How Many, How Many?

How many points of view do you think should be included in a romance novel? Just the hero and heroine? Or do you like for secondary characters to also have their turn?

In general, I’ve always thought that if you had a full length novel you needed secondary characters’ POV to enhance and move the story along. Imagine my surprise when I recently received a very nice email from a publisher to whom I had submitted a novel. She told me she loved it, but I had to get rid of all POVs except the hero and heroine.

I suppose I could do it, but I think it would weaken the story because a major portion of the novel centers on how the hero and heroine hurt others with their actions. I think having multiple POVs gave a sense of urgency to the story that would be missing without the secondary characters voice.

On the other hand, The Welcome Inn has multiple POV's, and the reviews on it were great.

So, what’s an author to do? I spoke with Karin Gillespie a few months ago, and she said she doesn’t have too many POVs. In her next novel she has four main characters, but she only has two POVs.

Authors and readers, what do you think? Do you like the secondary characters to have a voice?

Southernisms

The Southernisms in my part of the south came mainly from Scotch-Irish immigrants who immigrated to America for political and economic reasons. Beginning in 1750 they arrived in large numbers, many coming through the port of Philadelphia which was the largest port in the country at that time. They found that land along the coasts had already been taken so they found open areas that suited them in the uplands of the Piedmont and along the rivers and streams of the Appalachian and Allegheny Mountains. Continuing migration filled in the inland South.

Okay, enough history. This isn’t a history lesson. All I want to do is share a few southern expressions with you. This might be helpful if you ever visit the South because we still say some of these. However, don’t be saying too many of them. TV and newcomers have influenced the South, and diluted our regional dialect. People might think you were mocking them.

1. ya’ll This means you all and is PLURAL. How are ya’ll doing means you AND your family.
2. kin to-related to. Are you kin to Robert?
3. idnit-isn’t it. The weather is fine idnit?
4. fixin-getting ready to do something. I’m fixin to go to the store.
5. hissy fit- you lost your temper and carried on. She had a hissy fit when she found out about the car.
6. sorry-no account. He’s about as sorry as they come.
7. thang-any object I almost broke that thang.
8. thank-think I thank I left it at Joe’s house.
9. caint-can’t I caint solve this problem.
10. frazzle-fatigue, nervousness His nerves are frazzled.

Here are some expressions I’ve heard older people say, but younger people don’t use them regularly.

Poke-a sack
Holler-a small valley
Spell- a stretch of time
Atter-after
Study-think about it

What about the rest of you Southerners? What words would you add to the list?

The Love Fairy

Most people have heard of leprechauns and maybe the Banshee, but have you ever heard of the lianhan shee? She’s often called the love fairy, but she doesn’t specialize in happily ever after endings. Her goal is nothing else than the love and dominion of mortal men.

Few men are able to resist her, and those who answer her call become her slave. She can be compared with a vampire, for she drains her victims body and soul. If you’re one of the luck ones who can resist her then she becomes your slave.

Each fairy woman who falls in love becomes one with her, for there is only one lianhan shee, and she is more force than woman. When a man is caught in her web, she becomes the center of his world. The more suffering she inflicts on him, especially by her absence, the more he’s drawn to her. She creates such desire in men that they’ll do anything to be with her.

There is one thing, though. To possess her they must meet her in Tir-na-n-Og. That means they have to die to enjoy her. W. B. Yeats (1888) thought the ‘leanhaun shee’ would inspire a poet or singer so intensely that its earthly life would necessarily be brief, and truthfully many of the Irish poets and singers died young.

We don’t know what she looks like because she is invisible to anyone except the mortal man who loves her. I guess that’s just as well; she’s the essence of desire, and who can adequately describe that?

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all of you.

Remember your first kiss? What if the man you loved more than life itself gave that kiss to you, and after five years of happiness and the birth of a child he died and left you alone? Would you risk your heart again when a new man comes along, or would your memories and your precious child be enough for you?

