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 Lyndi Alexander! Before Page One: The Creation Process of a Story

Thanks so much, Alison, for the chance to visit your blog today!
I’ll be talking about the genesis of a book, from beginning to end. What I’d like to say is that I sit down at the computer and the words magically flow from my fingers. Sadly, that’s not the case.
For example, with my urban fantasy series, the Clan Elves of the Bitterroot, what came to me first was the image of a glass slipper, a twist on the Cinderella story. What if…. What if a young woman found a glass slipper lying on the sidewalk, and tried it on? That would be kind of an odd experience, but still not fascinating.
So. What if a young woman found a glass slipper lying on the sidewalk, tried it on, and it broke? A little more interesting, but not compelling. Yet.
What if a young woman found a glass slipper lying on the sidewalk, tried it on, and it broke—and then a bunch of tiny men ran out from the blood on the sidewalk and disappeared under the buildings around her?
Now that’s a mystery.
And so Jelani Marsh, heroine of The Elf Queen, was created. I needed to make her interesting, too, outside of her job as a barista, so I created her enigmatic past, as an orphan whose parents vanished under mysterious circumstances. She’s also a quitter. Dropped out of college, got dumped at the altar, she’s never finished anything in her life.
I wanted to set it in a place that could be mystical, so I chose the western end of Montana, in the Bitterroot Mountains, which are pristine and beautiful. Seemed to be the kind of place elves might live in the real world.
But of course, she can’t go through this adventure by herself! So she needs friends. Life skills coach Iris, computer geek and online gamer extraordinaire Lane, and “Crispy” Mendell, an agoraphobic abuse survivor filled out the cast well.
Then I needed to create the elves she comes to meet—and also their nemesis, the evil renegade elf Bartolomey.
What I find is that when the characters are right, the story tends to flow well, and this was the case here. Each chapter leads her further into the mystery of her past, with the help of various characters, until she reaches the hidden truth that she never expected to find.

Her adventures with the elves continue in The Elf Child, as the ruling entity of the clan, The Circle, takes over her life in ways she doesn’t want. She finds being a queen isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and in fact, new dangers surface because of her status. But her friends come through to save her, and this story continues in The Elf Mage, which comes out in early 2012.
Once the story is written in first draft, I circulate it among some trusted readers, making sure my story arcs are complete. Since I’m a pantser, I don’t write outlines and plan chapter by chapter. I let the story take me. Sometimes it takes me on a rather circuitous path—and I need to be yanked back in line! I take suggestions into consideration and then polish the manuscript up for submission.

For more information about the Clan Elves, see http://clanelvesofthebitterroot.com. Like us on Facebook! http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Elf-Queen-Clan-Elves-of-the-Bitterroot-Series/158076904227479 The series is available at amazon.com, or can be ordered from your local bookseller.

Lyndi Alexander dreamed for many years of being a spaceship captain, but settled instead for inspired excursions into fictional places with fascinating companions from her imagination that she likes to share with others. She has been a published writer for over thirty years, including seven years as a reporter and editor at a newspaper in Homestead, Florida. Her list of publications is eclectic, from science fiction to romance to horror, from tech reporting to television reviews. Lyndi is married to an absent-minded computer geek. Together, they have a dozen computers, seven children and a full house in northwestern Pennsylvania

