"But I Don't Write Erotic!" I Gasped.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from Long and Short Reviews (LASR) that they'd reviewed one of my books, For the Love of a Fireman. They ranked this romantic comedy four and a half stars and wrote a lovely review. I was pleased because I knew the rating would make it eligible for voting as book of the month. Yay me!

Part of the review read:

"This book has it all – humor, excitement, a bit if heavy hitting drama, romance, some eccentric but adorable characters, rambunctious dogs and last but not least, sexy shenanigans. For the Love of a Fireman is complete entertainment.

When I got this book, I had no idea there was BDSM in it, but the premise sounded so good, I took a chance. I’m happy to say that it’s light BDSM, and the heroine was the one being introduced to it. I actually liked how the author presented it, explored it between her characters and made it about emotions, trust and other positives that helped Barclay and Molly’s relationship grow. Because the lifestyle is a tad unconventional, the author used it as part of the internal plot conflict. It worked.

For the Love of a Fireman is truly delightful. It’s sexy, funny and warmhearted with just the right amount of external conflict to keep a reader engaged and fascinated. I had an awesome time reading this novel and have no problem recommending it to other romance readers. The story is that good."

Most of you realize I'm known for writing with the bedroom door wide open, if the characters even make it to the bedroom. To me, this is real life. I'd wanted to try a bit of Domination and submission, or D/s in my story. So I did. I didn't go into it heavily. I approached it more philosophically and with strong doses of humor. Most readers liked it. A few reviewers said they didn't. Such is life.

This was also a book that was never edited. I emailed it to my editor at HarperImpulse and she sent it on through the pipeline. Two weeks before release, I was frantic waiting for my edits to arrive, so I emailed her. "Where are my edits?"

"Your books are always so lovely, I didn't feel the need to edit, I just sent it on through." GASP! Lovely? Nothing I write is lovely or grammatically correct or plot hole free. Dear Lord, help me, I'm going to have an unedited book floating around out there. The final book of the series was never edited either! *bangs head on desk*

All that aside, I got an email from LASR on June 30th. For the Love of a Fireman  is up for Erotic Book of the Month. Erotic! But I don't write erotic! All I did was sprinkle in some references to Domination and submission. Okay, so they may have been some hot sprinkles, but we don't need to go there.

Won't I be pleased as punch to promote the upcoming vote? The winner of Erotic Book of the Month will be announced tomorrow. Honestly, I don't know how I get myself into these messes. I'm not fit to be left alone.

Take the past couple of weeks, for example. My editor at Random House and I have been going round and round about a single title she wants me to write based on Calvin's and my experience traveling home from our granddaughter's wedding. Our flight was delayed, then changed to another gate in a difference concourse, and finally cancelled. My mind got to working...two strangers in an airport, eager to get home...their flight gets cancelled...they start talking...and then. By the time Calvin and I got to our hotel room provided by the airline, I'd had chapter one roughed out in my mind. Chapter two was formed by the time I'd showered and collapsed between the sheets. The story was flowing out. A great sign, right?

I sent my editor the first three chapters. She "said" she loved it and passed it onto her boss who said she had some concerns. My over-the-top descriptions, for one. My humor, secondly. My use of polysyllabic words. Couldn't I "dummy it down"?

My humor and over-the-top descriptions are part of my voice. As for using polysyllabic words, how many times have we all looked up a word in the dictionary? Our vocabulary levels are enriched by the experience. But I know not all readers have a dictionary, much less one nearby or on their eReaders.

So I toned down my descriptions. I removed most of my humor. I used simple sentences, avoiding compound and complex ones. I used words I felt everyone should know. I sent the dummied version back.

It was returned.

They didn't like my title. No problem. I've had nearly every title I've chosen changed. It's not my strong suit. I accept that. They didn't like my characters' names down to the dentist the heroine worked for and told me what to use. I could feel my undies bunch and twist. Choosing names does not come easily for an author. My description of the heroine's hair frizzing like Marge Simpson's had to go. I loved the visual. I still had too much humor. Then they changed my plot. Grrrr! They wanted the abusive ex-boyfriend to approach the heroine, give his smarmy apologies and promises, and for her to vacillate between the hero, who's treated her well and the jerk. I couldn't see writing about a smart, sassy woman for three-fourths of the book only to have her turn into an easily conflicted, indecisive woman. Surely the reader wouldn't buy it.

I was livid.

I wrote an email stating what I would change and what I wouldn't. I told them what my characters' names would be AND my plotline. I left it percolate for two days, taking a little of the venom out each day. Meanwhile, the publisher had evidently put the book on their release calendar. I sent a calmer version of my original email. My editor replied that all was good, giving me the date I'd need to have the manuscript to her and it's release date. "Oh," she wrote, "Make sure it's erotic."