That’s the situation Jenna West finds herself in. In this excerpt from Purple Heart, Jenna and the new man in her life, Mike Hightower, share a first kiss.

Purple Heart is available as an ebook or in print. Order it from www.thewildrosepress.com

I have another first kiss scene posted under the Romancing February post. Just scroll down to find it. That kiss is from The Welcome Inn now available at http://www.wings-press.com


It felt nice to be part of a couple again. It had been a
long time since a man opened doors for her, paid for her
dinner, or took her to a movie. She and Ethan had done
all of those things, but Ethan had died six year ago. She
usually went to the movies with Crystal, and while she
appreciated Crystal’s friendship more than she could say,
having a date with a man did make a nice change.

All too soon for Jenna, the evening ended, and they
went back to the duplex. She hated to go inside. The night
sky was filled with stars, and the smell of the roses she
had planted last year filled the balmy air with a sweet
perfume. She wondered if Mike too hated for the evening
to end; she thought he did.

Jenna knew that she should shake Mike’s hand and
go inside, but truthfully, she had something else in mind.
She hadn’t felt a man’s kiss in a long time, and she
wanted to kiss Mike. She wanted to kiss him to see if it
was okay to kiss a man other than Ethan.

She thought that Mike wanted to kiss her too. He
took a small step closer to her and put his arms around
her.

For a moment, Jenna thought that she had made a
mistake because Mike didn’t smell or feel like Ethan. In
another second, she would have pulled out of his arms,
but he shut his eyes, and his lips touched hers.

And Jenna thought she might have died and gone to
heaven. Kissing Mike sent little chills up and down her
backbone, and her insides felt all squishy and warm.

So, what do you think Jenna will do?

The Music Of The South

My special guest today is Steve Cantrell, a guy who's near and dear to my heart. Steve's a great musician. His obsession with music began in high school where he played the violen in his high school strings group. He decided he liked the drums better so for four years he was lead drummer in the high school band. After he graduated from high school he switched from drums to the guitar, but he found what he was looking for when he found the mandolin.

Steve's going to talk about the music of the south so I'll be quiet and let him get started. Oh, why is he so near and dear to my heart? He's my son. Thanks for helping Mom out, Steve.


There’s really no way to properly examine southern culture without discussing the music that is such an integral part of it, and there’s really no other place to start such an investigation than with the man who has properly come to define the music of the south: Bill Monroe.



Bill Monroe was born in Rosine, Kentucky in 1911 and spent the majority of his youth in relative isolation, with it generally being understood that he might be retarded due to his vision, which made him quiet and reflective. In the crude terminology of the day, Monroe was “hug-eyed”, meaning one eye seemed to drift away. Perhaps as a result of his poor vision—if you buy that one disabled sense can lead to an augmentation of another—Monroe began to have a keen ear for music. As a youth he became close with his uncle Pendleton Vandiver, a local fiddler of some renown, who began to take Monroe along with him when he played for square dances, this being a major form of entertainment for those with no radio or television to offer them diversion. As well, Monroe had begun to associate with an African-American blues musician named Arnold Schultz who has a near legendary reputation as a bluesman of consummate skill, sadly never recorded.



Eventually, Monroe and his brothers found their way into the city for work, where they began to play their rollicking, old-time fiddle music for groups of fellow southerners who were also transplants and eager to hear the sounds from their homes. Monroe eventually had corrective surgery to straighten his eyes, perhaps adding enough confidence and marketability to make him appealing to the regional “barn dance” shows. Bill and his brother Charlie became professional musicians.



The Monroe Brothers were a household name in the south in the 30’s, traveling North and South from their base of operations in Greenville, SC and appearing on short radio segments. Monroe developed a high, keening tenor (perhaps mimicking the field hollers used to communicate across the valleys of Kentucky) and accompanied with his brother’s soothing baritone and guitar made a pleasing combination. The essential element was added by Monroe’s mandolin.



