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After losing the love of my life in September, I have floated aimlessly on the waves of change, until the last few weeks. Then I decided to get back into my second passion in life.

I’ve taken control of the helm once again through the re-organization of my writing world. First was to hire someone that had knowledge of the vast digital world I am helpless in. Starting with my blog, you will notice new banners, social links and a page advertising the upcoming new book due to Mr. Richter’s skills, rickcarufel@netscape.net.   I have revised the first two books and added two children’s books as well.

For those of you who have been following my journaling on the 33 years of travel through cancer with my husband, (Living in the Shadow of Death) do not fear, I am still working on it. It will now be available on my Author website. It will be linked here and notification served through Facebook.

I needed the freedom to post again about my writing journey and to re-blog some of the awesome blogs I run across in my travel through cyber-space.

I must sadly report that I’m still editing Norse Hearts. This is a 100,000 worded romance, and trust me, grammar is not a talent of mine, just ask Chryse Wymer, http://ocdeditor.weebly.com/, my ever long-suffering editor.  But when it is finished you will be inundated with advertising joy.

Meanwhile, thank you for following my little corner of insanity.

 

So Close…..

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Recently I decided to raise awareness of the upcoming release of “Norse Hearts” by entering the cover in Little Book Corner’s Book Cover contest on Facebook.  https://www.facebook.com/littlebookcornerpage

Thank you to all who came out and voted! I am touched and very appreciative of your support. Now I would like to give you a little reward for your effort.

The following is the first chapter of the soon-to-be-released, “Norse Hearts.”    Enjoy!!

Norse Hearts – Chapter 1 – The Raid

“That which has a bad beginning is likely to have a bad ending.”

Britain – 760 AD

Einar stood in the ship’s bow as its oars sliced the water in perfect unison, powering the ship effortlessly towards the riverbank. Uneasily, he rubbed the back of his neck. There would be no honor to Odin in what they were about to do. Watching the giant man at the steering tiller, he waited. At the helmsman’s nod, Einar raised his arm in a silent signal. The oarsmen quietly pulled in the sculls through the oar locks. The dragon ship’s momentum sent her bow onto the shore with a hiss. He glanced over as a second ship, with a larger, ornately carved bow, slipped in beside them.

Leaping ashore, the men took on solid form in the ghostly fog. Woolen cloaks covered their broad shoulders and leather tunics studded in various designs of worked metal. Heavy brows pulled into fierce intent and created granite profiles framed by beards. Unhooking their shields from the railing of the ship, those who had swords slid them into wide leather belts or scabbards. Others carried heavy war axes. They shoved helmets—wrought into fiendish metal faces—over wild sea-salted hair.

Church bells pealed, sounding hushed in the fog, as they called to the faithful for evening vespers.

All went silent.

Then, from far off, Einar heard something faint and growing steadily louder: a deep-throated singing—people chanting. Rolling through the humid air, their voices rose in ethereal waves.

The band of warriors moved silently around the trees. Finally reaching the edge of the forest, Einar saw a small, grassy incline with the chapel and monastery at the top. The little hamlet of Seletun had the only church on this stretch of the River Ouse. The stained-glass windows in the sanctuary glowed with jeweled colors. Quickly scanning the area, he saw that there was no challenge. It looked like there were riches to be had here, but he had no desire to kill unless in the heat of battle. In this moment, he was simply being loyal in following his jarl’s orders.

Time slowed as the choir’s chant gave an unholy rhythm to the sounds of creaking leather and the warriors’ heavy breathing. With brightly colored shields, black shadows for eyes under helmets, and swords or battle-axes now in hand, it looked as if heaven and hell were about to collide.

The chant ended just as Einar and his horde hit the chapel doors. Crashing into the sanctuary, he stared at the worshipers’ startled faces. The monk turned from the altar and froze in fear. Women raised their hands to their mouths that had opened in screams.  The faithful scrambled to their feet to escape their impending doom.  With an animal-like howl, his shield in front of him and his sword held high, Einar led the charge as they fell upon the hapless victims.

