I want my Internet! by Vonnie Davis

I hate confessing that I'm hooked on something, like sweet tea or chocolate or internet service. But, thanks to Comcast, I've been offline for 5 days and have another 7 to wait for a technician to show up to figure out what's gone wrong.  I might be breaking out in hives.

"My name is Vonnie Davis and I'm an Internet-holic."

Odd that it stopped working a day before I got a recorded message that their equipment showed a problem in my line or my house and to call the number they gave or I might lose service. I smelled something rotten in Denmark as I dialed the number. Dollar signs floated in my vision field--and they were floating away from me, not toward me.

The Indian service rep assured me in a heavy accent that this was not a hoax as I suggested. He promised me their service wouldn't cost me a penny. Maybe so, but how many dollars was I going to have to pay? I mean, when has Comcast done anything for free?

So I have no internet at the house, nor can I watch Netflix on the TV since it requires access to show movies and old TV shows. I'm writing this poor excuse of a blog at MickyD's, using their free wifi.

Internet is my pathway to the outside world. It's how I keep in touch with so many writer friends. I miss it terribly. Yes, I am hooked on social media. *Hangs head in shame!* How did this happen? I'm a sensible person. Really.

Meanwhile I've been updating, rewriting, fixing shallow point of view in a Kindle Worlds novella. I've changed out any references to the Kindle World it was part of and placed it as book number 3 of my "Black Eagle Ops" series. Random House published the first two books of the series and decided they didn't want book 3. I'll have 4, maybe 5 by the time I'm finished self-publishing the complete series. Random House has given me their blessing to use the logo they'd created. Rights to the series after book 2 are mine. So, I'm busy making this novella book length. The cover has been redesigned to omit any reference to Omega Squad and Kindle Worlds.

Wish me luck. I've been working on it from word one all week and only added 4000 or so words. Like Robert Frost "I have miles to go before I sleep."

Sex and Coffee at Bob Evans

~ by Vonnie Davis

Bob Evans, a restaurant chain that serves breakfast all day, along with other fare, is one of our favorite places to eat. One reason is their free Wi-Fi. Another is the coffee. And, of course, the service and food is always excellent. We go two or three times a week, arriving around ten in the morning and staying until three. I write. Calvin reads our morning newspaper and his iPad.

On our way there, he'll often ask me what I plan on writing and we'll discuss it. So when I told Calvin today was sex scene writing day, he kissed my hand and told me I'd get through it just like I had with every other one I'd written.

Calvin knows how I dislike penning sex scenes. How I've balked at past editors demanding more sex, earlier in the book and with explicit language. Honestly, if I could get away with writing sex in a humorous way, I would.

Yesterday, the greeter took us to our booth and chatted for a few minutes. We're known by name there, after all. Our waitress came by to say hello and did we want our usual coffees? Calvin responded with, "Yes, and please keep my wife's cup filled today. She's writing an up-against-the-wall sex scene."

I slid down on my side of the booth, trying to look as small as I felt.

The waitress, her face as red as Bob Evan's roof, opened and closed her mouth with only a squeak eking out before nodding and all but running away.

"Why would you tell her that?"

"What? That you're writing a sex scene? It's sex, angel, everyone does it." He shook his newspaper as if he'd just proclaimed something profound. The waitress appeared with our cups and Calvin looked at her. "Did I offend you with my remark earlier? I didn't mean to. After all, everyone has sex. Right?"

She waved her hand in front of her face. "Oh lawd, another hot flash!" She bustled off.

Word must have spread.

Every waitress, one of the cooks, AND the manager came by with a pot of coffee to top off my cup, each one standing behind my shoulder. I knew what they were doing. So in a "rare" display of cheekiness (oh dear, was that a bad pun?), I kept tapping away on my laptop, writing my sex scene as they nonchalantly read snippets of it. The manager tapped my shoulder and said Calvin and I could stay as long as we wanted. Uh-huh. Before I knew it, I had the dreaded scene written. In fact, I moved them onto the shower where they did the wild fandango again. By then I'd had so much coffee, I had the shakes.

I took an online workshop through RWA a couple years ago about writing sensual scenes. The presenter talked about setting the scene to write sex. How did we do it? Some participants wrote they donned sexy lingerie. Others lit candles and played sexy music. Some drank wine by candlelight, dressed in sexy things and listening to slow, sultry tunes. Me? I go to Bob Evans and drink coffee.

What's your method?

