Can you tell I had fun with the title? Sometimes, stories come like that. You find the perfect title and then the story naturally evolves from just a word or a simple phrase. Don’t ask me what I was thinking when that title popped into my head. It wasn’t a first grade primer book, that’s for sure. And because a couple was already part of the title, my mind added a third-some. The title also set the tone. I couldn’t write a dark paranormal with the word “fun” in there, right? If only all stories were as simple to conceive.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He didn’t know the nightly peepshow was just a naughty invitation…

Garrett knows what he’s doing can get him into trouble, but he can’t help himself. Every night, as he arrives home, the blonde across the alley gets busy with her boyfriend with the blinds open. He’s spent the past two weeks getting an eyeful and falling deep into lust. But when Garrett sees a man in a black ski mask sneak into his sexy neighbor’s bedroom, he doesn’t know he’ll be the one captured.

Jayne has a nice life with a nice lover who sees to her every need, but she’s still drawn to the lonely man across the alley. She’s been sharing her deepest fantasies with him from afar, but is ready to up the stakes. When she talks Richard into enacting a dangerous scenario, everything works out as planned. Only Garrett’s not happy about being played. And he’s got reservations because she already has a lover and he’s not into threesomes. Guess she’ll just have to convince him otherwise.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Check out my blog for excerpts. Be prepared for heat!

Excerpt #1 from “Fun”

Excerpt #2 from “Fun”

Have I mentioned how much I love my job?

Besides the obvious reasons (jammies and sweats wardrobe, clock in when I want), there’s plenty to love—but it did take a while for me to figure out where to find the fun.

For a person who currently lives her most exciting adventures in her head, I had to reconnect with the person I used to be—the ex-Army action girl who liked to get in the middle of things. Hitting middle years means I’m not looking for the purely physical challenges anymore. But I can amuse myself.

I love field trips. Whether it’s scrouring a graveyard for interesting views into other people’s lives and deaths or walking down a deserted railroad track searching for ghost lights, I do have a fascination with the process of death. I interviewed a mortician about what happens after a body arrives at the funeral home and learned some interesting things that made it into the pages of Frannie ‘n’ the Private Dick. I attended a Roller Derby match, took pictures and interviewed players and refs. I travelled to Memphis and had a private tour of the city from John the Trolleyman. I meet some of the most interesting, ordinary people.

I discovered what I like to do in the way of “getting out there” to touch readers. Some folks hate blogging. I love it. The words I write into a posting every morning serve as my “morning pages” or journal. And I have fun with it too. You can find me posting pictures of my travels, the mushrooms in my backyard, the readers I meet at signing events…

I love live chats. I “talk” better, am wittier with my fingers, than I am in person. And while I live a hermit’s life when I’m deep in a book, which is most of the time, live chats make me feel connected to the rest of the world. I’ve met new friends there.

However, all that stuff isn’t the actual work of being a writer. It’s what we do to draw attention to the work. Slogging through a book to make a deadline can be grueling, but I’ve found what keeps me excited. I have to write short stories. When I stare 400 pages of manuscript in the face, it’s hard to picture the end. I take short breaks from the major work and write something short, 2500 to 6000 words. It’s a way to get to an end of something quickly, to get that temporary high from having accomplished something. Selling those short works gives another boost of self-esteem.

Perhaps the most fun I’ve had lately is sharing the plotting of a story with my readers. I decided to write a novella, one chapter at a time, and seek their input all along the way. They tell me what ingredients they want to see—they chose the setting, the heroes’ occupations, the heroine’s. They choose plot turning points at the end of every chapter. And they write me in between installments to tell me they think that Mason should do this or that, or to speculate over what the big mystery of Bayou Noir really is. I’m loving it. And what does it cost me? A few hours every couple of months.

If you have a taste for the naughty stuff, check it out. I’m running a contest on my blog to entice readers to come vote for what happens next. You can see what readers have helped me create so far.

I don’t know about other writers, but real life tends to sift through the pages of my books.

Places I’ve traveled become settings for stories. Interesting tidbits of real life stories become the germs of ideas for plots. Conversations I overhear might provide the spark of life for the dialogue of my characters.

And no one is safe when it comes to crafting the characters themselves. Ask my poor daughter. She’s been featured in several of my books. Her husband used to get a little bent out of shape until I made him the hero. Now he has bragging rights of his own.

Why use things that are so close to home, so connected with my real life? It’s that old adage, Write what you know. The reason you do is that you want a reader to connect with the reality you build into a story, so that they can step into that world and experience it.

I write a lot of cowboys. I lived in Texas for nine years with a working ranch as my backyard. Now, that’s immersion. And I think it shows when you read my little Texas-based stories. They are gritty and real. The people talk like real Texans. They struggle with real conflicts and emotions.

Next week, Unforgiven releases, the second in my Lone Star Lovers series. You can click on the cover and read an excerpt. It’s not a sweet story. The couple come together expecting anything but to find love for themselves again because they were torn apart by betrayal. But love always finds a way—at least it does in my stories.