EXCERPT:
LANE drove Jelani to the airport.
She had really expected him to return from his investigation with his trademark smarmy look and snappy comeback about how it was a real cute trick and ha-ha-ha, you got us. But that hadn’t happened.
“Sent your video to a couple friends of mine,” he said, after the engine on the ancient truck had finally rolled over, followed by a roar from the rusting tailpipe. “They verified it wasn’t faked. It’s legit.”
Wishing the seatbelt still worked, she eyed him from the passenger seat as they lurched forward. “Well, gee. Thanks.”
He grinned. “I had to test it out, Jelly Bean. Not that I don’t believe you, but—”
“But?”
“But that’s one helluva story. Your foot healed up right then and there, and the shoe—”
“Disappeared before I put my boot back on.”
Lane stared forward, waiting for a traffic light to change. “You know some of the Magick-type games hold that wizards use an injured creature’s own healing power to mend injuries. By focusing their energy on the pattern of a healthy body inside the injured one, they can speed the process of natural healing, even drawing from their surroundings and other living creatures nearby to jump start the process.” He glanced over at her, an odd look darkening his face. “But as much respect as I have for Iris, she’s no wizard.”
“My life is no D&D game, either.” Irritated, Jelani hunched back into the seat. “What about the little men?”
“Yeah, well.” Lane accelerated onto Broadway, heading west to the airport. “Those are a little more difficult.”
“No, no, Lane, listen. This is where you’re supposed to tell me there’s no such thing as little men, blue, green, or otherwise. And I should put it out of my mind as a piece of undigested potato or something. You know, like Scrooge and those damned ghosts.”
“Blue?” He looked over at her curiously.
“Never mind.” She fidgeted with her purse for a moment. Then split her attention between passing cars and the river running alongside the highway.
“My research showed a lot of references to the homunculus, or little man, in all kinds of scientific circles, both biologic and alchemist. Back in the Middle Ages, they had mondo theories how you would make little men, just like you described. Did you ever hear of a mandrake?”
“The magician guy?”
Lane cackled. “I thought you didn’t know about comics. No, not that kind. This is a kind of plant whose root grows to look like a human form. Legend held that mandrakes would grow from the sperm hitting the ground when a hanged man convulsed and ejaculated.”
“Ugh! That’s disgusting.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?” Lane gave a dramatic sigh. “You had to have a black dog retrieve the root for you. You’d feed it milk and honey until it became alive. Then it would do your bidding.”
Jelani snickered. “Better than a real man, apparently.”
“Not really. The homunculus would run away from its creator after a while.”
“Oh, just like a real man.” She looked out the window, her own left-at-the-altar experience still raw after nearly three years.
Lane was silent, and she could see she’d hurt his feelings. Like Crispy, he often took serious offense to what she considered gentle teasing. “Is that the only way?” she asked to draw him out again.
He sulked for a few minutes. “Sometimes, alchemists would take a bag and put in bones, pieces of skin, and human sperm. Then they buried it in dung for an entire lunar cycle, during which the embryo formed. Then presto! One home-grown homunculus!”
Lane pulled into the turn lane, waiting for the cross-traffic to pass. Then turned onto the wildflower-lined airport drive, and continued along the route to the Departure gates.
Surely, Lane didn’t believe all that crap. “But that’s all myth, right?” Jelani asked. “I mean, alchemists aren’t really scientists. Not like, you know, doctors? Right? They’re quacks.”
“Well, true. There aren’t a whole lot of them around today. The most common uses I found of the term ‘homunculus’ in modern times are a bio-psychological theory of a small man inside a brain, kind of overseeing the body. And, second, some women finding dermoid abdominal cysts with hair and teeth in them. But they’ve got to be surgically removed. They don’t just appear out of your blood on a sunny sidewalk.”
There were a fair number of people waiting to check their bags, as they pulled up at the departure curb. Already nervous, she hoped they wouldn’t all be on her flight. “You think those little men came from my blood?”
“Where do you think they came from?”
“I thought they must have come from the shoe. I mean, I cut myself at work all the time. If little guys were going to escape through my blood every time I needed a bandage, I’d have repopulated the city with them by now.” She climbed out of the truck and retrieved her overnight bag and her purse, planning to carry everything with her to avoid delays. She’d steadfastly emptied all her liquids and chosen thin-soled sandals she could just slip off at the security gate.
Lane set the hazard flashers. Then climbed out and walked around the truck. He studied her for a moment, concern etched on his face. “I’ll keep researching while you’re gone. You sure you’re going to be all right with the wicked stepmother?”
(read more here http://www.dragonflypubs.com/dfp/elfqueen.html or http://stanza-ebooks.com/sample/19803/the-elf-queen)
Thanks so much, Lyndi! Your stories sound fascinating! What a great imagination!