READ MORE ABOUT VONNIE DAVIS at www.vonniedavis.com

*** Pre-order book two of her Black Eagle Ops series, HERS TO HEAL, releasing on the 22nd. https://amzn.com/B01CBM44Q0

A FACEBOOK BOOK RELEASE PARTY AND YOU'RE ALL INVITED! Nov. 22nd...6 pm to 10:30 pm (Eastern time) Guest authors, prizes, girl talk, man candy (be prepared!), and my well-known exercise routine. Whoot!!! The link for the party is:

https://www.facebook.com/events/1811336955821473/...

Using Native American Elements to Center a Series

~~Vonnie Davis

I have always enjoyed reading about Native American lore. I've got a notebook filled with delightful gems I want to use someday. Through my research I've made friends with some Natives who follow the Red Road, or live the Native life as much as possible in this modern world. One I met through my son--his former mother-in-law. Ryan's Grandma Grace of the MiqMaq tribe sent me a shell, a large feather, and dried sage with instructions on how to purify my home and myself--smudging.

In fact here is a picture of Grace in her full regalia holding Ryan before taking him into his first dance circle when he was a year old. His Native name is Lil Muin, or little bear. Don't you love his pasty white German skin against hers? Now that he's grown, he's simply called Muin. The MiqMaq tribe is originally from the New Hampshire and lower Canadian areas.

In my Black Eagle Ops series, the small town of Warrior Falls was built around Wounded Warrior Falls. As "my" legend would have it, Natives would bring their wounded and carry them beneath the waterfalls, reported to have healing properties. But was that it or was there more to the legend? In both books of the series, these waterfalls come into play.

In book one, HER SURVIVOR, Kelcee is going to take Dustin under the waterfalls. Dressed in their swimming suits, she leads him to the edge of the pond beyond the falls...

Once they stood at the edge of the path to the pond’s edge, he asked how deep it was in the center.

“There are smooth stones shaped like steps that go out for about five or six feet. Then it drops over my head.” She tugged off her shirt and tossed it on top of the towels.

He held her hand and together they descended the natural stairs or had they been placed there centuries ago by Natives? The water was the temperature he expected; initially cool, but easy to warm up to since the sun had beat on it all day.

A few steps and they were under the surface. He looked around. The current created by the waterfalls felt like home. Damn, I missed this. The frogman swam around, investigating plants and rocks. Kelcee tapped his shoulder and pointed to the falls. She was eager to show him. He nodded and took her hand.

She led him toward the muffled roar of the waterfalls. They surfaced to walk under them, picked their way over the mound of rocks worn smooth over time, breeched the force of the falls, and stepped into a cave. After the initial foot or two, the grotto was dry and about the size of a small bedroom.

He turned slowly, imagining Apache women treating their Native sons, fathers, and husbands who’d returned from battle injured. “If only these stone walls could talk.”

“Wait, there’s more to see.” She grabbed a flashlight from the top of a high boulder, took his hand, and led him back an opening, so narrow they had to turn sideways to maneuver through to whatever she wanted to show him. At one point, she flashed the beam higher. “Look.”

There were crude, yet beautiful etchings of horses, men, deer, and buffalo. How old could these be? Centuries? If one had a more powerful light and the time to do it, Dustin bet they’d find these drawings were stories of battles of long ago. Important stories. His curiosity was definitely chugging in high gear.

A sharp turn illuminated by the flashlight’s beam veered toward the left and eventually they stepped into an opening. A bubbling pool of water about eight feet across centered the area with a six-foot flattened dirt perimeter.

“In here are the famed healing stones with magical healing properties. It’s kept secret. Only a handful of people know about it, otherwise it would become infested with tourists. Our town, these falls, this spot, we keep as pristine as we can in honor of the Apaches who once lived here.”

“Wow. I read both of the books you gave me  and there was no mention of these boiling springs.” He dropped to his knees and dipped his hand into the water. On an impulse, he scooped a handful over his scared cheek. What the hell? What could it hurt? The water burned his skin, made it tingle below the surface.

“If the book’s written by an outsider, we block off the narrow passage with boulders so the author or researcher has no idea there’s more than the initial grotto.”

“Good idea. I wonder how deep this pool is. Have you ever gotten in here?” He glanced at Kelcee.

“No. I was afraid there might be bones of Apaches and other warriors down there and I didn’t want to disturb them.”

She was very big on protecting the sanctity of this place. He could understand why. There was a spirit here; he could sense it. To stay too long would be an intrusion.

“Please understand I’m trusting you with something very special. Frank didn’t show this to me until he was almost too ill to make the swim here. Owning the property across the street, he was always the unofficial caretaker of this secret. The town council knows and he was on it. Now, as owner of the bookstore, I serve on it, too. I’m one of the secret bearers. We reveal the secret to no one or the one person we trust the most.” She placed a hand on his chest and pierced his gaze with her green eyes. “For me, that’s you.”