Terrified monks pushed over an iron-wrought candelabrum as they fled from the invaders.   Flames crept up the heavy tapestries hanging behind the altar, adding the acrid smell of smoke to the carnage’s hellish glow. The warriors struggled and fought with any who stood against them. Their swords’ bright glint was now dulled by blood from those hacked without pity.

Einar’s gaze swept the front pews, noting a kneeling woman. Her bowed head was covered in auburn plaits. A fur-rimmed brown cloak, held together with a large gold brooch, draped over her thin shoulders. He strode forwards, catching an arm, and pulled her up, looking into her fear-widened eyes. He stared for a second at a plain silver cross that hung from her neck and then tore it from her violently. Reaching for the gold brooch, he ripped it from the cloak. Shoving her aside, she fell to the floor with a thin scream.

He whirled, facing the cry that had erupted behind him. A slim girl with copper-tinted hair ran past him, kneeling at the woman’s side, helping her to sit up. He watched a peasant rush the chapel door, and a single slash by the Norseman guarding it sent him into eternity. In the confusion, a monk who had a blonde, petite woman clinging to him screamed as she watched her family and friends die. Einar saw one of his men raise an axe to forever quiet the blonde, but the kneeling redhead lurched to her feet and darted forwards. Shoving the monk and the girl behind her, she glared at the warrior with her arms spread wide, protecting them. The sword hung in midair as the Norseman hesitated, startled by her defiance.

The twinkle of jewels caught Einar’s eye as the cross around her neck swung with the swirl of her cloak. He grasped the warrior’s axe hand, speaking roughly, “Gunnar, hold!  She is the one we seek.”

Glancing at the weeping blonde, Einar snapped out, “Spare them. Slaves bring good profit, and we still have room for a few more.” His eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over the redheaded vixen.  Her breast rose rapidly with quick breaths, anger setting her face in hard lines. A tan wool cloak, edged with gold embroidery and lined with fur, covered her slight frame. Without another word, Einar grabbed her arm and yanked her against him, fingering the gold cross, staring into her wide green eyes.

“Slitting her throat would lose us a chance of a better profit in ransom. I am taking her with us.”

Gunnar ground out angrily, “Then I claim first rights to her.”

Einar shot back, “No, she is mine. Take the other two.”

He watched Gunnar’s brow furrow and his knuckles whiten as he gripped his axe handle before bringing it down on a bench with a dull thud, the wood splintering. Kicking at the shattered bench, Gunnar pulled the axe loose. Looking at the trembling blonde who still clung to the monk, Einar heard him grunt, seemingly unimpressed with what was left. Slipping the axe handle into a leather loop on his belt, Gunnar grabbed them, joining him.

The redhead beat at Einar with her fist, screaming, “Nay, nay, let me go!” He tightened his hold on her wrist, smiling grimly to himself when he heard her sudden gasp.

Heading out of the church, the warriors grabbed everything of value and quickly searched the bodies lying about for anything of worth. Einar led the horde as they made their way back to the dragon ships, going a little slower for the captives taken and the loot carried.  A few Norsemen trailed behind to discourage anyone who found the bravery to get back what had been stolen.  The only noise in the foggy evening was the heavy breathing of men fired up from battle and the occasional whimper from the prisoners.

A few of the monks who escaped had gone into the bell tower, and clanging tones now called for help from the village.

Impatiently, Einar tugged on the struggling girl to hurry her along.  Breaking from the forest’s edge, he almost lost his grip on the arm he was clutching.  Grunting, he turned around, seeing she had wrapped her free arm around a slim tree trunk and dug her heels into the damp soil. Teeth clenched, her lips curled back, and her green eyes had a feral gleam.

“Nay. Nay!” she cried as he increased the pressure on her wrist again. Suddenly, she let go of the tree and braced both feet against his calf, throwing herself back. Her move startled him, and for a brief second, her hand slipped in his grasp. Twisting, she kicked up with her right foot between his thighs. White-hot pain seared through his groin, the air in his pain-constricted lungs leaving in a whoosh through his clenched teeth. His grip loosened while he instinctively sought to clutch his injured manhood. Wrenching free, she fled like a startled rabbit.

Suddenly, Gunnar’s laughter turned into a shout. “After her! She is the lord’s daughter!”

