Hope you all enjoyed the Favorite Kiss all this last week. I loved all your comments and your guesses. And I loved hearing from each and every one of you.
And now for the drawing. We have a winner. Victoria Bylin. And her prize is an autographed copy of my recent release, THE LAST WARRIOR.
Well, here’s to another week. Please remember to join me on Tuesday, October 14th, for the blog.
Well, darlings, this is it! Our list of winners from our Birthday Party!
$20 Amazon Gift Card - Nathalie D
$20 Amazon Gift Card - Anita Mae Draper
Western Charm Bracelet - Sharon Berger
Rustic Tin Star and a Stacey Kayne book - Zaharoula Viennas
“Last Stand at Saber River” - Western DVD - Tami Bates
“Broken Trail” - Western DVD - *lizzie Starr
“3:10 to Yuma” - Western DVD - Jennifer Yates
“Live Like You Were Dying” - Tim McGraw CD - Michelle Buonfiglio
“Duel in the Sun” - Western DVD - Caffey
“Big Jake” - Western DVD - Rebekah E
Western DVD - Sherry Allman
“Invasion of Johnson County” - Western DVD - Kathleen
“3:10 to Yuma” with Clint Walker - Western DVD - Margie
“Little Moon & Jud McGraw” - Western DVD - Deborah
THE LAST WARRIOR, by Karen Kay - Victoria Bylin
Now, we’ve heard from most of you, but if you haven’t given us your snail mail address, then you just email Elizabeth Lane, lickety-split! We’ll get your prize right out to you.
Elizabeth’s email address is: elizlane123@msn.com
Congratulations! And thank you for making this the most incredible week ever!
Glad to meet you!
I’m just about done writing my new historical series, “Texas Star of Destiny.” This series covers the years 1821-1847 in of course TEXAS! I’ve always felt a connection with Texas, probably because I was born in El Paso. My dad was a West Texan and my stepdad was from East Texas. My mom evidently had a “thing” for Texans!
Anyway, the books in this series are The Desires of Her Heart, Her Inheritance Forever, and Her Abundant Joy. Each book covers a generation of the Quinn family and an historic Texas event: The beginning of the Austin settlement, the Texas Revolution and the Mexican-American War.
I’ve always been fascinated by the effect of war on civilization. Wars are often called the locomotives of history. Under the pressure of war, men become very creative. And the truth is that the army with the best weapons wins. The Mexican American was won by the Colt 45. And I’m going to let my hero Carson Quinn explain to Niven, a young American officer who has attached himself to the Texas Rangers who scouted for General Zachary Taylor.
Amidst the cover of low bushes and high grass, Carson sat cross-legged under a popple tree and began cleaning his guns. First the rifle, then the two Colts—as he thought over all that had happened tonight and over this year.
Niven lumbered over, looking saddle-sore and exhausted.
“How do you like being a Ranger?” Carson murmured.
“Not much.” Niven leaned against the tree, looking as if after riding sixteen hours a day for days, he didn’t dare sit down. “How long have you been at this?”
“Six years.”
“Is the pay good?”
“We get paid sometimes. When Texas could afford to.”
Niven stared at him. Finally, he said, “I’ve never seen pistols like those. What are they?”
Carson went on reloading. “Only a few of us have these. We could use more. These are Walker Colt 45’s. Samuel Colt designed the first one. Our own Ranger Walker saw that it was just what we needed here in Texas, but it required a few changes to be more practical. So a few years ago, Walker went back east, found Samuel Colt and showed him what we needed.”
Carson held the gun in his palm. “See before, I would have had to take the gun apart to reload, the trigger kept disappearing into the gun and the pistol was too clumsy to get out easy.”
Wobbly, Niven leaned over, inspecting the gun. “Why haven’t I heard of such a weapon?”
Carson shrugged. “It’s been a life saver for us. Before we got these, we were at a disadvantage fighting the Comanche. We had single-shot rifles or pistols to their arrows. And a Comanche can shoot a full quiver of arrows into a man while he tries to reload.”
“You wear a bow and have a quiver,” Niven pointed out.
“Yes, I’m good with a bow.” I’m good at most ways of killing men. This thought shriveled inside him. “And I use a bow sometimes if the raid goes on where I need to reload and don’t have time.”
“I have a lot to learn. And I want one of those Colts. How do I get one?”
“Well, why not ask Taylor?”
“I will.” Niven wavered on his feet.
