammer on about all the glitz and glam and all the misbehaving stars and the conspicuous consumerism while intermittently dozing as we sat in traffic waiting … and waiting. It was when we’d finished the tour of the Strip and were heading in past the wedding chapels to begin the downtown tour, crawling through traffic at a snail’s pace that I startled awake to find myself staring into a vacant lot. The houses all around were hard-done-by adobe, most well past their sell-by date. In another part of town where there was more money, they might have been renovated to be quaint and retro, but here they just looked tired. The empty lot was, no doubt, the garden and yard of such an adobe, with only a stoic adobe wall still fencing in the lot and serving as a bit of shade and shelter from the elements for a half a dozen homeless people.

While the tour guide answered questions about the filming of the reality television show Pawn Stars, which is filmed in Vegas, my attention was on the vacant lot and one homeless man in particular. Well actually my attention was on the dog that was with him – one of the biggest dogs I’ve ever seen. Surely he was a wolf dog mix, but wow, he was humungous. I noticed all the other people gave the dog and the man a wide berth. And with good reason. The man looked … well in all honesty, he gave me goose bumps. He was tall, broad shouldered. His hair was dark and, like everyone else’s, in need of a cut. He wore fatigues and what looked like biker boots, and I could swear both he and the dog were looking right at me, almost like they were challenging me. Then just as the bus crawled through the green light, he gave me a nod of his head and raised his fingers in what was either half a salute or an attempt at a wave. That I didn’t notice so much as I noticed his smile that made me feel like I was prey, like the dog had just bared his teeth at me. Then, I jerked awake and nearly fell of the seat just as we turned the corner and I craned my neck to see if I’d really seen what I thought I’d seen or if I’d just imagined it.

The tour went on forever. I finally got off and walked a good two miles back down from the north end of the strip and then over to my suite at the Elara. It was late afternoon when I got back to the room. I ordered a sandwich up from room service and sprawled on the bed thinking I’d read for awhile and then go down to do a bit of shopping on the Miracle Mile. I fell asleep almost instantly. It was dusk when I opened my eyes to discover that I couldn’t move. At first I thought room service had come to deliver my sandwich. You know those kinds of dreams where the doorbell rings and you’re on the bed and no matter how hard you try you can’t move. You know that it’s someone important, someone you need to let in and you try to call out to them, try to let them know that you hear them, but you can’t speak, can’t cry out, can’t move. Well that was me.

Finally the knocking at the door went away, and as I lay there in the gloom unable to move, I had that sudden feeling I wasn’t alone. I opened my eyes to find the man with the dog standing at the foot of my bed, but they weren’t alone, There was a woman with them, and though the room was in deep gloom by now, she wore a pair of sunglasses. The dog sniffed my hand, still clutching my Kindle to my chest. God he was a big dog! And I still couldn’t move, or cry out, and it was strange because for the moment at least, I was sure I was dreaming.

‘I don’t want her snooping about,’ the man said. His voice was a deep rumble I could feel down in my belly.

‘She won’t be snooping about. She won’t know the difference and neither will you,’ the woman replied. She had the most amazing hair. It was long and hung in waves and curls down her shoulders and back.

The dog was now licking my hand, and his muzzle was soft. He smelled like the desert.

‘I already know the difference,’ the man said. He snapped his fingers and the dog moved away from the bed back to stand next to him.

For a long time the woman was silent, then she sighed. ‘The choice is not yours to make Jon.’

‘But why me? Why now? Don’t think I don’t know what you did you did in England in the Lake District.’

‘I have my reasons. And I don’t care what you know.’ She came to the side of the bed, took the Kindle out of my hand and laid it on the nightstand. ‘I have my reasons,’ she said again. Than she leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, and her hair fell over my face like a veil, and I think I reached up to stroke it. It was so soft and heavy against my fingers.

When I woke up, it was four in the morning and I was starving. Surely what had happened had only been a dream. I made myself some toast and checked email. Then I worked on the manuscript I was editing. Finally I gave up trying to go back to sleep and went down to the gym for a workout. It was only after I’d showered and was dressing that I noticed a long strand of hair on my pillow. My hair’s long, and I would have thought nothing of it, but it was too long for my hair, and my hair’s straight. Besides the colour was wrong. The colour was like burnished bronze catching the light of the lamp on the bedside table. Surely it had to have belonged to one of the cleaning staff. Surely it had been there when I fell asleep, but I just didn’t notice it.

Thing is, I remembered only bits and pieces of that last trip to Vegas and that strange jet lagged stupor. I know that when a person’s sleep patterns are messed up, the results can be … well a bit crazy. A lot of what happened I didn’t remember at all until I was given the pain meds after my knee surgery. And now what I remember … well I’m not sure that I want to remember, actually.

I ask that as I share with you the events of that strange time in Vegas over the next few blog episodes that you don’t judge me, that you try to keep an open mind. Certainly I’m trying to. If it was just an interruption in my sleep patterns, then it’s something I hope I don’t experience again. But if it’s something more, then I feel like I really have to know, and frankly writing about it makes me feel a little less crazy and a little more in control. I kept the strand of hair. I don’t know why. And the dog … well I really liked the dog. The man, Jon, and the strange woman in the sunglasses though, they were really scary, even though they didn’t threaten me. I don’t even think they knew I was aware of their presence. Maybe best that way. God! And here’s me blogging about the whole incident. Maybe they won’t notice. Maybe it won’t matter.

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