Welcome Maryann Miller and Sarah Kingsley

Sarah Kingsley, one of the lead characters in Maryann Miller’s latest mystery, Open Season, a police procedural.set in Dallas, has offered to interview the author for this blog. Sarah said she was a little nervous because she’s never done this kind of interview before. So give her a big welcome and help to make her feel comfortable here.

Sarah: Where were you last Tuesday at 8pm?

Maryann: Wait. This isn’t an interrogation. It’s an interview. Like for a newspaper story.

Sarah: I’m a cop. Not a reporter. This is what I know. I don’t know how to act like a reporter.

Maryann: Okay. Just pretend we are two women talking over a cup of coffee. Ask me anything you want to know about the book or the characters.

Sarah: Ah,,,, so, tell me Maryann, what is your problem with language. You keep telling me to put a lid on it. What are you? Some kind of prude?

Maryann: Of course not, Sarah. It’s just that there’s a limit to what people should be exposed to. And there are places where you should zip it. Remember what happened at the Review Board.

Sarah. Okay. You made your point. Something else I’ve been wondering is why you partnered me with a woman like Angel who has a huge chip on her shoulder.

Maryann: Cause it’s fun. You guys really rub each other the wrong way.

Sarah: You’re telling me. Just when I think things might be thawing between us you throw another problem at us. Why can’t you just let us get along?

Maryann: It’s called conflict, Sarah. That’s what keeps people reading a story. If that issue was resolved people wouldn’t have a reason to keep reading.

Sarah: What about the mystery? Isn’t this a mystery?

Maryann: Of course. But readers want to know more about the characters than how good they are at the job. What do you think kept NYPD Blues popular for so long? Sure, people checked in every week to see what kind of sleaze balls the detectives were going to be up against in this episode, but they also kept coming back to see what was happening on the home front with Sipowitz.

Saarah: Who?

Maryann: Never mind. It was before your time. So, what else do you want to know?

Sarah: Am I your favorite character??

Maryann: Not fair. That’s like asking a mother who is her favorite child. I have worked with a lot of characters and each has been special in her or his own way.

Sarah: So you like Angel, too?

Maryann: Sure. She is as complicated as you, even though she is so different. After spending most of two years with the two of you and the rest of the characters while writing Open Season, I feel close to each of you. I guess that’s why I thought of doing this Season’s series.

Sarah: Does that mean we’re coming back?

Maryann: I hope so. I mean, I’ve been working on the second book and hoping that the publisher will accept it.

Sarah: Cool! I get to kick more---

Maryann: Zip. Zip Zip.

Sarah: Right. No bad words. What will it take to get the second book accepted?

Maryann: Sales. Good reviews of this first book and sales numbers. It’s all about the bottom line.

Sarah: Well, that stinks.

Maryann: Yeah. But that’s the way it is in the business now. So we suck it up, do what we can to promote, and concentrate on writing the next book and make it the best we can.

Sarah: What do you mean ‘we’? Did someone else help you write this book?

Maryann: No. I was speaking in general terms about all authors.

Sarah: What made you want to write this story of Open Season?

Maryann: Partly to explore the issues of racial tensions and the deadly force controversy that went on in Dallas in the late 1980’s. I had several friends who were officers and the problems were impacting them. Then I got this crazy idea of murders in shopping malls. I used to go mall-walking with a friend for exercise and when we went into dark corridors I wondered aloud whether someone could hide down there and kill people. My friend was so thrilled when I brought that up.

Sarah: That’s pretty good. You think like a cop.
Maryann: Thanks. That’s quite a compliment coming from you. Now lets get back to the next book and figure out how you are going to catch the killer.

