Facebook, France and Fortuitous Conversatons

--By Vonnie Davis

July is the month of "F" here at Roses of Prose. After all, July is synonymous with fireworks, flowers and freakish storms ravaging the countryside. I've been reading everyone's posting with growing apprehension. I mean, how would I carry on the theme in an interesting way? One has to keep up appearances, right? Or at least, amble ahead with this month's awesome alliteration. Are you ready to Forge ahead with me? Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Facebook is a place we writers go to promote our books and build our following. But it can also be a place to garner story ideas. Do you ever take note of some of the things people say in their posts? There's such rich fodder there. Take my husband's nephew for example. Pete posted that his two German Shepherds were sprayed by skunks and in doing online research to see what worked to remove the stench, he found results where Massengill douche was recommended. Well, I laughed out loud. Then a scene flashed through my demented mind. A man rushes into a drug store and asks where the douches are shelved. He rambles about his girls smelling horrible. The cashier thinks he's talking about the women he's dating and gets angry. But of course he's talking about his dogs. A humorous dialogue ensues. Thank you, Facebook.

As writers, we are always waiting for story ideas to come to us or in pursuit of them.

In September, Calvin and I are traveling to Paris for two weeks before flying to Berlin to visit with his son and daughter-in-law. We love Paris and plan to sit at cafés, write and watch the constant stream of humanity pass by. I have a couple story ideas I want to set there and plan to take a gazillion pictures of the city so I can get my descriptions accurate. One of the stories has a hero who is an American jazz saxophone player who travels to Paris after World War I, during the era of The Lost Generation.

While having lunch with my agent, I was rattling on about my story ideas I wanted to research while in Paris. She jotted down some notes. A week later, she was on the phone with an editor asking her what types of stories she was looking for, romances in particular. The editor gave her a run-down. One item on her list was historical romance set around the turn of the century in unusual locations. Dawn remembered our conversation--our fortuitous conversation--and told the editor about my idea. She said she'd be interested in looking at it once I had it written. No promises, of course, but at least she was intrigued by the idea. And that slight possibility excites me.

Vonnie Davis writes most sub-genres of romance. Her website is www.vonniedavis.com

Book one of her Red Hand Conspiracy is set in Paris. An American travels to the City of Light to celebrate her 40th birthday and unwittingly foils a terrorist's bombing attack in the Salon Carre where the Mona Lisa is housed. The French Counterterrorism Unit puts her in the protection of a handsome younger French government agent. Sparks fly as they run for their lives through the streets of the Left Bank.

BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/Mona-Lisas-Room-ebook/dp/B00A553HLY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1373607620&sr=1-1&keywords=mona+lisa%27s+room

Mothers, Marathons and Miracles

My daughter-in-law comes from a large family. She's very close to her cousins, two especially--Erika and Nicole. The day of the Boston Marathon, Nicole and her husband and Erika stood near the finish line waiting for their mother. Carole was running in the marathon to celebrate turning fifty. Her daughters and son-in-law flew from North Carolina and Maryland to cheer her on. They were full of all the possibilities of life, yelling and cheering for every person who finished the grueling race. Nicole's husband stepped about twenty feet away to snap pictures of Carole as she approached.

Then the first explosion hit.

Michael, a personal trainer, was temporarily blinded, suffered hearing damage and many shrapnel wounds. Nicole, a physical therapist, suffered severe shrapnel wounds, both legs had compound fractures and one Achilles tendon was severed. Her hair was blown off the back of her head. Erika, a pre-school teacher, lost all her hair and part of her leg. The bones in her other leg were splintered, sticking out from the skin, and her remaining ankle shattered. Her personal identification and cell phone were lost in the bombing. Erika was taken to a hospital as a Jane Doe. Nicole and Michael were transported to another hospital. In the ensuing pandemonium, Carole could not find Erika. Hours passed. She was calling every hospital, describing Erika as having long blonde hair, ignorant of the fact her daughter no longer had hair.

