It Was Going to be One of Those Days...I Could Tell.

~~ Vonnie Davis

We've all had them, right? Those days that start out bad and slowly, or rapidly, sink downhill. Take my yesterday, for example. Please! I'm serious. Somebody take it!

I crawled out of the bed early to make a pottie run and as I passed the mirror, an old saggy-eyed beast with a red Mohawk glared back at me. Scared me so badly I almost didn't need to toddle the rest of the way to tinkle. Who in the fifth dimension was that? Better still, what was that? And how did it get into my pajamas?

Most of you know I've been suffering with bronchitis for over three weeks. My ribs are sore from all the coughing. You've probably been there yourselves and know what I'm talking about. Calvin insisted I go back to the doctor. I'd finished the antibiotics three days ago and hadn't seen or felt much improvement.

I took my morning shower and was stepping into my panties--one leg in mid-air--when a bad coughing spell hit. My back went into spasms and I fell backwards across the bed. One leg in...one leg out. Coughing like hell and not giving a damn. My sciatic nerve thought it would teach me a lesson. Two hours later, I hobbled into the doctor's office.

Some time afterward, I hobbled out with a diagnosis of pneumonia, asthma, and a double ear infection. No mention was made of my back. But the nurse loved my two latest books, so that had to count in the positive column for my day.

Once I had all my meds, Calvin helped me into bed. A word here--Calvin is like a helicopter when I'm sick. He hovers. He put a walkie talkie in bed beside me in case I needed him. He can't hear his cellphone ring, so we use these talkie gizmos that emit sonic booms to get his attention.

I'd just fallen to sleep when mine let out an unholy screech. "How are you now, angel?" (He had to call me angel 'cause he'd just scared the hell outta me!)

He's so good to me, I can't get snappish. "I'm sleepy, hon." I placed the contraption back on the bed.

It blares again! My blood pressure shoots skyward. "You forgot to say 'Roger. Out.'"

Oh, for Pete's sake!!!

Rachel Dennison is having a rough day, too. Or night. She's traveling to her new patient in the Hill Country of Texas when she sees a man cresting a hill, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, a pair of boots, and a go-to-hell sneer. My first novel, revamped, and Indie-published.

AMAZON BUY LINK:

http://a.co/dEozPLM

For more information about my books, go to www.vonniedavis.com. While there, why not sign up for my newsletter?

An Unconventional Conversation

--By Vonnie Davis

As I "may" have mentioned before, my grandson is a freshman at MIT this year. While he’s never read any of my books, he does ask what I’m writing about now. Since I write on the very steamy side, I’m pleased his level of interest stops at this point.

On a recent Saturday night, Ryan and several students were hanging out in the common area of their dormitory, discussing parallel universes and the possibility of life in other forms or on other planets. Ry mentioned his grandma writes books about bearshifters.

The guys started asking him questions, so he sent me a text. "G-Ma...in your bearshifter books, how do you describe the transformation from human to bear? Reply ASAP. The guys want to know." At the time I was working on my latest shifter book, so I copied the first shifter scene into a text.

Well, that only fueled their imaginations. More questions followed.  "Where do you get your data? Do you just like think of this stuff 'cause it could so totally happen. Oh, one of the guys wants to know if you're friends with J.K. Rawlings."  Bwahahaha! 

I replied. Then Ryan called. Texting was too slow. He put me on speaker phone. I could hear kids with various accents asking questions. Did I write time travel? Did I get into parallel universes? (thank God they never brought up sex!) I told them to write and read paranormal, one had to stop thinking linear like you do when working on a calculus problem or a physics proof. You had to think sideways. Allow all the “what-if’s” to come into the equation of creativity.

Their excitement ramped another notch. Yes! They got this concept. Go figure! All the while I'm thinking, the yearly tuition to go here is $69,000 and you're talking about bearshifters with a romance author? Your parents would flip out if they knew! 

A couple of the guys talked in Japanese and were reminded to speak English. I’d taken Japanese when I went to college in my forties. I replied in their language, hoping I was pronouncing things correctly, giving them a touch of home, and not saying something like, "Your mother smells like a pool of dead fish." Wouldn't that just be the luck?

"Dude! Your grandma speaks Japanese, too? She's uber cool." Whew, remove foot from Japanese stumbling mouth. 

Bearshifters. You never know what's going to grab kids. We talked for almost an hour. Grandma and MIT students. An unconventional conversation.