“You better go lay down before you fall down.”
Niven nodded and then staggered a few feet away. As soon as his head touched his blanket, he fell asleep facedown.
So Niven asks Taylor to order some Colts. He orders 1,000 and that’s how the Colt won the Mexican American War!
BTW, my December release is, Her Captain’s Heart, my first Love Inspired Historical and the first in my “Gabriel Sisters” series about three Quaker Sisters who are up to any challenge!
Order a copy from amazon:The Desires of Her Heart (Texas: Star of Destiny, Book 1)
Hot-diggity! It’s been a fan-tabulous birthday party for the Fillies! We’re as happy as fleas on a dog hearing from so many of you this week. Your kind words for us and what we do here in Wildflower Junction have been danged gratifying. More than you can possibly know.
So now that we’ve blown out the candles and filled ourselves silly with cake, it’s time to start handing out presents!
That’s right! Fourteen of ‘em!
We’ve been keeping track of the jawin’ all week long, and we’re gonna be picking the winners real soon. When we do, we’ll let you know who they are.
So keep checking back, y’hear? Yee-haw!
Lyn Cote will be here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.
Now, in case you’re a slugabed ah want to assure you that whatever time you want to join us will be fine. We’ll hold down the fort until you arrive.
Miss Lyn is such a charming lady and she dearly loves to write western romance. She’ll be giving us the low-down on the Walker Colt .45 and a bunch of other things. No telling where the conversation will lead. We never know, but it’s always interesting.
The Fillies are giving you an invite to join us. Hitch up your buggies and hightail it over!
Well, this is the final day of our excerpts of our favorite kiss. Let’s have a look first, however, at yesterday’s excerpts. The first excerpt, which was not only inspiring, but so well written that it brought a smile to my face — “that can never happen again…” Yeah, right… Okay, did you guess Mary Connelly? If so you are very, very right.
And for the next favorite kiss excerpt. Did you guess Charlene Sands? Ah, you are doing so very, very well. Charlene is one of those author’s whose word useage is a little like poetry, isn’t it? Okay now it may seem apparent that Pam Crooks and Pat Potter are the only two fillies left to share their favorite kissing scenes with you. And while this is true, you still have to guess which one is theirs. Are you ready? Here’s the next filly favorite kiss.
“Bathe with me, Elena,” he whispered. He sucked gently against the curve of her neck. “Then make love to me.”
Her breath caught at his bold proposition, and she trembled again. “I can’t.”
“I want you.” He dragged his teeth slowly along her jaw. Licked and tasted her wet skin. “You have any idea how much?”
“Jeb.” She’d kept her arms between them, but now, they unfolded and moved to his chest, her palms tentative against him, as if she wanted to snake her arms around his neck but held back before she did. “Please.”
“Please what? Please make love to me, Jeb? Please strip me naked and get in the water with me, Jeb?” he taunted in a husky whisper.
She pressed her lips together. But her eyes closed, and she angled her head, giving him freedom to nuzzle her some more.
“What do you want, Elena?” Persistent, his hands rubbed down her spine, spread to cup her buttocks in his palms. He pressed her against him, let her feel how hard he was for her. “Tell me.”
A sound of distress escaped her, and her arms lifted hesitantly to his shoulders. Still, she held back, and he marveled at her self-control when his own was disintegrating like smoke in the wind. He dragged hot kisses over her cheek, her cheekbone, the corner of her eye.
He tasted the salt of a single tear snared in her lashes, and he knew, then, he was moving too fast. Ramon de la Vega had tromped upon her womanly needs with his violence and buried them so deep he made her afraid to feel them again.
Afraid.
Jeb swore inwardly and reined in tight his own needs. Elena had been through hell. He had to remember that. He had to give her the time she needed to heal.
Damn it, he intended to see that she did. A beautiful, vibrant woman like Elena needed a man to pleasure her senseless until she felt so utterly female she would forget that horrible hell she once lived.
Jeb took her mouth with his in a gentle but persistent assault of kisses. They would be the beginning, his kisses. To break through the barriers of apprehension and resistance until she couldn’t deny she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
His hands slid back up her spine and circled her tight. She rose up on tiptoe, letting him hold her, kiss her over and over. She molded to him, her lips moving, seeking. Wet.
His blood burned hotter. He didn’t know how long he could keep his restraints in place with all she made him feel. He groaned, low and not a little frustrated, then pulled back, fisting his hand into the soap-clean tangles of her hair. ”
Isn’t that wonderfully hot? I think I might need a cold shower. I’m away from home right now, and…
And now for our final filly favorite kiss.