Michael's vision returned. Some of his hearing has also, but not all. He was released from the hospital forty-eight hours later and moved into Nicole's hospital room to help care for her. She's had five surgeries and was moved from the hospital to a rehabilitation facility yesterday. The family is elated with her progress. Erika hopes to be released from the hospital in June and will require a long time in rehabilitation. She's had nine surgeries. She talks to her students now via Skype and enjoys all their handmade get-well cards.

Mother-to-mother, my heart has long gone out to Carole and all the "what-if's" she's dealt with. Many days her daughters were operated on at the same time in two different hospitals across the city. Driving on unfamiliar highways from one to the other only added to her physical and emotional exhaustion. Yet Mothers do "whatever" for their children. We push ourselves to help and show love. Carole's sisters flew to Boston to help lessen her burden.

Everyone in the family appreciates the miracle of life. The miracles of healing and love. The miracle of prayers and the strenth of emotional support.

My son, Mike, is on the right, wearing a green shirt. His hand is on my grandson's shoulder. To the left of Ryan is Erika in pink. Nicole is to the left of her, wearing a Ravens jersey. My daughter-in-law is next to her.

MOTHERS TRULY ARE FABULOUS!

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Sometimes Possibilities Require Defined Priorities by Vonnie Davis

The last time I blogged, I'd shared my agent was "shopping out" a Christmas short story to Carina. I was hoping I could move to a larger publisher. Well folks, it won't be Carina. They passed. It happens. Right?

Agent Lady swiftly jumped onto Plan B. In fact she had the story emailed to our list of previously agreed upon publishers before I had a chance to say, "Maybe I better work on it some more." She claimed she moved so swiftly because she knew I would do exactly that.

But rejection brings changes, not just by switching to plan B, but also to the way we perceive our accomplishments and abilities. Self-doubt comes knocking at our doors. This time the pointy-headed sprite brought along a three-piece set of luggage when she rang our doorbell. I should have kicked her to the curb...but I didn't.

As a result I've been asking a question many authors ask themselves from time-to-time: Why am I writing?

.I've worked through the Pity Party for One. Moved onto step-two and questioned my writing abilities, all the while repeating the question. Why am I writing? Do I do it for the money? No. Do I do it to make a name for myself? Well, being known as a good writer would be nice. That's why I enter contests and pay close attention to my reviews. Perhaps I write to please my readers, then? To a degree, yes. Or, do I write to fulfil a deeper need? 

 

Then again, perhaps I'm asking the wrong question. Perhaps the question needs to be how would I survive if I didn't write?

 

Frankly I think my soul would dry-up. My brain would sour with a type of madness. And my heart would turn brittle and break. Simply put, I need to write. And I need to do it for me. This is my priority. Before I can comprehend all the possibilities, I must embrace my own priorities, my dreams. I leave you with a quote by the poet, Langston Hughes: "Hold fast to dreams. For if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

 

What are your priorities?

 

Vonnie Davis writes most sub-genres of romance. Her characters reveal themselves to her and demand to be heard. Visit Vonnie at www.vonniedavis.com .

String Music by Vonnie Davis

We love March Madness here at our house. We love sports, period. With a grandson who is the home run king of his Little League team, another who qualified for States in wrestling as a lowly freshman and a granddaughter who is on a collegiate bowling scholarship, how can we not? From what I've heard from Calvin's old classmates at high school reunions, he was once a basketball jock. Perhaps that's why he loves basketball. And, as someone who has all the coordination of a caterpillar on Jack Daniels, I just love to see people who can run and talk at the same time. Me? I can only talk.

I love the energy, the agility, the athleticism of the games. I rarely miss a collegiate basketball game--men or womens.

I especially enjoy the MEACH (pronounced me-ack), a conference which mainly comprises smaller colleges. It was a well-dressed older gentleman who won my heart at that conference. Each year, Mr. MEACH, as he's so affectionately called, arrives at the convention center with racks of clothes. Yes, clothes. The man puts on a fashion show that would put the runways of New York and Paris to shame. He may don a red suit, red shoes, black shirt and red and black tie, top it off with a broad-rimmed red fedora and, with red cane in hand, step and stroll through the crowded bleachers. Pictures are taken. Smiles are shared. Cheers turn away from the players and toward this octogenerian. An hour later, he'll be in aqua and yellow or purple and pink. Oh, I'm telling you, he makes an amusing peacock. He has ladies who sew most of his suits. According to the newscasters, Mr. MEACH works on his many costumes all year long.

