ROMANCE RAMBLINGS

MEN AT WORK - WILL THE REAL JIMMY THOMAS PLEASE STAND UP

2011-12-19T04:37:00.000-08:00

So, my lovely bloggers, I hardly need waste time on introducing my guest today as every romance author worth their pen and PC knows the delectable Jimmy Thomas, the millennium’s answer to Leonidas {only without the leather underpants} For those of you who have been hiding under a rock, his official bio can be found here

http://www.facebook.com/JimmyThomasDotCom/info

But ladies, do we really know him? I set out to discover the true Jimmy Thomas

So, Mr. Thomas, what to ask you? I am sure you are so bored with the same old so let’s make this fun. Twenty short, sharp questions to give my readers and your loyal supporters an insight into what makes Jimmy tick. Here we go….

1. Tea or Coffee - Coffee at home or office, passion fruit tea or raspberry tea when eating out

2. Beer or wine - Whichever she is drinking

3. Dogs or cats - Both :)

4. Blondes or Brunettes - Both :)

5. Rock or R and B - Both (rock for rocking out, R and B for rocking in ;)

6. Mariah or Whitney - To just listen to or have sex with? ;) Neither for listening; too slow... either for the
later ;)

7. Beach or mountains - MOUNTAINS - waterfalls, hiking trails, camping, nature; that's my thing! :)

8. Team Edward or Team Jacob - Shame on you... Team Jimmy Thomas ;)

9. Boxer or briefs {or none} - boxer-briefs or none.

10. Gollom or Dobby - Gollom

11. Football or Basketball - NFL Football: New England Patriots!

12. Nadal or Federer - Do I look like I watch tennis? ;)

13. McDonald's or KFC - Either, but only a few times a year

14. Gaga or Katy Perry - Both

15. Angelina or Jennifer - Angelina

16. Armani or Ralph Lauren - Armani

17. De Niro or Pacino - Both, but if I had to pick one... Pacino

18. Baths or showers - Alone: showers, with a girl: both

19. Batman or Superman - Batman (Prefers super hero abilities to be of one's own skills, not powers given to them)

20. Marriage or Bachelorhood - Marriage

Thank you so much for your candor and good answers - diplomatic at times. Lol.

So there you have it. ladies. Feel free to comment and let's see if we can get Jimmy to drop buy and comment on your comment. I will ask him to chose the most humorous and the winner will receive a free copy of my Dreamweek.

Thanks for dropping by and stay tuned for next week's Men at Work.

Viviane

Romance Novel Cover "Hero" video montage:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF7jZH5Ynds

2011 Romance Novel Cover Model Calendar:
http://www.jimmythomas.com/2011-Calendar.htm

Romance Novel Cover Model (2,202 covers)
www.JimmyThomas.com

www.RomanceNovelCovers.com

www.modelmayhem.com/jimmythomas

www.facebook.com/JimmyThomasDotCom

Jimmy's Favorite Quotes:

"Don't think you are, know you are" - Laurence Fishburne, The Matrix

"One who lacks courage to start has already finished" - Unknown Author

"Nothing is real unless you believe in who you are" - Sylvester Stallone, Rocky III

"It's not how many people you know, it's how many people know you." - Jimmy Thomas

"Knowing is not enough, we must apply. Willing is not enough, we must do." - Bruce Lee

"If you always do what you've always done, then you'll always be what you've always been." - T.J. Jakes

"Tell me and I will forget. Show me and I may remember. Involve me and I will learn." - Chinese proverb

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” – Paolo Coelho, The Alchemist

"Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people." - Eleanor Roosevelt

"It's the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody sees but you" - Morgan Freeman, Million Dollar Baby

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience." -
Theologian Pierre Tielhard de Chardin

TAKING THE 'MASS' OUT OF CHRISTMAS

2011-12-08T08:00:00.001-08:00

Good evening, folks, from a fairly warm Corfu,Tis the season to be jolly or is it? So many people I have spoken to this year have told me the same thing. Christmas no longer holds any meaning for them. Leaving the religious issue aside, Christmas, for most, used to mean a time of joy, families getting together, good food and the sharing of gifts as symbolic representation of the birth of Christ. As a child, I used to adore Christmas. I reveled in the smells wafting from the kitchen. All homemade in those days, folks. My mother made her own cake, mince pies, puddings, own stuffing, fresh turkey. Of course, a few French delicacies where added. My mother made the most scrumptious liver pate and a salmon mousse for which she is renowned on four corners of the globe. Long after I believed in Santa, it was still a thrill waking up to exciting packages under the tree. As children growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, Christmas and birthdays was the time for receiving that gift you’d longed for all year. There was none of this, don’t worry, dear, mum will order it on Amazon – all-year-round spoiling that goes on today. The amount of money spent nowadays on unnecessary food and mountains of gifts is, quite frankly, in my opinion, obscene.