Okay, did you guess? Try to guess before I post the answer, okay?
And here’s our last, but not least, famous kiss: ###
And it goes on.
Did you guess Pam Crooks for the first kiss? If so, you are very, very clever.
And did you guess Pat Potter for the second filly favorite kiss? You did? I applaude you!
And now, in case you didn’t catch it from my first post, there will be a prize awarded for one lucky person who tried guessing at our exciting scenes of passionate kissing. However, instead of having to have guessed correctly each and every time, I am going to place all you who have participated every day into a hat and draw out the lucky winner.
I want to thank each and every one of you for participating in our favorite kisses. More later after we’ve had the drawing. In the meantime, I wish you passionate, soul-stirring kisses.
Welcome to our front porch! Come on over, put your feet up and sit a spell while we tell you a story….
THE BALLAD OF TEN FILLIES written by Kate Bridges
Ten pretty gals rode in one day
Their legend was heard for miles away
With Miss Pam as their founder, they forged their town
A place for their stories, to write them all down
Some worked in the library, local paper, saloon
The church, the ranches, some wrote by the moon
With quills in hand and heroes to test
Romantic writers of the Wild West
They were known as the Fillies and word soon spread
Their tales about love, sacrifice and villains to dread
By the swish of a petticoat and glint of a gun
At Wildflower Junction they’re all for one
They comfort their animals, share coffee with friends
They nurture their children and dance with their men
With quills in hand and heroes to test
Romantic writers of the Wild West
Miss Pam, Cheryl, Linda and Pat
Always put out a welcome mat
Miss Mary, Elizabeth, Stacey and Karen
Weaving their tales, sometimes funny or quite daring
Miss Charlene, Kate, and Felicia with her charm
The fastest penslingers to give outlaws alarm
With quills in hand and heroes to test
Romantic writers of the Wild West
* * * *
Hope you enjoyed the poem! I’m proud to be a part of Petticoats and Pistols for all the fun and entertainment it provides us, the writers, hopefully as well as you, our friends and readers.
Thank you to everyone who’s dropped by this week to help us celebrate our first anniversary and how far we’ve come. We couldn’t have done any of this without YOU! The number of visitors we get each day continues to amaze us. To our surprise and delight, several of our blogs have been picked up by the media, such as USA TODAY, Reuters and the Chicago Sun Times. Which just goes to show, you never know who’s reading!
How did you first discover our website–who told you about it? And what elements of Petticoats and Pistols do you enjoy the most? Do you visit any other pages on the site, or do you usually stick to the current day’s blog?
Well, here we are on day four of our author’s favorite kiss. Let’s go over yesterday’s post first, though, shall we?
Did you guess me, Karen Kay, for the first favorite kiss? If so, you are entirely right. This kiss was inspired by the first kiss I received from my husband-to-be, way back in 1996. We were married shortly after that kiss. : ) It was soul stirring and had me “waking up,” wondering, “who is this man?” Needless to say we’ve been married now for 12 years.
And the second favorite kiss? Did you guess Cheryl St. John? If you did, you are entirely correct. A more intensely written, suck-you-in, gotta-read-more kiss you may not find.
And now for today’s excerpts. We have some more soul-wrenching, hot, hot scenes for you today! So cuddle up and read on.
Grant heaved a sigh of despair. ”They’ll never leave my family alone.” He turned to face Hannah. “They were this mad after yesterday and yesterday there was no trouble. Just wait until one of your students goes home crying because Sadie beat him in a spelling bee. That bunch will be back.”
Grant noticed Hannah’s hands were trembling as she crossed her arms.
“I can’t believe they let me off as easily as they did. I thought I was done for from the minute they showed up because I was going to quit before I let them drive your children out of the school.”
“Don’t sacrifice your job, Hannah.” Grant put his hat on with a rough jerk of the brim and turned to go. “I don’t expect you to do that for me.”
“I wouldn’t cross the street for you, you idiot.” She grabbed his arm and spun him around.
She only managed to manhandle him because he was turning back toward her anyway in surprise. Grant had one split second after she exploded, to marvel at how well she’d kept her cool with that posse of orphan haters. Then she attacked.