But why?

Well, why not. His colorful fashion show-off-manship makes people smile, just as my stories sometimes make people smile. No doubt he gets the same souldeep satisfaction from all the "oohs and ahhs" as I get from someone saying you made me laugh outloud.

I wonder if the man is exhausted at the end of the tournament, constantly changing clothes and making sure every detail of his outfit of the hour is perfect? Questions like that plague me somewhat this year. Questions like when has one had enough for awhile? How does one find balance? What's the difference between ambition and obsession? You see I've reached the point of mental exhaustion in my writing. In less than three years, I've written and contracted eight books. Suddenly I can't write one more emotion--humorous, romantic, painful or suspenseful. And I am playing my own version of string music this year. Strains of my favorite violin solos float from our stereo as I take a break from writing. I'm hoping a month of living life will do the trick. My house is certainly enjoying some deep cleaning. Plants are getting repotted. Closets cleaned. The yard is garnering some special pre-season attention. It's nice to step out of the writing cave for awhile and "see" life. I'm seeking balance. This month I'm putting my own ending to March Madness.

Three Simple Promotional Goals for 2013 by Vonnie Davis

Some experts say blogging is passé. Gone with the wind. Old hat. I don't know that I agree. Or maybe it’s just that I don't want to think the method I love of connecting with others is going out of style. Especially since I've joined two group blogs this month--Tempting Romance and Chick Swagger. Wouldn’t that be just my luck? It would be like saving to buy a new pair of sexy red stilettos only to find pink flats were all the rage. Nonetheless, I plan on blogging my little heart out for as long as I can. I've met many lovely ladies via blogging, and I cherish them all.

I try to keep up with all the latest media trends. Well, to a degree. I learn a good teaspoonful of knowledge about every social media form. Too bad you  need a strong pint to make it all productive—and I’m talking knowledge here, ladies, not a pint of booze. My problem is I don't utilize things to their full potential. You see, beyond blogging, I dabble.

Take Facebook for example. I dabble at posting when I think of it, not on a regular basis like so many. I try to adhere to posting in thirds. One third of the time I promote other writers or their books. Another third is about me as a person, a grandma, a woman less than over-joyed about turning sixty-five in May. The last third is self-promotion. Sounds easy enough. Right? If only I could schedule it better, rather than doing it in fits and starts. I  have a page for my debut book with a handlflul of followers. I forget to post on it. I also have an author's page and, yeah, I forget about it, too. I invested in sticky "to do list" pads to slap onto my monitor. And I've forgotten where I put them. So all my posts seem to land on my personal Facebook account. Not the best, huh?

Twitter is like a racing, roaring beast to me. It goes too darn fast. Reminds me of a recurring dream where I'm on rollerblades going downhill the wrong way in one-way traffic. I can't seem to slow things down. I've been blessed by many invitations to join tribes on Triberr, so I'm 80% faithful in retweeting to promote other peoples' blogs, but I rarely take the time to go to Twitter to tweat in a personal manner. The whole twitter thing makes my facial tic do bizarre things to my vision. I can't quite grasp Twitter. I mean, who reads tweets? I can't. They fly into the stream too fast. Do I know the nearly thousand people on my stream? No. So why would anything they have to say interst me? I can't see how it all helps. I know. I know. I'm showing my age here. I'll have to learn this beast.

 

So, these three forms of social media--blogging, Facebook and Twitter--are on my "learn to live-by routine" for 2013. I'm going to continue to enjoy my blogging. I'm also going to try to post to my Facebook pages at least twice a day. And, by golly, I'm going to tackle that Twitter Beast. No matter how it makes that tic in my face twitch until my eye waters.

 

What about you? What promotional tools are you planning on using in 2013?

 

Vonnie Davis blogs at http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com. Her website is http://www.vonniedavis.com. Follow her on Facebook at Vonnie Davis, Author or tweet her @VonnieWrites. Maybe the Indianapolis Speedway Twitterverse will allow her addled mind to see it.

