Books, Chocolate and Wine with Victoria Pinder

It’s Friday and time to celebrate another week. The summer is zipping by and there is still so much I want to do, although sitting by a pool and reading seems to be the perfect activity for this weekend. Each person has their preferences for spending their down time just like they have preferences for how they work. Today, my guest, Victoria Pinder tells us how she writes.

1.      What is your process for writing a book? For example, are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you start at page 1 and write your book sequentially or do you skip around? Do you start with your characters or the plot?

The first ten thousand words are easy. I’m getting to know my characters. I’m getting what happened to them. Then around that word count I have to stop and ask myself, ‘what’s the plot?’ I have to spend a day thinking about what might happen to these characters, but honestly, if I believed that the plot was set in stone, I’d never write another word. I have to think about it and let the characters rule the story. Most of the time it is sequentially, but it’s not exactly a fully formed plot either. I consider myself a hybrid in writing style.

2.      Do you write multiple drafts or barely need revisions when typing, The End?

I wish I didn’t need revisions! I generally complete the manuscript (but not always if I feel something is absolutely horrible about the story. Then I have to think about it until the fix hits me.) This doesn’t mean it’s done though. Revisions are my friend.

3.      When you are writing, who is in control? You or your characters?

If I’m in charge the story is awful! If I’m in the character’s head then I’m in the zone and the story flows easier.

4.      What advice do you have for other writers?

Never listen to negativity that is not meant to be helpful. People will always try to steal your shine. On the other side, there are great experts who will be critical in order to help you. If you can distinguish the difference, then you’re in the best position.

5.      Why did you decide to become a romance author?

Write what you love to read and think about. I loved reading romance novels. I read thousands of them. So when my imagination soars the story usually ends in a happy-ever-after. Once I realized I wanted to try my hand at writing then the genre was the easy choice.

6.      What books can we expect to see in the near future?

I have my Secret series that will be out by the end of the year. It’s my ode to prime time dramas where it meets a romance novel, so expect surprises and lots of dramatic turns.

7.      What makes a man attractive to you?

This was my favorite question! It made me think about lots of options that are attractive. Nice hair, sexy eyes, five o’clock shadows, some body hair, muscular body. Oh so much to think about, but the truth is I’m far more attracted to man with brains. Intellect and the ability surprise me in conversation… this is the most attractive part of a man. I’d pick brains over brawn every time.

8.      Tell us a little about the state/country you live in.

I live in Miami, FL.  I moved from cold Boston to the warmth of the subtropic weather. In the winters I don’t regret it at all. In the summer, the humidity is swampy and sticky and makes you not want to move. I live in a multicultural climate that is unlike anywhere else. It makes you appreciate different foods, different cultures and so much. I highly recommend it.

9.      If you were a millionaire would you still write?

ABSOLUTELY! I could write even more! If I didn’t have to go to the day job, then I could devote myself to my family and my writing. If I had a billion dollars, I’d write, travel and spend time with my family.

10.  Cat or dog person?

I grew up with cats. They are interesting, fun, and unique individuals. Other people’s dogs are fun, but if I have to choose, I’m going with a cat.

Back Cover Copy for Favorite Coffee, Favorite Crush:

Penny moves back to Miami to start her new job. She must start on Monday, so she has a list of things to accomplish.

1. Find a place to live.
2. Avoid her mother.
3. Reconnect with old high school friends. There was her best friend, Sandra, the dramatic Eva, the dark Michael, her half-brother Wyatt, and her old high school crush Jay.

Jay may have kept her firmly in the “friend zone”, but that didn’t stop her from wanting more. Her five friends have stood by her through some difficult times and she’ll need their help now to accomplish her first two goals. As soon as Jay sees Penny, he puts his plan into motion. His investors need to see him with a stable woman, one who isn’t all flash and no brains; Penny fits the bill perfectly. There’s just one hitch—he wants more. 

Their pretend date sets off a whirlwind of plots. From mothers who want to control their children’s lives to the loss of her exciting new job, Penny’s world turns upside down. She knows she can overcome all obstacles except one—she’s falling for Jay all over again.

Excerpt from Favorite Coffee, Favorite Crush:

“Home, sweet, err…coffee.”