“If you think I’d side with that mean-spirited, selfish bunch of vigilantes over your children. You don’t—”
Grant held up both hands to ward her off. “Look, Hannah, I didn’t mean—”
Hannah grabbed the lapels of his flannel shirt. “—have any idea who I am. Why, if you think—”
“It’s not that. I didn’t say—” Grant backed up a step.
Hannah followed him all the way to the wall. “—I’ll stand by and let Sadie get thrown out of school because of the color of her skin—”
“I’m sorry. Really, Hannah. I wasn’t suggesting—” Grant, caught her hands where they were shaking his collar. She seemed determined to strangle him to death.
She tightened her grip. “—or slam the door in the face—”
Grant stopped trying to placate her and leaned over her, “Listen, I didn’t mean to imply you had anything against orphans. If you’ll—”
“—of any child—”
All his tension uncoiled like a striking rattler. “—just shut up for a second—” He pulled her hands off his throat.
She yanked away from his grip. “—orphan or not—”
“I’ve got a lot more to lose here than you.” He just needed her to shut up for a minute so he could tell her how much he appreciated her standing by him, and how sorry he was she had to face down a mob, and how annoying she was, and how pretty, and sweet.
“—who wants to learn—”
He turned her around and trapped her. “—and let me apologize, I’ll—”
She turned her face up, her eyes flashed with fire and spirit, her cheeks flushed. “—then you’re the most insulting man I’ve ever—”
He couldn’t think of any other way to close her yapping mouth.
He kissed her.
It worked.
She shut up.
He jumped back so fast he tripped over a desk. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Hannah covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, watching him like he’d grown rattles and fangs and attacked her.
Grant shook his head and felt his brain rattle, so maybe he was close to growing the fangs and he was very much afraid he might attack her again.
Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as if she wanted to wash the taste of him away. Or just taste him. “That can’t ever happen again!”
“That can never happen again.” Grant couldn’t back farther because of the desk. That’s the only possible reason he went forward instead. And kissed her again.
#
I love this scene. And now for the next favorite kiss:
He held her carefully, without menace or threat, and she went willingly to him, allowing him the liberty of brushing her body to his, finding his gentle strength thrilling.
A half smile on his lips brought her attention to his mouth, and when she looked at him, he searched her face for a moment, their eyes locking. Hidden against the dark side of the barn, where moonlight seemed to have vanished, Clint dropped his hands lower, his fingers splaying wide, making circles on the small of her back, sending magnificent shivers spiraling through her body.
”You like the feel of that, honey?”
His voice flowed out like smooth silk. Tess swallowed and stood still, wanting his touch but fearing it, too. He moved his hands farther down, to the very tips of her derriere, stirring her senses and creating havoc inside. Her breaths came rapidly and her emotions rocked out of control. “You know what I want to do.”
Silk again, smooth and edged with promise. “Clint,” she said, meant as a warning, but his name came out a breathless whisper.
He smiled right before he cupped her head with one hand and drew her lips to his. Their mouths mated and she reeled from the initial contact. Every nerve ending tingled with pleasure. Sure and confidently, he moved his mouth over hers but with enough gentleness to assure her freedom. It was her decision to make, but ultimately it was not.
She couldn’t deny the impact of his kiss or the flutters inside from being claimed by this man. He stroked her lips with the tip of his tongue, outlining their shape, then plunged deeper into her mouth, until small pleasured sounds escaped her throat. Their tongues mated, causing rapid-fire heat to shoot through to her woman’s center. A tiny ache built between her legs, and she felt unfulfilled and needy, a sensation altogether new to Tess.
She cupped Clint’s face now, responding to his passion and stroking him the way he did her returning his kisses with equal enthusiasm. He held her firmly and she arched her back allowing him access to her throat. He drizzled kisses there, wetting her skin and catching the coolness of the outside air. Her senses spiraling out of control, she barely felt the sash to her robe coming undone. It hung now from her shoulders exposing her chemise. “I’ve seen you without this robe, Tess. I want to see you again.”
#
Hot! Hot! And a beautiful useage of words, I think. It’s a little like hot poetry, don’t you think? Do you know who wrote it? Well, come on in and let’s talk about it.
A question I’m often asked is how long I’ve been writing and how I got started. The subject seems to fascinate non-writers. I can’t remember a time that I didn’t write. As a child I wrote stories and drew covers for them. When I was fourteen, I submitted a romantic short story to Redbook Magazine. I still have that form rejection. My next project was a book that took about a year off and on to complete. It was rejected, too.