In stark contrast to the size of the instrument, Monroe played with ferocity and swagger, developing his own style of hard downstrokes combined with a shuffling right hand reminiscent of the country shuffle of his Uncle Penn’s bow, and bluesy, fast-as-lightning slides which were certainly a result of his exposure to Arnold Schultz. It changed the role of the mandolin from a parlor or orchestral instrument into a front-and-center lead.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFvndnx5zKg&feature=related



By the 40’s, Bill had left his brother and formed his own band, called the Bluegrass Boys as an homage to this native state of Kentucky. To his lineup he added Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs on guitar and banjo respectively, and the now-traditional bluegrass band began to take shape. Characterized by a driving beat, the roll of a banjo and the jazz-like, long, improvised solos, Monroe had created a distinctly American sound, and one that would shape the course of modern music.



It is Monroe’s fiery mandolin that can be heard in Chuck Berry’s guitar work for “Johnny B. Goode”, and of course it is a known fact that Elvis Presley was hugely influenced by the work of Monroe, picking the Monroe-penned “Blue Moon of Kentucky” as the first song he recorded for the legendary Sun Records. While Monroe himself became marginalized within popular music, his musical footprint was so large that most didn’t even realize they were stepping in it.



For years he toiled in near-obscurity until the folk boom of the 60’s, when Monroe was once again brought center stage and acknowledged as the father of an entire genre of music, most notably through the efforts of folklorist Ralph Rinzler. The advent of music festivals exposed Monroe to another generation of wide-eyed fans, who surely had to comb their hair back down after hearing Monroe sing so loudly that the mics would distort, or hear the long, scorching instrumentals like “Rawhide” or “Jerusalem Ridge”.



Monroe is one of the few people to have been inducted into both the Country and Rock Music Halls of Fame, and remains force today despite his death in 1996 . Any new Bluegrass sound is placed against the Monroe measuring stick to discover whether it is worthy of listening.

Here's Skhye

Today's guest is author Skyhe Moncrief. Hi, Skhye and thanks for agreeing to be with us today! One of the things that always fascinates me is where authors get their ideas. Where did you get the idea for the Time Guardians?

I was reading a piece of science fiction written by the daughter of one of North America’s greatest anthropologists. Something triggered my thoughts of the Celts in the future. The story world of a culture discovering a time-travel mechanism, adapting to the cons dealing with time travel, and two cults evolving from the need to protect humanity against the ugly side of human nature quickly consumed my reality.


When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

I was a strange child. I wrote things when I was young. Although, my family thought I’d be some kind of teacher-scientist because I also took notes from documentaries… I wrote in high school. But that was an outgrowth of our weekly journaling requirement. So, let’s just say I have no idea.



How long did you write before you got published?

I think I started writing novels in 2001. I got my first publishing contract for HE OF THE FIERY SWORD in 2007.


What is your favorite scene from He of the Fiery Sword?

I still get chills reading the opening. It’s always sad when I meet the dragon and learn of his woes. Here's the opening:

When the past is born of the future, when the future is born in the past, there are no coincidences. There is only purpose.

~ High Priestess Nayli, 3033 A.D., planet Scotia Major





Chapter 1



Planet Scotia Major


There were only three.

A reflection of luck. An abomination. He was one of them. The nameless, known as The One. And he could feel the love, the hate, the sorrow, and the joy of all the ages.

Sadness choked his heart, boiling his thoughts until he struggled against the fresh-smelling rushes the priestesses had spread for him beneath the stars.

Dogmatic loneliness always tried to smother him after nightfall. He clutched his chest, squeezing at the nidium scales until his paw went numb.

Alone, he was powerful. With his sisters, he was indestructible. But both siblings had gone before him, hurling themselves into the tall stones in hopes the Gods would take pity upon them. And both were lost.

His eyes brimmed with anguish, smearing the darkness of night.