Welcome to Blogmania Stop 68

Welcome to Blogmania. I’m so glad you decided to stop by. The theme of my giveaway is The Old South. The centerpiece of the prize is a handmade sweetgrass basket. Designs for these baskets came from Africa with slaves who made them of local grasses found in the area. At first the baskets were used for practical purposes such as gathering rice or cotton, but today there are many designs that can be used any way you choose. I wish you could see the quality of the basket! If you are interested in the baskets, there are many websites devoted to them. One such site is https://cityofcharleston.info/shop/default.cfm?irefer=charlestonsweetgrass&CategoryID=42&CFTOKEN=553503mz&CFID=553503mz&ishow=list&ssl=yes&i_Search_Res=1

In addition to the basket I’m offering a cookbook by Dorie Sanders. The book is filled with traditional Southern recipes and stories from her family’s farm produce stand. I’m also offering a pair of handmade earrings by Lucy O Designs, and last but not least, I’m giving away a signed copy of my latest release Return Engagement.

To win you must do two things. First, leave a comment with your email address. Second, become a blog follower by visiting my blog and clicking ‘Follow’ at the top of your screen if you are logged into your Gmail or Google account, or alternatively by scrolling all the way to the bottom and clicking where it says ‘Subscribe To: Posts (Atom)’ to subscribe to the feed using Internet Explorer.

Naturally, I’m hoping you’ll come back to visit often. If you like books you’ll probably find something to interest you. My winner will be announced on Saturday morning. Sorry, but I only mail to the US or Canada.

Below you will find the list of participating blogs. Have fun!

A Lady From Down Under

Can you guess where today's guest lives? If you said Australia you're right. Maragaret Tanner, thanks for coming today.

Hi, Elaine, thank you for allowing me to visit your blog.

Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?

I live in Australia and am married with three grown up sons and a gorgeous little grand daughter. I work as a typist in Radiology. I have ten books published with two publishers, Whiskey Creek Press and The Wild Rose Press.

I had boys too, Margaret. When my granddaughter came along, I was thrilled. What prompted you to write your first book?

I have always loved writing. I started out writing pathetic sad little poems, then short stories and finally I graduated to the love of my life, except for my husband and sons, writing novels.

Even sad poetry impresses me. I couldn't write a poem to save my life. How long does it take you to produce a book?

From when I first start writing in long hand, (as I always do), a throw back to when all we had was typewriters, then typing it into my computer, several lots of revisions, I guess about six months or so. I can write quickly, it is the research and revising that takes up the time.

What’s the easiest part of writing? The hardest?

The easiest part of writing for me is, just writing. The hardest part, revising.

Revision! It's tedious, isn't it? Tell us two things about you that would surprise us.
I am a chocoholic, and I have been known to swear when I get angry.

Don't tell anybody, but I'm a chocolate freak too! Would you share your links with us?

http://www.margarettanner.com/

We’d love to read an excerpt from your latest release. Don’t forget to share a buy link with us.

FRONTIER WIFE:
North East Victoria – 1879

Tommy Lindsay wiped her damp forehead with a lace handkerchief. Perspiration ran in rivulets between her breasts, pooling at the waistband of her gown and leaving a damp patch. She coughed a couple of times to clear the dust clogging up her throat.

“I don’t like it here.” Her little brother, Jamie, kicked one of the leather sea trunks and she was tempted to join him. “Why doesn’t someone come?”

A few boxes and trunks stacked on the hotel verandah held all her possessions and those of her two brothers. Just thinking about how the once proud Lindsay family had been reduced to such pernicious circumstances caused tears to build up at the back of her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t afford such a luxury, not with a young brother and a sick older brother to worry about. She had to be strong, resolute.

Warrior, a thoroughbred black stallion, stomped and snorted restlessly.
“Easy, boy.” David patted the stallion's glistening neck. “How much longer do we have to hang around, Tommy?”

“I don't know.” Her voice trembled even though she fought to control it. “Uncle Henry’s lawyer said someone would take us to the farm. Do you think he might have forgotten? Maybe he got the days mixed up?”

Sick dread washed over her. Oh, God, what if this desperate undertaking of theirs failed? It was sheer madness sailing thousands of miles across the sea to start a new life in an alien, hostile country, but what other choice did they have?