Visit Alison Chambers on the LASR Birthday Bash July 30! http://lasrguest.blogspot.com/
Next Week: Vonnie Davis!

Welcome 1st Place Prism Contest Winner Kathy Lane!

Those Hunky Heros
Aaah, the Hero. (With a capital H, of course.) Where would a good romance novel be without it’s hunky protagonist? Whether he swoops, swaggers, stomps, or strides into the Heroine’s life, he’s an essential part of every standard romance. We simply can’t do without him.
Heros thrill us with their confident, alpha attitudes. They’re protective and possessive, and we wouldn’t have them any other way. Even a strong, take-charge heroine needs a man who can stand up to her. Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Shahara Dagan in Born of Fire, is a the best bounty hunter in the universe. Stands to reason the man who steals her heart is the most notorious thief alive. And what about Alexis Morgan’s Lusahn q’Arc in Redeemed in Darkness? She can swing a sword better than most warriors in her homeland. No surprise that the powerful Paladin and swordsman extraordinaire, Cullen Finley, is the one to slip past her guard. (Doesn’t hurt one bit that she thinks he looks magnificent with his shirt off.)
Let’s face it, nothing suggests romance like a sexy, half-naked man on the cover of a book. Be he a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief…oh, wait, that’s another list. Actually, the most recent list I’ve seen of popular Hero professions does include doctors, but sadly, no lawyers or Indian chiefs. Cowboys and ranchers made the list. So did bosses. (Definitely not my favorite.) Surgeons, too, though I rather thought they should be lumped in with doctors. Kings and princes (as in Prince Devlin in my first Bloodsworn book), and sheriffs, knights, and, what do you know, bodyguards.

Bracca Cu-Laurian, the Hero of Bloodsworn II: Linked by Blood, is a kind of bodyguard/knight. He’s a Blade, a sword-wielding warrior whose duty it is to protect his Bloodsworn, Lady Avera St. John. Which means he has no time to fall in love. Of course, that doesn’t keep him from feeling desire when he meets Sheren Ni-Annun. Sheren is a young widowed mother who, at first, wants nothing to do with Bracca because, well, for her, he’s in the wrong profession. Her late husband was a Blade, and she’s determined her next husband will lead a safer life. Funny how love doesn’t take a woman’s determination and a man’s devotion to duty into account.
Check out Bloodsworn II: Linked by Blood, and find out how fate and a five-year-old boy bring our Hero and Heroine together. You can purchase Linked by Blood at www.thewildrosepress.com or from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

www.kyrlane.com
http://www.kyrlane.blogspot.com
Live, Laugh, Love, and Read Lots of Romance ;)

Available now from www.thewildrosepress.com & www.digibookscafe.com
Bloodsworn: Bound By Magic - 2011 PRISM 1st Place in Fantasy and BEST FIRST BOOK!!!
And don't forget to check out Bloodsworn II: Linked By Blood now available!!

Thanks, Kathy and Congrats one more time!
Next Week: Lyndi Alexander

Welcome Sharon Noble! Comment for a Chance to Win Velvet & Topaz

Thanks, Alison, for allowing me to ramble about my books, my life, and my small pleasures. I’m a new author with only three published romances, but I’ve been a voracious reader of romance novels since the days before they existed. As a prepubescent, I read Edison Marshall and Frank Yerby back in the old days and fell in love with the romance genre, even though, strictly speaking, these gentlemen wrote romance/adventure novels.