After that I wrote sporadically, but not seriously. I married, had four babies, and didn’t get back to writing with a purpose until my youngest went to first grade. I started in the fall and wrote a book from beginning to end that school year. My mom and dad both read it. It was set during the forties, so they even helped with first-hand research. Trust me when I say this book deserved rejection. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. No plot, only external conflict. It was a story only a mother could love.
But I wrote more stories. A couple of contemporaries and then an ambitious 500 page historical set in Pennsylvania Dutch country. That was when I joined an RWA group started by a lovely Southern lady. The late Diane Wicker-Davis was the first published writer and “expert in the field” to ever read my work and give me feedback. She crossed out page after page with big red Xs and the words “nothing happening” in the margins. She did this critique on a holiday. In her precious spare time. Her honest opinion took the air out of my sails for weeks. And then I loved her for it. I still love her for it. She took time to explain the most basic things to me and to encourage me that I had a talent worth investing time and energy in. That book was HEAVEN CAN WAIT. I took her advice, rewrote it twice, and eventually it went on a shelf.
I dug into learning. My RWA chapter has always been a teaching chapter, and I learned so much from others and the great books we studied together. I’m a firm believer that what goes around comes around in our lifetime, and I’ve made it a point to share whatever I may have learned and to always encourage hopeful writers.
I’d improved and grown tremendously by the time I started a spin-off. I got an agent and RAIN SHADOW was my first sale. My editor looked at HEAVEN CAN WAIT and told me if I’d cut 100 pages, she would buy it, too, so that book made it to print in the end.
Exposing your writing that very first time can be an extremely difficult experience. You want desperately to know whether or not you can do this, but you’re terrified to learn that you can’t. You’ve poured your heart and soul into a project that, once it’s shared, will undoubtedly expose a very private, very vulnerable part of you.
We Fillies are as diverse in our personal stories as we are in our fiction. Sharing stories about our experiences is always fun and helps us to know each other better. To celebrate our first year as Official Fillies, I asked everyone to disclose a personal experience. I enjoyed their replies and I know you will too.
Here’s the request:
Share about the first time someone read something you’d written.
And here are the responses:
Charlene Sands:
“The first person I ever told I was writing a book was my husband. He’s not a reader at all, and doesn’t ever read my books … well maybe one time. But I’d never find a more supportive encouraging soul who constantly has faith in me and believes in my talent. When I’d get rejected, he’d say, “They just don’t know what’s good.”
“I’m finding it not so unusual that I didn’t tell anyone about my writing, I see others kept quiet about their writing as well. For me, I didn’t want the pressure of friends and family asking me if I’d sold a book yet. I was venturing into scary new territory and didn’t know what I was in for. I wanted the freedom to learn and yearn without being scrutinized. I remember feeling, and I still feel like I hit the jackpot finding my passion and purpose in life. At times, I sympathize with those who haven’t experienced the thrilling excitement, chilling fear and challenge I face everyday at the computer.
“When I felt confident about my writing, I showed my dearest friend, childhood buddy, and maid of honor in my wedding, Allyson, my work. It was my first proposal to Harlequin, and she read the chapters and kept asking for more. I knew I could trust her with what was near and dear to my heart. She’s not a writer, but a reader of all genres and she LOVED the character I’d created in Lily from my story Lily Gets Her Man. Her encouragement helped me finish that story. It was our secret and Lord knows we’ve had many over the years. When Lily sold, she was the next person I called after telling my husband. She sent me a gorgeous “lily” bouquet and I’ll never forget her words of encouragement and support.”
Patricia Potter:
“I’m a former newspaper writer and have been writing in print since I was sixteen. So writing a novel should be no sweat, right? Wrong in spades. I jumped into fiction late. My mindset was who, what, where and why. Just the facts, ma’am. I was comfortable as an observer.
“An author, particularly of romance novels, is not an observer. She/he cannot be an observer. They have to be a participant. They have to pour themselves into a book, which, of course, makes it highly personal. You expose yourself in ways you’ve never done before. Your emotions, your hopes, your failures, your periods of grief. When you write a book, it’s not just an object. It’s part of you, and rejection is a rejection of yourself.