Erotic Dead Faint

For the Love of a Fireman is on sale for .99 -- https://amzn.com/B00PV4YCXG

When Your Editor Calls You With an Idea...by Vonnie Davis

I love writing with a dash of humor. It's in my nature. My editor at Random House labels it as slapstick (insert huge sigh here). Let's not forget I grew up during the era of Red Skelton, I Love Lucy and Laurel and Hardy. Heavens, do any of you even know who they are? How about The Carol Burnett Show? They were each masters at comedic timing and slapstick.

If you've studied Shakespeare's plays in college, you know he was one of the original users of comedic relief. In the middle of a heavy, emotional scene when all of the spectators were on the edge of their seats, good ol' Bill would insert a couple off-color characters to suddenly have the audience rolling with laughter. He knew they needed an emotional break--and when. William Shakespeare taught me a lot.

So when my editor at Random House Loveswept called me about my next series, I had a few ideas lined up. I never got a chance to voice them. Ms. Enthusiasm pounced on me with, "I want you to write a series on wounded warriors who are also suffering with PTSD, set it in or near a small town, preferably in Texas. I'd like them to be former SEALs. I don't care how many points of view you use through-out the book, just give me two at a time. And here are the titles: HER SURVIVOR, HERS TO HEAL, and HER FOREVER HERO. I'm so excited about this! I know you'll do a fabulous job." The velvet steamroller promptly hung up.

I'd been taking notes as quickly as I could and just stared at my phone blaring a dial tone.

But...but....crap! Oh, fudge and buttermilk.

This was the last kind of series I wanted to write. I'd been doing bear shifters and, also, firemen, for HarperImpulse. How was I to turn men suffering from PTSD into the romantic heroes readers would swoon over?

My own grandson suffers from it. He's moody, at times belligerent, suicidal, and quick to fly off the handle, screaming and hitting things. The sweet Josh we knew is gone. He came home from Afghanistan with no physical injuries, just mental and emotional damage that might never heal. Could I write about a topic so painfully close to my heart? I was full of reservations, believe me.

How many men suffer to the extreme that Joshua does? Is his case mild or severe? To grandma, it's severe, but I might be wrong. So I bought books on the subject. I found an excellent one focused on PTSD and veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan and also a study done at Cornell University. I knew only the basics about SEALs, so I bought books on that branch of Special Forces. No one loves doing research better than I. This old broad was in heaven.

Then came the time to plot. Yes, this dyed-in-the-lycra pantser was going to have to plot, to lay out my little town, to create townsfolk (ah, my chance at some humor--thank God!), and the lives before and after SEALs for my veterans.. Decide on the book's main plot so it can be a stand alone and the strong thread running through them all, linking them together.

I had to show their physical injuries and their emotional traumas--and still make them lovable. I needed a couple unifying factors...their former Commander, their service dog, Nance, and their SEAL brotherhood.

In book one of Black Eagle Ops, HER SURVIVOR, Dustin Franks in still in the military hospital in San Antonio, Texas. He's in bed. Mail call has just gone through and he's received a box from Eagle Ridge Ranch, owned by his former Commander Zane Quinlan, or ZQ. The language is salty. These are warriors.
====
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—or Officer in Charge—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-assed bastard. 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__kin’ 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 JJ 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.”

There was a deeply inhaled breath and then a slow exhale. “I’ve got plenty of rooms here and I offered one to JJ and Nance, but both are happier sleeping outside on the ground. Some nights they sleep near the house and others they walk off to Lord knows where with a sleeping bag under JJ’s one arm and a jug of water and dog kibble under his other. Kid seems to need his space and I give it to him as long as he helps with a few chores around here. A man has to stay busy. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay as long as he wants. He doesn’t say much.” ZQ sipped at his Scotch again. "Got room for you, too, if you want it."

**Pre-order at http://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

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?

Writing With Deaf Ears & French Toast

The expression "falling on deaf ears" can mean different things to writers. We can literally hold, or seemingly hold a conversation with you--smiling, nodding, furring our eyebrows--while our minds are plotting a murder or choreographing a sex scene or sculpting an argument for our stories. We can give the obligatory "oh no" to your complaints about something important to you, while mentally rewriting a paragraph we wrote yesterday.

We can't help it. It's how we're wired. My eldest son plays the bass guitar for relaxation after teaching 8th graders all day. He can name every note to certain songs, yet he'll lock himself out of the house in a minute. My youngest son has wrestled since the 4th grade. Mention a match in his junior year of high school and he can tell you every move he made. Yet he can't recall if he wished his dad happy birthday. We're wired to focus on what's important to us.

Sometimes we have to teach ourselves to let things fall on deaf ears so we can focus on what's of primary interest to us.

One of the best places for me to write is our local Bob Evans Restaurant. The staff knows us both by name, knows to hook me up to an IV of coffee and what our order will be--no menus needed--just bring me French Toast. We camp out in a booth for three to four hours. Then we move to McDonalds for an ice cream cone and two more hours of writing. Calvin delves into his iPad and scours the papers. He is a news hound.

People have asked how can I write in a restaurant? How can I block out the noise?

It's easy. I live with Calvin.