Getting out of her car, Penelope brushed her worn jeans to get out a small wrinkle. Not that it mattered. She smelled the coffee drawing her to the door. The delicious aroma of freshly brewed java that could wake her up waited inside. Gainesville had coffee shops, but nothing that held her heart like this place. In high school, this place was her mecca. Her stomach grumbled for the familiar drink.

The coffee shop looked almost the same as it had years ago, except for the aluminum tables and wooden chairs with red cushions. She remembered the plaid chairs and brown tables, but the place still calmed her, like she was coming home.

She stepped up to the counter. “I’ll have a cinnamon dulce nonfat latte, please.”

Leaving Gainesville after college had always been the plan. Just never back to Miami, but she’d changed. She could live here now.

She checked her lip gloss while she waited for the latte at the counter.

When she accepted the promotion from part-time to full-time, she knew she would have to face her mother and the catch of the month, Lars, her mother’s plastic surgeon. What that woman would do for a free tummy tuck.

The job she’d accepted had offered to triple her salary, provided she moved to the Coral Gables office. Somehow, she’d avoid her mother until necessary. What was the man’s name with money this week? Penny ignored that last call, knowing the man with the largest wallet always took precedence over whatever Penelope needed. She watched the barista get the nonfat milk and finish her latte. She’d succeed here, now. She had to.

She’d call Sandra, Eva, John, and Michael later. Wyatt, her half-brother, was stationed overseas, so she’d wait for his weekly call. These people were her real family.

The man handed her the latte. The first sip gave her the strength to do this. The tightness of the ride dissipated while she tasted her liquid savior. Sighing, she tasted heaven, the wake-up to her day.

“Penelope.”

Though the unmistakable voice was deeper, she knew who it was without even turning. Her high school crush, who never noticed her beyond her brain. Pulling at her pink tank top, she wished she’d worn better clothes. “John Jay.”

His steely blue eyes and sandy blond hair were the same color, but his build had grown more muscular. The leanness of his youth had given way to broad shoulders and hard, muscular arms. He had a straight, faded scar on his left cheek that was new—probably a bar fight. Rich boy wore his fancy, perfectly fitted polo and jeans, and was definitely hotter with age. His million-dollar smile and devastating dimples sparked a warm flush that sped through her all the way to the tips of her toes.

“I’m going by Jay these days. It’s less formal.” He winked at her, turning off his tablet and pointing her to his table.

“It’s a good name, but I still prefer Dimples,” she teased. “It’s what I called you on online whenever I needed you.”

His rich, deep laugh sent that familiar spark through her.

Damn. Rich boy knew his effect on women, including her. He could manipulate her when she went quiet, but she’d learned a lot in college. She’d not let him weaken her.

Purchase Link: Amazon: http://amzn.to/1SrKB7I

About the Author:

Victoria Pinder grew up in Irish Catholic Boston before moving to the Miami sun. She’s worked in engineering, after passing many tests proving how easy Math came to her. Then hating her life at the age of twenty four, she decided to go to law school. Four years later, after passing the bar and practicing very little, she realized that she hates the practice of law. She refused to one day turn 50 and realize she had nothing but her career and hours at a desk. After realizing she needed change, she became a high school teacher. Teaching is rewarding, but writing is a passion.

During all this time, she always wrote stories to entertain herself or calm down. Her parents are practical minded people demanding a job, and Victoria spent too many years living other people’s dreams, but when she sat down to see what skill she had that matched what she enjoyed doing, writing became so obvious. The middle school year book when someone wrote in it that one day she’d be a writer made sense when she turned thirty.

She’s always been determined. She is amazing, adventurous and assured on a regular basis. Her website is  www.victoriapinder.com.

Member of Florida Romance Writers, Contemporary Romance, Celtic Hearts and Savvy Authors.

For a free novella of Returning for Valentine’s Please Click here: http://victoriapinder.com/returningforvalentineshorttimeoffer

Contact Information

Website: http://www.victoriapinder.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/victoriapinder1

Twitter: https://twitter.com/victoriapinder

Medieval Monday with Jenna Jaxon

Summer is just zipping by. It’s already August! To my guest is Jenna Jaxon. This is a lovely garden scene. I haven’t got a green thumb. Black is my color. Instead of me speak to plants they talk to me and beg me not to touch them. Enjoy the garden walk.

Excerpt from Time Enough to Love

Snipping the stems of a sweetly-scented pale lavender Apothecary’s rose, she started when a shadow fell over the flower in her hand. She looked up to find Thomas standing before her, smiling at her basketful of blooms.