But he could still see his past. His sister’s doleful eyes had mirrored the knowledge of the ages, reached out to him in The Knowing, comforted him when the pain was so excruciating he howled to the Gods with a plea for death.

But he was alone now. His purpose fading.

The dragon triad had vowed to rise above their fellow humanity, unite to hold the line, defend time and history because the vileness of human nature spurred their creation in a corrupted dream to change the past by altering the timeline. Yet, no matter how hard his sisters tried, they could never fly fast enough to escape humanity’s emotions.

And, now, the triad was broken. With it, luck had withered.

The Brotherhood’s High Grand Master had implored him to hold onto what was left of his courage for he was male and females were prone to weakness. But the Grand Master was wrong. No human born in true form could comprehend a dragon’s thoughts. The changes to the human genetic code only magnified his dragon senses. What led to a smile for a lad was overwhelmingly rapturous to his kin. Therein lay the intolerable pain that drove his sisters’ laments.

A male dragon couldn’t control his own greeting with the echoing howls of all human emotion from every point in time haunting his overly-perceptive mind.

Yet, he hadn’t relinquished his human grasp on hope. He clutched hope like a sparkling star, praying for the ability to activate the stone circle. To do something to make a difference. No other option would end his sorrow for those valiant men and women who had gone before him. For all of those servants of humanity lost to time.

Tears warmed his eyes, smearing his view of the glistening stars in the Dagda’s battle-club constellation.

How could he remain here and relive the same agony night after night? So blessed many time guardians who had sacrificed their lives in studying the past and searching for Truth were lost in duty, imprisoned in time, marooned across the Universe on a planet he had never seen. Breaking his sacred oath of protecting the timeline meant little in the sacrifices of those lost ones to study the past. He could do something. Try to turn back the hands of time. Possibly prevent his creation. Relinquish his life’s breath so he wouldn’t experience the anguish of lost time guardians. He blinked away the smeared heavens and focused on the twelve stars forming the Dagda’s club.

The scepter of the Gaelic father. The father could damn him. Or save him. “I pray to you, Father, for strength and forgiveness. If you cannot assist in my passage through time and space, I only beg for a quick death. My time stagnates here. Surely you can feel this as your arms stretch out the night’s black cloak to embrace all your sons and daughters.” True purpose never felt so near. Shifting his paw against the cool rushes, he stared down through the shadows at the five curled claws upon his forepaw.

A day never passed when he hadn’t imagined what emotions he would feel if he saw the fingers of a man, a weaker creature who rarely made a decision without hurting his kindred with a hard fist. Now planning to do the impossible, was he any different? Was his plan so selfish? His wings, his claws, his impenetrable fireproof scales, his unnatural ability to share the fire in his heart with a snort, all his remarkably horrific features would be used to save the countless souls of time-traveling Gaels. For naught more than a selfish whim. No. Not selfish. Selfless. An act bards would praise for all eternity.

Honor swelled inside his heart.

Hope played a wicked game with those who fell to its ploy. Yet, he was one now, and the shackles of loneliness were too hard for an immortal creature to wear. Perhaps he already donned a cloak like the Dagda. No. A dragon’s mantle demanded justice. More so, personal sacrifice. The time had come for him to judge himself instead of mundane human bickerings.

His gaze trailed along the moonlight-carved walls of the Ring-Master Keep, over the blackened pointed treetops on the horizon, to the clear night sky. Were the Gods, Goddesses, and Spirit listening? “By the God-dess-Spirit, I shall seek out those lost in time and see them to safety. Not one Brother or Sister shall be lost on my watch as long as this dragon draws breath.”

The nagging whisper of gooseflesh tickled beneath his scales.

Portentous emotion. How dare fear rear its shameless face? He pounded a fist against the hard surface of planet Scotia Major.

A dull pain flowed through his paw.

Pain for Truth. Truth dwelled in his future. Pushing up into the gentle night breeze, he drew in a deep cool breath of crisp air.