I’m a NaNo. Once a year, writers from all over the world accept a challenge, join the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) group with one shining goal, and write their butts off. The shiny star they shoot for is 50,000 words by November 30th.

I’m ahead of the daily goal here on day 5. I have over 14,000 words. And the point I’m trying to make with this posting is that my brain is stuck in my story and I can’t figure out anything pithy to say here. I wimped out on my own blog and am posting excerpts from my books. No brainer there. Over 150,000 people have joined the challenge this year, so I’m not the only writer walking around with glassy eyes, gnarled fingers, and talking to themselves.

When I do NaNo, or when I’m on an impossibly short deadline, everything else in my life falls away. Pay the bills? Not important. Take a shower? Eh, maybe tomorrow. The only thing that’s important is making that daily goal–oh, and coffee!

It sounds crazy, right? Why would anyone do this voluntarily? If you’re a writer, you know. Those times when you push through a manuscript to the exclusion of everything else in your life, you find that magical zone where the story becomes reality and flows naturally, because you’re living it. Yes, I know they have medication for that sort of thing, but aren’t you glad writers learn to channel their schizophrenia?

So until next month, when I’ll be past the insanity, stop by and give me an attaboy now and then. I do poke my head above the pages during those coffee breaks to see what’s happening in my webworld.

Starting a new story is the hardest part of writing a book. At least it is for me. I want to begin in the right place, with the right words. I want the characters to leap off the page and come to life.

I’d like to start with that first line, add another and another, and have it flow naturally, but that hardly every happens. A story seeps into my dreams. I hear snippets of conversations. I see the hero, or heroes, talking to the woman, hear their voices, feel their attraction for each other.

I scribble down those fleeting thoughts as fast or slow as they come, and maybe I use them. Sometimes, I don’t. But those wispy bits help me form a picture in my mind and give me a feeling for what’s happening between them.

Most times, the hero comes to me first. Even if the opening scene shows her, I started with him. Without knowing him, I can’t see who he needs. The story I’m working on now is especially frustrating, because for once, I’m starting with her. She has the great guy. Knows she loves him, knows she wants to spend the rest of her life with him, but she’s dragging her feet, unwilling to commit. Her gaze is straying, and I don’t know why she feels restless. I have a dozen little threads of conversation sitting on the page, but I still don’t understand why she’s not satisfied. I’ll get there, but this one’s coming slow.

Here’s a beginning that I particularly love. It’s another of those rare she-first starts, but this one wrote itself.

Gillian Priest felt a cool shiver slide down her spine like a trickle of ice water the moment the tall chain-link gate closed behind her. But she shrugged it off. Now wasn’t the time to let herself get freaked out. Not even a little bit. They’d smell her fear.

New job. New set of prisoners to prove she was a bigger badass than any of them.

A work crew was busy laying sod in the strip of grass between the outer fence and the one surrounding the main building. Not one of the men paused to give her a direct glance.

She knew because she gave them the same sort of look as she strode by—out of the corner of her eye, sussing them out to see how well they played the game and how well the officer watching over them controlled the situation. She nodded to him, received a cool downward jerk of his chin, noted the muscled frame, the breadth of his shoulders, and the shine off his shaved head. His dark sunglasses hid his expression; his lips remained in a straight line.

She didn’t expect a welcome, not in front of his charges. Perhaps she’d never get one. Her time at the Bentonville unit had been spent playing the hard-ass with prisoners until they’d gotten the message she didn’t accept any crap, as well as dodging lewd comments from her fellow officers.

A woman who worked in a men’s prison learned to take it because no matter how hard she might try to defend it, watching men piss, shit, shower and dress left her motives for working in a hellhole like this open for interpretation. And everyone there, prisoner and staff alike, were eventually brought down to their base animalistic selves.

Gillian understood it. She’d tried to fight the perceptions and learned the hard way.

New prison. Fresh start. She’d settle for that and make damn sure she stepped out on the right foot this time.

She wouldn’t make any waves. Would keep her head down, her eyes sharpened on everyone and everything around her.

She waited patiently while the gate to the inner yard was buzzed open, and then shoved it inward. A man dressed in khaki slacks and white dress shirt opened the door into the main building and he waved her forward. “Officer Priest?” he shouted.

Like he didn’t already know? The grapevine inside had likely already passed every word written in her personnel jacket along, savoring the story, committing her official photo to memory.

She was fresh meat. Only she wore corporal’s stripes now, so they’d hold back slightly on the hazing. They’d wait to see what she was made of.

She held out her hand. “Yes, sir, and you are?”

His hand clasped hers firmly, pumped once and dropped. “Deputy Warden Kalicek.” Ice blue eyes raked her frame once, and then narrowed on her expression.