“You wish to take a part of Knowlton’s Keep with us when we leave, my lady?”

Her answering smile masked the strange thumping that became the beat of her heart. “I hope you approve, my lord. I would dry the petals and use them to remind us of home while we journey so far from it.”

“Of course, my sweet. Whate’er your heart desires is yours.” He took a dark pink blossom from her and held it to his nose. “Sweet.” The warm brown eyes held her blue ones. “Thank you.”

Alyse stared at him, uncertain what he meant. “I beg pardon, my lord?”

He placed the rose in her basket. “’Tis what the dark pink color means. In the language of flowers. Thank you. At least,” he grinned at her, “according to my mother that is what it means. I am not sure how she came by this knowledge.”

Curious idea. “What do the others mean?”

He drew her arm through his and led her to a bush with snowy-white double blooms. “This is the Cheshire rose. The white blooms stand for purity.”

Alyse bent to smell the delicate scent. “I suppose that would be expected.”

Thomas took her shears and snipped the bloom, adding it to her basket. “Purity, for a pure heart.”

Beside the Cheshire grew a large bush of clear pink blooms. “And this?” She could not contain her eagerness. The names and meanings of the roses had stirred up the banked embers in her soul. Or perhaps the nearness of Thomas’s masculine body excited other, more passionate yearnings. Suddenly, the feel of his arm in hers filled her senses.

What was happening? Why this sudden lift in spirits?

She had been more melancholy of late, ever since Thomas had abandoned her bed. But it made no sense.

Did she not still love Geoffrey, heart and soul?

The thought sobered her. The sharp pang of sorrow that always stabbed her heart at the thought of him had dulled. Was she coming to regard Thomas as her husband and long for him as such?

“This is my favorite.” He clipped another pink bloom and held it under her nose. “What do you smell?”

Puzzled, she sniffed the showy pink blossom, but he moved the stem and leaves for her to smell instead. A wonderful scent assailed her, but one she did not associate with roses.

“Apples?”

A smile lit his face as he placed an entire stem of the flowers, leaves and all, into her basket.

“But what is it called?”

“Eglantine or Sweet Briar Rose.” He looked down at his thumb where a fat drop of blood welled. “The latter is probably the more apt name.” He smiled ruefully.

Seeing his glance, she took his hand and, without thinking, raised the injured thumb to her lips. She gently kissed the drop away, and he gasped. Their gazes met, his frankly searching hers for an answer.

Back Cover Copy for Time Enough to Love

When Lady Alyse de Courcy is betrothed to Sir Geoffrey Longford, she has no choice but to make the best of a bad bargain. The hulking knight is far from her ideal man, and although he does possess some wit and charm, he is no match for the sinfully sensual man she secretly admires, Thomas, Earl of Braeton, her betrothed’s best friend. 

From the first, Sir Geoffrey finds himself smitten by Lady Alyse, and, despite her infatuation with his friend, vows to win her love. When Geoffrey puts his mind to wooing Alyse, he is delighted to find her succumbing to his seduction. But when cruel circumstances separate them, Geoffrey must watch helplessly as Thomas steps in to protect Alyse—and falls in love with her himself.

As the three courtiers accompany Princess Joanna to her wedding in Spain, they run headlong into the Black Plague. With her world plunged into chaos, Alyse struggles with her feelings for both the men she loves. But which love will survive?

Buy Link: Amazon

Books, Chocolate and Wine with Deborah Blumenthal

It's a summer Friday and still hot in the Northeast. I hope you're enjoying your summer. Today my guest is Deborah Blumenthal. She has a wonderful story about a love letter found in a taxi and a woman who a romantic with a fanciful imagination. She also shares why she loves to write.

Three reasons why you love to write:

What other job can you do in your bathrobe?

It’s fun to live in your mind – at least from 9 to 5!

What other job lets you create other, more perfect worlds, and offers total escape?  

Fixing Your Wardrobe is a Dream Job. Fixing Your Life is a Work of Art.

Sage Parker has the perfect occupation for a Manhattanite—she helps the rich and powerful keep their wardrobes current and suitable for every need. Her sense of fashion is impeccable, her connections are unsurpassed, and her eye misses not a single well-made stitch.