Now, he must go, before the priestesses awoke with the dawn. How could a dragon attempt the impossible with brimful Druid-blue eyes beseeching he cling to their dreary hope yet another day? He strode between the low circular wooden windbreak of a fence sheltering his paddock’s bedding.

Rushes whispered beneath his paws.

Hopefully, the grass knew of his purpose and bade him well. He cleared the gateway, hopped into a trot, and grabbed still air with his wings.

Cool wind kissed his taut skin with lover’s hands.

Hands he had only ever dreamed of. The stone circle would propel him back in time or end the unending madness of a celibate creature’s suffering. He pulled himself toward the Gods’ stars.

The Druids said constellations were different on planet Earth. No Dagda or Cerridwyn watched from the heavens. Most a pity. He would miss the only father he knew. And Cerridwyn’s constant reminder to welcome experience. He looked back to a Scotia Major’s dappled-but-moonlit surface.

The stone circle had shrunken to wee bits of rock glowing faintly in the moonlight like a small mouth.

The Stones of Destiny. Rather, the omnipontent jaws of Fate. But how would he activate the time machine? His sisters had flown so fast they created a whirlwind. Was the force enough to free him of this time? Or, at least, his immortal breath? He thrashed the wind with his larger male wings, raced through the thick air in an infinity pattern, and circled in upon himself in an eternal knot of damnation.

What would unwind the quarrels of his Gaels with his absence? Perhaps he was wrong. Or frightened. Only legends could save him now. “Fafnir, Grendel, Ddraig Goch, Wyvern, Draco, Amphisbaena, Worm. Brothers and Sisters of legend, see me strong. See me fast. See me through the Stones of Destiny.” He lunged toward the circle.

Air whistled across his cheekbones. The stony ring glowed yellow, then so white the ground blackened in its wake.

A portal. A circle of promise. His doorway to solace regardless of the destination. Anything to squelch his torment. Was this all a dream? Would the Gods cooperate? He thrust his paws out to touch the star-like stones. To seize hope.

Blackness engulfed him. Thunder droned like the honking skirl of an army of bagpipes stuck on one squawking note. He was motionless, floating yet not floating, hung aloft in a strange dark place.

Was this the place without time?

The ground knocked life’s breath from his lips.

Such a timeless place of silent darkness had to be one of death. A vault. His tomb. At last, the Happy Otherworld. Where were the joys promised so often in old bards’ tales?
-----------------------------


“Arthur is a masterpiece… Anyone who likes fantasy worlds and romance mixed with myth and legend should run right out and pick this one up.” He of the Fiery Sword's King Arthur ~Diane Mason, The Romance Studio



What are you working on now?

I’m writing a werewolf space opera that begins on earth and moves off world in the present. And I've just submitted another Time Guardian novel!



Do you have any advice for new authors?

I never blow off what writers tell me. I always try to figure out what they are talking about. It’s really difficult to be objective with criticism. But there’s something to a comment. Even if you have to conclude the comment is just an outgrowth of a personal bias. But you can look at the bigger picture and decide if the bias is something that will affect your audience. If you can’t, don’t sweat it. You can’t please everyone all of the time. I found reading all the writing resources I could get my hands on helped.



Is there anything else you'd like to tell the readers?

I blog about reference books at http://blog.skhyemoncrief.com. I have a Free Read. The free read and the first chapters of my stories are located at http://www.skhyemoncrief.com and http://www.timeguardians.com on my new releases pages. Thanks for having me, Elaine! ~Skhye


Thanks for taking the time to be with us today!




