Should You Write When You're Sick? #HaveFlu #AmWriting by Vonnie Davis

I got my flu shot in early October so I thought I was safe. Then three weeks ago, the flu hit me with a pair of Nunchakus. It started with a few sneezes, a cough, and body aches. Then someone--and I suspect my fifth-degree black belt son--gave me a real going over. I lost my appetite, but no weight dammit. I was in and out of bed more than a French whore.

The doctor swabbed my nostrils for flu and I passed. He gave me two inhalers to quiet my breathing so both Calvin and I could sleep. Antibiotics to lessen the symptoms. Two weeks later, I still passed the flu test.

Since I didn't have the energy to leave the house nor did I want to pass the illness on to others, I didn't leave the house. So my days consisted of two hours of writing and two of sleeping. A continual balance that worked for me. I'm finishing up a bear shifter zodiac story set in the Highlands of Scotland.

CHAPTER ONE:

She was naked again.

The cold wind blew Cameo Stone’s long hair away from her shoulders and back. What was displayed below, as she floated above the danger, commanded her attention. Cameo was used to the form and sensations of her dreams. Dreams that were a sign of things to come—of illness, impending danger, or looming horrific events.

In her heart, she believed it was up to her to warn the person or persons in her nightmares that bad fortune lay ahead. A process that caused people to think she was whacky, dangerous, or someone simply to be avoided. It made for a lonely existence.

From her dreamy viewpoint, a silver compact like hers sped down a curved mountain road. A man wearing a black knit hat and black puffy jacket ran out of the woods. 

Action slowed to a snapping movie frame of motion, which typically meant important clues were coming. He had a rifle with a scope. A hunter, perhaps? A more sinister reaction gripped Cameo. Part of the barrel had been sawed off his gun. His green-eyed gaze in a face dotted with tattoos shifted to the driver. So did his weapon.

An emblem was on the cuff of his black hat. Orange. Round. Edged in blood-red. In the center were bold black initials HSS.

The driver sped up, trying to go around the menacing man before he shot her. She hit a patch of ice and spun out of control. Out of her right peripheral vision, a policeman followed with his handgun drawn. The driver braked hard, swerved, tires squealing, but she still hit the officer. He rolled over her hood. As he bumped across the windshield, golden glowing eyes stared at her. His badge read Bowie Matheson. Sounds of him spinning and scratching her roof made her shudder. It was like fingernails on a blackboard. To her shock, a bear slid off her trunk giving chase to the man with the rifle.

Where had the damn bear come from? How had she missed that part?

By now, Cameo realized the driver was her. She zoomed silently from the sky to the interior of the automobile. As soon as she had it stopped, she jumped out, fully dressed somehow, and looked for the officer she’d struck. There was nothing on the road behind her compact. She dropped to her knees and peered under the vehicle. Nothing there. With her gaze shifting, she slowly circled her car before walking along the ditches on both sides of the narrow road.

Where was the man she’d struck?

She woke with his name on her lips, “Bowie Matheson.”

Her feet slid from under the pile of covers and slipped into her bedroom slippers, or baffies as the Scots called them. Cool air hit her and she reached for her robe mid-shiver.  Her clock displayed three-forty-two and a cup of hot tea called her. All she had to do was shuffle downstairs to the kitchen in Matheson Lodge and heat a pot of water.

Cameo had been a guest at the castle converted into a hotel for five nights. She’d traveled to Matheville for an interview and was waiting for a response on a job as a solicitor at the law firm of McGuire and Dunn Associates. During the rest of the time, she drove and walked the narrow streets of the picturesque small town, acquainting herself with the businesses and places to rent should she get hired.

She tiptoed down the steps, wondering again why so many citizens bore the last name Matheson. The beautiful clean bay and the town, itself, bore part of the name. When she’d asked Fiona Matheson, who handled the reservation and staff of the lodge, the woman had informed her Mathe stood for bear. 