“Sorry for being so grouchy but my leg is aching, makes me irritable.” David grimaced as he rubbed his thigh.

His skin looked even more ashen than usual. Perspiration beaded his upper lip, not entirely caused by the fierce Australian sun searing them from a cobalt blue sky.
One glance at them and anyone who wasn’t blind would pick them out as newly arrived immigrants. Their skin was pale, not just because they were blue-eyed blondes, but they came from England’s gentle, temperate climate. David once felt the burning South African sun, but his tan had long since faded beneath the pallor of prolonged illness.

“I'm hungry.” Jamie’s bottom lip quivered.

“Someone will come soon,” Tommy reassured him.

“Why don't they hurry up?” He scuffed his boot across the verandah boards and tugged at the swathe of corn-colored hair flopping across his forehead.

A tall, slim young man sauntered up to them. “Are you the Lindsays?”

David took a step forward and shook the other man’s hand. “Yes, I'm David Lindsay. This is my sister, Thomasina, although she’ll only answer to Tommy.” He gave a strained grin. “And the young fellow is Jamie.”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Jim Cavendish. Easy to see you're fresh out from the old country.” Smiling, he touched his hat as he glanced at Tommy. “I'll be taking you to your Uncle’s place.”

“Oh, Mr. Cavendish, you’re Uncle Henry’s friend. He often mentioned you in his letters.” Tommy greeted him with sincerity. He had been a good friend to a lonely old man.

“How you doing, boy?” Jim ruffled Jamie's hair.

“Will we see outlaws, mister?”

Jim laughed. “They’re called bushrangers out here. We might run into some. This is Ned Kelly country, you know? He glanced at David. “Fine stallion you’ve got there.”

“He's the best, aren't you, Warrior.” David stroked the stallion's neck, his voice soft, reassuring.

Tommy smiled as her brother's eyes lit up for a moment, before bleakness snuffed out the light.

They waited until Jim returned with a decrepit cart drawn by one horse. She tried to suppress a shudder. The Cobb and Co. coach bringing them to this frontier inn had not been too bad, but this cart looked ready to fall apart at any moment. She did not mind so much for herself, but worried about David, who had still not recovered from his injuries.

Jamie jumped up and down in excitement now. The long sea voyage out from England and the coach ride had not bothered him over much. With the resilience of the young, he soon forgot the traumatic events of the last few months.

On their father’s death, they discovered their manor house and all the land surrounding it belonged to someone else. They were left in such dire straits she sold family heirlooms to pay for their passages out to Australia.

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/frontier-wife-p-4099.html

What a great beginning, Margaret. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Please come back and see us again.

Prophecy

Hello. My special guest today is Heather McCollum. Please join me in giving her a warm welcome. Heather, tell us a little bit about yourself.

Thanks so much for asking me to be on your blog. Hmmm . . . about me. Well, I’m a full time mom of three young kids and a gigantic golden retriever pup. I’m a part time (in other words, any coherent moment I can find) writer of historical paranormal romance. I’ve been writing all my life (how many times have you heard that one : ) but not seriously until about eleven years ago when I joined my local RWA chapter. Up until then I was a writer-in-denial, pursuing a doctorate in cellular immunology. My English teachers thought I was crazy, but I told them that writing was too subjective. That I wanted my grades and success based on objective results and I didn’t want anyone telling me how I should write. Ha! Now I am attending all sorts of workshops and conferences, paying people to tell me how I should write. And I eagerly await comments and revision requests from my agent and editor (okay, not eagerly, more like anxiously).
So why the change (am I allowed to ask myself questions?)? After a long day in the lab working with Western blots to see if an invisible protein in an invisible cell moved, I would go home to relax – in other words, write. On a sick day with a box of tissues as my Siamese twin, I would drag myself into my chair and boot up my current WIP to lose myself in someone else’s adventure instead of thinking about how awful I felt. When I slumped through my days during the first stages of depression and my girlfriend suggested I start writing again, just the idea propelled me to do something instead of sitting stagnantly in exhaustion. After subsequent months following the birth of my daughter when I was so terribly sick that the doctors thought I would need to be hospitalized, my husband suggested I write again – and I did. And the knot of hopelessness loosened. It was as if I’d been unable to breathe fully and suddenly my lungs were free to inhale and balloon. After all this – well, even stubborn Capricorn that I am had to admit – I’m a writer. I need to write.