Complete change of topic. I've self-published my first book, published five years ago. I spruced it up a little and had a new cover put on it.

AMAZON BUY LINK: http://a.co/1YlLvlT

Also, releasing today is a Christmas novella for .99. Part of it might sound familiar since it was in my Holiday story that began "A phone ringing at two am, never brought good news." I changed it a lot, but the reason for the title is still in the story.

AMAZON BUYING LINK: https://amzn.com/B01LLZWUWI

TO LEARN MORE ABOUT MY WRITING, GO TO MY WEBSITE, www.vonniedavis.com. Sign up for my Newsletter while you're there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 BUY LINK: http://amzn.com/B0181NC92E

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.

The Men Won't Leave Me Alone -- by Vonnie Davis

Men flock to me.

I’m serious.

Well, my heroes, anyhow. They come to me at night when I’m in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and sleep. This is how all my stories are born—with my heroes' appearances. And they've all been dramatic in their own way.

For some writers, it’s the nub of a thought, or a snippet of an overheard conversation, or something read in a newspaper or magazine that sparks a “what if” idea.

 

Not for me, though.

For me, it’s the men.

 

One night, a couple years ago, a man sauntered into our bedroom wearing nothing but a black Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots. I glanced over at Calvin, who was snoring away and then at our handsome intruder. His sneer was intimidating. The man was clearly aggravated, while I was spellbound. He took off his hat and placed it in a more strategic location. “Ever notice how the full moon brings out the madness in people?”

I couldn’t respond--I mean, I thought I was near mad, myself. I just left Storm talk about the blue-eyed woman he’d been dreaming of while I drooled onto my pillow.

Several months later, I was writing a romantic suspense set in Paris. My hero was a French government agent and my heroine an older American school teacher. Things were going fairly well for this pantser. After all, writing a story set in the City of Light was like revisiting the jewel along the Seine. I was enjoying the process.

 

After we’d gone to sleep one night, someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up in the bed. Wh…what was that? I glanced at Calvin, who hadn’t so much as shifted at the sound of that door slam. I must be dreaming.

I’d just dropped back to sleep when the door banged shut again. This time I saw who the culprit was—Niko, my French government agent. “What? What do you want?”

 

He pointed to me and issued an order. “Watch.”

 

And so I did. He stormed down a hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead. His hands were clenched in fists. As soon as he opened a door, I saw my heroine tied to a chair in an interrogation room. She was blindfolded. Niko slammed the door and she jumped. Then the vision faded.

“That’s it? You woke me up for that piddlin’ little bit? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you angry?” Oh, I was not happy. It took me four chapters to set-up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room.

Another night, a man roared into our bedroom on a Harley. Niko and I were still arguing. Seems he didn’t think he needed to wear his Kevlar vest. Frenchmen and their egos—go figure. So, really, the absolute last thing I wanted in my crowded mind was another man. I grunted and rolled against Calvin’s back.


Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what else could I do?

Not all the men who come into my bedroom late at night are grown. Eli, a golden-haired three-year-old threw a tantrum on my bedroom carpet one night. His chubby little hands were clenched in someone’s blue calico skirt. “Mine. Mine.” I had no clue what to make of him. Then a tumbleweed blew into our room with a piece of matching blue calico tied to it. And Tumbleweed Letters was born.

 

Nearly a year ago, I had a cancerous cyst removed from my saliva gland. A couple months into the healing process, two small golden orbs started shining in the back of my mind. Brain tumors, I thought. When I finally worked up the courage to call the doctor, the golden orbs blinked. Eyes? Were they eyes? They kept a steady blinking rhythm as they silently watched and waited. I was losing my mind, I thought. No doubt you're thinking the same thing.

 

Then one night the golden eyes glowed bright and moved from the back of my mind into the body of a bear. He stood at the foot of my bed. “Sorry,” I yawned. “You’ve got the wrong house. I don’t write children’s books.” The bear shook his head. “What? You’re not from a children’s story?” The bear shifted into a Scottish man in a kilt. Once more I quickly looked at Calvin, wondering if I should nudge him awake—I mean, really, the man does miss the most interesting stuff.

 

Deciding to keep the man in a kilt to myself, I ditched that idea and turned my gaze on his plaid. “I don’t write paranormal.”

 

He swaggered toward me and stood. “Aye, lassie, ye do and ye will.” He lifted the covers and slipped into the bed. Calvin snorted. “Me name is Creighton. Let me tell ye the story of how bears came to be extinct in Scotland.”