Until the dream she’d just had, she hadn’t seen any bears.

Once in the kitchen, she turned on a light and filled a teapot with water. It would take her several cups to work through the meaning of the dream and settle her nerves. This had been the first time she’d ever been a player in one of her prophetic nightmares—and it had her especially rattled.

Her tea made, she stirred in two cubes of sugar. It would be a long while before she’d take her car for a drive in the mountainous segments of the Highlands. That much she was sure of. Parts of her dream were understandable. A cop chasing an armed man for whatever reason.  Hints of the two men’s identities. This was typical in her night visions.

But where had the policeman gone? How had a bear replaced him? And why had that change been kept from her? Usually, she saw every gory aspect. Why not with this dream? Really, she ought to be relieved she’d been spared some of the details. And she would be if the driver of the car hadn’t been her.

Three cups of chamomile tea later, Cameo returned to her room and placed several logs in the fireplace. She crawled under the pile of covers, thankful for her flannel pajamas. Although the tea had soothed her, it hadn’t helped her to analyze the dream. She pulled the quilt over her shoulders, closed her eyes, and began counting backwards from one-hundred.

She was naked again…

Take notice of my new logo used on the covers of my bear shifter books. I love it.

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?

Falling, Crushing Disappointment by Nancy Jardine

Please join me in welcoming Nancy Jardine to The Roses of Prose today!

Last week, a devastating disillusionment affected my writing. Prior to the recent Scottish Referendum on Independence, I couldn’t settle to tasks. Like a butterfly momentarily hovering and pecking, then taking off to find a juicier meal, the ping of yet another Face Book entry was incredibly distracting but unlike normal, I couldn’t bear to close down the programme in case I missed something important. The anticipation of change was all-consuming, though disturbing.

The crushing disappointment came for me when the referendum results were announced. The ‘YES to an Independent Scotland’ camp was close at 45% of the vote, but not close enough. Having voted YES, I despaired of missed opportunities for the future – especially for my toddler granddaughter and grandson. I was truly heartbroken when the breakdown of voting indicated that the over 65s age group were the largest group who chose to keep the Union together – unjustifiably fearful of future changes to their state retirement pensions and fearful of upsetting the status quo they have lived under for decades. Disenchantment and crushing frustration is rife across Scotland which is equally upsetting. Promises made by the Unionist parties in the current Westminster UK government are now awaited with baited breath- since promises and agreements are too often broken very easily, and sadly often have been broken throughout history.

In my Celtic Fervour Series of historical romantic adventures, my warriors are devastated when their way of life is crushed by Ancient Roman infiltration of their lands - violent bloodshed a result. In Book 1, my Celtic tribes make alliances to stand together against the forces of Rome -‘Unity is strength’ a strong theme. Unfortunately, my Celtic Garrigill warrior brothers have known of too many pacts with the Roman Empire which have faltered and failed, the agreements made not honoured which eventually prompts physical, bloody battles. Newly formed romantic attachments are difficult to nurture and sustain in warlike situations, so my main characters have to overcome many conflicting factors which hamper the development of their love during such trying times.

Feeling very emotionally fragile and unable to write, I re-read parts of my series to see how successful I’d been at conveying the emotions of my characters at particular vulnerable moments in their stories, when situations they find themselves in seem insurmountable. In Book 2 - After Whorl: Bran Reborn - my main character Brennus of Garrigill finds his life is dramatically altered after a particularly bloody battle at Whorl between the Celts and the Legions of Rome. Seriously injured during the battle, he finds liberty is denied him when he eventually comes back to full consciousness … “An itch he’d not fully recognised irritated at his temple but, when he tried to lift his hand to scratch, he was unable to move his arm. Something restrained him. A second wave of fright overwhelmed.

The old woman had tied him to the cot!”

At this point in the story, Brennus has no idea if the old crone who has him restrained is a sympathetic Celt, or if she is in the pay of the Roman usurpers.

