Welcome Vonnie Davis and Storm's Interlude!

Sandra, many thanks for having me here today. Since the release of my debut novel, Storm’s Interlude, I’ve morphed from a fulltime writer into a blogging and promotional fool with little, if any, time for writing. Thank you for making me one more degree the fool.

Frankly it would be easier for me to fly a propeller airplane with a banner trailing from the back like you see at the seashore. “Eat at Joe’s…dial 1-800- TOMAINE” Only mine would say, “Beach read hot enough to melt sunscreen!”

Silly me, I thought all I had to do was write a book, find an agent and get published. My books would be in bookstores everywhere, and the publisher would promote me.

So, here I am blogging, posting on facebook, tweeting and keeping my fingers crossed that someone will buy my book.

I read somewhere that the best way to sell books is to write a good story. Now, we’re talking! Don’t we all love a romance? One populated with people who charm us, shock us and, at times, irritate us. A couple who fuss and fight on their way to happily-ever-after. Don’t you just love a good lovers’ spat? Followed by some mighty fine making up, of course.

Here’s an excerpt from Storm’s Interlude. Rachel is in a major snit after seeing Storm talking to his ex-fiancée. Not that she’s the jealous type, but she saw Storm tuck the lady’s hair behind her ear and stroke his knuckles down the side of her face. Once they get home, the fireworks escalate.

When Storm pulled in front of the ranch house, Rachel was the first one to barrel out of the SUV. Before she’d made it a dozen steps, Storm grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder like a bag of grain. “Put me down, you lunatic!”
“Like hell.” He stormed into the house, his boots echoing off the hardwood floors of the large foyer. “We’re going to have this out right now. I’m tired of your peeling my hide with your accusations.”
Jackson rushed out of the den into the large hallway. “Storm? What the hell?”
Storm had one hand on the doorknob to his office. “You got all the security measures in place? Anything that demands my immediate attention?”
“Put me down this instant, you…you caveman cowboy!” He smacked her bottom. She yelped. Once he put her down, she was going to tear him apart, limb by cheating limb.
Jackson had a hand over his mouth to hide his laughter. “Have at it, buddy. I’ve done my job.” He took a sleeping Sawyer from Noella. “Sunny and I will put tiger here to bed.”
Storm opened the door to his office, waiting until the couple had the sleeping boy upstairs before he yelled his announcement so the entire first floor could hear: “Anyone who knocks on this door before Rachel and I have worked things out takes their life in their hands. Is that clear?” He slammed the door shut behind them and turned the lock before setting Rachel down on the floor.
She was so incensed, so humiliated, so livid she couldn’t speak. She kicked him in the shin with her sneakered foot. Storm winced before stalking over to the liquor cabinet.
He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, neat, and downed it. He poured another and downed it, too. He hung his head, his hands fisted on the cabinet. “You can make me so damned mad I can’t see straight. No one has ever pushed me over the edge the way you do.”
She fisted her hands on her hips, hiked her chin and glared at him. “Yeah, well, I’d like to slap you into next week, you lying, cheating, poor excuse of a man. You told me things. You told me you loved me. I surrendered to you. I had sex with you.”
“Would you just listen to me for five damn minutes?” He turned to face her and ran both hands through his hair, a sign of frustration.
She folded her arms under her chest. “Okay, but this better be good.”

Buy Links for Storm’s Interlude:

http://amzn.to/pkkcLq -- Amazon.
http://bit.ly/pb9DQd -- B & N. – Nook only
http://bit.ly/rcCIMa -- The Wild Rose Press

Thanks, Vonnie for the hot, hot, cowboy story and thanks for being such a great guest!
Next Week: Gloria Marlow

Welcome Calvin Davis & the Mysterious Phantom Lady!

Welcome Calvin Davis and his mysterious Phantom Lady! So nice to have you as my second blog guest and my first male romance writer guest! It's a pleasure and yes, Calvin, I will be gentle!

Thank you for having me on your blog, Alison. This is a first for me—being a guest and stepping into the dynamic blogging world of romance writers. Even though I live with a romance writer, this is a new milieu for me. You will be gentle, won’t you?

We all know story ideas come from countless sources: a dream, a newspaper article, a snippet of an overheard conversation, thoughts on the human condition and so on. For me, the idea for The Phantom Lady of Paris stemmed from a theft.