 

I’m telling you, ladies, the men just won’t leave me alone… I'm a romance writer and I LOVE my job.

One lucky commenter will be chosen at random to win a copy of Storm's Interlude. Paperback or eBook, your choice. All you have to do is tell me what kind of dreams you have about men...well, the PG parts, anyhow.

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.”

What is it about a late summer Storm? All strength and steam and sizzle.

Most summer storms tend to break the sultry heat, at least for a few hours. The Storm I want to introduce you to tends to ratchet up the temperatures, especially around my heroine.

 

Nurse Rachel Dennison comes to Texas determined to prepare her new patient for a second round of chemo. What she isn’t counting on is her patient’s twin brother, Storm Masterson. Despite her initial attraction, Storm has two things Rachel can’t abide: a domineering personality and a fiancée. Half Native American, with the ability to have "vision dreams," Storm dreams about Rachel for three nights before her arrival. Both are unprepared for the firestorm of emotions their first encounter ignites. Ultimately, it is Rachel’s past—and abusive, maniacal ex-boyfriend—that threatens to keep them apart…and Storm’s dreams that bring them together again.

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Storm, tell us how you met Rachel.

A bunch of my high school buddies and I were at our old swiming hole, celebrating Jackson's birthday. We were drinking and remembering how things were "back in the day" when we played football. While I was swiming, they all took off and left me behind. So, I had to walk home.

I think you missed one important part, Storm.

You're really going to make me do this, aren't you? Don't shrug your shoulders at me. And don't give me that evil smile, either.

Now, is that any way to treat your author?

Hunh! Looks like I have no choice but to tell everything. Jackson took all my clothes except for my Stetson and hand-tooled boots. That's all I had on when I crested the hill into the oncoming headlights of Rachel's Beetle convertible. And why do you smile like that everytime you think of my prediciment?

Sorry. Just the thought of you...well...I imagine you were quite the sight.

Sight? Now, Rachel, she was the sight. Her long tawny hair was in this long braid. She had on a pink dotted sundress, and her shoulders' were warm from the sun.

Wait. How did you know her shoulders were warm? Did you touch her?

Touch her? I kissed her. After all I'd been dreaming about her and those blue eyes of hers for three nights. I couldn't let her get away without kissing those lips I'd dreamed about.

I think the ladies will want to know more about you.

There's not much to tell. I love my twin sister, adore her little boy, enjoy my ranch. Basically, I'm an ordinary Texan -- God, country, family. Now, if you want to hear about someone special, ask me about Rachel. She's intelligent, strong-willed, caring and has this pair of red, strappy stilletos that drive me mad. The first time I saw her in them I nearly dropped to my knees.

Excerpt --

By the tone of his voice he wasn’t being critical. She’d been prepared to handle critical and rude and overbearing, but not his gentleness. Rachel searched his face. Warmth shone from his eyes, and for the first time, she noticed wrinkles at their corners, no doubt from spending so much time in the hot Texas sun. She fought the urge to reach up to smooth them with a touch.

“Yes. The better a woman feels about her appearance, the stronger she feels. For cancer patients, feeling strong about anything gives them an added boost. In time, her hair and eyelashes will grow back. This is just a stop-gap measure until then.”

He glanced at his sister again. “I see.”

“I talked her into buying some clothes that fit, too. Wearing clothes that hang on you is only a constant reminder you’re sick. Better to feel pretty and alive, don’t you think?”

Storm studied Rachel for several beats. “You focus heavily on the emotional side of the patient, don’t you?”

“Aren’t we ruled by our emotions?” She certainly was, especially at that moment, with the heat from his warm hand pressing into the small of her back. The smell of his cologne wafted over her, and his dark eyes regarded her intently.

He smiled and leaned over so his mouth was near her ear. “Great shoes, by the way.”

She chuckled and looked in the opposite direction, hoping he wouldn’t see her blush. “Sunny called them ‘ho-red.’ We laughed so hard when the shoe salesman fumbled, trying to tie the laces around my ankles and calves.”

Storm glanced at her shoes again. She could have sworn she heard him mutter, “Lucky bastard.”

BUY LINK: http://amzn.to/pkkcLq

STORM'S INTERLUDE was a HOLT Medallion Award of Merit winner in two categories. Best book by a Virginia author and Best Mainstream Single Title.

Is There Anyone More Lovable Than a Spunky Old Broad?