Here’s the blurb followed by an excerpt which comes just after Brennus believes he’s a prisoner, incapable of regaining his freedom.

Maybe you could tell me if I’ve hit the right balance of emotional conflict for my poor injured warrior?

Ravaged by war

…AD 71. After the battle at Whorl, Brennus of Garrigill is irrevocably changed. 

Returning to Marske, Ineda finds her grandmother dead, though Brennus is not. Snared by a Roman patrol, they are marched to Witton where he is forced to labour for the Roman IX Legion. 

Embracing his new identity as Bran, Brennus vows to avert Roman occupation of northernmost Brigantia. Ineda becomes his doughty spying accomplice, though sometimes she’s too impetuous. Trading with the Romans lends excellent opportunities for information gathering. Over time, Bran’s feelings for Ineda mar with his loyalty to Ineda’s father. 

When she disappears, and cannot be found, Bran enters direct service with Venutius, King of the Brigantes. 

“It will pain you very much, but I need to know if you see anything?”

Unable to sustain it – the intensity too searing – Brennus closed both his eyes to replenish his fortitude then attempted to open only the right eye. The brilliance stole his breath, the darting sting perhaps less intense, or mayhap he was adjusting to it. Yet, though it was bright – that was all it was. He could not see.

“Painful! Bright and blurred.” Though he tried to prevent the despair, he was sure it was evident in every cried word.

A shadow of the old woman loomed close to his face, her warmth and breath now familiar to him. A longer outline was a sudden threat he instinctively knew could harm him. He flinched his chin away, the old woman’s cackle of laughter startling in the quiet room as his left eye popped open to check what was amiss.

“Just tell me if you see the edge of the blade clearly with only your right eye, young warrior. I am not going to harm you with it.”

Agony shrieked through his right eye, the leaking moisture something he could not prevent. He closed his left once again, to do as she bid, the knife hovering at a reasonable distance. All was as in a deep misty day, no vision beyond a hazy dark shape in a light greyness. A dark desolation gripped him. How could he function as a tribal champion if he was blind? Along with the hopelessness, a wretched anger took hold of him. Why had Taranis so abandoned him? He had always paid due diligence to his god. What kind of reward for his skills in battle was blindness?

“Your answer.” The old woman kept her patient tone.

“Nay.”

“You cannot see the blade? Or you will not tell me?”

He yanked his head away from her chin grip for he truly had only seen a vague shadow of the blade. The melancholy deepened. Blind? How could he train young warriors if sight was only in one eye? And what other dire injuries had he sustained if she had tied him down? What was there left to strap down?

Forcing himself to focus on the rest of his body, he willed himself to rise. In his head he moved, but when he looked down to his feet his body still lay prone under the blanket. By Taranis! What else was badly wrong with him? His fingers moved the blanket, the blood flowing there, but almost nothing came from his feet. Even tied down his feet should be able to stir the blanket.

His head felt full to bursting with…rage. His misery deepened further. What use was he if his lower body was dead?

No man at all!

He took his utter disenchantment out on the only person available, his tone merciless. “You should have left me to die, old woman.”

“Why would I have struggled to keep you alive for more than two moons if I did not deem you worthy of it?”

#2 Celtic Fervour Series - After Whorl: Bran Reborn - is available from

Amazon.com http://amzn.to/1jaYWFw  

Crooked Cat Bookstore http://www.crookedcatbooks.com/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=120

B & N http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/after-whorl-nancy-jardine/1117532118?ean=9781909841321

Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/388002 

Amazon.com author page http://amzn.to/RJZzZz

Scottish author, Nancy Jardine, writes Historical Adventures with varying degrees of Romantic elements. Her Celtic Fervour Series is about a warrior tribe from the hillfort of Garrigill during the late first century AD – in an era when the mighty forces of Ancient Rome advance on the Celtic tribes of northern Britain causing havoc to life and love. She also writes contemporary mystery romances.