Throw me a great Hook and reel me in! by Vonnie Davis

I love a great opening hook. The quirkier the opening line or first couple of paragraphs, the better.

Once my eyes float over the words Chapter One, widen them with something unexpected. Grab me by the throat and show me I'm going to be in for a great read. Oh, not something frightful...but unexpectedly delightful. Humorous. Passionate. Heartrending. Sigh-worthy. And, baby, I'm yours!

Remember, when we were taught in public school to incorporate who, what, when, where, and why into our openings? Or am I dating myself? Why bog down our opening prose with details that could be sprinkled in later like those pretty multi-colored sprinkles on a cupcake?

I like to think of my opening scene. Play it out in my mind. Hear the dialog or feel the emotion. Watch the character or characters and begin the story mid-scene--at the best part. The part I hope will hook the reader and won't allow them to stop reading. For example, For the Love of a Fireman begins like this:

“Quick! What aisle are the douches in? I’ve got three bitches at the beach cottage and they all stink to high heaven.”

The male customer is talking about his dogs and the female sales clerk thinks he's a dog, talking about his girlfriends. The misunderstanding goes on for pages. This comes from page two. 

The customer lifted his blue ball cap with some kind of marine rescue emblem on it, forked his long fingers through straight hair—bleached nearly pale blond by the sun—and resettled the hat. “You do carry Massengill, don’t you? That’s the best brand, according to my research.”

“Ah…” My God, what kind of man researches douches? A man who goes to bed with three women, Molly. Now concentrate.
 
Sometimes, it takes two or three paragraphs like it did in A Highlander’s Passion.

Kenzie Denune pedaled the bicycle harder, her thighs burning from the exertion. Thanks to a car that refused to start, she was going to be late fer her job interview at Iverson Loch Manor. Grunting and pounding from the shrubs ahead, near the road’s edge, snagged her attention.

Naked shoulders glistened in the afternoon sun. Back muscles bulged and undulated with every thrust. “Bloody hell. Come fer me. Come.”

In all of Mathe Bay in the Scottish Highlands, only one deep masculine voice had the power to raise the hair on her arms like this. A man with braided russet-colored hair that brushed broad shoulders inked with a bear’s claw marks, woven into an intricate tribal design—Bryce Matheson. Damn him to hell. Who’s he shagging in broad daylight? Out in the open, no less. Has he no shame?

I can’t tell you the number of times I rewrote the following opening hook to get it just right. It’s the first paragraph of Storm’s Interlude, part of a multi-genre romance bundle, benefitting the Wounded Warrior Project. For 99 cents, these five full-length books are a great deal. Here’s my hook:

Someone swaggered out of the moonlit night toward Rachel Dennison. Exhausted from a long day of driving, she braked and blinked. Either she was hallucinating or her sugar levels had plummeted. Maybe that accounted for the male mirage, albeit a very magnificent male mirage, trekking toward her. She peered once more into the hot July night at the image illuminated by her headlights and the full moon. Sure enough, there he was, cresting the hill on foot—a naked man wearing nothing but a tan cowboy hat, a pair of boots and a go-to-hell sneer.

 BUY LINK: http://amzn.com/B0181NC92E

Dwell on Your Three Feet of Space by Vonnie Davis

For the past year, I've been writing non-stop to meet contract dates. A few years earlier, I'd write a book, turn the completed manuscript in and wait, hoping someone wanted it. Now, publishers tell me when they want the manuscripts and those dates are put into the contract. In short, we want three books of a minimum of X words from you on these dates for publication on these future dates.

I have two contracts I'm just about wrapping up. I'm on the last book of six. I'm tired. Burned out. A stranger to my family and friends. I literally write eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week, except for one blessed afternoon when Calvin and I go the matinee and out for dinner. The goal is to give my mind a mini-break. Six books in one year. I will never write for two publishers at the same time again. What was I thinking?

I turned in the next to the last book on April 6th. Had a book release party for A Highlander's Passion that released on the 7th. Slept for a day so my mind could rest to make the shift from Scotland and bear-shifters to firemen in Florida. I began the final book on the 9th that is due in my editor's hands on May 11th. Am I in a panic? Yes. Writing a minimum of 75,000 words in a whisper over a month is a feat I keep telling myself I can't do. There have been crying spells. Fits of blues. Migraines.

Then one evening, Calvin and I saw a mountain climber interviewed on PBS. The person putting forth the questions asked when you look at the top of the tallest mountain in the world, don't you have a moment of fear? That you won't make it?

The famed mountain climber replied he never looked at the top. He went on to say something very profound for me--I dwell in my three feet of space. Three feet to my left, right and up. That's all I think about--keeping safe and secure in my three feet of space. I don't focus on making it to the top, just keep moving my three feet of space farther and farther up. Eventually I reach my goal.