Gunnar had a head start on him, but Einar scrambled over damp rocks, stumbling through the deadfall littering the ground, until he came across a small path. Up ahead was a small meadow, and he watched her run across it, thinking that if he wasn’t in so much pain, he might appreciate the deer-like grace she had in full flight. She definitely knew the forest and had the advantage.

Still limping, he watched Gunnar gain on her. They both disappeared into the woods. His ragged breathing sounded harsh in his ears as he tried concentrating on any nearby noise.  Tripping over a tree root, he muttered, “By all that is Thor’s, if he does not beat you, I will!”

Suddenly, he heard a loud shriek and a muffled “umph” as something hit the forest floor. Pushing past the pain, he started jogging. Finally reaching the forest’s edge, he saw Gunnar stretched out over the girl’s small frame. He had both hands imprisoned above her head as his weight pressed her flailing legs into the moist earth.

Gnògr!” Gunnar growled.

Einar noticed the girl’s sudden stillness, and before he could call out, Gunnar shifted his weight, holding her wrists with one hand while his other hand slipped down her cheek, resting on her throat. The girl tried to move her knee to escape, and suddenly, his fingers tightened, cutting off her air.  She froze again, and Gunnar loosened his hand and slid it down over her body, checking out the soft curves.

“Get off of me, you filthy lout! Murderer!” she shouted, struggling wildly again.

“Shhhh,” Gunnar hissed in her ear, pressing her against the ground with his full weight to stop her from moving again.

“Gunnar!” Einar barked.

Gunnar looked up, his brow wrinkling in anger. “What? I caught her, and I have claimed her—again—since you can not seem to hold her.”

“I have first claim and am holding her for ransom. Get off her.”

“Let me have a few minutes; then you can have her back, if you can keep her.” A smirk covered his face.

Ekki! Let her loose now. Her ransom will cover the worm’s debt. Will you interfere with the jarl’s profit?”

“She is mine!” Gunnar spit back.

Folding his arms over his chest and leaning a shoulder into a tree, Einar stared impassively down at Gunnar. “Fine. You explain to the jarl why she is no longer a maid and why we have nothing to bargain with. I will wait here until you are finished.” He noticed that the girl had stopped struggling, watching the two of them intently.  Finally, with a glare, Gunnar brought up his knee beside her hip, still holding her wrists, and with a rough jerk, he drew her up with him as he stood.

“I am not conceding my claim,” he snarled, pushing the girl towards Einar.

Pulling a length of leather from his belt, Einar quickly wrapped it around her wrists, binding her hands before her. Tugging at the length of remaining leather, he started back down the path as Gunnar walked behind, pushing if she slowed.

“You heathen swine! Give me one moment with that fancy sword on your back and I will hack you to pieces. You are nothing but thieving barbarians with pig dung for brains. Lord Allard will see to it you are nothing but food for worms.”

Einar glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. Quite a bloodthirsty little thing, he mused. Maybe this is why her betrothed wanted her dead. He could see how her fiery temper might be daunting for a pasty-white worm like Cecil Allard. But Einar found her insults to be quite entertaining.

When the dragon ships came into view, the little vixen planted her feet—having caught her breath and strength—and started fighting again. Gunnar’s laughter grated across his nerves.

In one swift turn and scoop, he slung her over his shoulder. Putting his arm around her legs, he kept her still. She beat against his back with her bound hands and screamed.

“You son of a boar! Murdering heathen! Put me down!”

Loud laughter from the warriors around the boats drifted up, only adding to her agitation. A young, lanky warrior came up alongside him.

“I see you caught her. She sounds like a cat in season. If they did not hear the bells, they certainly will hear her.”

Einar grunted.  With a few long strides, he reached the dragon ship. Her shifting movements and the tug on the scabbard strapped across his back warned him that she was trying to pull the sword out. Suddenly, Einar dropped his shoulder, dumping her on the ground. She took a deep breath to scream, but his large, rough hand descended over her mouth, cutting it off. He felt her lips pull back as she bared her teeth to bite, but he pressed her head against the side of the boat, his hand pushing against her mouth.

He said to the lanky warrior beside him, “Tell her to cease.”

