All About the Writing

First on the Scene: Where Have All The Scoundrels Gone?

This is one of my favorite books, partly because it has three separate romances, all connected by one of my fave characters, the Dowager Lady Thornham. She first appeared in Lord Rakehell's Love (which I featured last week), and in that book she was upbraiding the wrong scoundrel for his scandalous behavior. She enjoys reading all of their exploits in the newspapers, but now she fears all the scoundrels have settled down. She has to come up with a new pastime, and she chooses matchmaking. The victims? Her three nephews.

The first scene that came to my mind is when the first couple, Miles and Gemma, meet. I had so much fun writing it, but worried it might be a little too out there. I described it to a writing friend as "the hero is essentially talking to the heroine's butt. . ." She wanted to read more, so I took that as a good sign.

I'm posting the scene, and you can let me know if you like it.

~~~~~

Miles walked past the manicured gardens, grinning at the Dowager's belief that her carefree nephews would be able to find love at her house party. It was easy enough to let her have her way for two weeks' time, especially if it meant she would not retract the allowance she loved to dangle in front of them.

He would survive without it, of course. But it would certainly assist in financing his next excursion…

"Oh you blasted thing!"

Miles halted. That was not the language he expected to hear coming from the numerous rows of yellow rose bushes. Nor did he usually hear such heated words in a soft, melodious voice.

His gaze was instantly caught by a froth of white muslin, near the ground, wedged between two closely-planted rose bushes. He moved closer and saw the sheer fabric was draped over a woman's shapely bottom. It was the only thing visible, since it appeared she had been captured headfirst by the ferocious plants.

He grinned. "Allow me to assist, madam."

"Could you? I would be so grateful." She began to wriggle, which was not what he had anticipated, but he could not deny it was a delightful sight. "Drat! I should never have come through here."

Before he could question why she had chosen such a route, he heard a distressed mewling sound.

"There now," he rushed to reassure her, "no need to succumb to tears. We shall have you out of there in no time at all."

An enchanting round of giggles followed his words. "That was not me. That was Snowball, the reason I am caught in this predicament. Such a naughty kitten."

The young miss attempted once more to back away, but there was a distinct sound of tearing. He did not have to imagine the calamity that would ensue if they were caught together, her clothes in shreds.

"Madam, please." He approached her quickly. The thorns had managed to catch her from both sides, which made it impossible for her to retreat. "If you will permit me to remove the thorns from your ensemble, we can get you upright once more." He knelt to one side of her and began working on a large thorn embedded in the delicate muslin. "What possessed Snowball to choose this particular hiding place?"

"I have no idea. We were simply out for a walk—"

He could not contain his laughter. "I had no idea kittens enjoyed going for a stroll."

"This one is a bit unusual." Her laugh was as delightful as her voice. "Not to mention completely wicked. I can see the wretch reclining right in front of me, but can't quite reach…"

There was another determined wiggle, as she obviously tried to grab the instigator of this situation.

"I fear you will rend your dress if you continue—" Miles could not help but imagine such a sight, but it was so craven, he pushed it aside immediately. "Hold still while I disentangle you, and then I shall see about luring Snowball from her lair. Or his lair."

She giggled. "Her lair."

"Snowball is rather clever, for it appears she has lured you into the precise spot with the biggest thorns." He carefully extracted the barbs from the fabric on the left side, and then moved to the other side. "This one appears to be a bit more difficult."

"Why is that?"

"I cannot see where it has caught you. No, do not move about or you shall catch yourself on the one I have just removed."

"Can you attempt to reach it?"

"It would require some—" He swallowed with a bit of difficulty. "Uh, exploration."

"Oh."

"Yes. Precisely."

"I could try to reach my hand back—Ow!" There were some unladylike curses amongst the muttered words, along with several threats of what Snowball was likely to suffer in the very near future. "I had never realized quite how many thorns one rose bush contained. Well, we must do something. I cannot miss the parade of marriage-minded debutantes intent on snaring one of the Dowager's nephews. With two dozen young women in attendance, the hunting is bound to be quite fierce."

Miles found himself enchanted with her voice, filled with amusement rather than distress. He had never enjoyed a tête-à-tête more than this one, and he had yet to see her face-to-face.

"You are making me feel a great deal of sympathy for the poor nephews. And you are not participating in this endeavor?" He found that regrettable, since he was already anticipating more encounters with her.

"After a fashion. I have been charged with ensuring the young misses have plenty of opportunities to engage with the potential bridegrooms."

"A matchmaker then. Why were you selected for this important role?"

"I have wondered that myself." She chuckled again. "Perhaps because I have a little experience at keeping people entertained. Still, I realized a long time ago it was pointless to ask the Dowager for her reasons, as she does not always know herself."

"Hmm." Miles finally removed one last determined thorn, and her dress was free. "You should be able to back away now. Though I would do so slowly," he instructed. "I shall hold back this branch that seems particularly intent on snagging you once more if given the chance."

"Thank you," she said, slowly moving towards him. In the next instant, she had cleared the rose bushes, and was doing her best to stand up, which was difficult with an unhappy cat in her arms.

"Allow me." He lightly touched her arm to assist. Once she was upright, she straightened her bonnet, moved the cat more tightly into her arms, and then turned to look at her rescuer.

A slow smile appeared on her face, and Miles could only describe his resulting emotion as thunderstruck.