I was living in Paris at the time. I’d gone there in 1968 on sabbatical to write and study French culture. What better place to do that than Left Bank cafés? I rented a studio apartment at 21 rue Galande in the 5th arrondissement (Paris is divided into neighborhoods or wards called arrondissements). I was living in the heart of the Latin Quarter, so named because centuries ago students at the Sorbonne spoke only Latin as they conversed and argued philosophies on the streets of this neighborhood.

Soon I settled into a daily routine. I’d shower, dress, snatch a few notebooks and pencils from the desk, bolt down the three flights of steps, dash up the street to the boulangerie (bakery) and buy a few croissants and then step across the street to the cremerie (dairy) for some yogurt. Purchases in hand, I’d stop in the foyer of my building to retrieve my newspaper from the mailbox. Then I’d meander the streets until I came to my favorite writing café, settle at a table, sip an espresso, read the paper and then write for several hours.

I must interject a description, at this point, of mailboxes in French buildings during this era. Mailboxes were one large, open wooden box attached to a wall in the entry foyer. There the postal person would dump the mail for all the residents of the building. Each tenant would sift through the contents, hunting for mail addressed to him or her. Outside of a weekly letter from my mother, my copy of the English Herald Tribune was my only daily mail—and I looked forward to it. My subscription was my lifeline to the English speaking world while I sat immersed in French culture. One morning, it was gone. The address band that encircled it was there, but not my paper. I was livid. Who would steal a man’s newspaper?

Once my temper cooled and my writer’s imagination heated up, I thought “hey, there might be a story in this…a teacher on sabbatical, much like me, has his newspaper stolen…and the thief has the audacity to leave a note on the bulletin board above the mailbox…yeah, a note…and the teacher leaves a reply…and then the thief leaves another note…and…” Well, all you lovely ladies know how one’s imagination takes flight on the breeze of “what-if’s.” So, thanks to a theft, the Phantom Lady was born.

Here’s an excerpt from The Phantom Lady of Paris where Paul, my hero, finds the first note from the phantom lady.

On this particular morning with a liter of milk, a croissant, and a cup of yogurt in hand, I hurried into the foyer of Twenty-One rue Galande. I glanced into the mailbox, and, to my dismay, my Herald Tribune was missing. Had the mail carrier made his rounds? He always did, religiously and on time, regardless of the weather. Besides, mail for other tenants was in the box. So why wasn’t mine?
I rummaged through the huge mound of letters, finally fishing from it an address band with the Herald’s logo on it, beneath which was my name, address, and that day’s date. I didn’t need to be a forensic scientist to realize that some midget-minded SOB had stolen my newspaper, and, to add insult to injury, brazenly left the address band in the mailbox. Of all the rotten, dirty…
With the discarded mailing band in hand, I glanced at the bulletin board that was just above the mailbox. On it was a note addressed to me, scrawled on a piece of torn notebook paper. A hastily scribbled peace sign adorned the top.
Dear Mr. Paul Lasser,
I borrowed your newspaper. I would say, Thank you, but as nice as I know you are, I don’t have to thank you. Do I? Of course not, darling. So, why bother?
And oh yes, do have a good day! I’m sure I’ll have one. Reading the morning paper always makes my day—as I’m sure it makes yours. For your information: the weatherman predicts mild temperatures, sunny, cloudless skies. Should be a gasser. So, enjoy. Peace and love.
Signed, your neighbor and fellow-newspaper-lover,
The Phantom Lady of Paris.

A suspense-filled love story, The Phantom Lady of Paris tells of American Paul Lasser and his sojourn to the City of Light, where he meets the mysterious Phantom Lady, Bonnie Silver, a woman who is more question marks than periods.

Why is she in Paris and why do the French police investigate her and her “persons of interest” friends? One friend, a flower child, overdoses on drugs. Another morphs into a terrorist, bombing cafés. Is a Communist agitator an associate of Bonnie’s?

Slowly Paul unearths answers, and even as they quench his desire to understand, they will forever haunt him.

Thanks you again for having me. You’ve been a most gracious host, Alison.

You may buy my novel from the publisher, Second Wind, http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/index.html

Or from Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_25?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=the+phantom+lady+of+paris&sprefix=the+phantom+lady+of+paris

http://www.calscosmos.blogpsot.com

http://www.calvindavisbooks.com

Thanks, Calvin...this sounds like a truly intriguing 'what if?'
Next week my guest is Sue Fineman.