“Why? You can speak Angles just as well as I can.”

Einar glared at him. “Do it.”

Stepping up, the Norseman spoke quietly in the girl’s language. “Ladye, if you do not cease your struggles, Einar will bind and gag you.”

Taking his hand away from her mouth, Einar’s fingers grasped her arm in a tight grip.

The girl stilled, staring at the warrior who had spoken.  She took a deep breath and spoke softly. “How is it you speak as I?”

Einar watched Dagfinn pull his shoulders back and straighten. “I was born in this land and once was slave to the Norp weg. I am now called Dagfinn, shield hand to Einar Herjolfsson, your new master.”

Her eyes opened wide as she stared at the youth for a few seconds.

“I . . . I am no one’s property! I will not be anyone’s slave. Tell your lord to slay me now.” She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders, and stared into the dark holes of Einar’s helmet, seeking out the eyes behind it to convey her defiance.

Einar chuckled. “She is worth more alive. Quite dramatic, is she not?”

“Ladye, Einar refuses to slay you. A dead slave brings no profits,” Dagfinn said, a smile quirking at the edges of his lips.

“My father, Lord Landis Forthred, will pay him, if this is about coin. I am to be married tomorrow. My dowry is substantial, and my father will meet his demands,” she said, standing straighter, pushing her chin out.

Einar’s intense gaze sized her up.

Gunnar joined them, leaning against the side of the boat. “If what she says is true, there are several Forthreds who are related to the King of Northumbria. They can well afford a large ransom, but we have to meet with Roald in a fortnight, and he may not appreciate the problems she brings. Or did you think about any of that before you spared her?”

He gazed coldly back at his stepbrother. “We held our end of the bargain. She is gone—he does not have to marry her—but he did not hold up his end, so she will pay his debt, one way or another. You would pass up a chance for increased profit?”

“I think she would make a wonderfully obedient wife; do you not agree, Einar?” Dagfinn replied with a wolfish grin.

A scowl darkened Einar’s face. “Boy, if your sword arm was as quick as your wit, I would not need half of my men.”

Sudden silence fell between them as they stared at her. The girl shifted, her hands twisting in the bindings. Einar finally snarled out, “We need to go.”

Dagfinn translated quickly. “We are leaving. He will consider your offer.”

She beat her bound hands against her legs, the fingers laced and white as she spit out, “Did you not tell him I am to be married tomorrow? The lout can speak to my father now!”

Einar grabbed the leather lead; she pulled back against it, stomping her foot to emphasize her words. “I will not go. I must marry Lord Allard tomor . . . .”

Her words were muffled as Einar suddenly grabbed a length of leather from his belt and turned her around, his brawny forearm crushing her against his chest. She started to scream, but he shoved a rough piece of leather into her mouth, tying it off behind her head as she thrashed. Trying to shriek around the gag, she choked.  She brought up her elbows, shoving into his gut. He caught his breath, scooping her up and pressing her against his chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

“Move it, boy!” Einar ordered Dagfinn. “I am tired of her beating me like a dog!”

Gunnar’s laughter rang out as Dagfinn quickly tied another piece of leather around her ankles while she kicked, hampering the efforts. Einar lifted the squirming bundle up to several of the men in the ship, and they dumped her against the wooden mast.

The sound of wood clacking against wood sounded muffled in the fogged air as Einar and his men hung their shields along the gunwale of the ship. Nimbly vaulting up and into the ship, he made his way to the bow, meeting the glare of the bound and gagged redhead. Seating themselves on wooden trunks, his crew set the oars on end, waiting for his signal. Loot and other captives had been put in the holding area at the base of the dragon ship’s tall mast, and the captives knelt with their hands bound, their faces reflecting misery, fear, and shock.

Einar raised his hand, and, as one, the crew slid the sculls out into the water. Glancing up, he watched the ghostly forms of trees slipping by the dragon ship as it moved silently through the fog. The mist rolled around them in a moist caress as the proud bow disappeared into the gray.