~~~~~

I hope you enjoyed this first scene! If you want to read more, you can find Where Have All The Scoundrels Gone? at these locations: 

Amazon ~ Apple ~ Kobo ~ B&N

~~~~~~~~

On Tuesday, January 29th, I'll be re-releasing Book2 of The Matchmaking Earl series, titled Truly, My Love. Maybe it'll be next week's First on the Scene entry.

                    

First on the Scene: Lord Rakehell's Love

The first scene that appears in my mind as a new story idea is not always the first scene of the book. It would make things easier if it was, since that scene usually depicts a moment when a character's life has changed or is about to change.

However, my brain tends to throw out a teaser, a tantalizing "what if" that makes me eager to learn what else is going to happen.

That's what happened with Lord Rakehell's Love.

I thought about a hero, a rake, who is late to his wedding, and all the commotion that would cause. How could he possibly recover from such a dreadful faux pas?

I was sure I had it all figured out. He had been celebrating the night before with his best friend—the Regency version of a bachelor party—and then he oversleeps, jumps out of bed realizing what a jerk he is, and rushes to the chapel to his unhappy bride.

I must have written that scene about ten times. I revised and revised, trying to explain why he was tardy on the most important day of his life.

He was in bed dreaming of his new bride, thinking she's there with him, and then realizes she's not. . .

*mashes the backspace key until no trace will ever be found*

He wakes up with the mother of all hangovers, wondering why he feels so crappy, instantly sober when he realizes he's late. . .

Nope. Nope. Not it. Delete, delete, delete to infinity.

Why didn't this important scene have the impact I wanted?

Just before I was about to toss my laptop out the window of a moving car, I got my answer: I had jumped too far ahead.

Yes, his mistake was a catalyst, since it changed what happens in the story afterwards. But the story hadn't truly started yet. The consequences for the hero's behavior were too generalized. Anyone hearing about a groom late to his wedding would think, "Wow, that sucks." They might even wonder what happens next.

But how would they respond after experiencing this couple falling in love?

So here's how the scene changed, and it's one of my faves. We're at the chapel, and well, you can see what happens:

~~~~~

It was the wedding debacle of the century.

Georgiana sniffled, hiding her distress in a weak smile and her lawn handkerchief. The very handkerchief from the evening she had fallen instantly in love with Simon. She had insisted on having it today, for purely sentimental reasons, while she plighted her troth.

Unfortunately, the groom was not present.

Nor was there any indication he was planning on being at the church anytime soon. If he was, surely he would have sent a servant to relay the news, along with a basketful of apologies. She was torn between wishing something dreadful had befallen him, and wishing he would arrive so she could be the one who caused something dreadful to befall him.

It had been such a whirlwind romance. During the past weeks she had become the darling of the gossips, since it was unheard of for a Wallflower Row miss to receive an offer of marriage from a genuine London rake.

Everyone had been incredulous when Lord Rakehell had declared himself in love, and ready to join her in holy matrimony. Perhaps he had not been ready after all.

Georgiana sniffed again, fighting back tears she refused to let fall. If only she had heeded her mother's warnings about wedding a notorious rake. Yet how could she have attended Mama's entreaties to be cautious? She had been swept up into passionate and exciting moments she had never thought to experience.