"Arthur is a masterpiece..." 4 hearts for He of the Fiery Sword's King Arthur ~Diane Mason; http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/fieryswordmoncrief.htm

"Intense, original, suspenseful, and dramatic... an unpredictable topsy-turvy romance... the suspense builds with every page in SACRIFICIAL HEARTS. In a world where symbols mean everything, magic is the way..." ~Snapdragon; http://longandshortreviews.blogspot.com/2008/05/review-sacrificial-hearts.html

"Master of her craft, Moncrief delivers an explosive plot, captivating, adventurous characters, and a healthy dose of sensual intrigue. A superb read, start to finish!" ~Author Sky Purington www.skypurington.com

HE OF THE FIERY SWORD available at www.thewildrosepress.com
www.timeguardians.com
www.skhyemoncrief.com

Romancing February

28 romance authors invite you to participate in a month-long event of love and laughter. Each day starting Feb. 1, 2009 an author will throw a romance party at her blog and host a contest with a prize. The link to the next day's blog location will also be provided at each location. Just drop by and enter the contest. And get ready to heat up the cold wintery days of February. You could win a prize a day!

On February 28th, one person will be awarded the grand prize of a $75 WRP gift certificate. All you have to do to enter the grand prize contest is make a list of each author in this blog event and name one title she has available. Submit your list to Christmasrideblog@live.com by midnight CST, February 27, 2009. The winner will be announced on February 28th--just in time to warm up that person's February. Visit http://www.amberleighwilliams.blogspot.com on February 1st to begin.

Now, that you know what Romancing February is all about, here's my contest.


Do you remember your first kiss? Was it timid and sweet or hot and full of passion? This excerpt is from The Welcome Inn, and it shows the first kiss of Buck Abercrombie and Julianna Martin.

Buck and Julianna are attracted to each other, but each of them also has some serious issues that complicate their relationship. In this excerpt, Julianna stayed overnight with Buck because someone is trying to kidnap her.

Julianna awoke first the next morning and saw that sometime during the night Buck had removed his sweat pants and shirt. It gave Julianna a wonderful view of his shoulders and chest, and her face flushed in the presence of so much bronzed male skin and muscle. She sensed something vital, something elemental about Buck, and the wild, fiery side of Julianna’s nature was attracted to him as surely as a moth is attracted to the light.

She let her imagination take flight and soar where it would, and it came as no surprise when her fantasy carried her straight into Buck’s bed. She imagined herself surrendering to his kiss—and more—and her face burned with both shame and desire. She knew better! All men were the same, and she’d be a fool to forget it. Obviously, the break-in had affected her even more than she had realized.

She threw the covers back and slipped her feet into her bedroom shoes. She’d get dressed and leave before Buck woke up. Then maybe she’d stop thinking about him. As she passed his bed his hand shot out to grab her wrist. “Good morning, Julianna. What’s your hurry?”
“Oh, you’re awake. I, uh, wanted to get dressed before you got up.”

Buck’s first finger gently stroked the inside of her wrist. “You look damn good in green.”

“Well, I like... uh, thanks.” Julianna swallowed hard. She had to get out of here and soon. Buck looked too devastatingly attractive for her peace of mind!

“Thank goodness you aren’t one of those anorexic females that you see on television. You’ve got enough curves to prove you’re a woman.”

His voice lowered and became huskier. “No wonder poor Tim wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to taste those lips from the first time I saw you. So kiss me, Julianna. I’m sick of fighting it. It’s torture to be in the same room with you and not kiss you.”

“Uh, no, Buck, I...”

Her voice trailed off as Buck stood up. She made no protest when brawny, sunburned arms enclosed her and held her tight. He nuzzled his face against her neck, and Julianna quivered in his arms.

“You smell sexy,” Buck growled. “I couldn’t sleep last night because I swear I could smell you in the other bed.”

He buried one big hand in her tousled curls, and his lips, heavy and warm, pressed themselves against hers.

With a strangled moan, Julianna threw her arms around him and eagerly returned his kiss. Madness! This was madness! But, oh he could kiss!

For a chance to win an electronic copy of The Welcome Inn leave a comment. Talk about The Welcome Inn, or tell us about your own first kiss.

Your next stop for Romancing February will be http://MyBlog.SusanneSaville.com