So when she discovers a love note left in the back of a cab, Sage admires the card stock and the ink, but also the heartfelt words. She sets out on a mission to find out who the love note was intended for—and who wrote it.

What Sage discovers will broaden her horizons and change her life, introducing her to an extraordinary woman who is revamping her entire world midway through life, a dashing Brit with a hive of secrets, and a free-spirited painter, whose brush captures the light in everything he paints, including Sage.

Review for Someone Else’s Love Letter

 "Lush and glamorous descriptions of a closet mistress and her single adventures in the city. As a NYC celebrity stylist, I could not wait to turn the pages." ―Amanda Sanders, Celebrity Stylist at New York Image Consultant

Buy Links: Amazon,  Barnes&Noble,  Indiebound.org

Excerpt from Someone Else’s Love Letter

There are things you never expect to find in a taxi. Things like love letters. This one was easy to miss, wedged under the driver’s seat except for a tiny triangle of icy blue playing peekaboo. I would never have seen it if a stretch limo to our right hadn’t turned with no warning, nearly shearing off the front fender.

When the driver slammed the brakes, I was on my way home after three hours inside a walk-in closet. My handbag pirouetted over the seat, releasing a sea of bracelets, beads, scarves, shoulder pads, Miracle Bras, panty hose, scissors, Scotch tape, safety pins, Velcro, Motrin, tampons, and Red Bull. To the barrage of expletives from the driver, I tossed it all together like a crazy salad and stuffed it back into my bag.

That’s when I spotted the envelope.

I tugged at the corner and it slid free. The paper was thick, luxurious, and addressed in amethyst ink. I lifted the flap, tracing my finger over the midnight-blue lining embedded with whispery white threads. I held it to my nose.

A faint perfume. Two sheets were neatly folded inside.

Dear Caroline...

I was just a block from home, so I slid it into a jacket pocket and searched for my wallet. After greeting the doorman, I picked up my mail and rushed upstairs to feed Harry, the man of the house, my yellow lab. It wasn’t until a week later, when I wore the jacket again, that I thought of the letter.

When important things happen, your mind has a way of fixing the moments into your memory. You recall exactly where you were and why, who you were with, the time of day, even the light. I began reading the letter on the bus up Madison Avenue, passing Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, Barneys, Yves St. Laurent, and Ralph Lauren’s flagship store in the Rhinelander Mansion. Only then I didn’t try to glimpse the clothes as the shop windows fast-forwarded like frames from a high-fashion video.

It was a crisp fall day, a time of beginnings. For no particular reason, everything felt right in my world when I woke that morning. It was Saturday. The Chinese finger trap of time was looser. My plan was to spend the morning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then walk part of the way back through Central Park.

I was in navy D&G flannel slacks, a white ribbed Tory Burch sweater, and Fratelli Rosetti loafers. My jacket was over my arm. On the way to the bus I stopped at Starbucks and asked for Panama La Florentina, the coffee of the day, because the barista behind the counter told me it was similar to their house blend, and anyway, I just liked the way it sounded. Before I left, I put the coffee down and slipped on my jacket.
The only free seat on the bus was the hot seat in the back, always the last to be taken because it was over some motor part that turned it into a radiator. I sat anyway, afraid that if the bus stopped short I’d be faced with litigation. Before I opened the newspaper, I slid my Metrocard into my pocket. That’s when I remembered the letter.

I opened the envelope and recalled how much I had admired the stationery, particularly the way the sender put the return address not in the usual places—on the upper left-hand corner or on the flap—but vertically up the left side of the front edge of the envelope, in carefully printed block letters.

Dear Caroline, I know you’re used to reading emails, not letters. I know you make split-second decisions, and think life’s more black and white than gray, but I have to explain...and I beg you to listen.

He talked about his empty life before they met—the unhappy relationships, his despair at not being able to find the right woman, his feelings of isolation. Then they met and everything changed.

How can I explain the way I feel about you?
Let me tell you about a book of letters I read by the physicist and Nobel laureate Richard P. Feynman. His first wife had moved to Albuquerque to be near him when he worked on the Manhattan Project in Los Alamos. She later died there in a sanitarium, from tuberculosis. A year and a half after her death he wrote, “I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead. But I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love me and care for me.” He ventures that maybe they could still make plans together, but no, he had lost his “idea- woman, the general instigator of all our wild adventures.”