 

 

How to Write a Hysterical, Oops, Historical Romance

Norse Hearts 3Thirty-eight years ago, for ten cents, I picked up my first Historical Romance at a garage sale. To this day “The Wolf and the Dove,” by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, remains my favorite. This started my addiction to romance stories. I quickly found some to be better than others and the dream of  writing my own was shuffled to the back burner as I started raising a family.

The one part of history that fascinated me was the Vikings. So little was known about them, but they made a huge impact on the world that is still seen to this day. Through the years I gathered notes on scraps of paper, watched every documentary, checked out books at the library, visited the Smithsonian when they had a traveling exhibit, and bought research books. Thirty-eight years later, I finally decided to make my dream come true.

And that’s where it got interesting. I thought I was pretty knowledgeable, but even though I had some facts in my head, I didn’t have them all. Writing my first two books had been easy. They were based on the here and now and information was readily at hand. Starting from the first page of Norse Hearts, I had to step back into time. In the 700’s town names were not the same. Language and customs were not the same. Walmart didn’t exist of course, and everything had to be made by hand. Words we use now, were not used then. To get someone from one continent to the other, was daunting and took weeks. How would I fill in the time during the journey?

Depending on the time period you choose to write about determines, of course, how much research will go into it. I was delighted to find they had a website on “How to Curse in Norse.” I found that they used more animal parts then and less curse words, much to my husband’s delight. Since it was a man dominated time period, I leaned on his manly expertise on the art of cussing, fighting and insulting.

Every story is like a well prepared meal. The courses must compliment each other, the spices must be just right. So how much of the Old Norse language do you use? How many of the strange personal names of the period can you put in before you lose the reader? How much detail do you describe about food, clothing, ships, customs and routines? How about their religious beliefs and practices?

Since I never do things that are easy, of course, I picked a time and period of history that not much is known about. So what were the wedding ceremonies like? How much fiction can I invent before it is unbelievable or not historically accurate? Even the historians disagree, so what happens when I have a reader who believes I have not done my research because they hold a different view of the facts?

Last but not least, I discovered the irritating problem of trying to write a scene, being in the moment, then suddenly realizing I would have to go back to my ocean of notes and references to find one small detail such as does Norway have skunks? Or what type of tree would they be burning in their firepit?

Though I had a lot more freedom as to plot, and my imagination went wild with the possibilities, I was not prepared for the mountain of time research would continue to play during my writing process. My husband was a dear during this time. For instance, it is one thing to see a sword fight in my mind, another to try and describe it. I know the neighbors definitely wondered about us as we picked up kitchen spatulas to simulate the moves during a sword fight so I could get a feel of how to describe it.

During one of my rants at my inability to find a tidbit of fact that I had just had the day before, my husband unwisely noted that I should not get so hysterical over such a small piece of information and the joke in the family began. I became quite cranky over the inquiries about how my “hysterical romance” was progressing!

Overall, it was a great challenge and I’m grateful I waited until this time of my life to try my hand at writing this form of romance. It is not for the faint hearted, easily discouraged, or impatient writer. It has stretched my organizational skills to the limit, but was one of the most exhilarating writing experiences I’ve ever had. Writing historically gave me a chance to develop characters who were not as confined by laws, society and religion as we have now. Because I used Vikings, I was able to create people who were not afraid to live, express their feelings or be colorful and headstrong.

Maybe it’s just that I’m now in a permanent state of hysteria, but  either way, my editor has her work cut out for her!

Raising Books

 

 

 

SWindswept Hearts Book Covero we all know, as authors, the euphoric feeling you get the first time you hold the actual printed copy of the first book you have ever written. It’s a high like no other. That awesome, overwhelming feeling that you did it and you hold in your hands proof of that.

 

It is a precious memory, but it wears off. Then the test of whether you truly are a writer occurs. You must write again because more stories beg for your attention.

 

Having children is a similar experience. You are ecstatic when you hold your first born child. You know you are going to be the best parent ever. As the daily care sets in with diaper changes and the first sleepless night, the excitement departs leaving behind exhaustion. But for some reason a few years later nostalgia sets in and you want another one. In the meantime you continue with the business of raising your darling.

 

How does one raise a book? After its birth what is the process to build and grow it into something that people want to read? Well first, like a pregnancy, it should have had good prenatal care. Without the building blocks of a fine editor, research and solid story, it will not go far. So let’s just say you’ve already done your prenatal care.