Calvin looked at me. "Did you hear that? Stop dwelling on the turn-in date and focus on your three feet of space, even though it'll change every day."

I have a feeling most of you work on such a routine already. I'm kind of slow to learn. Takes a while for things to sink through my unique, thick head. I'm trying my best not to dwell on my submission date. I just keep my head bowed over my keyboard and my fingers moving.

The book? A Pin-Up Fireman. Not the title I chose, but the publisher, HarperImpulse, decided all the titles of the books in the "Wild Heat" series should have the word "fireman" in it.

How do you keep from getting overwhelmed? What's your secret?

Should You Follow Your Dreams Or Make Them Follow You?

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. ~ Henry David Thoreau

I love this sentiment. We use it often enough. Right? Follow your dreams.
But what if we twisted it a shade or two and worked so hard, our dreams had to chase us? I mean, picture it. Wouldn't that be wild?

Yet, isn't that what many writers do everyday? We don't just work to become writers, we overachieve by spending hours on promo, writing and rewriting and then editing what we've rewritten.

I listen to people bragging about working on a book for three or four years, and how hard the writing is. I smile inside. I write three to four books a year. How about you? Granted, I'm retired and have the luxury of time. Even so, I'm making my dreams chase me. Four years ago, I was waiting for my first book to release with a small publisher. Now, I'm waiting for my second book to release with Random House, the largest publisher. I do confess to my dreams having an easier time of chasing me nowadays...I'm slowing down a tad.

Book two of my Highlander Beloved Series comes out in a little over 3 weeks. Bryce, the youngest of the bear-shifter brothers, has a dream--to win back the woman he broke up with a year earlier. He'd mourned the death of his first wife, who'd died in childbirth, a long time. Too long. First, however, secrets must be revealed. Identities challenged. Pain shared and forgiven. And a demon to conquer. All while he follows his dream: to make Kenzie his wife.
His 5-year-old daughter, Colleen, gave him instructions the night he was to propose. This snippet takes place the next morning.

     Colleen dragged her little stool in front of the antique buffet server so she could reach the silver food warmers. Cook quickly removed the lids for her. His daughter grabbed a plate and filled it with scrambled eggs, toast and salmon. Bryce extended a steadying hand to help her from the small wooden bench. She plopped the plate in front of her da’s chair, hurried back to the server to spoon out a bowl of porridge and placed it next to his plate. A leap, a twirl, and then she practically corkscrewed herself into the ancient floorboards.

Och, me sweet girl canna wait fer the news.

“Colleen.” Her uncle Creighton’s eyebrows wrinkled and the corners of his mouth quirked. “What is wrong with ye this morning? Do ye have a rash on the soles of yer feet that itches?”

“Nay, I’m waiting fer verra important news.” She cupped her wee hand to Creighton’s ear and whispered loud enough fer half of Mathe Bay to hear. “I might be getting a new Mummy.” She scowled at Bryce. “If me da behaved himself last night. His black eye has me worried, so it does.”

Ronan choked on his coffee. “If yer depending on your da being a gentleman, ye might be a wee bit disappointed, me darling sweet one.”

Bryce patted his knee and she darted over to crawl onto his lap. “I’ve got the smartest little girl in all of Scotland. She told me how to propose to Kenzie and it worked.”

“At last! These two I’ve worried over fer years are getting married.” His mum smiled over her tea cup. “So, she liked the ring?”

Before Bryce had a chance to respond, Colleen placed her wee hand on his cheek and turned his face toward her. “Did ye put a pillow on the floor and place one knee on it like I told ye?”

Och God, the daughter inquisition was about to begin, and in front of the brothers too. “Aye, I did. And when I asked—”

“Ye untied the ring I had put on yer hat?” Her little arm wrapped around his neck.

God, he had to get her mind off her proposal list. “Yes, me sweet one, and when I asked her, she said—”

A small hand covered his mouth. Buzzards and bats, there was no way she was going to let him out of this embarrassing situation. “And did ye wear the golden satin breeches and matching gold shoes with heels and buckles?”

He cut his eyes to his two brothers who were leaning out of their chairs, hands over their stomachs, laughing like the numpties they were. Both Cook Edweena and Butler Bean were having a mighty fine chuckle at his expense too.

“The important thing is, ye shall have a new Mummy in a little over two weeks.” Her little arms viced around his neck as she peppered his cheek with kisses. He closed his eyes. Let the rest of the buffoons laugh. He’d made his little girl happy. Nothing could be better.

YOU'RE ALL INVITED

APRIL 7TH, 11am to 9pm

LINK to the event -- https://www.facebook.com/events/1627811187442281/