“You can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of loving anyone else,” he wrote. “But I want to stand there. You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.”

Before you nothing in my life had real meaning. You’re gone now, yet all I think about is you. I live in the shadow of our relationship, pretending you’re still with me. Even without you, the memories of our life together mean more than the reality of being with someone else.

Caroline, please, let me see you. At least let me talk to you. Life without you is unthinkable.

A heartfelt plea to win a woman back. It was almost Shakespearean. Only the address wasn’t Stratford-upon- Avon, it was downtown Manhattan. I slipped it back into the envelope.

Whose life had I stumbled on? Where did he live, what did he do? Men called, emailed, or sent text messages—they didn’t write letters, and if they did, never on handmade paper with deckle edges, a throwback to the fifteenth century.

The writer had style. He was smooth, articulate. The wrappings of his thoughts were as affecting as his words. Just thinking about him set my mind reeling with the possibilities. Where did that leave me?

Captive.

Which made no sense. I was a peeping tom, peering into someone else’s emotional life. Still, he was a kindred spirit. He knew the importance of putting things in the proper wrapping too. So never mind Caroline who had tossed away the letter like a losing lottery ticket; maybe he’d like to meet a woman of the cloth who judged letters by their covers.

I gazed out the bus window, forgetting my plans for the day. When I remembered to check the street signs, the bus had passed the Met and was approaching 96th Street. I got off, turned around, and walked the three miles back to Murray Hill, as if it made perfect sense to ride all the way uptown and then go directly back home without stopping anywhere at all in between.

About the Author

Deborah Blumenthal is an award-winning journalist and nutritionist who now divides her time between writing children's books and adult novels. She has been a regular contributor to The New York Times (including four years as the Sunday New York Times Magazine beauty columnist), and a home design columnist for Long Island Newsday. Her health, fitness, beauty, travel, and feature stories have appeared widely in many other newspapers and national magazines including New York’s Daily News, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Woman's Day, Family Circle, Self, and Vogue.

Blumenthal lives in New York City.

Website: www.deborahblumenthal.com

Social Media Links:

Facebook: Deborah Blumenthal, Author: https://www.facebook.com/readthelifeguard/

Twitter: @deborahblu

Medieval Monday with Barbara Bettis

I hope you had a good weekend. It’s been a scorcher here in the Northeast and great for sitting by the pool or in an air conditioned room reading a good story. Today I’m hosting Barbara Bettis. She’s given us an excerpt from her novel, Silverhawk. Continuing with our nature theme, in this excerpt Lady Emelin has chosen a stormy night to launch an escape from her tempting kidnapper, Sir Giles.

She shivered against the increasing cold and hunched forward to search the path ahead. Why hadn’t she thought to bring one of the blankets? Clouds scudded across the sky. Still she urged the horse onward. She had come too far to turn back now.

Had Silverhawk regained consciousness? Discovered her absence? Imagine the surprise, when he awoke alone. She’d shown him she was not helpless. Satisfaction lightened the oppression she was feeling—from the approaching storm; that had to explain the growing dread.

Then, carried on bursts of wind, came voices. At last. She’d found them. She straightened, the discomfort of the cold and riding bareback forgotten as she urged the mare forward. Onward down the trail she rode. Once she called out, “Lord Osbert, Garley, I’m here.” No answer came.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, and white light knifed across the ominous sky. Please, not rain. Surely the good Lord wouldn’t be so cruel. Her throat constricted. She gulped. She would not panic.

Concentrate on deep breaths. If only her heart would stop clamoring to get out. A cold, fat drop struck, followed by two more, a dozen. Then the downpour hit.

A jagged streak snapped in front of her. A rolling crash shook the earth. The mare tossed its head, danced aside. Emelin murmured, petted the animal’s neck in an attempt to calm it. But at the next sharp crack, it reared, and shot down the path.

Fisting the reins, she clung to its mane as the mount veered through the underbrush, away from the sharp zigzags of light. Branches struck her face, snatched at her skirts, nearly dragged her off. How she managed to keep her seat, she didn’t know. All she could think was, Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.

At last the mare slowed. Emelin squinted through wet eyes, reached out to knock aside a soggy branch, dripping leaves. Finally, the animal stopped, blowing hard, trembling. Emelin shook.

Breath came in gasps. Her mind could not form a coherent thought as cold wetness dripped from her hair to ooze down her back. The frightened flight of the horse had carried her far from the path. She was hopelessly lost.