Perhaps instead of finding the love of her life, she had just committed the grandest mistake of her life.

All at once there was a commotion outside the church, with the sounds of horses whinnying and shouts from an assortment of people. Her heart leapt, much as she chided it for doing so.

In the next instant, Simon was walking toward her, his demeanor as sheepish as when the Dowager had called him a scandal. His clothing was in complete disarray, something she had never seen from him, even after the stolen moments they had shared when chaperones were scarce. His hair was mussed, but not in the careless manner that was so fashionable.

No, it was as if he had just tumbled from bed, and dashed across town to the church.

Georgiana steeled her features into the most disapproving of expressions.

"Georgie!" Simon's arms were spread wide, as if expecting her to race into them and smother him with kisses.

She had quite a different smothering in mind just then. "My lord."

His smile vanished at the unwelcoming monotone of her voice. "Georgiana, I can explain."

"I am eager to hear it." Her tone grew icier as she considered all of the possibilities. None of them would please her, she was quite certain of that.

"Yes, well, I am not at all sure how it happened. Because I have been thinking of nothing else but this night. . . I mean, this day."

Her cheeks heated, for she had spent a great deal of time pondering this evening too, but she pretended she did not take his meaning. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows, awaiting his explanation.

Every one of the wedding guests leaned forward in the oak pews, unable to hide their interest in what he had to say.

"Georgiana." Simon moved closer, his voice lowered so only she could hear him. "I know it is unforgivable, but I beg you to forgive me nonetheless. I have no idea how this happened. It was not intentional. I can assure you of that." His eyes begged her to relent. He leaned in until his lips were at her ear. "I shall spend the entire evening proving my devotion. As well as the next. And every night thereafter."

She shivered. She had waited a seeming eternity for the moment they could explore the passion that flared between them on a constant basis. She almost fanned her face, but did not want the amassed audience to know how ardently he affected her.

It was not such a terrible slight, was it? She knew without a doubt that he loved her. His eyes sparkled, as if he could see how close she was to capitulating. The devil knew how much she desired him and was using it to his advantage.

Georgiana opened her mouth, ready to upbraid him for causing her such distress, and for handing the gossips additional reasons to chatter about the unlikeliness of their romance. Once she had given Simon a proper chastising, one that even the Dowager would admire, they could continue with the wedding, and the wedding breakfast, and, at last, the wedding night. . .

She nearly swooned at the delights awaiting them. "Simon, I—"

Another commotion at the entrance to the chapel stole her attention, as well as that of every person in the building. A high-perch phaeton could be seen through the open doorway, and Georgiana was certain she saw Lord Weyson at the reins, along with—

"Lord Rakehell! Your hat."

A scantily-clad woman climbed down from the rig and carefully lifted the headgear from her curly red hair. For propriety's sake, she did her best to stay outside the church, although she was perilously close to falling outside of her bodice. "You forgot your hat!"

Georgiana heard a gasp, and then a muffled thump, and turned to see her mother in a heap on the stone floor. The poor cleric had been unable to stop her fall, though judging from the way he painfully clutched his arm, he had made a valiant effort.

"Georgiana," Simon said again, but this time his shoulders sagged, and his stricken expression made it clear he knew there was no recovering from this catastrophe.

Not when the guests gazed at her with such pity on their faces. After such a public embarrassment, forgiveness was not a gift Georgiana could bestow, no matter how fervently Simon pleaded.

