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 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

Just When I'm a Member of a SEAL Team, My Bear-Shifters Pull Me Back!

I'm nearing the halfway mark of my first book about wounded SEALs. I've mentally and emotionally become part of their team. Thanks to reading several books, online research and speaking to a couple Special Forces dudes, I'm gaining a grasp of how they think. These men, who proudly wear the Trident, are a breed of their own. Real, flesh and blood heroes.

Two days ago, the manager of digital marketing at Random House Loveswept emailed me. Nook has reached out to us with the opportunity to feature A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION in their "Fall for Romance" fall sale low-price merchandising. To take advantage of this opportunity we are dropping the price to 99¢ 10/13 – 10/20. 

 

We'll get really nice support from BN for this promo. This should also be a nice lead-in to BEARING IT ALL.

 

 

I honestly had to stop for a minute and think, which book is this? I wrote five last year. Bear-shifters. Right. So, I stepped out of my SEAL team and into my make believe group of kilt-wearing hunks who can also shift into bears. Order Link: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-highlanders-obsession-vonnie-davis/1120641392?ean=9780804179300

 

 

All this will hopefully help the release of book 3 of the "Highlander's Beloved" series, BEARING IT ALL, which releases on October 27th. A small get-away cabin, a blizzard, a French agent fleeing for her life, a hunk in a kilt, and a bear who tends to break the shifting rules.

 

 

SALES LINKS:

http://amzn.com/B00TCI2A5E

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bearing-it-all-vonnie-davis/1121772576?ean=9780553394658

 

On release day of BEARING IT ALL, I'll be hosting a Facebook release party from 11 am (Eastern time) to 9 pm with several other authors. You're all invited. Please come. Authors, girl talk, man candy, prizes and laughter...

 

 

I've Got Some Spare Time!

What a shock! I'm writing my post six days early, instead of my usual night before. My time is rather calm right now. You see, I wrote six books last year, and some of them aren't selling all that great. Just as well. By the time I got to the last book in each series, I could barely speak a coherent sentence, much less write one. Calvin would lead me to bed and I'd sleep for two days solid.

My muse had fainted in a dead heat and I had fired my agent, who hadn't bothered to check my manuscript turn-in dates--one publisher against the other. I had thirteen days between books two of my Highlander bear-shifters and my firemen series. Who can write a 73,000 word book, per contract, in thirteen days? Not I! And books three of each series had to be turned in on the same day. I literally had a nervous breakdown in the doctor's office and was put on two antianxiety medicines.

But this old gal survived, drugs and all.

The quality of my firemen series, not so much.

Books two and three were never edited by my editor. I sent them in and my editor forwarded them onto production because my writing is just so fabulous. NOT!! I nearly died when I found out. Reading them was worse than having a root canal through my navel.

So, for now, I'm revamping my first book ever published, Storm's Interlude, and have a mere fifty pages yet to clean up. Then I'll set it aside before I read over it again. It's going in a self-published bundle with some other authors' first books. Here's the new cover:

Yesterday, Random House, the only publisher I'm writing for right now except for a few Indie published books, sent me my copy edits for book three of my Highlander Beloved Series, "Bearing It All."

At Loveswept, the big edits happen between you and your editor. Then the manuscript goes to the copy editor who pulls his big magnifying glass from his pocket and looks for every misplaced comma, wrong word choice, and goof in my Scottish burr. Then I go through another round of edits. The final round unless he demands I change something I feel strongly against--like remove chapter eight. I have two weeks to do this.

Once this is finished I'll have a choice to make. Read over Storm's story once more or keep writing the first book of my wounded warrior series. I've got one chapter written and approved by my editor. When we'd brainstormed over the phone, I wasn't sure I was on the same page as her. Thankfully I was. She loved it. Now I want to keep going. I can see the second chapter unfolding. "Eagle Ridge Ranch" series takes place in the Texas hill country where SEALs come to their former CO's ranch to heal and acclimate to life, back in the world, near a small town.

My editor at Random House called to ask that I write this series. Going from bear-shifters in the Highlands to ex-SEALs with PTSD is quite a leap emotionally. I'm not sure I can do it. I've read books by psychologists and sociologists, watched movies, seen American Sniper three times and wondered how can I turn all this pain into a romance? It'll be a challenge. Thank goodness my editor is giving me the time to do it. I'd kinda like to bring my muse back to life.

What's Your Opinion? A Pink Wig or a Pink Dye Job?

A week from today, Calvin and I will be on the Amtrak bound for NYC for some sightseeing before the RWA Convention begins. I've never been to NYC. Calvin was, many years ago, when his son won a scholarship through Athletes With Asthma. He, his wife at the time and their son were treated to a weekend of ceremony, tours in limos and meals at pricy restaurants. Since Calvin is paying this time, it'll be hot dogs from the street vendors and bottled water. Okay, maybe not. But it will be taxis and shoe leather instead of limos.