Spiderwebs, Mice and Newlyweds -- Vonnie Davis

At the end of the month, I have a novella coming out—Tumbleweed Letters. This historical, set near Deadwood in the Dakota Territory, takes place in 1879 and is my first historical. It is part of the Love Letters series.

For reasons explained in the story, Sophie and Cam meet and marry the same day. He brings her home to his ranch after buying supplies for the winter. As you can imagine, Sophie is taut with worry about her future with a man she barely knows. What kind of future will she have with him as she helps raise his son? Can they come to care for one another?

Since we’re talking about excerpts with the “most,” this is my excerpt with the MOST dirt…

Now was no time for being maudlin, wondering why her destiny landed her here. She had things to do. Sophie picked up her skirts and stepped into her new world.

A kerosene lamp with a sooty chimney set on a narrow table in the hallway littered with dirty clothes here and there. To the left was a parlor with heavy wood furniture covered with dusty wine velvet upholstery. A floral rug graced the floor. Maybe after she hung it on a clothesline and beat it, she’d be able to tell what color it was. Dirty long johns were dropped onto the floor where Cam had evidently taken them off. Stiff, smelly socks draped the one arm of a wooden rocking chair. She ran a fingertip over the grimy tables. Cobwebs draped a corner of the large room. Tomorrow would be a day of heavy cleaning.

Through a doorway was a large kitchen. She stepped inside and froze. Saints preserve me. It’s a pig sty, so it ‘tis. Dirty dishes were piled on the end of the large wooden kitchen table. Pans crusted with something set on the stove. Muddy boots were thrown in a corner. A mouse skittered across the floor and into a hole in the floor. Books were stacked on the floor next to a chair at the table.

How could someone live like this? She gave an involuntary shudder, pushed up her sleeves and set to work. Cam McBride was in for a shock if he thought he’d continue living in a hovel. Dirty pans were moved to the table. Then she filled the stove with kindling. Once she had a fire roaring, she pumped water into a pan. She was pleased to see the kitchen had a pump at the sink that would save her trips outside for buckets of water.

Cam carried in sacks of flour, sugar and coffee beans. He set them on the floor and opened a door to a little pantry. Two mice darted into the kitchen. The man dared to ignore her startled gasp. “Want me to empty these into the round tins Maw always used?”

“Not until I see how clean they are.” She waved her arms around the dirty, greasy kitchen. “Cam McBride, you should have your ears boxed for living like this. Tis an abomination, so it ‘tis.” She could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth quirk as if he were fighting a smile. He turned to walk away and she stuck out her tongue at him.

The next time he came back inside, he set packages of piece goods and notions on the settee in the parlor. Books he bought in town were dumped onto the kitchen floor next to the crooked pile already there. She shot him a dark look. Had the man forgotten the bookshelves in the parlor? He stuck both hands in his back pockets. “I’ll put the horses away and check on the livestock while you…”

“While I try to clean one spot upon which to stand?” She snatched the broom and began sweeping out dead leaves and mud clumps. Although by the stench, she wasn’t completely sure it was mud. “Tis a haven for dirt you have here.” Her motions were swift and jerky. She flashed him an irritated glare. “And where are your manners? Take your hat off inside.”

He didn’t. In fact he stood there for a minute just staring at her. Then he reached out, wrapped a long arm around her waist and drew her to him. She slammed against his muscled chest and gazed at his hardened features. His blue eyes squinted as he seemed to regard her, and then slowly, very slowly, a smile spread across his solemn face. Merciful heavens. Look what a smile does to his eyes, to his face…to me.

“I won’t abide a bossy wife, Sophie Catherine. But I do like your spirit.” He tipped her chin with two fingers, the pads of them rough and strong. His blue eyes darkened as he leaned down to cover her lips with his. Both of his arms were around her now, and in his arms she felt safety, a measure of tenderness and delightful physical sensations. The kiss was hard and swift—akin to her reaction to it.

“Did I say I wouldn’t demand my husbandly rights tonight?”

She stiffened and squared her shoulders prepared to do verbal battle. “You most certainly did.”

“I think maybe I lied.”