Oh I hear the battle cry go up – but you would do the same if you had the money. I beg to differ. I do not share this modern obsession with collecting ‘stuff’ just because I can. And where is the joy and thought that used to go into Christmas shopping? Again, back to my youth. Walking through the town with my sisters, to the background chorus of Christmas carols, choosing one totally useless but straight from the heart present for our mother – usually a gift box of Yardley soap and talc but she loved it. Now, I have even heard of folk calling each other up, Next catalogue open on their knees while they tell each other what to buy for themselves. Oh tidings of great joy – not!

Christmas should be about {again, I am not getting into a religious discussion} sharing quality time with friends and family, enjoying good food without excess and raising a glass {or two} to the promise of a better year. So folks, I dare you. Fill your kids’ stocking with a tangerine and a handful of walnuts, cancel the enormous Toys R Us and Amazon order, snuggle up with a mince pie and a glass of mulled wine and shove in a dvd of It’s a Wonderful Life.

Vivianehttp://www.vivianebrentanos.com/http://www.facebook.com/pages/Viviane-Brentanos-Author-of-Womens-Contemporary-Fiction/72889240497

SEASONAL SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

2011-12-03T08:20:00.000-08:00

Hello, folks. I see it has been a while since I participated in this great blog share. All I can say in my defense is, for months I lost myself in my now completed saga romance but – hey 160k of passion, angst, betrayal will do that to you. Time to come down to earth and what better way than to present you with a Christmas six sentence teaser from Cold, Cold Heart – my contemporary romance. “Alexander Thompson! How many times have I told you not to open the door toFather Christmas?” The man standing on her porch was indeed dressed as Santa Claus, complete with wig, beard, rounded specs and a huge bulging sack slung over his shoulder. Rachel peered at him, wondering if they did You've Been Framed on Christmas Day. She drew in her breath. Behind the Benny Hill glasses, two beautiful blue eyes stared at her. “Daniel.” Want to find out why a mega star of the music industry dresses up as Santa Claus? Read on…..