Now writing hasn’t cured me of sickness or depression or the crazy life I lead with my dh and my “spirited” kids and dog, but it has given me an avenue to authenticity. I finally realized who I was and what I loved to do. And I began working toward publication.

So – there’s a TMI intro : ) I should also mention my books (I’m a terrible salesperson). My debut novel, PROPHECY: Book One of THE DRAGONFLY CHRONICLES, released in July in print and electronic formats from The Wild Rose Press. Book two of the same series, MAGICK, will be released in October. The series consists of five books, each set in a different historical time period about sisters who have been hidden in time by their mother in order to save them and the world from a malicious group of demons. PROPHECY was a Maggie finalist in 2008 and MAGICK was a Golden Heart finalist in 2009.
I will also be part of The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance with my novella, HIGHLAND HEART, which will be released in January 2011 by Running Press.


Heather, those are some major contests! Congratulations are in order. I know what you mean about having to write too. How did you celebrate when you got “the call”?

My “call” to be published was actually an e-mail from my now editor, Jamie West, at The Wild Rose Press. It was sort of a slow motion realization, after a month of e-mails back and forth about my series, that this editor was actually interested in my work. Another editor at TWRP had given MAGICK a first place win in the 2008 Lone Star Writing contest and had passed the manuscript to Jamie.

I remember that night, sitting with my husband by the computer when Jamie’s e-mail popped up saying that I would be in the Faery Line. I didn’t quite know what that meant and e-mailed her back. It was then that she e-mailed that she’d sent me a contract earlier but it hadn’t gone through, but that she was indeed asking to publish my book! My husband and I smiled (that’s such a mild word – beamed widely until our faces nearly cracked) at each other while my kids screamed and jumped around the house (much like they do every day but with a slightly higher pitched screech). It was like I’d swallowed a bubble of happiness that expanded to fill every part of my body. I floated for a month!



That's such a wonderful story! Do you think being an author changed you?

Well I think I’ve always been an author so I haven’t changed much. I think when I finally started calling myself a writer (which was about a year before I published – here’s to the power of positive affirmations) I actually committed to producing pages.
An author, as most of you know, sees life a bit differently. I watch people, listen to their quirky lives and tuck away the information to use one day in a book. I run through random dialogue in my head while I’m driving. My brain whirls towards worst case scenarios. Being an acknowledged author has helped me realize that all this is normal. I’m just as strange as all the other writers I’ve met.


That's so funny. The brain of every writer I know works that way. Before I met other writers I thought it was just me. What drew you to the paranormal genre?

I love magic. And I love the idea that there is hidden magic all around us. I suppose normal reality is interesting, but add in a woman hiding her telepathic abilities or the spirit of a Wiccan priestess trying to save the world and you have excitement that transforms reality from a snake into a Westminster best-in-show poodle (talking about twisty balloon animals here).

Paranormal stories make me wonder “what if.” What if I had the ability to send my daughters through time to hide them from monsters? What if vampires and werewolves are real (I don’t have any in my stories but I’m a Twilighter). What if you can walk between train platforms to board a magical train to a wizard school? With paranormals, the only limits are what works and what doesn’t. And I’ve read enough to think that the right writer can make ANYTHING work.


What was your favorite scene in the book?

Oooo . . . there are so many favorites! I love the whole gypsy suitor scene with the bee and of course the ending. But I guess my favorite is the scene with Keenan and Serena in their magical clearing when Keenan realizes that he’s begun to fall in love. His whole life up until then has been about fighting and dying for his people. For the first time ever Keenan thinks about living instead of dying and he finally wishes on a shooting star.