*** For now, HER SURVIVOR is on sale for 99 cents. I love a bargain. Don't you?

BUY LINKS: https://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/her-survivor-vonnie-davis/1122885268?ean=9781101967928

Memories of 9/11 Terrorist Attack Fallout

By Vonnie Davis

Most of us recall where we were when we heard of the attacks on American soil. I was working at what was then Citibank--now Citi--in Hagerstown, Maryland. This particular Citibank was a large three-building campus that never, ever closed. It was open every minute of every day, all year long. On the opposite side of the massive parking lot was a child-care center the size of an elementary school for employee's children. Each building had two restaurants.

Over a total of 25,000 employees kept the credit card, calling center, investment, and mortgage departments open. I worked as a technical writer in the mortgage department, writing closing documents to conform with changes in tax and legalities applicable to the banking industry.

Whispers spread quickly over the cubicles to turn to CNN news online. We all watched in horror, knowing that some of Citibank employees were in those buildings. Before long, our departmental supervisor called us into our meeting room. With a shaky voice, he told us about the attacks. He was visibly shaken. His sister, also a Citibank employee, was one of the missing and he couldn't reach her.

Then, if things weren't bad enough, he informed us the corporation feared we were next in the terrorists' path. "So, stay alert and keep on working." Well, if that doesn't inspire the will to work, I don't know what does.

We all marched back to our stations, the talk heavy between us. I sat at my computer, wondering WHY?  Why would the terrorists come for us? We were cubicle workers in little Podunk Hagerstown.

The next day, we were called in for another meeting. We were told why our campus was in "supposed" danger. Al Qaida and Bin Laden had money invested in Citibank and their assets were frozen.

A couple days later, someone opening mail had white powder fall out over her. Everyone went into a panic. Agents were soon in the facility. We were given new orders. Wear latex gloves while working and use special soap in the restrooms. The next morning, we came to work to find everyone wearing plastic aprons. New ones were handed to us. We worked like that for weeks, encased in latex and plastic and running on fumes of fear. At night, we watched the news of the happenings at ground zero in disbelief.

We were Americans. This couldn't be happening to us. . . but it was. It did and so many innocents died or have suffered the loss of loved ones.

Unfortunately, the terror remains here and in other countries. Different groups. Different names. Same sick agendas. Like ISIS, for instance. Featured in my Black Eagle Ops Series, ISIS is the enemy. Book two releases on November 23rd and is eligible for pre-order.

In this powerful, sensual romance from the author of Her Survivor, a broken woman meets a shattered warrior—and discovers a passion strong enough to heal each other’s deepest wounds.

Navy SEAL Reece Browning sacrificed body and soul in the line of duty. He survived torture at the hands of America’s enemies, but lost his career and his voice in the process. Traumatized and desperate to get his PTSD under control, Reece escapes to Eagle Ridge Ranch. Under the big Texas sky, he finds peace, a renewed sense of purpose—and a woman who makes him feel like a man again. Her smile lights up his dark days, and her caress helps him forget the night terrors.

Ex-Marine Gina Wilson also bears painful scars: emotional wounds inflicted by men she once trusted with her life. She has fought hard to overcome her demons and build a good life for her daughter, and Reece is too intense, too damaged, too raw to let into her heart. Yet she’s drawn irresistibly to his steely gaze and heated embrace. No one else understands what it’s like to suffer in silence. And when Gina’s daughter is threatened, it’s Reece who risks everything to save the day.

Pre-Order at: https://amzn.com/B01CBM44Q0

For more information about Vonnie Davis, visit her website at www.vonniedavis.com

Someone, please give me a action book!

-- Vonnie Davis

What kind of books do you enjoy reading?

I enjoy political intrigue, action thrillers with spies and covert operations. As a romance author, they are my guilty pleasure. Next up on my list is Robert Lundrum's The Matarese Circle. I've already read eight of his Bourne books (don't judge). I also adore most of David Morrell's earlier books. The Fraternity of the Stone and The League of Night and Fog are two of my favorites. Then there are the Dan Brown books my oldest son buys me for Christmas.

Mostly, I love a good conspiracy.

Yep, I still believe the man on the grassy knoll theory in the assassination of JFK. Well, kind of...

It can be said that romance is a conspiracy, of sorts. That darn Cupid and his whacky arrow, anyhow. I mean what would make some of our characters fall for each other? Especially when they're so different with often opposite goals in life.

