Medieval romance. I really love
to read and write these stories. Welcome to
Books, Chocolate and Wine. Today my guest is good friend Barbara
Bettis. I love her stories and when she asked me what her post should be about…
well, I’ll let her tell you.
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
Memories
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.
And
Deadly
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?”
“Much better.”
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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