I chuckled when I read the list of topics for blogging in February. I'm sure you all know why. I mean, Spunky Old Broads? We all know I resemble that remark.

So tell me, when did we start admiring older women? I think it began in childhood with grandma. Remember those aprons, those enveloping hugs and sugary treats? And wasn't it the neatest thing when Grandma told our parents to stop scolding us? We were just being children, after all.

Those Mother Goose rhymes further reinforced the fact that old women were good, entertaining and full of love. When other adults were too busy to read to us or hear our silly jokes, older women had the time to devote to us.

When Mom declared fast food was unhealthy, cute old ladies campaigned for more meat in our sandwiches. Fact was, the more seasoned ladies were never happy until our tummies were full.

When we hit our teenaged years and looked at our parents with disdain, who did we look to for role models? That's right! Spunky old broads. They taught us it was right and good to be our own person. That marching to the beat of a drum was passe, but to dance to the beat of our internal flutes was a groovey way to inner happiness. "Don't be a cookie cutter," they instructed.

Perhaps that's why Maxine is so popular. Is she not the epitome of we older women? Sassy. Outspoken. Ballsy.

And who doesn't love Betty White, spunky old broad that she is? She's an advocate for humane animal treatment, and for that she has my gratitude. Still, old women are more than warm cookies and smiles. Try crossing one once, and see what happens...

I'm telling you, it's not a pretty sight.

I'll be 64 in May, easing into that old broad status. "When I am old, I shall wear a purple dress and red hat, which doesn't go..."

Vonnie Davis is author of Storm's Interlude, a contemporary romance set in the hill country of Texas, available now from The Wild Rose Press and Amazon. Her novella, Those Violet Eyes, is part of the Honky Tonk Heart series and will be released June 25th. A romantic suspense set in Paris, Mona Lisa's Room, will be released this year also with the Wild Rose Press.

Blessings Come In Many Forms--even Internet access

--By Vonnie Davis

Remember life without the Internet? Days gone by when we weren't connected online with family, friends and strangers. We did our shopping in stores or through catalogs back then. All of our bills were paid by writing checks and stuffing envelopes. If our families were spread across the country, our phone bills were horrendous. We gave out our street address instead of our email address. And we queried agents and publishers via snail mail. Heck, we didn't even know what snail mail was back in the day!

Now we query online to most publishing professionals. Even so, we still present our best side; we write professional and error free emails. Of course, there are those who send queries just like they do texts. My agent complains of email queries with no capital letters and the number two instead of "to." Evidently these wanna-be-writers have never heard Forrest Gump's mother's famous words: "Stupid is as stupid does."

I have a special benefit from the Internet--my husband Calvin. We met on match dot com and were married a year to the day of his first email. He was a retired English teacher and writing his second novel. I was living in a neighboring state, working at a job I darn near hated and doing rewrites on my first book (or would that be mess-terpiece?).

As a grandma, I keep in touch with my grandchildren online through email, Twitter, Facebook and Skype--all free, which never hurts.

The Internet has also changed how many do their jobs. Lab test results at hospitals are now emailed to doctors. Teachers post grades on the Internet so parents can ground their kids before the report cards are printed out. Realtors use Internet listings to find the perfect house for their clients. Need a recipe? Do an online search.

In my book, Storm's Interlude, Sunny, a cancer patient, needs to get stronger for a second round of chemo. She finds my heroine online. Rachel is a nurse with a Masters in nursing and extensive training in non-traditional methods she incorporates into traditional medicine therapies. She travels to the hillcountry of Texas to the ranch where Sunny lives with her twin brother Storm. Fireworks start the minute Storm and Rachel meet--both times. And you'd have to read the book to understand that...

I'm sharing an excerpt below. For a chance to win an eCopy of my debut book, leave a comment telling me the kind of bread on the counter and your email address, so I can contact you should you win.

Storm heard off-key singing when he opened the back door. He quietly toed off his boots in the mudroom before stepping into the kitchen.

An open laptop sat on the wooden kitchen table. Beside it was a mug of steaming tea. On the counter was a loaf of wheat bread next to a jar of peanut butter. Protruding from the opened refrigerator was a cute behind, covered by baggy yellow pajama bottoms, wiggling to the beat of the song being sung. “Shot through the heart and you’re to blame, you give love a bad name.”

The off-tune singing stopped, but that perfectly rounded bottom continued to wiggle. “Pickles...pickles. Surely there are pickles in this huge refrigerator. Maybe some of those sweet little Gherkins. Oh, look, cottage cheese. You give love a bad name…” The off-tune singer extracted a container from the crowded contents of the refrigerator, absently reaching out to set it on the counter.