Would you share your links with us?

Please visit me at my web site - www.HeatherMcCollum.com. I’m also a member of the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood of 2009 Golden Heart Finalists. You can find us at www.RubySlipperedSisterhood.com . This amazing group runs a daily blog on writing. My fabulous publisher can be found at www.TheWildRosePress.com .


7.We’d love to read an excerpt. Don’t forget to give us a buy link.

Thanks so much for having me on your blog. Here’s a brief excerpt from PROPHECY at the time Serena and Keenan first meet. Enjoy!
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/prophecy-p-4131.html
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_16?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=heather+mccollum&sprefix=heather+mccollum


Excerpt:


As long as the music played, Serena would
continue to dance as the flame. She never tired as
the serenity of the blazing ribbons of fire and the
dance kept the voices, the unending thoughts of
others, at bay. She heard them only as a whisper,
saw them only as a blank wall surrounding her on
the edge of light. Around and around she moved,
watching with half seeing eyes the web of thoughts
held out at the edge. She leaned against it evenly to
keep the thoughts from seeping inward, into her
circle.

As she rounded the fire once more, pushing
against the wills of her audience, a hole in the wall
appeared. Curiously she danced toward it. Reaching
out with her mind, Serena leaned into the hole. Her
mind fell through it, and her protective wall
shattered. “No!” she whispered frantically.
Images bludgeoned her. Naked flesh, her naked
flesh, pressed from behind, shoved into beds. Her
mouth on the men, her lips skimming over sweaty
skin.

“No,” she gasped as if for air. Quickly she flung
hard at the shards of carnal images. She took a
wrong step, her body flailing. She felt it, or rather
didn’t feel it, the void. She fell against it, against
him. She stared up at the dark, silent mountain
holding her.

The man was a giant. He stood taller than any
man she had known. His face glowed with the light
of the fire, accenting a slash across his left cheek
from his ear to his jaw. The scar accentuated the
square set of his serious face. His eyes stared back
into hers, they were light, but she couldn’t tell the
color. They narrowed as if trying to read her. Read
her? Shocked, Serena realized that she could not
read him. Not at all, as if he were a hole, silence in
the noise of thoughts flowing around her.

His arms steadied her as he gazed into her eyes.
“Who are ye, lass?”

Serena was mesmerized. Never before had she
met someone who was blank to her. Someone with
whom she could not read their thoughts, their
emotions.

“Lass, are ye hurt?” he asked, his sensual mouth
forming the deeply accented words.

Serena glanced at his hands wrapped around
her bare upper arms. Nothing, she read nothing
from him. Serena snatched off her glove. His scar.
Scars, chiseled into skin during battle, were
extremely powerful. Even her defenses could not
block the gruesome details.

Serena held her breath as she traced her finger
down the length of the slightly puckered skin from
his ear hidden in waves of dark hair to the rough
squareness of his chin. The muscles in his jaw
jumped at her touch. His lips opened on a ragged
breath.

No jolt shot down through her arm and up
behind her eyes. No visions of bloodstained iron,
muddy grime and anguished cries of war victims.
Just the void. He was the first person she had ever
met whom she knew absolutely nothing about.

“What are you?” she whispered. “A demon?”

The man’s face relaxed. “Some have called me
worse.”

Was he serious? She couldn’t tell. Serena had
never needed to learn the subtle ways a body tells
when it speaks lies or jests. She had always been
able to tell even before the lie was uttered. But now,
now she was lost.

“What are ye called?” he asked, releasing her.
The gently rolling brogue reminded her of the
mountain people up north on the edge of the sea.

“Serena.” She wondered what her name would
sound like on his tongue.


Love it! This reads like a winner, Heather. I believe you do the paranormal well. Come back and see me again.

Wendi Zwaduk Is On A Blog Tour

Wendi, thank you so much for including me in your blog tour. For the benefit of those who may not be familiar with you, tell us a little bit about yourself.