Calvin is very hard of hearing and wears hearing aides in each ear. He also can't stand a quiet room. So, in the morning as he's getting dressed and I'm reading emails, he has Bach playing in the bedroom and a news channel on the TV. He shuffles out to the kitchen, turns on Mozart on my CD player there and then pours a cup of coffee to carry back into the bedroom. I now have Bach, Mozart and the news assaulting my ears.

Later, he goes into the small bedroom to ride the stationary bike and turns on CD's of French singers and a different news station. My brain is ready to burst. A half-hour later, he's in the den watching a crime drama and playing jazz music. It occurs to him he needs a screw driver or a hammer, so he goes into the garage, turns on the TV out there and the stereo where he plays down and dirty blues. This man with a Masters degree only knows how to turn things "on," never, ever "off." Meanwhile, I am left to listen to a cacophony of television and music. But let me turn one thing off and old "my ears are bad" can hear its absence at fifty paces.

So, how can I go into a zone and write in a restaurant, oblivious to the comings and goings of others? It's a talent my husband taught me.

Vonnie's had two books released in the last 6 weeks. A paranormal romance from Random House Loveswept, book one of her Highland Beloved series--A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION.
http://amzn.com/B00ILX9WC0

Book one of her "Wild Heat" series from HarperImpulse--HOW TO SEDUCE A FIREMAN.
http://amzn.com/B00ME1OWD4

Mistakes Can Make Us Smarter by Vonnie Davis

We learn by our failures--if we're smart.

If we're not so smart, we're close to the other end of the mental spectrum. Or so Einstein claimed when he said, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Granted, he was probably speaking on a scientific level. But the same concept could be applied to life in general. 

If I keep planting the same flowers the deer, that daily meander through our yard love to eat, then I'm not using my brain cells to their fullest capacity.

If I go on a diet, except for Oreos and potato chips and pizza, and still can't lose the weight, well, I'm not the smartest dieter, am I?

And if I keep buying the same size shoes that pinch my feet, then by golly I deserve a good foot pinching. Why? Because I'm not learning from my mistakes.

The same applies to our writing. My first book was written in omniscient point of view. As an English major, I'd studied the masters who often wrote using that method. But that was back in the day before editors' and readers' tastes changed. I had to learn from my mistakes and change too.

Over the past four years, different editors have pointed out weaknesses in my writing--God bless them all. My failure to deliver a better quality manuscript became a learning experience at the hand, or pen, or tract changes of teaching editors. By being open-minded, I learned and grew.

I'm always saddened to hear other writers refuse to work with editors to improve a story. Some tend to feel they've written a masterpiece that should not be touched or changed. Yes, there does come a time when an author has to protect her characters, her plot arc and her voice. But, more often than not, if you communicate with your editor, a workable compromise can be made. That teachable moment can still exist. And failures, or weaknesses within the manuscript, can lead to success.

I've done a bit of remodeling at my website to announce my future releases with Loveswept/Random House and Harper Impulse. I hope you'll stop by www.vonniedavis.com and check it out.

Rejection Can Take You Backward or Forward by Vonnie Davis

We look on rejection as a step backward, but that’s not always so. My divorce, for example, was a huge painful step backward. But because of it, I was free to meet my Calvin which was a lovely, gigantic leap forward for my heart.

Sometimes pain leads to happiness. So does rejection.

Last January, my agent sent an email to her romance writers that Carina Press had a call out for Christmas novellas. She listed the desired word count and other particulars. It's a chance to move ahead to a larger publisher, I thought, and interest sparked.

So, I wrote like a fiend to meet the deadline ... and got rejected.

A step backward.

I’ll confess the rejection stung. It was my first and brought along a passel of self-doubts. When I told my agent to send the manuscript back so I could rework it, she claimed she’d already sent Santa Wore Leathers on to other publishers. I groaned inwardly. More rejection was bound to come.

A month later, a contract offer came from HarperImpulse. Ah, a step forward.

The next week, my agent called again. “Vonnie, I need the first three chapters of that paranormal you’re working on. Oh, and a synopsis. An editor at Random House loved your novella, but since you’ve already got a contract, she asked if you had anything else she could see. Isn’t that great?”

Irritation rolled in my stomach. “What have you done? This paranormal is my play story. I piddle with it whenever I hit a rough spot in my current WIP. It’s not meant for publication. I don’t write paranormal. It’s just a play story.” I was repeating myself out of nervous fear.

“Well, play story or not, we’ve got another Big Six editor interested. Send me the three chapters and write up a synopsis.”

I felt myself sliding backwards. How could I write a synopsis of nothing?

The editor at Random House loved A Highlander's Beloved--bear shifters and all--and contracted it, offering options on three more. A big step forward.

Rejection can be a step backward. Or in my case, a few steps forward. Santa Wore Leathers led to a three-book contract from Harper-Impulse.

2014’s going to be a busy year. I hope yours if full of steps forward, too.

** Learn more about Vonnie at www.vonniedavis.com