Sneaking up behind her in his stocking feet, he placed a hand on the edge of the open door of the refrigerator and leaned over her bent body. 

She moved a pitcher of orange juice. “Okay, pickles, where are you hiding?”

“Check behind the milk.”

Rachel yelped and spun around, her hand to her heart. Her big blue eyes opened impossibly wide. “You! Wha...what are you doing here?”

He held out his hand. “Hello, Rachel. I’m Storm Masterson, Sunny’s twin brother.”

“You…you’re Sunny’s brother? Don’t you dare touch me.” She made a fist and had the audacity to shake it under his nose. He didn’t know whether to laugh or paddle that cute behind she’d been wiggling earlier. “You…you just keep your hands and your lips to yourself. You…you naked, kissing bandit.”

Storm leaned his head back and laughed. “Well, I’m not naked now. Just how do I classify as a bandit? I didn’t steal anything from you.”

Rachel fisted her hands on her hips, leaned in and narrowed her eyes in such an appealing way he was overcome with a keen desire to kiss her softly and slowly, the kind of kiss that made you sigh partway through it. “You stole a kiss from me.” Her eyebrow arched. “Or have you forgotten?”

He smiled, his hands itching to touch her. What man walking the face of this earth could forget a kiss like the one they’d shared earlier? “Is it called stealing when the woman gives as good as she got?”

Rachel shook her fist again. “Back up, buster. I’ll not be kissed like that again.”

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I'm Thankful for Good Health!

-- Vonnie Davis

I think age has a lot to do with what we’re thankful for. Teenagers are thankful for an easy quiz at the end of a boring social studies chapter—or the latest iPhone. Young mothers are thankful for a good night’s sleep as opposed to two am feedings. Workers are thankful for steady employment and a modest raise. Grandparents are often thankful when the grandkids go home. Senior citizens, like myself, are thankful for good health.

Calvin and I have been on a worry treadmill these last two weeks. I had surgery four weeks ago to remove a cyst in one of my saliva glands. Medical personnel at our local hospital sent the offending grape-sized cyst to University of Virginia’s lab for review. When pathologists there couldn’t identify some of the cancerous cells, they forwarded it to the Mayo clinic. Folks, my cyst has traveled more than I have of late.

All we knew was that I had cancer. Was it a slow growing kind or more aggressive? Was it contained within the cyst? What?

I met with a radiologist and chemotherapist today. Good news: the low-grade cancer was contained within the cyst. The term “low-grade” in reference to cancer means slow-growing and less likely to spread to other parts of the body. Although another cancerous cyst may form in the same area, it is only 5% likely to happen. So, for now, I am cancer free, good-to-go, sassy as ever.

I am relieved.

I am truly blessed.

I am beyond thankful.

Cancer is such an insidious disease. Lives are altered. Families dunked into a pool of fear and financial stress. Yet, research seems to move at a snail’s pace to find a cure.

In my debut book, Storm’s Interlude, the hero’s twin sister has leukemia. Believe me, it did not go unnoticed that one year ago today, I signed my publishing contract with The Wild Rose Press for this book, and today I went from doctor to doctor at a cancer center, waiting word of my own fate. How ironic. Yet I fared much better than my secondary character whose cancer was not cured by her first round of chemo.

My heroine, a nurse, comes to stay at a ranch in Texas to care for her new patient. I’d like to share a scene between Rachel, my heroine, and Sunny, Storm’s twin sister.

Sunny turned worried eyes on her. “I’m afraid I’m running out of time. What’s your opinion?”

“Well, I might have thought that initially, but,”—she shook her comb at Sunny—“if you can come into my room, stomp around and throw a bit of a tirade, tossing pillows and bitching about things around the house, I’d say you’re a fighter.”

At Sunny’s widened eyes, Rachel smiled. “Sunny, a fighter always wins. Two boxers step into the ring. Two emerge. Both are victors because both had the guts to fight the fight. You’re in the boxing ring of life with cancer. Do you have the guts to fight the fight?”

Her patient shoved up the sleeves on her robe. “Believe me, I’d love to fight someone right now. To feel alive again.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled. “I did throw a bit of a tirade, didn’t I? God, it felt so good! You never once told me to sit down or be calm. Why was that?”

“All women need to bitch now and then. We were born with the bitch gene, after all.” She shot Sunny a wry look.