In my recent book, Dustin is a wounded Vet with PTSD. He's trying to come to grips with losing part of his leg and a wife who couldn't handle his injuries. While he's undergoing grueling therapy to learn to walk with a prosthesis, she's divorcing him. So, he's a snarly man, functioning on self-pity.

Kelcee has just inherited a small bookstore with an apartment above it from her elderly employer. She can't believe her luck. After all, she's in the Witness Protection Program, hiding from her brother who's gotten involved with a branch of the Russian Mafia. Although she's living in fear, she refuses to allow it to define her.

EXCERPT:

He bought their tickets—finally—and they walked inside the lobby. He glanced around. “Wow, this is the smallest theater I’ve ever been in. They’ve even got it decorated in the vintage style of early movie houses.”

“This is the original décor, Dustin. Nothing much gets updated around here.”

He bought some snacks and held her hand. “Let’s find some seats.”

When the first explosion hit the screen, Dustin tensed. He had his hand on Kelcee’s thigh at the time and his gentle hold morphed into a grip. She watched him more than the movie. His breathing rate accelerated and his blinking response all but stopped. He just stared. She rubbed his arm and squeezed his thigh, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t respond.

This flick had been a really bad idea. It was more gunfire and detonations than spying. A loud blast lifted an SUV off the road in a fiery ball. Dustin squeezed and twisted the bag of popcorn, they’d been sharing, until it was nothing but crumbs.

She had to get him out of there. “Dustin.” She shook his arm. “Can we go? I have a headache. It hurts really bad.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pressed her head into the crook of his neck. “I’ll take care of you, baby.” He kissed the top of her head. “See that sniper on the roof at two o’clock? I can take him out. I’ve had plenty of kills at a thousand yards. Become one with the world around you, know how high up you are, the wind velocity, the distance to the target and whether it’s stationary, or not. Relax. Breathe slowly. So, slow, you can hear your own heartbeat. Exhale and between the beats, squeeze the trigger.”

He was in a dark place, confused by the reality of her, the fantasy of the film, and his memories of war. She had a couple of those spaces in her mind, too. When she’d initially arrived at Warrior Falls, she’d had to really struggle to pull herself out of them. She had to play mental tricks on herself. While hers were bad, she imagined his were catastrophic. How could she help him? How?

The movie ended and time was critical. How was she going to get him out of the theater? The credits were rolling and people were exiting. The screen went blank and he blinked. “Dustin…Dustin, the movie’s over. We have to go.” She stood and reached for his hand.

He stared for a few seconds at the crushed bag of popcorn he held. His head snapped up to look at her. “I lost it, didn’t I?”

Crap, I don’t want him to feel bad. He might sink into a depression.

The overhead lights blinked on and off.

At least he’d spoken to her; that was progress. “We have to go. Let’s walk outside and get some fresh air. What an awful movie. I’m glad it’s over.”

He stumbled a little when he stood and, much as she wanted to help steady him, she allowed him to gain control on his own. “Sorry I checked out on you.”

“Did you? I had my eyes shut after the guy pulled out a knife. Knives scare the crap out of me for some reason.” She shuddered.

He held the door open for her, and they stepped into the fall air. The wind was blowing stronger, now. “If knives freak you, I guess you don’t want to know about the one I have strapped to my real ankle.”

“You better be kidding me.” She had to keep him talking so he didn’t dwell on zoning out during the movie. She had an idea he’d take it as a personal failure. “Are you packing a gun, big guy?”

HER SURVIVOR -- http://a.co/1mNtMDE (Amazon)

Our World By the Numbers by Vonnie Davis

I've shared my plight with you in previous posts. An editor who wanted me to dummy down my writing for the millennials. Is it that I don't know my market or she doesn't? Stick with me ladies, there's more to my tale.

Perhaps too much attention is being paid to the numbers. Publishers want books that are overnight best sellers. You know, the ones that hit the USA Today Best Seller list the first week after they're released. Dream on, I tell myself. I'm lucky if I break the top one-hundred on Amazon.

I'll never be a best seller out of the gate or after a long stroll. My books take awhile to build a following. But eventually, they do. I just got a gift card in the email for a restaurant from a reader who says she's read my books several times. I cried. My sales might not be fabulous, but my readers are. My publisher, however, wants instant success, a mercurial rise to the top of the ratings. With me, that's not happening.