Blurb:Who is Daniel Hayes? Why does a man who has everything - fame, fortune and the world at his feet feel so empty? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness? Daniel Haynes is the man we have all dreamed of; the pop star we all wanted to marry when we were 16 but he only has eyes for Rachel. Rachel Warner - Why does Daniel's interest in her threaten her ordered yet unsatisfying life? Why does she have to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder? Excerpt….“I'm crushed.” The eyes crinkled. “Okay, you got me. And to think I paid a fortune for this crazy gear.” “Aw.” Alex's face dropped. “So you're not Santa?” Gaze drifting to the huge sack, the frown turned to a grin. The goody bag this stranger carried looked promising. “No, I'm not. Sorry.” Daniel crouched down. “But I bet you're Alexander. Your mother has told me all about you.” “You know my mum?” Alex pulled himself up to his full height of four feet and went into Man of the House mode. “In that case, I suppose it's safe for you to come in. He can come in, can't he, Mum?” He looked to Rachel for guidance. Rachel nodded, lost for words. Closing the door, she leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. Alex proudly led their visitor into the room, her parents looking on, their curiosity bouncing across the room. She could hardly blame them. Rachel put her hand on her heart, a heart pounding so wildly she thought she might faint. This isn't happening, she told herself. But underneath the shock, butterflies of joy beat their wings in her stomach. Excitement flowed through her veins. He came back! She glared down at the apron. Oh but what a time to turn up. She looked like a housewife from Take a Break magazine. Counting to ten, she went over to him. He'd removed the wig, beard and glasses. Her stomach plunged into deep space. He was so bloody sexy! Sensing her scrutiny, Daniel turned to her, his eyes reaching into her very soul. He smiled, bathing her in a shower of light. How did she think she was ever over him? “Rachel.” The way he said her name sent shock waves reverberating through the room. Rachel heard her mother's sharp intake of breath; she’d figured it out. “Daniel.” Rachel swallowed. “It'sit's nice to see you.” Lynn, now back downstairs, threw Rachel a look of disgust. “Pathetic,” she mouthed. Rachel ignored her. She and Daniel were locked in their private world. Daniel broke free first. “Uhdo you think I could get out of this suit?”He unbuttoned the heavy red coat. “It's real hot in here.” “I'll say,” Lynn muttered. She gave Rachel a sly pinch. “Don't just stand there like a zombie.” Rachel couldn’t move. “Aren't you going to introduce us, dear?” Mum to the rescue. She beamed up at Daniel, who, without costume, wore the familiar closefitting jeans and black polo necked sweater. Daniel held out his hand. Her father took it. He didn't seem quite as eager to welcome this stranger as her mother did. But then, fathers were naturally more suspicious. Before Daniel said another word, Tanya tugged on the back of his leg. Hands on hips, she scrutinized him with deadly intent. “I've seen you on MTV,” she proclaimed. “You're that Daniel Haines. My mum says you're hot. She says you've got the cutest—” “Thank you, Tanya.” Lynn fixed her with an if-you-know-what's-good-for-you-you'll- shut-yer-gob glare. “Daniel, how nice to see you again.” Grabbing hold of Daniel's hand, she tossed back her red mane for maximum effect. “Remember me? The show?” “How could I forget?” He took her hand and kissed the back of her fingers.”You were sensational.” Rachel watched in fascination. Daniel had rendered Motor-Mouth Lynn speechless. Lynn being Lynn, made a quick recovery. “Let's all sit down and have some wine, shall we? You are staying for lunch, aren't you, Dan? May I call you Dan?” Daniel winced. “To be honest, I kinda hate Dan. Daniel is good.” “Whatever.” Gripping Rachel's shoulder with all the finesse of a pterodactyl, Lynn pushed her towards the kitchen. “Rachel, your help please?” At the kitchen doorway, Rachel froze. Tanya was on a mission. “Do you know Rhianna??” Tanya blew a bubble the size of a football. Alex giggled. “Who? Oh, no, sorry, I haven't had that pleasure yet.” “Can you do rap? Do you know 50 Cent?” Tanya continued with the relentless interrogation. “Rap is for morons.” Alex pretended to be sick. “Be quiet, you two, and leave the poor man alone.” Her mother shooed them away. “Now, Daniel.” She fixed him with her what-do-you-want-with-my-daughter-and- when's-the-wedding wide smile. “Why don't you tell us all about yourself?” Rachel cringed. Bloody hell, he’d be safer with the kids. Before she could go and rescue him, Lynn yanked her into the kitchen. “You just had to go down and answer the fecking door, didn't you?” Lynn confronted her, the proverbial smoke coming out of her ears. She pulled the wine from the fridge. “You've ruined everything.” “You cow.” Lunging for the cork-screw, Rachel waved it close to Lynn's face. “You knew he was coming. But how—” “Brian.” Lynn extracted the corkscrew from her fingers. “It doesn't matter now. Pull yourself together. I'll see to this while you get up those stairs pronto. A major salvage job is required, I think.” She stopped in the doorway and sighed. “It's so not fair. He is so fecking shaggable.” Rachel hastily removed the awful apron. Hands still trembling, she opened the oven door to check on the slowly browning bird. The mundane action helped calm her nerves. Casting a quick glance around the now pristine kitchen, she thanked God for her mother's efficiency. “Right, Rach.” She closed her eyes. “Up those stairs before Lynn kills youoh!” “I came for more glasses. Apparently the kids are real partial to Chablis.” Daniel stood so close his warm breath fanned her face. With the slow, boyish grin that turned her insides to jelly, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her even closer. “Are you mad at me?” His gaze probed hers, thumb stroking her cheek, sending sparks shooting all the way down to her toes. She almost imagined them curling up. “Mad?” She barely got the words out. She found it hard enough just concentrating on standing. “Why should I be?” “Becauseyou said you didn't want to see me again.” “I ..l lied.” She felt him aroused, pressing against her. She recalled the feel of him in her hand – inside her. “I've missed you.” His mouth hovered close to hers. “Daniel...” Arms around him, she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the heady scent of him and wanting so much more. “None of that in the kitchen, please. It's mucky.” Tanya stood in the doorway, balancing on one leg, so obviously delighted to catch her prim old Auntie Rachel doing something rude. Rachel drew back from Daniel and made a hasty escape. Heading for the stairs, she heard Tanya say, “You're wasting your time with her, you know. My mum's much more fun.For more information about me, my work and where to purchase my books, please check out my brand new websitehttp://www.wix.com/vivianebrentanos/stories-of-life

BLOG HOP DAY - WHAT KIND OF CHARACTER WOULD I LIKE TO BE?