All around, wind-whipped shadows dipped, lunged forward, then back. Another spear of lightning wrenched into a nearby tree. Her shout of surprise was swallowed in the earth-shaking

roar that followed. The winded mare only shook harder.

Could they survive this nightmare?

Then through the rain-drenched night a huge black object hurtled up, rearing as it just missed her. Emelin screamed.

The monster swung around. Wet black tentacles wrapped around her, dragged her off the exhausted mare. She tried to struggle, but the iron hold wouldn’t allow it.

At last her feet touched ground, and the tentacles embraced her until she couldn’t breathe. It took a moment for the roar to dissolve into understandable words. “Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Tell me if you’re hurt.”

Silverhawk.

Her arms flew around his waist and she nodded against his soaked tunic. Thank God, thank God. She was safe.

Back Cover Copy:

He’s everything a proper lady should never want; she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

Sir Giles has come to England to kill his father, who seduced and betrayed his mother. First, however, he’ll seek sweet revenge—kidnap the old lord’s new betrothed. But when Giles uncovers a plot against King Richard, he faces a dilemma: take the lady or track the traitors. What’s a good mercenary to do? Both, of course.

Lady Emelin has had enough. Abandoned in a convent by her brother, she finally has a chance for home and family. Yet now she’s been abducted. Her kidnapper may be the image of her dream knight, but she won’t allow him to spoil this betrothal. Her only solution: escape

Rescuing the intrepid lady—while hunting traitors—is a challenge Giles couldn’t anticipate.  But the greatest challenge to Giles and Emelin is the fire blazing between them. For he’s everything a proper lady should never want, and she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

Buy Link: Amazon  

Books, Chocolate and Wine with Madeline Martin

Sit back and relax. We’ve made it to Friday. Here in the Northeast, it’s going to be hot, very hot. What better way to spend a few minutes with something icy cold and a good read? Today my guest is Madeline Martin, an online friend I met in San Diego at RWA’s National Conference. We had a great time. I know you’ll love her story.

What Readers Want to Hear from Madeline Martin

I confess I always get a little stumped when I need to come up with a fresh idea for a blog post. And so I turn to my readers (you guys always have the best ideas). For this particular post, it was suggested I describe my beginning to end writing process, including where ideas stem from, time frames, etc.

Every one of my books is borne of a single idea or thought. It could be something that pops in my head from a memory, or it could be a lyric in a song or poem that snags my attention. For example, Grey or Blue by Jaymay had the lyrics “I can’t stop staring at your mouth without wondering how it tastes” which spawned a scene between Celia and Alec in Enchantment of a Highlander.

From that one idea, my subconscious grabs it and starts spinning, filling in scenes and places and who the people are. These are usually high stare off into space times for me. LOL But while it seem like I’m just zoning out, I have a whole world blossoming to life in my head.

From there I put together a brief outline of the beginning to end with main points/scenes I know I want to incorporate. Characters names and descriptions usually correlate with what personality they have or how they sometimes just show up in my head. This idea/character building is my favorite part of the writing process – before writer’s block can tickle at my ideas or edits can crush me down. This is the part of the story making process where I fling wide my arms and dance through an open field, where the sky doesn’t even feel like it can limit the possibilities crowding my thoughts. This is where I feel the story start to breathe in me, when the emotions of the characters tie into my heart and their souls become a piece of mine. Pure and simple, it’s magic. (I’m actually smiling as I describe this LOL)

Once my characters and plot are detailed out (ummm…for the most part), I write. I’m the most productive when I do writing sprints with friends. That means we both plan on writing for 30 minutes (from our own homes) and text each other when that 30 minutes is over to report the amount of words we’ve written. It’s fun competition that forces me in my seat and writing full steam ahead.

I do work a full time job and don’t like write while the minions are awake. This means I wake up at 4:30 to write and do a lot of work after they go to bed. As a result of my limited time, it takes about four months to write an entire full length novel.

I write using Scrivener, which is a writing program where I can break my scenes down and title them (which makes editing easier), I can also attach pictures of the cast of characters and scenery. One of the important features for me is the sidebar panel which allows me to make notes to myself. I use these for editing comments to address later rather than going back and editing. (For example: As of chapter 13, the sidekick has a scar on his cheek for a reason – go to previous chapters to add this detail) This keeps the self-editing process from being so painful.