I never thought about writing. I thought that, in order to write, you had to be a writer. I know, garbled thinking, right? So I moved to Canada with my Canadian husband and became an actor. Flushed with success and making a living as an actor, I continued for another bunch of years, finally moving back to the U.S. and settling in L.A. Unfortunately, enough years had passed so that I’m now an o-l-d actor, and we know what happens to female actors as they get older. Except for Meryl Streep, of course.

Then I discovered Kathleen Woodiwiss, and I was in romance heaven. After reading and absorbing for another bunch of years, I broke the ice with Autumn Desire, a contemporary romance published by The Wild Rose Press. My mother went back to college at age 50 and had a great four-year adventure, so I thought that might be a stepping off point for a romance novel.

I wish I had the discipline and skill to plan my books and write an outline, but I’m a complete failure. I guess I’m either lazy or just inept, but I wait until I hear the first line in my head, then I just follow where that leads. The result is that it takes forever to get started. I think that’s called seat-of-the-pants writing, and I don’t recommend it as a writing technique. I frequently find I’ve written myself into a corner with nowhere to go. That’s the point at which I invite my son out to brunch and ask for help. He’s cleverer than I am, and he usually offers at least three solutions to my problem.

My Autumn Desire heroine, after being widowed suddenly, decided to go back to college at the university where her husband had been a respected chemistry professor. There she met his detested rival, and (of course) sparks flew – hers in anger, his in attraction. You know where this went, of course.

Passion’s Design took my heroine to South America where she was to design an elaborate wedding for two aristocratic families, but (silly girl) she fell in love with the groom – who just happened to hold all things American in contempt. You know where this went.

Velvet and Topaz was the result of a trip to England to indulge my love of all things Tudor, so my heroine followed in my footsteps, but she actually indulged in carnal relations (yep!) with one of the courtiers who reenact the history of the castles. Bad move. But you know where this went.

Velvet and Topaz is the giveaway today. It’s an ebook, so no fuss, no bother to send it along to one of you.

So while I wait for that first elusive first line, what do I do? I read romance novels, of course.
Thanks, Sharon!
Next week: Kathy Lane

Welcome Sue Fineman and Happy Fourth!

I fell in love with a pretty blue convertible.

The fireworks show had ended, but traffic over the bridge toward home had come to a full stop. So my friend and I turned in the other direction, toward the beach.

I saw the pretty blue convertible parked at the drive-in restaurant. Two men sat in the car, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. At that point, I wasn’t interested in men. My last boyfriend had been arrested for selling something that didn’t belong to him, and I refused to have anything to do with him again. I wouldn’t even take his phone calls.

I worked as a secretary at Patrick Air Force Base, and there were plenty of Air Force guys around, but they didn’t make much money in those days, so the guys were usually broke. Some of the men who worked in the same office building hit on me, but most of them were married, and I absolutely refused to date a married man. An old boyfriend proposed and I turned him down. He was a sweet guy, but I didn’t love him, and his family made me uncomfortable. The engineers who worked downrange were so love-starved, it was like dating an octopus, and I wasn’t that kind of girl. I was so discouraged, I’d just about given up on men altogether that Fourth of July when I saw the pretty blue convertible.

These guys in the blue convertible were looking pretty good, so I pulled in beside them and my friend and I ordered something to drink. My friend complained about the song blaring from the jukebox, and one of the guys in the blue convertible walked up and selected another song. Baby Elephant Walk. It was quite popular that year.

The two guys in the blue car struck up a conversation. They slid into the backseat of my Corvair and we talked for over an hour. They said they were in the Navy, stationed at Patrick Air Force Base, and they served on the Polaris submarines.

The guy who drove the car invited me to go to the movies with him the next evening, and I accepted. He seemed really nice, and I figured anyone who owned a car like had to have something going for him. He was good looking and had the sexiest brown eyes.

Two weeks later he sold the car, but by then I was already smitten. We only dated three and a half weeks when he proposed. I said yes, then had second thoughts. He was Jewish and except for one boy in my high school class and some merchants in Miami Beach, I’d never known anyone who was Jewish.