 

After the long labor of editing,  you hold in your hands your precious child. How do you introduce it to the world? Just like you prepared for a new baby, you must think ahead and get ready. You will need to spend time on social networking, promoting and advertising. You work at developing a good author website. Create and keep a current blog. Through the exhaustion you will have to find the time to Tweet, Facebook, Pinterest, Goodreads, Author  Guest Blog, do book signings and find any other outlet you can push your darling to the fulfillment of its potential.

 

Of course in the meantime you need to be working on bringing its sibling into the world. You must learn to multi-task and find time to write while graciously answering blog comments and promote its older brother or sister.

 

Yes, raising a book, in my humble opinion, is like raising children. You may have to wait for years to see its full potential. Some will look back on the process with tenderness and longing, while others may be glad it’s over. Either way, in the end, you have something you will be proud of and forever love.

 

So I wonder where your book raising is taking you?

Blog Blizzard presnet Ann Swann – Author

To Write or Not to Write?

C’mon . . . is there ever a question?  Everyone who wants to write should write.  We know that.  So why is it we sometimes do everything in our power to not write?

Example:  “Good morning!”  I’m speaking to my dogs Bonnie and Rocky, and the Supreme Ruler, Maggie, the cat.   They summarily lick my hand; bump the back of my bare knees in my So-Many-Books-So-Little-Time nightshirt, or totally ignore me and sit by the door waiting to be let out into the morning sun.

I head for my biggest vice, the iMac, wiggle the mouse, click on email, let the cat out, and stumble toward the Mr. Coffee while one hundred sixty-two emails load up.  “My,” I say to the assembled doggie crowd.  “It’s only eight a.m.  Someone’s been busy!”  I belong to several online writer’s groups (and a couple of real-life groups) so I always have a ton of emails . . . makes me feel special even though most of them are simply buy-my-book promos from other authors.

Tossing the dogs a peanut butter flavored doggie biscuit, I pop a tart into the toaster and swallow a vitamin capsule with an old Flintstones jelly glass half-full of with-pulp OJ.  Yum!  Okay, that’s my nod to nutrition.

Nibbling my tart, I scan the headlines of my paper-newspaper (yes, I’m a throwback, I can’t say no when they call me each year to renew, even though it’s gotten so thin the carrier has to roll it with a super-fat rubber band to give it a little heft and keep it from blowing right out of the driveway when he speeds away).  Next, I work the daily Jumble, ink smiley faces beside the easy words, frownies beside the hard ones, and then leave it open for my handsome hubby, Dude, to look at tonight when he gets home from work.

By this time it’s 8:30, maybe 8:45 if there was actually something interesting in the paper or if I stopped midway to play my turn in one of the dozen games of Words with Friends on my iPhone, so I take my second cup of coffee back to my desk and settle in to write.  Except the Supreme Ruler is looking in the window at me with that exasperated you-have-one-second-to-get-that-door-open-before-I-release-all-the-wrath-of-Cat-upon-your-head look.

I let her in and then she has to have a dollop of cream in her special ramekin, which has to be carried to her bathroom and placed upon the counter out of reach of the scrounging horde of dogs—all two of them.  I tried placing it on the kitchen counter one time, which would have been much quicker and easier and still out of reach of the horde, but Her Royalness didn’t go for that, thank goodness, because what was I thinking putting her on the same surface where I lay my Poptart each morning?  Ewww!  She walks around in her own poop for crying out loud.

At last, I sit down in front of the Mac and get to those emails.  About 70% are simply click and delete (I’ve seen them all before), but the rest are personal and actually require a reply or at least a closer look.

It’s now 9:30 closing in on 10:00, and I still have to check the blog, Twitter, Triberr, Goodreads, and my Facebook author groups that post ads for me and vice versa.  I love these groups.  All those lovely book covers, and book trailers . . . it’s easy to get lost in that indie forest.

Around noon I wander back to the kitchen for a diet Coke, a handful of Wheat Thins coated with cream cheese and jalapeno slices, and take the snack out back to the patio just to stretch my legs and the muscles in my lower back—I’ve been sitting at the computer for over two hours and haven’t written a single word except for emails, blogs, and tweets.