For example, take my Black Eagle Ops series. Based on pre-orders of just over 120 for book one, my publisher had decided the series wouldn't do well. Book two had already been turned in, so they told me they wouldn't want book three unless they were surprised by sales. Shortly after that, I got an email from my editor that over 500 reviewers/readers had requested book one, HER SURVIVOR, on NetGalley and wasn't that awesome? I'd have close to 500 reviews. I just scoffed. What world does she live in? These people were looking for a free read, what reviews they do post are super low and downright nasty. My book released with 26 reviews. Where were the other 474? Sales have been poor and have just topped a thousand copies (would they be higher if 500 copies hadn't been given away on NetGalley?). Whatever. In my publisher's eyes, this series is a failure.

I need a book to fulfill my three-book contract. As I told you before, our flight home from granddaughter's wedding provided me with a story idea. I submitted it to the publisher. I was told to keep the plot thin. I did.

I was told to keep my humor down. I tried.

I was told to submit every chapter to my editor so she could see I was keeping on track. I bristled. Oh, ladies, I was mad as hades! I'm not some errant child to be constantly checked on.

After I'd sent in my sixth chapter, my editor called me. She and her superior didn't think I could write this book per their guidelines. What I'd written in her superior's words was "a parody of every erotic book out there with a hero that was a hoot!" NOW, I was in bitch mode. My jaws ached from keeping them closed. I wanted to voice my opinion so much, I'd kicked off my flip-flops, ready to do battle.

She continued, "We're doing you a dis-service by making you write in a different way. Your humor is your voice. But your humor doesn't work well in contemporaries where readers expect reality." I thought of my Wild Heat series with another publisher that's doing fairly well, even with my off-the-wall sense of humor...and kept my big mouth shut.

"We'd like you to write more bear shifters. We checked your numbers and were shocked. You've sold over twenty thousand of each book in the series. Your sales are slow, but steady. You've got a following there. Besides, in paranormal romance you don't have rules to follow. Your humor fits that sub-genre."

I was thrilled! I could keep Effie alive, my readers' favorite character. I'd always planned for Highlanders Beloved to be a longer series. I had my heroes already in place. My ear may have been pressed to the phone, but my mind was racing ahead with plotting and planning.

"This will be a spin-off, you can use the romantic couple you'd set up in book three of the original series, but place them in another location. You won't be able to use Effie," my editor continued. I could hear the hissing of air escaping my red balloon of excitement. "I know how you love to create secondary characters, but keep the plot focused on the heroine and hero. Okay?" More hissing of air. "Oh, and no magical elements. Only bear shifters." Empty, floppy balloon fluttered to the floor.

I submitted my vision for the series and four paragraphs about each book as requested. It was approved, although the titles were changed. So, I'm working on chapter one of SHIFTERS OF SONAS ISLE: Kendric. Now Kendric was a police detective in the original series and will be a law enforcement officer in this series, as well--a sheriff. So, knowing I can't use Effie or many side characters...hehehe....well an idea occurred. A sheriff needs a deputy. Right? Right! Enter Arlo Rogers, the Highland version of Barney Fife. Have I got a lot planned for this American character with an eye for any sway of a skirt.

If you'd like to read how my humor doesn't work in contemporary romance, FOR THE LOVE OF A FIREMAN is only 99cents. http://a.co/0qAhfNn 

Changes Make Us Grow by Vonnie Davis

As you read this, I'm at Mount Saint Mary's College in the mountains of Thurmont, Maryland for my grandson's high school graduation. Evidently Oakdale High School wasn't big enough to hold all the parents and grandparents, their heads swollen with pride for their loved one's big day--graduating from high school.

Ryan will graduate at the top of his class. For the past year, he's been working as an intern at the branch of the American Cancer Institute at Camp Detrick, slicing cancer cells and removing the nucleus and also working with DNA. In the evenings, he tutors six students in calculus and physics. He also took second place in the state in wrestling. He'll be attending MIT in the fall.

Changes. So many. And, in a way, so fast.

I worry about my son, Mike. He was a single dad with custody from the time Ry-man, as he called him, was 17 months old until he was 8 when Mike remarried. Ryan has always been at the top of his priority list and wife number two, bless her heart, loved that about her husband. How will he handle the empty nest? I suppose the same way we mothers have for eons as our little ones leave the nest to try out their wings. Tina, who could never have children, is not looking forward to Ryan's leaving either. She's been an excellent step-mom. Both Mike and Ryan needed her when she entered the force field of their lives. She changed them both--for the better.

But not all changes are good, are they?

Take my upcoming series about wounded warriors--"Black Eagle Ops." Men and women changed by war. They need healing, both physically and mentally. Book one--HER SURVIVOR--releases next month.