Her eyes widened. She placed both palms on his cheeks and drew his face close to hers until they were eyeball to eyeball. “Well, I won’t abide a husband who lies.” She let him go and set back to cleaning.

His laughter—rich and deep—was a heart-stealing surprise. The heat of a blush rushed up her neck to swathe her cheeks. She kept on sweeping hoping he couldn’t see his effect on her. His footsteps echoed across the floor, the door closed and she smiled.

**** RELEASING OCTOBER 31^st

Wanna Hold My Frog?

I get a kick out of character interviews. I love getting to know more about heroes and heroines. What they like. What makes them tick. I enjoy a character with attitude or a secret or charm oozing from his or her pores. Take Sawyer Masterson, for example. He's going to talk to us today.

Me: Hi Sawyer.

S.M: Hi Miz Vonnie. Here, wanna hold my frog? His...his name is Scream. He gets lost in the house or the car and then eberbody screams.

Me: Ewwl! No...ah... no, honey, I don't want to hold him.

S.M: It's okay, Miz Vonnie. He don't bite. Unkie Storm says frogs don't got teeff.

Me: Tell me about your Uncle Storm, Sawyer. Do you do stuff with him?

S.M.: Oh, yeah. I go widing wif him lots. And I take my af'ta'noon nap in his big bed. He...he let me nap dere after Mommy got sick with cancer. I was sad 'cause Mommy was too sick to play wif me. Unkie Storm, he let me sleep dere and he weed me stories and showed me how to tie knots in rope. Do you like books, Miz Vonnie?

Me: Well, yes. Yes I do. What kind of books do you like?

S.M: Well, I got all the Courious George Books and Doctor Seuss books too, but...but you know what? He's not really a doctor 'cause he don't take care'a sick people.

Me: (Laughing) He doesn't?

S.M: (Shakes his head) Nope. My mommy don't go to him and she's sick. Her...her got loo-keem-ya.

Me: Do you have a favorite super hero?

S.M: (His eyes light up.) Yeah! Superman. Wachel, she's my mommy's nurse, made me a superman cape with a BIG "S" on the back for Superman Sawyer. I wund through the house with it on and "save the day."

Me: Oh, I bet you do.

S.M: Do you think I'm smart, Miz Vonnie? My mommy says I'm the smartest boy in the whole wide world and pro'bly the smartest boy in Texas, too. Miz Noella says I smart 'cause I drink all my milk when I get done eatin'. (Rubs his stomach) All dat milk fills in the cracks dat the food makes.

Me: (totally charmed) Oh, I see.

S.M: Miz Vonnie. Are you gonna scream? 'Cause I don't know where my frog went...

Excerpt:

“Unkie Storm! I’m all clean fwom my baf.” Sawyer streaked onto the patio wearing Sponge Bob pajamas, a book in his grasp and his hair still wet from his bath. Storm held out his arms for his nephew, who shot into them. He loved the feel of this child in his arms.

If Pilar had her way, Sawyer might be the closest he came to being a father. Although she promised, insisted even, she’d help raise the boy if something happened to Sunny, Pilar made it quite clear getting “big with child” and “changing disgusting diapers” was not in her future.

“Mommy got me a new Georgie book.” Sawyer wiggled and grunted and settled into Storm’s lap. He held the book in front of Storm’s face, waving it back and forth. “Will you wead it to me?”

“I didn’t hear the magic word.” Storm gave the child a stern look.

“Oops. Sowwy. Will you please wead it to me?”

Sunny lowered herself into a chair next to Jackson. “Does Unkie Storm have a choice?” She laughed softly.

Jackson reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. “You always were beautiful in the moonlight.”

Sunny’s eyes opened wide. “Well, aren’t you just full of compliments tonight.”

Jackson winked. “Darlin’, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Okay, grown-ups. Time to be quiet while I read Curious George Goes to the Beach.”

Sawyer laid his head against Storm’s chest. “I wuv you, Unkie Storm.”

Storm kissed the child’s dark hair, inhaling the smell of the child’s shampoo and savoring that sense of contentment he always felt when holding this little fellow. “I love you, too, son.”