Once the story is written, I plunge into my personal edits I’ve noted on the side, as well as a friend’s edits who helps me as I go (and she is a total Godsend!). Once that’s done, I do a final read through and edit what sounds right.

After edits, it goes to beta readers for their feedback, corrections are made. Then on to my editor with my publisher. I usually do two rounds of edits, then another two or three rounds of copy edits, then the final read through goes through my Momma, who can catch a typo like nobody’s business. And then, it is FINALLY done and the process can start over again.

I think the hardest part about writing a book is the allure of the next book. There are always new ideas tugging at my attention and trying to lure me off course.

I confess that working a full time job while writing, especially with having young children, is very difficult. I seldom have free time for me and I always feel like I’m working. Some days I get really overwhelmed when I look at my to do list (promo takes up a ridiculous amount of time), but then I just look toward the first item and press on. It is a lot of work, but I don’t regret one second of it and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Writing is my love and publishing books is my dream, and I consider myself lucky to have been embraced by such passion.

Love is the most potent of remedies.

The sweeping historical romance that began with DECEPTION OF A HIGHLANDER, and continued with POSSESSION OF A HIGHLANDER, reaches its dazzling conclusion in this scorcher set on the Scottish plains.

Alec MacLean returns home after a decade to find his recently deceased father has let his inheritance fall to ruin. As the new laird, it’s Alec’s responsibility to rebuild the castle and restore the lands. He must also regain the people’s trust after having abandoned them so long ago, a feat not easily done when he fears he’s plagued with the same darkness as his father.

Celia escaped the North Berwick witch trials at a young age, surviving because of the sacrifice of her beloved caretaker. She’s made a life for herself in the wilds of Scotland where no laird rules, a life where she heals for coin, a life without love so she can never feel the hurt of loss again.

When the new laird comes back to claim his land, his determination to restore order threatens everything Celia has worked so hard to gain, especially with the undeniable attraction sizzling between them. Together, they will face all challenges, from the tangle of their own damaged pasts to the fire-fueled witch hunts sweeping the Isle of Mull. Together, they will find that the best way to overcome darkness and war is through the undeniable light of love.

Reviews of Enchantment of a Highlander:

“…an enchanting series conclusion.” -Publishers Weekly

“…filled with interesting characters and is an enjoyable read.” -RT Book Reviews

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Excerpt from Enchantment of a Highlander

Celia had known the man was nobility by his fine dress, but she hadn’t expected him to be Laird MacLean. Nor had she expected the son of the former laird to be so just, so powerful.

So dangerous.

The law did little good from what she’d seen, from what she’d experienced. Innocents were sacrificed under the guise of ‘law’.

A scratch sounded at the base of the door where the wind mewled. Celia pulled the latch and held the door wide enough for the red fox to slink inside before bolting it shut once more.

“Is he gone now, Ruadh?”

The fox stared up at her with his golden eyes and flicked his bushy tail in aggravation.

“Good riddance to that one.” She tossed the remaining thread into the fire and watched the remnants of the laird’s blood sizzle and curl into ash. “For the time being we are safe.”

She glanced at the door once more. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her. Unwanted, a thrill wound down her spine and blossomed in goosebumps across her skin.

He would be back and she would need to keep her secrets locked away, the way she had managed to do thus far.

Her life depended on it.

About the Author

Madeline Martin lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her two daughters (AKA OldestMinion and YoungestMinion). All shenanigans are detailed regularly on Twitter and on Facebook.

She graduated from Flagler College with a degree in Business Administration and works for corporate America. Her hobbies include rock climbing, running, doing crazy races (like Mud Runs and Color Runs) and just about anything exciting she can do without getting nauseous. She's also a history fan after having lived in Europe for over a decade, and enjoys traveling overseas whenever she can. Her favorite place to visit thus far: Scotland.

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*Email questions should be sent to: MadelineMartin@Ymail.com

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Medieval Monday with Mary Morgan

Today’s Medieval Monday excerpt is about nature. My guest author today, Mary Morgan has given us a delightful scene that lets nature take its course! Enjoy the read.

Excerpt:

Some of the men and women were already dancing around the fire. She laughed when she spied Betsy twirling around.

Betsy waved her over. “Come dance with us.”