Each book in the series begins with a similar Prologue...
      In the Hill Country of Texas, a community developed around an old Apache legend—wounded warrior falls. Myth or truth, the story has been handed down, generation to generation, that the rocks in Warrior Falls carry magical healing powers. Wounded Apaches would stand or be carried beneath the waterfall for the healing-infused water to flow over them.
       Over time, the small town, Warrior Falls, has grown to a population of six-thousand. Its few streets boast shops, restaurants, and supply stores kept afloat by the townsfolk and nearby ranchers. Many of these businesses are owned and operated by quirky, yet salt of the earth characters who love their town just the way it is. That’s why the deep secret of Warrior Falls is so closely guarded.
        This is Dustin Frank’s (Dust’s) story.


Pre-order at Amazon: https://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/her-survivor-vonnie-davis/1122885268?ean=9781101967928

The Day I Felt Like Mic Jagger by Vonnie Davis

I'd been writing toward the magic words of THE END on book two of my "Black Eagle Ops" series. According to my bullet list, this past weekend should have been the completion of HERS TO HEAL. I could feel the sigh of relief building. Calvin had promised me a celebratory meal out. I was more than ready for free time. Mental rejuvenation time.

After all, I'd been writing this book from ten am until eight or nine pm seven days a week for three months. I was more than ready for a break.

The hero's proposal had been offered and accepted. Then a couple hours later, the hero tells the heroine about his new job. I figured she'd be happy. But was she? No-o-o-o-o! In fact, she inhaled a heated breath of air and hurled--hurled, mind you--orders for him to refuse the job. "No!" I screamed at the computer screen. "If you say that, he'll walk out." And, of course, she said it and was shocked when the door slammed in her face.

I glanced at my bullet list taped next to me. I had three scenes to write. I did not have time for this foolishness. I stalked to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee to wash down headache medicine. And Mic Jagger came on the oldies radio station I play on low.

I was drowned, I was washed up and left for dead
I fell down, to my feet and I saw they bled
Yeah, sure and I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread, sure
Yeah, I was crowned with a spike right through my head
But it's all right now, in fact it's a gas
But it's all right
I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas
(** Lyrics by Mic Jagger and Keith Richards)

So, is HERS TO HEAL finished? Well, no...not quite. I get a shot in my retina at 11:30 today. Between the shot and 5 different types of eye drops, my vision will be done for the rest of the day.

Tomorrow. I'm hoping tomorrow will be the magic day. Then not only will I sing Mic's song, but with a banana in my hand like a microphone, I'm strutting and prancing through my kitchen singing...

 

Well, it was Wednesday when the sun shone upon my head. Yeah.

And I finally put that dratted book to bed. Yeah.

So, it's all right, now, now that it's done.

'Cause I'm a Romance Writer,
Where, where, where is my choc-OH-lat? 

Vonnie Davis writes contemporary and contemporary paranormal romance all with a splash of suspense and a dollop of humor. She likens herself to a freshly baked croissant: Warm, crusty, wrinkled, a tad flaky and best served with strong coffee. Visit her on www.vonniedavis.com  

When a Pet Becomes One of the Characters by Vonnie Davis

Grandchildren's allergies and our traveling mean no pets for us. So I often put them in my books. I think we can tell a lot about a character by the way he or she reacts to animals. Plus, they bring a furry or feathery delight to the story.

I've talked before about my wounded warrior series, former SEALs who come to their retired CO's ranch in the Hill Country of Texas. Eagle Ridge Ranch provides a serene place  away from the hurried life and loud noises of the fast paced world to heal emotionally from the effects of war. There are physical wounds, of course, but the PTS elements play a larger role. The series is called "Black Eagle Ops."

One of the characters is Nance, the team's service dog. She's introduced in chapter one. Mail call has just happened and Dustin, the hero, has received a box from Eagle Ridge Ranch. One he's in no mood to open. Remember, these are hardened war veterans. Their language is salty with no filter, so I'll space out the worst words.

A muted “Set Fire to the Rain” drifted from the box. What the hell? That was the team’s theme song they sang as they drove away from a fight. What was his old Commander from SEAL Team Five up to now? Dustin ripped open the box only to find a cell phone and a note. “If you don’t call me ten minutes after receiving my awesome, one-of-a-kind gift, I’m calling you, you candy-as$ed ba$tard. And I’ll keep calling until you answer. ZQ”

The music stopped, and Dustin sighed. Thank God. When he arrived here eight months ago, ZQ was waiting and sat with him for the first three days. He talked to Dustin when he wanted to be left alone and read him poetry by Walt Whitman, which he liked but was too stubborn to admit. ZQ’s actions only reinforced what Dustin had always known; he cared for his men.

