Hi Everyone, Ruth asked me why I write. “Give me three reasons,” she said. Pinning down three reasons is hard to do, but here goes:
1. I write because I have certain stories I want to tell about certain characters.
I can’t say that I’m driven or that the characters won’t let me rest, as some authors experience. But my characters (and plots) nag and needle; they whisper and nudge and hang around the edges of my consciousness until finally I give up and write their stories. And just when I’ve gotten that book about wrapped up, and I think I can take a little time off or visit family or travel, another character comes calling. And he (or she) won’t leave.
No matter how I ignore him, he’s there. Like a shadow that follows me day and night. Darn pesky people, characters are.
No matter how often I tell them to go away, they lurk until, once again, I’m forced to the computer. They have no sympathy!
Even in the midst of research, they’re there. I was minding my own business one day, in the process of clarifying a historical event for the WIP, when a phrase triggered an image of a character in the midst of a scene. For a different story. So there I was, trying to complete one novel with another vying for attention. I tried to pretend he wasn’t demanding his own book but I finally gave up and wrote it.
Now, back to the question.
2. I write because it's an excuse to ditch any diet I try to pretend I'm on that month.
Somehow ideas coalesce when I munch. One can rationalize a lot when in the throes of creativity. Or on deadline. Dust collects on the bathroom scales and I don't even notice. that leads to Reason No. 3.
3. An excuse not to clean house.
Oh, all right. I admit, 2 and 3 are effects not causes. The truth is, No. 1 is the reason I write. I love telling stories. And I hope readers like the stories as much as I like the process of creating them.
Thanks for having me today, Ruth. It’s always a joy to visit your blog.
Some call him a ruthless mercenary;
she calls him the knight of her heart
she calls him the knight of her heart
Lady Evelynn’s childhood hero is home—bitter, hard, tempting as sin. And haunted by secrets. A now-grown Evie offers friendship, but Sir Stephen’s cruel rejection crushes her, and she resolves to forget him. Yet when an unexpected war throws them together, she finds love isn’t so easy to dismiss. If only the king hadn’t betrothed her to another.
Can Be Cruel
Sir Stephen lives a double life while he seeks the treacherous outlaws who murdered his friends. Driven by revenge he thinks his heart is closed to love. His childhood shadow, Lady Evie, unexpectedly challenges that belief. He rebuffs her, but he can’t forget her, although he knows she’s to wed the king’s favorite.
When his drive for vengeance leads to Evie’s kidnapping, Stephen must choose between retribution and the love he’s denied too long. Surely King John qwill see reason. Convict the murderers; convince the king. Simple. Until a startling revelation threatens everything.
Buy Links for The Heart of the Phoenix: Amazon
Excerpt from The Heart of the Phoenix:
At first, Evie thought it was the thud of her headache. Then the pounding came again, louder. She groaned and turned over. Opening her eyes told nothing; the blackness in the cabin was impenetrable.
“Marie?” Her voice rasped in a dry throat. No one answered. The girl must still be on deck. Evie
might as well have left Marie behind, for all the assistance the maid provided. With a groan, she swung her feet over the side of the bunk and felt her way along the wall toward the sound of another insistent knock.
“A moment,” she called. “I’m coming.” Who had the nerve to wake her in what must be the middle of the night? Hah. Need she even wonder? Her toe collided with something, and she yelped as she landed on her knees on the wood plank floor. Just what she needed. A broken foot.
The door burst open, bringing with it a dim light. “What’s wrong?” Stephen’s deep voice filled the room. “Where’s the damned lantern?”
“If I knew, I would have lighted it.” Blasted man. Did he think she enjoyed stumbling around in the dark? He acted as if she did so just to plague him.
Holding a shielded ship’s lantern high, he stepped toward the desk. “Here it is. Where’s that malkin who’s supposed to be your companion?”
“Leave Marie alone. I wanted privacy and gave her permission to go above.” Never mind that Evie had just complained about the same thing. He had no right to do so.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“A little late to ask that, isn’t it?” He bent to coax the cabin lantern to flame.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. Stop plaguing me. Why are you here?”
“I thought you’d like to know the identity of our fellow passenger.”
“At this hour? Could you not have waited until morning?” Sweet Mary, preserve her patience. He was the most maddening man alive. Light flared in the cabin’s shuttered lantern, throwing a shadow across his face, reminding Evie of another reason he should not be here. Her body instantly throbbed to life.
She pressed her palms against her stomach and inhaled. Calm. She needed calm. He was not the most beautiful man she’d ever beheld. He did not possess the power to heat her blood to boiling. He did not care that she thought of him night and day.
That much was true, for certain.
“I have news that will make the rest of your trip joyful.”
His words centered her whirling mind, and Evie eyed him warily. What news could possible make her happy right now?
She ventured a guess. “You are leaving? Your second in command, the delightful Sir Macsen, will accompany me the rest of the way home?”
Evie could tell Stephen was angry now by the way he glowered and roared in that whispery sort of way no one else could hear, but left her with no doubt of his displeasure.
“Your betrothed.” He bent and scooped her off the floor.
“What? What about him?”
“That’s the identity of the illustrious lord who’s sharing passage with us.”
“You’re drunk. And put me down. I’m perfectly capable of getting up on my own.”
“Be quiet. You have blood on your leg.”
“Of course I do. I tripped and fell trying to answer your pounding when you could easily have opened—” His words finally penetrated her throbbing head. “I’m bleeding?”
Oh, blast. The contents of her—empty—stomach churned. She attended the villagers’ hurts, bound the cuts and scrapes of servants and their children. The sight of their blood bothered her not a whit. But her own? Black spots danced at the corners of her vision, becoming larger and larger until she heard Stephen’s voice.
“Evie, Evie. What the hell?”
His voice echoed so far away. If she didn’t know better, she’d vow he sounded alarmed. Perhaps she’d close her eyes for a moment. As the ringing in her ears crescendoed, she recalled
his words. Betrothed.
Her betrothed was on board?
Dear Lord, just let me die.
About the Author:
A former health insurance claims adjuster, a former journalist, a former journalism teacher, Barbara Bettis plans never to be a “former” author. Currently, Dr. Barb supports her writing habit as an adjunct English instructor at a community college near her home in Missouri.
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