“So when I wrote my first book, I did it in a closet. I told no one. I wrote it because I had an idea that wouldn’t stop haunting me, and I really had no intention or expectation of publishing. But when I finished it, I thought maybe I should try to do something with this. But I was terrified to let anyone view the places and parts of me that no one knew. I had no idea whether it was any good or not, whether the idea and characters would attract anyone but me. Then I heard of Romance Writers of America. I joined the local chapter because I heard there was a contest. Wow!. A way to have someone read my manuscript anonymously. No one knew me. I didn’t know anyone. I wouldn’t be humiliated in front of friends and family.
“To my shock, it won second place. Those judges became my friends and helped me along the rest of the way. I met the editor who bought my book at the next local conference. Both are reasons, I will always love Romance Writers of America.”
Elizabeth Lane:
“I can’t remember a time when I haven’t shared my writing. As a very little girl I used to write poetry. It was pretty bad but it was funny. My Grandpa used to read my poems to his buddies at the pool hall. I was a minor celebrity (hey it was a small town). When I started writing seriously in my mid-thirties I belonged to a local writer’s group. We’d all read our stuff out loud. Some of the writers were already publishing. My efforts were well received and gave me the encouragement I needed to go on.”
Stacey Kayne
“The first person I confided to about my writing aspirations was my mother. When I realized I was trying to write a book, I asked her bring me a bunch of the books she read *G*. Since she was reader, I asked if she’d look at something I’d started, and admitted I was trying to write a romance novel.
She agreed, and showed up at my door the next day in tears, and said, ” I didn’t know you could write like Danielle Steele!!” She has been my biggest supporter. When I was too shy to attend my first writer’s club meetings, she went with me to The California Writer’s Club and Romance Writer’s of America. And now that I’m published, she hasn’t missed a book signing!”
Karen Kay:
“The first time I ever let someone read something I’d written was in high school. We all wrote a story anonymously, and then the entire sophomore class voted on which story they liked best. Mine was a science fiction story — that’s all I remember about it now. Anyway, it came in 2nd place. I remember being shocked that anyone else might like something that I wrote. It did encourage me, and I went on to write other stories, but it was this that really made me think about writing as a possible career.”
Pam Crooks:
“Well, does the first time in letting someone ‘read’ what I wrote equate to the first time ‘reading’ what I wrote out loud?
“I didn’t get the courage to let anyone read my work until I’d joined a critique group and worked up a degree of confidence–or should I say courage?!–to let someone read my manuscript.
“I wrote in supreme secrecy for years until I joined my local chapter, whose president invited me to join her critique group. I was incredibly honored–and terrified. But that first morning of critique convinced me I was where I needed, and wanted, to be. That critique group contained one of the Fillies–Cheryl! Before I began to read, they warned me it was “like dancing naked on the table.” And oh, they were right!! I was so scared to read that my hands literally shook, and I had to pause mid-way through my reading to take a drink of water. But I got through it, and if it was nauseatingly awful, no one had the heart to tell me so. In fact, they were all quite kind. I kept going and going until I was good enough to lead my own critique group. And I’ve been doing so for what? 18 years now?
“But if you’re looking for that first someone to read my manuscript, it was my mother. She was the one who handed me my first romance, FLAME AND THE FLOWER, so she knew I was hooked on them. I think she knew, too, that I was writing one, and when I finally gave her this behemoth of a manuscript, she read the whole thing and told me she really liked it. When we started talking about this and that in the book, I could hear the enthusiasm in her voice, and the pride, too. It meant so much to me. I guess if you can’t trust your mother, who can you trust, eh? :-)”
Mary Connealy:
“It’s possible that the first time I ever let anyone read my writing was at a critique group gathering at Pam Crooks’s house. All I really remember is we were really short on time, and that Pam gave me some good advice about how to open a book. Other than that, not much came of it. First book I ever wrote.
“I was pretty reclusive about my work for a long time. I still love that book, although I have gained a lot of skill since then. It’s never been published but maybe someday.”
Linda Broday:
“I’ll never forget my first critique session. A group of writers met at an English teacher’s house here in town. I hadn’t been writing for very long and didn’t really know what to expect of critique. I wasn’t prepared for the devastating blow that came. One woman in particular seemed to take utter joy in ripping my story to shreds. She told me every single thing I was doing wrong in no uncertain terms. I left that meeting feeling lower than low. I didn’t see that I had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever being a writer. I was ready to quit. It took quite a while to regain my confidence. The only thing that kept me from giving up was my husband’s faith in me. He told me I could do anything I wanted to and no one except myself could ever stop me. I’m glad I listened to him and kept plugging away.