2011-07-21T01:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks, despite the too hot and humid temperatures, despite the 7 day a week working shift, I am joining in with this week's blog hop. And what a great question it is.
Of course, you writers amongst out there know there is a part of us in all characters we create {yes, even the nasty ones.} I ran through all of my female creations in my head and decided, I wouldn't want to be any of them - even though they end up with a great guy. Too much angst and hardship on the journey. I don't do pain. So, I turned to books I have read and still had problems.
I quite fancied being the Bride in Kill Bill because she is so kick-arse but too much slicing and cutting involved. Scarlett O Hara - one of my favourite heroines but, hell no; I couldn't handle the corset. So then I came up with the perfect character. one that could have complete freedom to be what they wanted, when they wanted and, most important, if anyone pissed them off big time, they can simply leave. Yes - I want to be a ghost.

But one of those ghosts that can take on human form from time to time and then I could possess Rachel Weiss and have a raunchy time with Daniel Craig. Oh - and I would definitely take over Anna Kournikova for a few nights. Enrique wouldn't know what hit him. Oh the possibilities are endless: Gerard Butler, Russell Crowe. Oh wait -this question was about fictional characters. Hey - I am writer. I can change the rules. Oh - here's a good one.

I would possess the bodies of all the world leaders {sort of a collective haunting} and get them to stop wars, save the environment and ban Justin Beiber and make Lady Gaga overall Presidentess of the world. At least we would have some fun.

Oh - I nearly forgot. As a ghost I could realize my dream and get to play guitar with AC/DC. I am sure Angus wouldn't mind me filling his shorts for a day.

BUT - most of all, as a ghost, I would team up with dear Michael Jackson and we would haunt every single person who made his time on earth a living hell and all while we were dressed in Thriller costumes. We'll get them yet, Michael.

Viviane

THURSDAY BLOG HOP - THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY

2011-06-23T01:52:00.000-07:00

Great question and one that could apply to my hotel guests. They come in all shapes and sizes:most good, some bad {you know the kind - complain because they don't have a jacuzzi even though they only paid 17 euros for half-board}. And then we have the downright ugly. I suppose I can't elaborate on that or I will have the EU politically correct police on my back. Sigh - the world is no fun anymore.
Oh well, back to my characters. In most of my novels, I begin with my main female character being slightly spoiled, a little cold and cynical and then I watch as she thaws out under the direction of a cool, often equally tough guy. Occasionally, my hero will be so kind and gentle he is verges on gay but then, he will prove he is strong and ready to fight for his love. I like to keep a balance. I believe people are multi-layered and even if, for example, my secondary characters{i.e bullying ex-husbands, intransigent fathers} appear as evil as Hitler, I like to provide a little insight as to why they behave the way they do. The secret to believable characters is to keep it real.
And now a sneaky promo example. My soon to be released single title, Cold, Cold Heart stars one luscious, cool, kind-hearted, generous, so gentle Daniel Haines. He would die for his love, give up everything for her but then...she hurts him so much, something inside him snaps. Read on......