The weather is so lovely I think about how nice it would be to have a sleeping porch so I could take a nap without the help of those pesky mosquitoes and horseflies.  But how could I be sleepy?  I haven’t actually done anything!  Which reminds me, I really need to get dressed and brush my teeth.

It’s almost 2:00 by the time I finish my snack, play a few more WWFs on the iPhone, do a bit of lackadaisical grooming, slip on a pair of old capris and a cotton shirt, and head back to the computer.  Now, what to write?  I studiously ignore the 43 new emails that have come in since before lunch, and I don’t even think about looking at Facebook, okay, maybe just a peek to see if my daughter has posted any new pics of the grandkids.  No, no that can wait . . . must write!

I pull up my Work in Progress, a romantic suspense called Stutter Creek, hit Option-Command G to go to the proper page and . . . oh, yes, here we go, I was working on the scene where the serial killer is closing in on our protagonist.  Need to make it scarier . . .

Chewing the end of a Sonic straw to help me concentrate—I gave up smoking twenty years ago—I let my mind wander into the scene . . . but those darn little email numbers keep popping up so I do what I always do to help my mind focus, I get up and do some housework.  Sweeping and mopping are always good, rhythmic chores that seem to release my grip on reality, and I love the fact that I am actually doing something constructive while I construct the scene.

It works!  While the floor dries, I dash back to the computer and slash at the keys in a frenzy to get the creepiness down on “paper” before it melts away.

And now it’s six o’clock and time for the Dude to get home.  Where has the time gone?  I stand up and rub at the small of my back, amazed that five pages of fairly good material have materialized in front of me.

Wow.  Not bad for a couple hours work.  Just imagine if I’d actually started writing at 8:00 this morning.  I could’ve had the book finished like, yesterday!

Website: www.annswann.com

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Blog Blizzard – Ann Swann – Author Interview

Ann Swann, author of ALL FOR LOVE

What is your favorite thing about being a writer?

Making up characters and bringing them to life while still dressed in my pajamas and nursing a cup of coffee.

What genre(s) do you write?

Adult contemporary romance, romantic suspense, young adult ghost stories and paranormal short stories.  I’m also writing a cop story set in small-town West Texas.

What was the hardest part of writing your book?

I tend to rush to the finish.  I have to slow down and plump up.

Are you a plotter or a pantser?

I have to know the ending, then it’s strictly seat of the pants!

Why do you think people should choose your books over another author?

I like to make people cry.

What do you hope readers take with them after reading one of your stories?

Unforgettable characters.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

In All For Love, I hope the reader gets the message that decisions made in haste often have life-long consequences.

How long have you been a writer?

Since I was old enough to string sentences together in a spiral notebook.

How much time did it take from writing your first book to having it published?

Well, my first book was never published.  It died a slow and painful death at the hands of zombie-dust-bunnies in the bottom drawer of my old desk.

Twenty years later, I got serious and published a novella.  However, I was writing and publishing short stories all along.

What other careers have you had?

Elementary school teacher, 911 operator, waitress, radio-station secretary, freight office supervisor, newspaper delivery girl—don’t laugh—I was able to take my kids with me when they were small.

Do you write under more than one name? Why?

No, I have thought about it though.  Especially since I write in more than one genre.

Are any of your characters based on real people or events?

Oh, I always use an amalgamation of real people and real events.  I’ve killed off my “enemies” a few times.

How would you describe yourself if you were “speed dating” your readers?

I strive for action and deep emotion in all my stories.

What’s something fans would find fascinating about you?

I believe in spirits—I’ve been visited on three separate occasions.  Plus, I can wiggle my ears.

What else would you like readers to know about you or your work?

My work is heartfelt.  It comes from the pain and joy of living.  I always try to convey that via my characters.

What books or authors have most influenced your life?

Everything from Black Beauty and Call of the Wild, right up through The Crystal Cave, and on into Stephen King’s work (especially works like The Woman in the Room); books have taught me everything I need to know about life.

How do your family and/or friends feel about your book or writing venture in general?