I’m a wife, mother to a youngling, and an artist. I love to write and have been doing so for almost 6 years. When I’m not writing, my life is more or less boring with two dogs, an indoor cat and an outdoor one. What am I saying, it’s like living in a zoo, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I write contemporary, paranormal, and erotic romance. I want to write historical, but am finding it hard to make the heroine strong in times when she’s bound to be helpless. I’m chalking that up to a work in progress.

Living in a zoo? That sounds like my house. Do you think being a published author has changed you? If so, how?

Yes and no. It changed me in that there are topics I’m much less likely to shy away from. I’m more outgoing when it comes to telling people about what I write. I’ve also found that time to write and write well is a precious commodity. If I plan to write, the ideas won’t come. If I’m in the middle of something and can’t find a pen and paper, then the ideas flow like water. But it hasn’t changed me in that I can still go to the library and check out books and be normal.

3.Was there any pivotal event that triggered your becoming a writer?

I read a Harlequin NASCAR novel. The story was good, but in my opinion, the technicals of the sport were lacking. I put the book down (after finishing it, of course) and decided I could write something like that. I put fingers to keyboard and didn’t look back.

Good for you! How many manuscripts did you write before you were published?

Four that were the NASCAR novel series. I even subbed the first one. It was rejected, but, here’s the important part, I learned from it. I know, lots of other authors say that, but in this case, it’s the turning point for me. I found out that this thing called POV is kinda important. Oh and head hopping? I guess it’s a bad thing. Now I know this stuff. Then, I didn’t.

How long does it take you to complete a manuscript? Do you work on more than one thing at a time?

Depends on the length of the story and the time I have available. Short stories can be done in as little as a month for the first draft. I wrote a NaNo story which I’d love to finish. (I got to the 50k mark, but it needs edits.) For a longer story... it can take up to a year. And I work on about fifteen things at one time. Not all manuscripts, but at least 15 things. I can’t sit still and I can’t just focus on one manuscript. I think it’s because the characters in my head love to shout at the same time.

Curiously, most writers I know say the same thing. Would you share your links with us?

My site: www.wendizwaduk.com
My blog: www.wendizwaduk.blogspot.com
I’m published through The Wild Rose Press (Right Where I Need to Be) and Total-E-Bound (Learning How to Bend, Must Be Doing Something Right, My Immortal).

We’d love to read an excerpt. Don’t forget a buy link.

Blurb: What’s a girl to do when she finds out the man of her dreams is a 340 year old vampire?

Run like hell or offer her heart.

Being a vampire hasn’t been easy for Storm Richardson. He’s not programmed to kill or harm, unless he needs to feed. When he meets Stephanie “Stevie” Persing, he knows he’s found his mate. But if he crosses the line between work and play, he risks losing the only person who matters—her.

Stevie’s been in love with Storm since the moment she laid eyes on him. He’s brooding, intense, and her one weakness. But is her heart too steep a price to pay for his love, especially when she discovers his deepest secrets?


Excerpt: My Immortal

At the traffic signal, Stevie screeched to a halt. She turned to him and rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant, Storm. Do you think he could get us through the line faster? I hate to wait in heels. Then again, you know how much I hate working in heels to begin with.”

Storm rubbed his jaw, blotting out a smile. She hated anything but comfy sneakers or good old socks. Unfortunately, clubbing required sexy clothing and footwear. Whether she was comfy or not, she looked darn cute jacked up four inches in knee-high boots.
“If we cut in line, honey, then we’ll give ourselves away. The point is to blend in, so don’t worry about the heels. You’ll be able to sit at the bar. Allan’s waiting on you to give you the scoop about our clients.”

Like it was possible for him to disappear in the crowd; he was a freaking vampire. A bloodsucker. He couldn’t blend in if he tried. Women clung to him in droves, claiming they liked his raw sex appeal. He never understood the draw. When he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a monster in expensive clothing longing to regain his humanity.