We're staying at the same hotel where the convention is being held. I don't think Calvin has any idea how many women will be there. But my editor is taking us to lunch, we're going to the Random House building for brunch with Loveswept's team where they will tell us plans for the future. My editor has asked Calvin to come along. On a different day we're both going back to RH for dinner and projected goals. The next day is a cocktail hour for two hours. The rest of the time, Cal will be on his own in a café, drinking coffee and reading his iPad, while I walk around gaping at all the big names in the romance writing world.

I've made the travel plans, written lists and suddenly an idea popped into my mind. Which we all know can be a dangerous thing. I've been writing a contemporary paranormal series, with bear shifters, for Random House Loveswept. The most beloved character in these books is Effie--a grandmother, a rascal, a survival of Woodstock, pink-haired and known to say most anything. Here's how she steps on stage on the first page of book one of the series--A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION:

Paisley Munro tried not to gawk at the two broad-shouldered men in kilts as she hefted her suitcase off the luggage carousel in the Inverness Airport, located northeast of the city referred to as the capitol of the Scottish Highlands. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was all eyes.

“Before we leave this country, I’m finding out what they wear under those kilts, even if I have to hike one up and take a gander myself.” Her grandmother patted her curls. She’d dyed her hair dark red for the trip. Unfortunately, the inability of her white hair to absorb the dye’s full effect resulted in a halo of pink curls. The combination of her tresses and her pink pantsuit made her look like the Pink Panther with wrinkles, just as skinny and wiry but without the tail.

“Behave yourself, Gram.” Paisley tugged her grandmother’s luggage off the slowly moving belt that squeaked with every couple inches gained. No use telling the free spirit to act her age. At seventy-four, why should she start now? “Our ride ought to be here somewhere.”

Paisley glanced around for Fiona Matheson, who should be holding a sign for Matheson Lodge. Fiona had promised in her reservation confirmation e-mail she’d meet them.  

Gram elbowed her. “Good grief, they’re coming toward us. Look at those broad shoulders and hairy legs. I’m not drooling, am I?” She pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chest. She lowered her chin to talk to her breasts. “Look perky, girls. Sexy hunks at two o’clock.”

My big idea? I could make a bit of an impression, especially when Loveswept does it's private event with paper books made from our ebooks. I'd be Effie!!! Granted, a heavier Effie, but I could imitate her attitude about life in a more bodacious way. A pink haired wig. I'd wear clothes with pink in them AND I'd wear pink pelican baffies (what we Americans call bedroom slippers). I'm making those myself. I ordered this pink wig online that came in almost a blinding fluorescent pink color. A friend suggested going to a beauty supply shop and getting pink dye. Me? Dye my hair pink? Attend the entire RWA event with pink hair? I mean, people will go home and ask themselves or their friends, "Who was that goofy writer with the pink hair? The one who wore feathered boas that molted all over the place."

So, what should I do? Wear the hot blinding pink wig in July? Or dye my hair and blend in with all the younger kids when I'm sixty-seven? When does a marketing ploy make us look simply ridiculous?

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/

  

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

LOST IN AMERICA…SCOTLAND…AND HOPEFULLY IN MY BOOK

I’m sure you’re surprised to see me here today instead of the lovely and talented Diane Burton, but her son is getting married this weekend, so we’ve switched dates. Actually, the switch works out well for both of us. I have book two of my Highlander shifters due to turn in to my editor on my regularly scheduled day. Plus, I’ll be a week away from the release of book one--A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION. I’ll be lucky if I can remember my name.

I chose to lean my post toward the movie “Lost in America,” a comedy of a yuppie couple who sell all their possessions, buy a huge camper and set out to touch nature and experience new things. To become lost in what is America.

I confess to wanting to do that myself a few times, but since my mind wanders through my storylines while I drive, forcing me to inadvertently veer off the road, dragging along a camper seems more dangerous than even I want to try. So, I’ll not add that adventure to my bucket list. Oh, but think of the possibilities!

In my soon to be released paranormal, the heroine and Effie, her aging hippie grandmother with the pink hair, go on a bit of an adventure when they travel from Virginia to the Highlands of Scotland to attend Gram’s uncle’s funeral.

Paisley, my heroine, is an animal communicator with the blessing—or curse—of being able to telepathically communicate with all species. And, poor soul, she’s unwittingly reserved rooms for her and Gram at a castle turned lodge run by a pack of bear-shifters. Handsome human hunks in kilts who also shift.