“I learned a valuable lesson that night. Whenever I critique another person’s work, I put myself in their shoes. I take extra pains to make my comments constructive and word them in such a way so as not to destroy their self-esteem. I’d hate to know I caused a writer to stop writing.”
Kate Bridges:
“My ninth-grade English teacher announced one day that she was going to read her favorite story from the ones we’d submitted. She didn’t say who wrote it–till the end–but as she started to read, I could feel my face turning really hot and my eyes watering. It was a short humorous story about me and my mom, and I never imagined anyone else would see it had any value. It did a lot for my confidence, especially when it got such a nice reaction from the rest of the class. That day opened my eyes to the possibility of being a writer. My teacher moved away after that year and we lost touch. I did dedicate one of my books to her, thinking maybe one day she would open it somewhere, and see herself being thanked.
“As for novel writing, I kept it all a big secret from everyone, including my husband. I started writing while on maternity leave with my newborn daughter. One day my husband came home, six months after I’d started writing, and asked how my day went. I finally blurted out that I was writing a novel. He dropped what he was doing, came over with a smile and a hug and said, “Wow.” He’s been my biggest supporter and always has something good to say about my writing. I know I’m lucky.”
Yee haw!
I hope you’ve enjoyed learning about the Fillies and their early days of writing. I know you’re as glad as I am that each of the Fillies pursued her dream, because now we can read stories by ten of the hottest authors writing western romances today!
Since this seems to be a week for kisses, I thought it would fit right in to announce the release of my October Christmas novella A BABY BLUE CHRISTMAS with a kiss teaser for you. Look for it in stores near you!
Gabby furrowed her brow with a quizzical frown. “Will I still be here next week?”
Confident and capable were attributes he’d hang on her, but he’d caught her at a completely vulnerable moment. She needed to feel safe. He’d brought her here. He was responsible for setting her mind at ease. “Let’s say you’ll be here and make a plan.”
She raised her eyebrows in concern. “They don’t know what I am or who Willow is, do they, Turner?”
What she was? She was a caring unselfish person trying to do the best she knew how for two helpless children. “You’re a widow who was passin’ through and needed a place to stay.”
She searched his face as though hoping to find assurance. “And the truth is our secret?”
She made it sound clandestine, intimate…and he reacted to her words and trusting expression in a physical way that caught him off guard and delivered a sucker punch to his lungs.
Her gaze fell to his mouth.
Turner had to concentrate just to breathe again. When he did, her clean soap-and-talc scent washed over him.
“Our secret,” he agreed and the word made his body tingle. She’d raised her chin, and her lips were so near that he could…had he leaned over that far without intending to?
Turner lowered his mouth the last few inches and rested his lips against hers. Her surprised sigh fluttered against his mouth, sending sensory signals to his brain. He added slightly more pressure and tasted the sweetness of her sugary tea and the essence that was uniquely hers. For an endless moment there were no other distractions, no past, no future, and he was free to experience the softness of her lips and the pleasure of unhindered discovery.
It had been a long time since he’d felt anything so soft, since he’d experienced a sensation so pure and without a dark edge of pain. There was unexpected honesty in these fleeting moments.
The gentle touch of her fingertips against his cheek startled him. Embarrassed him. Brought reality into acute focus. He opened his eyes and drew away.
Her eyelids fluttered open. “Oh,” she said on a sigh and touched her fingers to her lips.
He hadn’t done anything that reckless for a long time. Maybe not ever. He’d guarded his heart so carefully. Turner backed away. “You won’t be of any use to those babies if you don’t take care of yourself. Go get some sleep.”
She watched him retreat, uncertainty in her eyes now. She nodded, set her cup aside and stood. “Yes.”
Without another word, she hurried from the room, the swish of her skirts loud in the silence.
He kept his gaze on the chair where she’d been.
No arguing, he had tender feelings for the woman. For her plight and that of the babies. He’d felt protective toward her from the first. Gabrielle and her tiny wards were ripping open wounds that had never properly healed. Being back in this house, being near her, smelling her, holding those babies…his defenses had been relentlessly bombarded. Now what was he to do?
The thought of anything happening to any of them was unbearable. Her obvious unhappiness and fearful uncertainty tore at his conscience.
Turner picked up her cup and looked at the dark liquid in the bottom. He had the power to do something about her situation. He’d been powerless over the things that had happened in his past, but he could do something about this.
Fierce determination rose inside of him.
He would do something about this.