Stevie stuck out her bottom lip in a pout and distracted him from his pity-party. “Fine, but this time, you’d better act like you want to be there with me. The only attention I got Tuesday night came from the tacky bartender and what he wanted was a better tip. Fortunately, Allan’s more of a gentleman. Still, we aren’t acting like a convincing team when you pretend I don’t exist.”

Storm frowned. Oh, she existed and blocked out the image of every other woman in the room. She inhabited his dirtiest fantasies each time he closed his eyes. In his latest dream, he wanted to throw Stevie against the nearest wall and make love to her until they both screamed with delight.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. But then Stevie never saw that because of the never-ending line of women dogging his heels. What would she say if he finally told her the truth? She had an open mind. When he asked her about ghosts, she claimed to believe they existed.

Vampires were people, too…

Storm clenched his jaw. His heart thudded and fear thundered through his veins. The reason he kept his identity secret was the sheer terror of knowing she’d run screaming into the night if she knew.

Buy link: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=904

Wendi, this sounds great! I can't wait to read it. I want to know what she says when she finds out he's a vampire.

Hit Parade 1940's Style

Finding a site that’ll tell you the top musical hits of the 1940’s was harder than I imagined it would be. Each one I went to had a different list, but I picked this one because even though I wasn’t around in the 1940’s I recognize a lot of these songs. They’ve stood the test of time, so I though this list was the best pick. It comes from Aclaimed Music.

1.I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry by Hank Williams 1949
2.This Land Is Your Land by Woody Guthrie 1947
3.White Christmas by Bing Crosby 1942
4.Blue Moon of Kentucky by Bill Monroe 1947
5.Round Midnight by Thelonious Monk 1946
6.God Bless the Child by Billie Holliday 1941
7.Boogie Chillen by John Lee Hooker 1948
8.Take the “A” Train by Duke Ellington 1941
9.The Midnight Special by Leadbelly 1940
10.Lovesick Blues by Hank Williams 1949
11.Call It Stormy Monday (But Tuesday’s Just As Bad) by T-Bone Walker 1947
12.You Are My Sunshine by Jimmie Davis 1940
13.Wabash Cannonball by Roy Acuff and the Smokey Mountain Boys 1947
14.La Vie En Rose by Edith Piaf 1945
15.It’s Too Soon To Know by The Orioles 1948
16.Move On Up A Little Higher by Mahalia Jackson 1947
17.Foggy Mountain Breakdown by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs 1949
18.Sentimental Journey by Les Brown and his Orchestra with Doris Day 1944
19.Manteca by Dizzy Gillespie 1947
20.Walking the Floor Over You by Ernest Tubb 1944

Barri Bryan Day

Hello, and welcome to my blog. The fabulous Barri Bryan stopped by to talk to us today, and she's sharing a very interesting excerpt. Barri, thanks for coming. Can you tell us five things about you that nobody would ever guess?

I’m superstitious. I know in my head superstition is not grounded in fact and to believe such nonsense is foolishness. I do know, but if I spill salt, I throw some over both my shoulders, just in case. I would never intentionally walk under a ladder or cross a black cat’s path. You can never tell. . . God forbid that I should break a mirror.

I once entered a beauty contest. It wasn’t a big contest, just a little competition held by a local night club. I lied about my age in order to be a contestant. When my dad learned what I’d done, he was livid. Needless to say, I didn’t win. I was disappointed. At that time I imagined myself a young Betty Grable.

My husband proposed to me on the main street of our little town, in front of a jewelry store, and on a Saturday night. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I always thought that was very romantic. It was also very brave, proposing with all those people around. After that he couldn’t back out; I had too many witnesses.

My middle name is Louise. I like that name, but it never seemed to fit me.

I like pickled pig’s feet. That sounds gross, but they are really very good. Now my guilty secret is out and the entire world knows.

Wow! Your husband's proposal was so romantic! It sounds like something from a Valentine story. What do you think makes a book a page turner?