I went to the library and tried to find books on the Jewish religion and traditions, but this was Central Florida. In the early 60’s. The schools were still segregated. I couldn’t find any books to tell me what I’d be getting myself into if I married a Jewish guy. No surprise there. If you weren’t a white Christian, you didn’t fit in.

I didn’t know if his family would accept me. Would they expect me to raise our children Jewish? I had no idea. He said it didn’t matter, he loved me and wanted to marry me, and I could raise our kids however I wanted. So we set the date.

We only knew each other six months when we married in January, 1963.

If I hadn’t pulled into the drive-in, we wouldn’t have met. And if he hadn’t been driving that pretty blue convertible, I probably wouldn’t have paid much attention. Now, instead of driving a pretty blue convertible, he drives me crazy. But after 48 years, we’re still married. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

That’s my Fourth of July story. What’s yours?

Sue Fineman lives in Central Washington State with her husband of 48 years. They have three grown children, one adorable grandson, two cute little doggies, and multiple grandkittens and grandpuppies.

Sue has written over two dozen books. The Gregory Series: ON THE RUN, ON THE LAM, and ON THE EDGE, are available exclusively at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. THE MITCHELL MONEY is available through The Wild Rose Press, DigiBooks Cafe, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble.

Win a free Kindle at DigiBooks Café. You can find the link and a clue to the puzzle for the contest on my blog at http://suefineman.blogspot.com/
Thanks, Sue, great post!
Next week my guest is Sharon Noble

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.

Welcome AJ Nuest as my First Blog Guest!

As a current Wisconsinite, I am happy to welcome as my first guest former Wisconsinite, romance author AJ Nuest, discussing her fond memories of life in our state and the unique accent we Midwesterners have. She also shares an excerpt from "Jezebel's Wish," her latest book available from The Wild Rose Press. And one lucky commenter will receive a free .pdf of "Jezebel's Wish," so please enter for a chance to win!

Wisconsin, doin cha’ kno?
“Where, exactly, are you from?”
This question has plagued me more than any other throughout my life. Born and raised in the unspoiled wilderness of Northern Wisconsin, I grew up blissfully unaware of my northern twang, until I graduated from high school and moved to the center of the universe (aka Milwaukee, WI) to attend college.
But even then, my accent was most often met with mild curiosity. My assumption is most folks either didn’t hear it because they carried the same inflection themselves, or they ignored the way I sounded altogether, instinctively knowing I must be from the Great White North. Still, I got the occasional query, people asking if I hailed from Canada or Minnesota, how come I said words like door (dowr) and out (ouit) so strangely and wasn’t I cute with my quaint country lingo.
In all honesty, I hated the way I sounded. Living away from home for ten years, my ear became attuned to the way others spoke, and when I returned for a visit I was horrified to learn the true nature of my voice. Did I really sound the same as all those backwoods hicks? Did I carry that same disturbing lilt which immediately made the listener doubt my intelligence? Why couldn’t I have been born with an accent like Audrey Hepburn? Maybe I could take lessons and learn to speak like Grace Kelly? For crying out loud, how had I made any friends?
Aside: If you’ve ever seen the movie Fargo, you know exactly what I’m talking about (aboot). Although Frances McDormand portrays a quick-witted, highly intuitive police officer, when you first heard her speak, didn’t you instantly think, “Boy, she’s a couple of watts short of a bulb.” I mean, come on! Who actually says, “Is there a phone down here, do ya’ think?” People from northern Wisconsin, that’s who! Ms. McDormand nailed that accent like she’d been reared a stone’s throw away from my childhood home.
Ten years after my move to Milwaukee, I made an even larger step and moved to Chicago. With nothing more than a job interview and two hundred dollars in my pocket, this country girl was making good on her dream to live in the big city. This is when the questions began in earnest. I literally couldn’t meet someone without them asking where I was from. Being a single, young woman looking for love, I can’t tell you how annoying this was.
I tried to rid myself of the northern drawl. I thought the longer I lived away from home, the more it would fade, right? RIGHT!? No such luck. Twenty-five years later, I still carry the same silly sound.
The other night my family sat down to watch America’s Got Talent. As luck would have it, the auditions took place in Minnesota. So I wasn’t surprised when several of the contestants arrived on stage and answered the judges’ questions with the standard, “Oh, yah” we northerners like to use.
One gentleman in particular carried a very heavy accent, and when he came out in his goggles and bike helmet, everyone in my family laughed. Heck, everyone in the auditorium laughed. The guy had to be a complete doorknob. But, not so..not so, at all. Turns out he performed a special “chain reaction” talent by arranging popsicle sticks so they snapped into the air, and when he received three YES votes from the judges, I smiled and heartily applauded.
You see, now that I’m older I’ve realized something. My accent didn’t stop me from meeting the perfect guy, having two beautiful children or becoming a published author. If anything, the way I speak helps me stand out in an area where people say “warsh” for “wash” and “pin” for “pen”. I know sometimes I sound silly and people may assume I’ve got an empty noggin, but that’s okay with me. The way I speak is a part of who I am.
Now I carry my northern twang proudly, and hope that it never fades. So, go ahead and ask me where I’m from. I’ll smile proudly and answer, “Wisconsin, doin cha’ kno?”