She turned away from him and made it all the way out of the chapel before collapsing into hopeless tears.

~~~~~

I hope you enjoy this First on the Scene post. I plan to do it again in the future, with other books, and possibly works-in-progress.

If you haven't yet read Lord Rakehell's Love, you can find it here:

Amazon ~~ Barnes & Noble ~~ Apple ~~ Kobo

 

Bite-Sized Pieces

I'm in planning mode, trying to get this year's writing projects on the calendar, so I can schedule editor appointments and decide which books will get published in 2019.

It's easy to feel overwhelmed because I'm looking at a whole year, which feels weird since we just barely started this one six days ago. I'm even looking at 2020, which seems so far away, and in reality is not. I know if I don't look that far ahead, time gets away from me, like it did in 2018, and I'm determined not to have a repeat of that less-than-stellar writing year.

But this kind of big-picture planning has a downside: the picture is too big. As a result, my "plan" ends up looking like this:

This is when I remind myself to think about bite-sized pieces. Every measure of time we use is built upon smaller bits. A year has twelve months in it, a month has 30 or 31 days.

(Well, except our good friend February who not only refuses to do the 30 or 31 day thing, it also throws in an extra day every four years. Ya gotta love a maverick month that refuses to play by the rules.)

I firmly believe it's a good idea to keep the big picture in mind. But it's an even better idea to keep the smaller units in the forefront of my mind.

I am more motivated when I feel like I've accomplished something. It demonstrates that I'm making progress. My lizard brain needs that little pat on the head, especially to acknowledge I've done something I'd rather pretend doesn't need doing. An "atta girl" and a high five keeps me moving to the next thing on the never-ending To Do list.

While I hate the stress of deadlines, I discovered last year something I detest even more – not getting things done because I didn't have the stress of deadlines driving me to the finish line. So not only am I planning what projects to accomplish this year, I'm breaking it down, focusing on chapters, scenes, and weekly word count. Smaller, realistically do-able chunks that add up until they are a completed book.

Bite-sized pieces.

That's the plan for this year's stories. There will be at least two new ones, and very likely three. I've made great progress on two of them already, so I'm even thinking of adding a few other items to this year's schedule, maybe audiobooks.

There's a lot to do, but I know how to do it.

Where Did Ten Years Go?

I updated the copyright date on my blog, as I do every year, and it hit me: I started this in 2009. A whopping ten years ago! It doesn't feel like that much time has zipped by, and yet I think of how much has happened since I started doing this. . .

I began blogging, reluctantly, because the accepted wisdom at the time was "you need a showcase for your writing". I was querying agents back then, and I grumbled that the manuscripts I was submitting should be a better showcase of what I could do with words, but I eventually succumbed.

(When I did have an agent, the first time she called me, she was looking at my blog/website while we chatted about my book. So the blog absolutely worked as designed.)

While I was waiting to hear back from agents, I discovered how much I enjoyed blogging. It was a great way to explore different topics racing around in my mind. I genuinely looked forward to the twice a week posts, and I put a lot of thought and effort into what I wanted to say. The routine was beneficial, too, forcing me to keep to a deadline, something that isn't easy for a pantser like me.

The blog also led to some other fun writing-related things. My first self-published short story, Summer Lovin', came about because of a writing prompt I put on my blog one day. A couple of other posts were "audition tapes" for when I applied to be a blogger at the Heroes & Heartbreakers blog.

I made a lot of friends, because way back when, there was time in the day to visit other writers' blogs, and comment on their posts, and they would do the same at mine. But that free time eventually disappeared. I quit visiting, and then quit blogging, devoting my limited writing time to trying to produce more books. The infrequent times I did blog, it was more of an announcement service, letting people know about my latest book release.

Ten years is such a milestone, though, and it feels like I should celebrate it with a return to blogging. I'm also in favor of this idea after a not-so-great 2018, which produced the least amount of writing in a decade, as well as a lot of moments where I seriously considered "retiring" from writing.

I'd forgotten how much blogging helped me sort out writing issues and worries about life in general. Sometimes those were intertwined. Words are how I process the puzzling aspects of the world. When I'm feeling anxious or out of sorts, words bring peace by lining up, one after the other, forming a coherent pattern that I can follow to a satisfying conclusion.

So my plan is to see if I can resurrect my blog this year. I don't know if I can devote the time and energy to it like I did in the past. It's easy to get caught up in that rosy-hued optimism that comes from starting a new year, adding fourteen thousand new projects to the agenda, while forgetting the regrets from the fourteen thousand that fell by the wayside in the year just gone by. I also have no illusions that anyone will have time to read my musings if I do manage to get them written.

But it's still something I want to try. (Just like I'm going to try, once again, to use a planner for my writing projects. This time it may actually work – I bought one that has no dates in it. LOL)

I'm not sure what my brain will want to explore. For now I'm interested in talking about how certain stories started—why they intrigued me, and how they morphed as I learned the lesson they were presenting writing-wise, and what I find entertaining about them.

It feels like a good way to jump into the next decade of writing.