The song started again. Ah hell, ZQ. Give me a f---in’ break here. He swiped his index finger across the phone’s screen only to find a picture of Nance, her tongue lolling crooked from her mouth. Her one ear missing after being shot off. The day it happened as they fought their way through Al Hasakah in Eastern Syria, her handler JJ—Jerryl Jacoby—had nearly lost his mind. Hell, they all had.

They’d grown somewhat accustomed to the screams and moans of wounded men, but to hear their furry girl’s yelps ripped at what goodness remained intact within their souls.

On the cell’s photo, a sign hung around Nance’s neck that read, “Call me! Press 2.”

“Damn you, Zane Quinlan.” Dustin muttered as he shook the phone in frustration. The Commander always did know his men’s weak spots and played them to his advantage. He claimed Dustin’s was his curiosity, which it wasn’t. Still, just how had ZQ gotten ahold of Nance?

Dustin pressed two and, after a couple rings, Nance barked a response. He talked to her a minute, teasing her like he always had. “Dance for me Nance! Dance.” Evidently recognizing his voice, she whined and howled. There was some slurping, and Dustin smiled for the first time since forever. The damn, sweet dog was licking the phone to get to him…and he lost it.

Neither realizing the explosion had taken his leg from the middle of his calf down, nor seeing his mother’s tears when he initially reached Walter Reed Hospital or finding out he’d missed his dad’s funeral… not even his wife’s—hell, ex-wife, now—revulsion when she saw his damaged body tore at him so deeply as this dog’s reaction. Why the hell was that?

JJ’s firm voice in the background calmed her, while Dustin wiped his damp face.

Then ZQ took over the conversation.

“Hey, Dust, I knew if anyone could get to you, it would be Nance. Took you long enough to call me.” His team leader sounded like he’d just finished gargling with razor blades. Shit, Dustin wouldn’t be surprised if he had. The old man was hardcore. Not that he was really ancient, but any officer who’d survived fifteen years or more in an official capacity in special forces was respectfully labeled as “Old Man,” just not to his face.

“Is she at the ranch or are you visiting JJ?”

“Hell, they’re here at Eagle Ridge with me. Have been for over two months. JJ adopted her when his enlistment was up. The dog still had some time to serve but, having lost an ear, the big wigs gave her an early retirement.”

“I figured he would do his best to keep her, as tight as those two were. Nance trusted JJ with her life.”

“Still does. I was coming from the stables when this god awful racket echoed on my dirt lane. A man rode a vintage Harley with a sidecar, of all things. The dude wore a black leather vest a few shades darker than him and a black brain bucket for a helmet. And who was sitting in the sidecar, strapped in and wearing a matching black brain bucket with “War Vet” and a Trident decal on the front? Ol’ Nance. Pretty as you please.”

Ice cubes rattled in a glass, and the sound of his sipping and swallowing filtered over the phone. ZQ was probably into his treasured double-malt Scotch. He hacked a laugh. “Soon as our pup saw me, she damn near went berserk. JJ stopped the bike and unhooked her. She cleared the side and ran like hell for my outstretched arms. I ain’t ashamed to admit I was already on my knees, crying like a damn fool baby. There was always something extra special about our Nance.”

Once Dustin is released from the hospital, he  moves to Eagle Ridge Ranch near Wounded Warrior Falls. His first meal prepared by Junebug, ZQ's mother, is a real experience.

“I love hearing about my son’s SEAL life.” June, referred to by most everyone as Junebug, carried over a bowl of mashed potatoes. Then she placed two clean chrome dog’s dishes—one full of dry food and the other full of water and ice cubes—at the empty chair at the foot of the table. JJ nodded and Nance quietly jumped onto the chair. Junebug stood behind the dog and tied a bib around her furry neck. I can’t believe I’m seeing this. A damn bib on a SEAL service dog.

Junebug sat and looked at Dustin. “In this house, we say grace before we eat and hold hands while the head of the family prays.” She reached over and ZQ took his mom’s hand and, when she extended her other hand toward Nance, the dog placed his paw on top of hers, as if the canine knew what all was happening. Nance did the same for JJ’s hand and he whispered what a good girl she was. She licked his thumb and looked at him with adoring eyes.

If that dog mutters “amen,” I will crap myself laughing.

 

Vonnie Davis welcomes readers to Wounded Warrior Falls! In this sizzling contemporary series, broken heroes meet women worth fighting for—and discover the healing power of love.