She kept it clear of emotion. Set in noncommittal straight lines. “I’m ready for duty. “

“You’ve already been briefed. I’m teaming you up with Officer Hedron. You passed him in the yard. As soon as his crew finishes up, he’ll meet you in the control room in Housing Three.”

She nodded. “Until then?”

“I’ll take you there. Introduce you to McPhee. He’s at the console today.” He turned and headed down the long corridor, his dress shoes tapping on the linoleum.

Gillian drew a long breath, relieved she’d be getting straight into the action again. Three months out had put a dent in her confidence. As she followed him down the corridor, empty except for the porter gliding a buffer across the pristine waxed floor, she ignored the hairs rising, prickling at the back of her neck.

A week from now, the nausea would be gone and the bile in her stomach would no longer burn the back of her throat. For now she’d settle for the fact her hands were as steady as her glare. The sight of the porter’s white jumpsuit hadn’t caused her as much as a skip of nerves.

A week from now, the Caddo River Unit would prove to be just another job.

I often write books in parallel. Like right now, I have two documents open, and another file saved on my desktop, ready for me to jump to if I get stuck (or worse—bored) in one of the other two stories. And I have another ready to edit. One’s a futuristic. One’s a Medieval historical. One’s a Medieval fantasy. And the last one’s a contemporary paranormal.

Sadly, only one is the book I’m supposed to be working on. As well, my agent’s waiting on two proposals I need to finesse, but they aren’t calling me.

Such is the life of a writer with WADD—Writer’s A.D.D.

Sometimes, I consider WADD a curse. Right now, it feels like a blessing because I’m managing to hold it all together and am making progress across the board, but I understand if it sounds a little crazy. All those different worlds and characters—and they’re all clamoring, keeping me from getting a good night’s sleep. I’m writing this blog late at night to post first thing in the morning, and it’s probably not such a hot idea because I’m going to ramble, but there you have it. And what’s with the title of this blog?!

What I should be doing for my own mental health is cleaning up my office and bedroom. Both are cluttered with clothes that should be in the hamper, research books that are opened to pages with lots of sticky notes and highlighted passages I’ll probably never read again, and tons of coffee cups that need to be emptied and washed.

Still, I have the greatest job in the world. Whoever said crazy was a bad thing? Voices in my head? Well, they’re telling me their stories. Depressed? It’s teaching me about keeping in touch with my emotions. Wild mood changes? Well, when I’m feeling happy, I open a kick-ass scene, when I’m feeling sad, I kill something. It’s all good fodder for the muse.

What I really should be doing is promoting the book that released yesterday, Frannie ‘n’ The Private Dick. The problem is, Frannie’s old Aunt Grazia is muttering in my ear. She’s wanting her annual youth-fix from the Chinese herb store so that she can get it on with the studmuffin next door while wearing her 20-year-old skin-suit. Guess I’ll have to open a new document or she’ll never shut up tonight.

This is just a short post. It’s late Tuesday night and I’ve been out all day. Tomorrow, I have a doctor’s appointment and a date with author Shayla Kersten to write at a coffee shop in Little Rock. And since I’m tired, I’m going to talk about the first topic that comes to mind. I just plugged in my iPod to charge (it accompanied me today and will again tomorrow), so music’s on my mind.

I’m not one of those authors who puts together a play list to accompany her book. I think it’s a creative idea and a lot like when authors cut pictures to make a collage to feed their muse. I also don’t use music as a soundtrack while I write. Too distracting. However, I do love to listen to music before I put BIC (butt in chair) to write—specific types of songs to set my mood for a particular kind of scene.

Here’s a sampling of what I’ve been listening to lately.

For an opening scene where the heroine’s problem (lack of a meaningful relationship) is introduced, I want something that makes me want to fall in love: Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop by Landon Pigg; Here Without You by Three Doors Down; and Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colby Callait.

For a very hot love scene, I want songs that make me think of hot, sweaty sex: Animals by Nickelback; Closer by Nine Inch Nails (a long-time favorite); Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry; and Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon.

As you can probably guess by that list, my sex scenes aren’t sweet and tender meldings of souls.

For a kick-ass action scene I want something with a heavy metal edge to get my blood pumping and have me ready to smash things: Bodies by Drowning Pool; Poem by Taproot; Two Weeks by All that Remains; Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace; and Sickness and The Night by Disturbed.

Firstborn knows my taste in music and gave me some recommendations the night before last. I uploaded them and will be taking the new tracks with me on my road trip tomorrow. His list includes:

The Bleeding by Five Finger Death Punch
Bother and Through the Glass by Stone Sour
Judith by A Perfect Circle
Open Your Eyes by Guano Apes

Other than the Stone Sour songs, his list will likely all wind up in my “smash something” playlist. However, I need suggestions for music to get me in the mood to write that old saggy middle area of a story. Something that motivates and stirs me, without getting me so edgy with excitement I throw in a battle or a sex scene every chapter to stay awake. Something that will make me think.

Got any suggestions?