Aileen held up her hand in protest. “Oh, no...I’m fine just watching.” Turning blindly, she stumbled into Brian.

“May I have this dance, Lady Aileen?” he asked.

“I really shouldn’t, Brian.” He looked so dejected she decided to throw caution to the wind. “You know what? I haven’t danced in ages. I think I will take that dance.”

“I would be honored,” he said proudly, holding out his hand.

Aileen swallowed the last of her wine, before putting the cup on a log. Taking his hand, she gathered her dress and joined the others.

In no time at all, she found herself being swept away with the contagious merriment. Letting her shields slip just a bit, she relished the gaiety—twirling and singing. When Brian would gather her close, she would move away, spinning in a circle. On and on, around the inferno, laughter peeling out.

She felt young and carefree.

***

Stephen had gathered some food from Betha as he intended to be away all night. She and Donal had pleaded with him to join in the feasting, but he waved them off rather rudely. He wanted no part of the festivities.

Almost colliding with a couple, he swore softly. Placing the food across Grian, he shifted hesitantly. It was then he spotted...her.

His hand froze on the leather sack. Sweet Mother! What was she doing? And dressed like that? She was a Goddess of the flame. He watched as she was swung up into the air by none other than Brian. Then the man dared to slide her down against him.

Dark fury burst somewhere deep inside Stephen. “I’m going to kill him,” he rasped out.

The blood roared in his head, as he stormed across the open field, never hearing those who greeted him in passing—one hand held firm against his sword. He slowed his pace and Stephen waited as any warrior would. Let the enemy show himself, he thought.

When their dancing brought them nearer to him, he darted in front blocking their path.

They never saw him coming.

Aileen’s back slammed into his chest, and his arms grasped her instantly in a firm grip. “Hey, ouch!” She tried to move, but he held her solid against his body.

Brian skidded to a halt. “Greetings, Sir Stephen.” He went to grab for Aileen’s hand, when Stephen let out a growl of warning.

“What is your problem? Did you just growl?” demanded Aileen. She tried to pry herself loose, but he continued to hold her firm.

“Mine,” he snarled.

Instantly, Brian’s face went white. “Thank ye for the dance, Lady Aileen,” Brian clipped out. Giving Stephen a curt nod, he stomped away.

“Bloody. God. Damn. Hell,” Aileen snapped.

Stephen released her, only spinning her around to face him. Something primal within him tore loose. He tried to reason with himself that this was insanity, though his mind and body wouldn’t yield. His gaze dropped to those lips—lips he had fantasized about for weeks.

“Aileen,” he choked out before his mouth took hers in a plundering kiss. His lips moved over hers devouring their softness. The kiss became urgent, pleading in its need. His tongue sought hers, and the dance of desire seared their bodies. Raw passion took over his anger, and she opened fully, drawing him against her body. She took her hands and wrapped them around his head, threading her fingers in his locks and pulling him in deeper. Never in all of his life had he felt so right in someone’s arms.

When he broke from the kiss, his breathing was labored. Her eyes were dark with desire for him, and he shook with such need, it frightened him.

“By the hounds,” he uttered hoarsely. In one swift move, he picked her up. Carrying her to his horse, he ignored the hoots and remarks coming from the crowd. Placing her on Grian, he swung around in back, taking off through a large group of oak trees with only one clear thought in mind.

Back Cover Copy:

To right a wrong, two souls are brought together only to shatter when they are torn apart by the deeds of an evil druid. 

Dragon Knight, Stephen MacKay’s powers are altered after the death of his sister. Now he is plagued with visions that threaten to destroy his soul. When Aileen Kerrigan falls through a time tunnel, he vows to keep her safe, despite the fact the beautiful but head-strong half-blooded fae could be the death of him. 

When Aileen finds out her dad is a Fenian Warrior, she flees to a nearby ruin. Armed with the medallion her mother gave her, and a matching one belonging to a long dead knight, she is flung into the past and finds a handsome but surly warrior who is on a quest. Now it seems her future could be entwined with his, if she doesn’t kill him first. 

Buy Links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Knights-Medallion-Order-Book-ebook/dp/B00P81C0EA/

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dragon-knights-medallion-mary-morgan/1120854028/

Apple iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/dragon-knights-medallion/id946798386/

The Wild Rose Press: http://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/1120_mary-morgan

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/dragon-knight-s-medallion