Haunted by nightmares, tormented by guilt, Jezebel came to Redemption Ranch to escape the past—except now she's stuck in the middle of nowhere with no redemption in sight. When her mother pushes her into riding lessons with local veterinarian Matthias Saunders, Jezebel balks. Sure, the doctor is gorgeous, but he’s completely obnoxious and knows how to push every one of her buttons.

Only her deep connection with The Reverend, a gentle stallion who guards her darkest secrets, has her agreeing to spend any more time with Dr. Saunders. Caring for the stallion is the first bright spot in her life in months, and if being around the horse means she has to deal with Matthias Saunders, then so be it. Surely a city girl like her can handle one country vet—even one with disturbing blue eyes. Can't she?

Jezebel’s Wish Excerpt:
Jezzy stopped. “I thought I was having a riding lesson.”
“You are.” He nodded toward the empty paddock. “Go in.”
“Go in?” Jezzy propped a hand on her hip. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Because it was my understanding that an actual horse is needed for a riding lesson.”
“Don’t you think it would be wise at this juncture to leave the understanding up to the professionals?”
Jezzy rolled her eyes. “You’re making this way too easy. Professionals? Please. Don’t get me started.”
“Why not? Getting you started is exactly what I’m here for.”
Jezzy’s jaw dropped. She didn’t quite know how to interpret that remark.
He held out the rope. “Now go in. And take this lead line with you.” Steely blue determination glinted in his eyes. There was no way he was going to give in.
Jezzy snatched the lead line from his hand and stormed through the gate, then turned when he closed it behind her.
He put a foot on the bottom railing and rested against the gate, facing the horizon. “Take the chair to the center of the paddock and sit down.”
“And just exactly how is that supposed to teach me to ride?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You want out of the deal?”
Jezzy’s fist clenched tight around the lead line. What she wanted was to march back to the fence and smack his face.

AJ Nuest lives in northwest Indiana with her loving husband and two beautiful children. She is the author of two contemporary romance novels.
Visit her on the web at:
http://ajbooks.blogspot.com
http://www.twitter.com/ajnuest
Email: ajnuest@yahoo.com
Facebook: Tattered Pages http://tinyurl.com/3qvxyn6

Jezebel’s Wish Buy Links:
The Wild Rose Press: http://tinyurl.com/446f7r3
Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/3b89ogb
Check out the trailer:

Coming June 27: Guest Blogger Calvin Davis discusses "The Phantom Lady of Paris!"