 

There are three brothers running Matheson Lodge—Creighton, who is laird of his clan and head of his bear sleuth, Ronan and Bryce.

This scene takes place around the dinner table. Paisley and Creighton have come in from outside where they’ve been arguing. I’ve cleaned up the language a mite so as not to offend…

Creighton took his place at the head of the table. Paisley ignored her assigned seat next to him, perched instead like a fire-eating dragon at the opposite end of the table. To silently communicate with her, he opened his telepathic shield. Yer place is by me side here in this chair. He jerked his chin toward the vacant place setting.

Look, you arrogant Scot. You might order everyone else around, but not me. Never me!

Bryce choked on the water he was drinking. His eyebrows rose in that quizzical way he had. Creighton forgot his brothers and other shifters would be privy to their argument. Well, so be it. At least his mother and Effie lacked this telepathic way of communicating and would have no idea what was being said.

“I thought we’d eat family-style tonight instead of using the serving board.” His mother glanced around the table. “Creighton, would ye begin by passing the roast duck?”

“Certainly.” He speared a couple slices of meat before passing the platter to Effie on his left. Yer acting like a child, Paisley.

Ronan cleared his throat, shooting Creighton a wide-eyed, warning glance.

Effie accepted the platter he offered and smiled. “You always set such a pretty table, Fiona.”

A child? Why you overgrown bossy galoot!

Galoot, is it? He slapped spoonfuls of mashed potatoes on his plate, never taking his eyes off his blonde Viking.

Both of his brothers sniggered and he shot them each a glare.

“Ronan, Bryce, ye know how impolite it is to laugh at a private joke at the table. I’m sure Cook would enjoy having the evening off from washing dishes.” His mother’s voice, while polite, held a warning.

Bryce bobbed his head. “Yes, Mum. Sorry.”

Hunh. At least your brother knows how to be polite. Paisley slid a drumstick off the platter onto her plate.

His bloody polite brother favored him with a self-satisfied smirk while he chewed a mouthful of duck.

One more word out of ye, lassie, and I’ll drag ye to me study and paddle that sweet arse of yers I had me hands on yesterday.

Bryce choked and Ronan pounded on his brother’s back.

Look, Bozo, before you even think about paddling my behind you’d better grow a new pair. She speared a piece of meat into her mouth, staring at him in silent challenge. The last I heard, they were bitten to hell by bugs.

Cook dropped a platter of fruit on the floor.

Ronan and Bryce’s heads swiveled in Creighton’s direction, no doubt to see how he’d respond to her remark.

He snatched a bowl of peas and carrots from his mother and plopped several spoonfuls onto his full plate. Some peas rolled across the ivory tablecloth. I told ye it was the witch’s fault.

His brothers’ heads swiveled in Paisley’s direction.

Look, anyone stupid enough to smear a love potion over his privates deserves to be attacked by bugs.

Creighton slapped his fork onto the tabletop and clenched his fists.

His bampot brothers leaned against each other in fits of hysterics.

Cook and the butler stood side by side at the swinging doors to the kitchen, their backs to the room, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Effie moaned. “I love this plum sauce you put on the duck. It’s scrumptious.”

I dinna see what has ye so pissed. I never once said ye were the woman to end the family curse. That asinine thought came from the depths of yer mind.

Paisley flung a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate. No, but you implied it. Another clump of potatoes flopped onto her dish. You and your threat to toy with me while you were touching me everywhere. What is it with men? More potatoes followed. First Alex romanced me so he could cash in on my gift. Then you put your hands in my pants so you could make me think you cared. When all the while you were just after a special breed of woman to release your clan from some ancient curse.

Ronan and Bryce both lifted wineglasses as they turned toward Creighton.

In Creighton’s red haze of anger, someone handed him a basket full of warm rolls. He tossed one onto his bread plate. I had me hands in yer pants because ye had me so turned on I couldna think. Another roll and then a third landed on the small saucer. ’Course, how could any man think with ye scratching and clawing at his back the way ye were?

Both brothers spewed wine.

Their mother stood and flung her napkin onto the tablecloth. “That’s it! I’ve had enough!” She pointed to the mound of food in front of Creighton. “Do ye think yer the only one hungry tonight? And just why are ye scowling so mean at poor Paisley?” Her angry glower slid to Ronan and Bryce dabbing at the spilled wine with their napkins. “I’ve also had my fill of yer poor manners too. All of ye are acting like adolescent hooligans.” She stood with her hands on her hips. “What is wrong with everyone tonight? Is it a full moon, or what?”

Please attend my release day party on Facebook on August 19th. There will be laughter, man candy in kilts and prizes. You may preorder this title at http://amzn.com/B00ILX9WC0.

Visit me anytime at www.vonniedavis.com