My family is very supportive.  They have no choice.  I know where they live.

Where are you from?

Lamesa, Texas

It’s a small town surrounded by cotton fields and pumpjacks.

How do you come up with the titles?

The Muses supply them—then the editors change them.

Has your life changed significantly since becoming a published writer?

Yes, I have become a slave to Internet marketing.

Do you work on one project at a time? Or do you multi-task?

I work on several at once.  I also read several books at the same time.  I think I may have undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder.  Either that or I just got such a late start in publishing that I’m constantly trying to catch up . . .

When not writing, how do you relax?

I like to read, walk two or three miles a day, go to the drive-in movies with my handsome hubby, Dude, swim, and try out new restaurants.  We also love live music and are fortunate to be able to attend concerts frequently.  ZZ Top, Craig Chaquico, Pat Benatar, Reckless Kelly, Bruce Springsteen, Charley Pride, Bill Cosby (okay, he’s not a musician, but boy can he tell it like it is) those are some of the most recent . . . I want to see George Jones; he is coming to town soon, but I will be in Austin at the Texas Book Festival.

Please tell us 5 miscellaneous facts about yourself.

I love roasted jalapenos.

My favorite drinks are coffee, chocolate milk, and Diet Coke (not usually all together).

My daughter, Sara Barnard, is also an author published by 5 Prince Publishing.

I have five grandchildren.

I once met Andre the Giant (from The Princess Bride).  He was very nice and very, very large.

Please share with us your future projects and upcoming releases.

My next book is The Phantom Student; book two in The Phantom Series, which will be released in October 2012.  I am also at work on Book Three, The Phantom of Crybaby Bridge.

I have two stories included in Campfire Tales, an anthology of spooky stories, which will be released in September 2012.

I am finished with my Romantic Suspense novel, Stutter Creek.  It’s fermenting.

Please share any links you would like.

Website: www.annswann.com

Blog: www.annswann.blogspot.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/annswann.author

Email: Swannann76@yahoo.com

Twitter: @ann_swann

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/annswann/

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5420711.Ann_Swann

Blog Blizzard – Rebekah Roberts – Author

Rebekah Roberts’ obsession with fairytales, romance, and Jesus came at an early age. She knew as a young teen that she wanted to write books for girls that were both fun to read and good for them.

While working as a nanny and volunteering in her church’s youth group, Rebekah continues her mission to write wholesome romances and uses fiction as a platform for The Unfolding Rose Ministries; where she helps to promote true beauty and self confidence in girls.

Rebekah was homeschooled through high school.  She continued her education at Moore Norman Technology, where she studied creative writing. She uses her education to instill a love of the craft in the next generation through teaching writing classes.

Growing up in small town Oklahoma, she loves the old south and history, which finds its way into her writing and everyday conversation with dreams of plantation houses, WWII dances, and Victorian trivia. She has a passion for taking an old story and making it new.

When she is not writing or working with youth, she loves to watch sci-fi movies with family or enjoy a pot of tea with good friends.

Petals is her first novel. www.RebekahRoberts.net

Pen Name: Rebekah Roberts

Book Title: Petals

Series Title: Once Upon a Tuesday

Number in the series: Book One

Book description as it will read on the back of the book:

“Beauty might just be the beast.”’

Calla Williams is not like other girls.  Most girls spend their whole lives trying to be beautiful, Calla already is…and she hates it.

When she is shipped off one summer to live with family friends in their dilapidated Mississippi plantation, Calla is faced with the prospect of living with strangers and their teenage son.  This is annoying because, like any other boy, he is sure to fall in love with her on sight. However, Griffin Davenport is not your typical teenage guy. With his hot temper and half of his face severely scarred, “hate at first sight” is closer to what she finds.

Though the two teens try to stay out of each other’s way, an odd attraction to each other makes staying away anything but easy.

Now, Calla must deal with growing feelings, her own prejudices, and finding the secret to Griffin’s past. As hate turns to friendship and friendship becomes something more, Calla learns a startling truth: God uses even how we look in His plan for our lives.

Links:

http://www.facebook.com/RebekahRobertsWriter

https://twitter.com/RebekahFRoberts

www.RebekahRoberts.net