That’s a difficult question; one I’m not sure I can answer with any degree of accuracy. So many factors feed into producing a page-turner. I can best sum it up by saying the way a story is told has most to do with what makes it a page turner. Some writers have the marvelous gift of making the most mundane of subjects seem and stirring and moving. They can make the reader feel a building tension as the story progresses, to wonder who-done-it, or think, how she will ever get him back now?

And don't we all want to have that gift? Which genre of books appeals least to you? Why?

I don’t care much for some horror stories. That’s not to say I don’t read and enjoy what might be classified as horror. I like gothic romance novels, tales about shape shifters, monsters like the beast in Beauty and the Beast, and some vampire stories. I take pleasure in that feeling of fear and anticipation that precedes the reading of terrifying experiences. I don’t care for stories that involve torture, gore, vicious animals, and cannibals. I don’t like the feeling of repulsion that comes after I have read about some ghastly episode.

Well said. I get that feeling of repulsion too. On the average, how long does it take you to write a book.

I’d say anywhere from six months to a year. There are so many variables involved, such as how long will the book be, how much research I will have to do, how much time will I have to devote to writing during that period.


Revision is what slows me down. I think I revise more than I write. Would you share your links with us?

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home
http://twitter.com/texpoet
http://www.myspace.com/barribryan
http://barribryan.com/

We’d to read an excerpt. Be sure to give us a buy link.
http://www.classicromancerevival.com/a-second-splendor.html

"Julie " Max spoke her name softly and then swore, "Damn!"

"And in the future I'll try to be a little more cooperative."

Max dropped into the chair near the door. "It's not you, it's me. I'm not handling this very well." He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "We need to talk."

Julie was oh so cautious. "About what?" Was he going to ask her to leave? Common sense told her it would be best for all concerned if she did.

"I know that this is not the ideal situation, but we have to cope with it for the next few months. Maybe if we lay down some ground rules it will be more pleasant for both of us."

She knew how clever he was with words. "What kind of ground rules?"

"I've thought about this all weekend." Max fitted his shoulders against the back of the chair. "I believe I've come up with a workable solution to our problem."

Even Max was not that much of a genius. Folding her hands in her lap she waited for him to speak.

His questioning gaze lingered over her face. "Are you interested in trying it?"

"I might be, if I knew what it was." Her voice softened. "Why don't you explain?"

A smile erased the lines of tension in Max’s face. "Our problem is we're too bound up in the past and too concerned about the future to concentrate on the present."

What he said was true. It also seemed irrelevant. "We can't change what was." Nor could Julie stop being concerned about the many uncertainties that lay ahead. "Or control what is to be."

"I know but we could stop letting the past and the future disturb our present."
Now he was being absurd. "To do that we would have to exist in a vacuum, or find a way to place ourselves in some state of suspended animation."

"Nothing that drastic." Max smiled but his eyes were grave. "What I'm suggesting is that we try to make the next few months a little more bearable."

She had been here less than three days and already Max was pronouncing the situation unbearable. He did have a point. It was well taken. Julie said so and then waited with resigned acceptance for him to explain.

"I’m talking about the willing suspension of linear time."

"Have you lost your mind?" Julie's laughter rang out into the tense atmosphere. "No one can suspend time."

"Oh, but we can, if not actually, at least figuratively."

What was he up to now? "How?"

"By living in the moment; suppose from this day forward we live as though time was on hold? We can operate on the supposition that for us, there was no worrisome tomorrow and no troublesome yesterday."

"How long do you think that would last?" Julie’s doubts gave way to cautious optimism. The suggestion had possibilities.

One of Max's shoulders rose and then fell. "I don't know but isn't it worth a try?"

On the surface the plan sounded childish and a little foolish, but if it worked-- "I've never dared do that, live for the moment, I mean."

"Maybe it's time you gave it a try." Max said.

Maybe it was. "You said we should lay down some rules. What kind of rules?"

Max stood. "Now comes the hard part."

Barri, thanks for coming. The excerpt is very intriguing. I'm dying to know what rules he wants to lay down.