Sunny laughed. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy having you here. I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”

Rachel walked over to Sunny and knelt by her knees. “Training for the fight won’t be easy. You’ll have days where you’ll hate me for pushing you so hard. I’ve found the stronger a patient becomes, the better they can handle the fight. When I’ve pushed you too hard, I expect you to tell me. I need to know exactly how you’re feeling.”

She took Sunny’s hand in hers. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll give me honesty every moment of every day, so I know how you’re feeling both emotionally and physically. In return, I promise I’ll be honest with you. I promise you’ll feel alive again.”

Sunny blinked several times, her eyes locked on Rachel’s. A slow smile curved her lips and her face shone like the star she’d been named for. “Girlfriend,” she purred, her Texas twang especially pronounced, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

** I'm giving away an eCopy of Storm's Interlude to one lucky commenter today. Please include your email address so I can contact you, should you win. And please, you know your body; report any changes to your doctor.

COULD SOMEONE DIM THOSE SPOTLIGHTS, PLEASE? --Vonnie Davis

The spotlight shines on me today at Roses of Prose, and I’m squirming in my seat wondering how I'll introduce myself--one of the "new" yet old roses on the vine. What can I possibly say to engage and entertain? Granted, I’m a writer, but my heroines—strong women, all—and my heroes—alpha males with a soft caramel center—are more interesting to write about than myself.

For you see, I am the typical late bloomer. I didn’t start college until the age of forty-four. The love of my life didn’t enter my life until I was fifty-five. And I didn’t start writing seriously until I was in my early sixties. But I do have a wild and crazy variety of life experiences that spill over into my writing.



What was it like going to college with kids the same ages or younger than my children, who were college students themselves? It was a blast! At the time, I worked in a factory on third shift as one of three women working with sixty-seven men. Tough odds, I'll admit. I was a member of the machinists’ union, read blueprints, ran machines and worked in the oil and dredge of heavy steel industries.

After my shift ended at seven in the morning I’d rush home, shower and change before dashing off to campus.  

I was a full-time student at Penn State, majoring in Business Management and English with a concentration in technical writing. Slowly I became the campus mom; the person homesick kids went to with their problems.

Yet, it was my sons I called in the evening when I couldn’t do my homework. I struggled with sciences, and my youngest was majoring in micro-biology. A collegiate wrestler, he shared an apartment with five other wrestlers. One night when I called for help, Mike yelled to his roommates, “Hey, guys, quiet down! I’m trying to help my mom with her homework.” Of course, his roomies responded with various questions like When is she making us more brownies? Is she bringing us some more jars of homemade spaghetti sauce? Ask her to make us those yummy stuffed shells like she did last time she was here. Men, we do know how they think, don’t we?

My oldest son transferred to my campus for his final semester so he could say he went to college with his mom. What fun we had. To be sure, my college years were a special time.

On the tenth anniversary of my divorce, I bought a bottle of wine, Chinese takeout and a bag of Oreos. Folks, I was determined to have one last pity party and finally—finally—get that man out of my system. A few hours later in a wine-MSG-sugar-induced moment of madness, I went online and filled out a profile on match dot com. I woke up the next morning with a start, head throbbing, vision doubled, mouth tasting as if a herd of buffalo had roamed through it and an obscure, wild memory that I’d put myself out on the internet for every wacko to find. Surely I hadn’t done that! Surely not…

But I had. Did the wackos find me? Oh, yeah. They came in droves. Oh, the horrors!

Then one day, Calvin sashayed into my mailbox on a jazzbeat and a smile—a gentleman with southern charm, a retired English teacher and a writer. We met for the first time at a Barnes and Noble. He was standing by the door holding a bouquet of red roses, and I was entranced.

That was eight years ago. Since then we’ve married. I retired as a techincal writer and, with Calvin’s encouragement, started writing. Last month we each had a book released. His The Phantom Lady of Paris is set on the Left Bank of Paris in 1968. My Storm’s Interlude is a contemporary romance full of family love and passion set in the hill country of Texas.

Having shared all this, I suppose if there’s one thing I can pass along to you, it’s that one is never too old to pursue his or her dreams. Age be damned. Truly. For it is our spirits that define us. No matter how downtrodden or damaged or dinged our spirits are, they’ll always rise to the occasion. They’ll whisper in our ears, “Let’s try it. Let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

I'll be here posting the 12th and 27th of every month. Write on!