Navy SEAL Dustin Franks can handle physical pain; it’s his soul that needs mending. After losing part of his leg in an explosion, the panic triggered by his PTSD nearly drives him over the edge. So Dustin retreats to the Eagle Ridge Ranch, a charming hideaway tucked into the Hill Country of Texas. There he finds solace in the arms of a shy beauty who reawakens desires he thought he’d lost forever—and who makes him want to lose control, just when he needs it most.

Kelcee Todd sees beyond Dustin’s scars to the real man beneath: fiercely protective, strong yet tender. She wants nothing more than to feel his battle-hardened hands on her body. However, Kelcee is not the ordinary small-town girl she appears to be. Her brother is a killer with ties to the Russian mob, and after her testimony put him in prison, he’s out and eager for revenge. Now Dustin is her best defense, even if it could cost him everything. Kelcee could never ask him to make that sacrifice . . . but she can’t stop him, either.

 

You may pre-order at http://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

 

When a Writer Has Nothing to Say by Vonnie Davis

I'm writing this on Super Tuesday. So politics are on my mind. I don't appreciate others shoving their political views down my throat. In like manner, I'm not shoving mine down anyone else's. We're all smart enough to make up our own minds.  'Nuff said there.

My cover for Her Survivor is finally up on Amazon. It's book one of my "Black Eagle Ops" series and releases in July. I was so tickled to see my hero make his splash on the empty listing, it took me a few seconds to realize there was another coverless listing. For book two--Hers to Heal. The one I'm still writing! Panic set in and my fingers have been furiously kissing the keyboard ever since. I wrote slightly over 2000 words today. Maybe I'll get a few hundred more written before bedtime. I thought of part of a scene while I was supposed to be taking my pre-dinner nap. Yes, this old bird has reverted to some behaviors from childhood, like naptimes.
But I don't want to talk about the "A" word.

As soon as I finish this post, I'm critiquing ten pages for an author friend who has a novella she wants to submit. I think I edit more than critique. I worry the overall theme is a little dark, but I'm not in the mood to talk about that either.

What would I like to talk about? Weddings! My oldest granddaughter's wedding is June eleventh, two weeks after she graduates from college with a double major in Psychology and Criminal Justice. Odd, really. It was just a few years ago I helped deliver Eleni. The doctor was running late and little Eleni Elizabeth--five weeks premature--couldn't wait to get here to boss her two big brothers around. The nurse ordered me to put on a pair of latex gloves and I did. What an experience! My Sugar Dumplin' weighed in at five pounds. An hour later, I stood at the nursery window watching the pediatrician and nurses hovering over Eleni's incubator. Not that I'm nosy, mind you, but I slipped in to hear what was going on with my grandbaby. She wasn't breathing right and they were discussing whether to airlift her to a larger hospital. "I'll be riding along," I said nonchalantly. The pediatrician whipped around and asked me who I was. "I'm the grandma. I go where she goes." I pointed to the incubator while the nervy doctor pointed to the nursery door. I stared; she glared. The nurses suited me up and allowed me to touch Eleni and talk to her. Before long her breathing regulated. I took credit, of course, much to the irked doctor's annoyance. I sent Sugar Dumplin' a check for her wedding gown and veil. All I asked was that she not tell me one thing about it, so I can't even talk about that. Sigh. See, I want to be blown away when I see her ready to walk down the aisle (Investment tip: Buy stock in Puffs tissues!).

My grandson, Ryan, qualified for States in wrestling. The tournament is this coming weekend. He's on my mind, too. Ryan is a goal-setter. At the end of every summer vacation, he sets goals for the coming school year. This year, they were to get all A's, be admitted to MIT, and win a medal at States. He's an over-achiever, yet a gentle kid with a quirky sense of humor. I wouldn't want to say he was raised to be a wrestler, but here he is shortly before his second birthday pinning Wile E. Coyote. Last year he got a B in Honors English and called me, heartbroken. I told him I was glad. He paused. "Why?" I told him I was glad he'd missed his anticipated A and had to face he wasn't perfect. "We're all human, Ry-man (okay, so I'm a nickname freak, it's a sickness, I tell you). We don't always reach the goals we set. The secret is to never give up, to keep trying." His one and only B didn't hurt his admission to MIT. All I wish for him this coming weekend is that he win at least one match. Okay, maybe two, but I won't talk about that. Grandmas can be SO boring.

 

Next time I blog, I hope I have something to say. Follow me on Twitter on @VonnieWrites. Tell me, what do you have to say today. It has to be more interesting than my rambling.