* * * *

“My my, don’t we look a pretty picture?”
Samantha stood in the loft apartment doorway of, arms folded, and her usually soft eyes laden with censure.
She breezed past him. “My god, Daniel, this place is a hovel.” She wrinkled her nose. “What is going on with you? What are you doing to yourself? You're fast becoming notorious, you know, according to what I've read in the papers.”
“I’m having fun,” he replied glibly. He crossed to the bottle-strewn coffee table and poured himself a whisky. “Want one?
Samantha knocked the glass from his hand, sending the Waterford crystal crashing onto the hardwood floor.
“For God's sake, it's only ten in the morning!”
“Is it?” He glanced at his watch, confused because he had been out of it for the best part of the weekend. Those Aerosmith boys sure did know how to throw a party.
“Look at you. You are a mess!” Sam studied him, expression one of exasperation. “Oh but I'd like nothing more than to grab you by the scruff of your neck and slap some sense into you. “
“I'm fine, Sam.” He stared at the whisky bottle longingly. “… just a little hung over, that's all.”
“Hung over? You look as if you've been hung, drawn and quartered.” She pushed him in the direction of the master bathroom. “Go and get yourself cleaned up and I'll fix us some breakfast. And then you and I are going to talk. But first, by the looks of you, you need some clean clothes. It is safe in there, isn't it?” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the bedroom. “Or do I have to step over a pile of nymphets?”
Daniel couldn't help but smile. So Samantha did read the tabloids. “Sorry, clean out of nymphets these days.”
Twenty minutes on, showered and shaved and dressed in faded jeans and a ‘Beethoven Rocks’ T-shirt, Daniel felt halfway human again. “Mmmm...” He sniffed the air appreciatively “That coffee smells good. I haven't drunk a decent cup in weeks.”
“No, I don't suppose you have.” Sam fixed him with her most intimidating schoolmarm stare. “All I could find in the kitchen was some milk masquerading as yogurt. Not to mention the pile of empty whisky bottles I tripped over. I had the doorman order up some bagels. I hate New York, but at least I can indulge in one of its famous delicacies.” Holding a rancid dishcloth at arm’s length, Sam wrinkled her nose. “Why don't you hire a maid? Because it doesn't look as if you gave your string of thoroughbred fillies much time to be domestic.”
“Now now, Sam.” He licked the cream cheese from a bagel. “It's not like you to be facetious and for your information—although I must say it’s none of your business—there have only been six 'fillies' in as many months. The press does tend to exaggerate. They see me talking to a woman and right away I'm f…sorry…sleeping with her.”
“Daniel.”
Sam sat next to him, looking totally out of place perched on the retro eighties-style chrome barstool. Her classic-cut Chanel suit was not quite up to the job.
“Being crude doesn't suit you. Stop trying to be something you're not. In this day and age six partners is irresponsible.”
“No worries there.” Daniel gave her a sardonic smile. “I bought shares in a rubber company.
Samantha's face reddened.
Daniel noted her discomfort with this foray into the dark and devious world of promiscuity. “That was uncalled for. I’m being a jerk, I know. I shouldn't joke. But I must confess, dear stepmother, my sexual reputation is nothing more than one big media hype. I haven't slept with anyone in months.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to judge you.”
“Not as sorry as my 'stable of bimbos.'“ Lifting the mug to his lips, he grinned. “Of course, now the word on the street is that I must be gay. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—or women in my case. So be it. Who cares? Maybe I am. Now wouldn't that be one in the eye for dear old Dad—a homosexual son. It's almost worth considering just to see his face. Or maybe I could do transsexual?”
“Stop it.” Samantha gave him a playful swat. “Now you're being ridiculous. Of course you’re not gay. This is about Rachel, isn't it?”
Daniel slammed the mug down on to the green granite counter. “Rachel! I wondered how long it would take you to bring her up. Why does it always come back to her? If it's not Mai, it's Ralph, and now you? You're all on my case. Get over her. I have.”
“You can't fool me, dear.” She caught hold of him by the sleeve as he made to get up and walk away. “Your excessive behaviorI think it’s your way of punishing
her.”
“How perceptive of you, and so early in the morning, too.” Daniel put up his hands. “Okay, you've got me. I stand guilty as charged. I admit it. I'd hoped that Rachel did see those pictures—God knows I put enough energy into posing for them—because I wanted her to hurt as she hurt me. I wanted her to die inside every time she saw me in the arms of another woman. I hope it killed her when she imagined me making love to them. I wanted“ He struggled to compose himself. “But now, Sam? I don't know what I want. I feel so numb inside. For so long she's all I thought about, all I craved. I put her on a pedestal. I worshiped her. But in the endwellI realized she wasn't so perfect. Then that's good, isn't it? Because it means I'm free of her.” He ran trembling fingers through his hair.
Sam's dubious frown made him laugh. “And I'm so full of crap, aren't I? I'll never be free of her. Oh, Sam, you know me so well.” He sighed. “But you are right about one thing. I can't go on like this. I was a fool for thinking I could drown my sorrows in the bottle. Unfortunately, the effects are only temporary. Every morning when I wake up she is still here.” Daniel took her hand and placed it on his heart. “She just won't go away, Sam, and I don't know what to do anymore.”
Huddling over the counter, he buried his face in folded arms. If it had been anyone else but Sam he wouldn't have allowed himself to break down. He knew she possessed the sensitivity not to try and comfort him.
“Call her, Daniel.”
He looked up and wiped away the tears.. “No, Sam. I'm all through with self-punishment. I'm not going to humiliate myself again. She had me twisting and turning this way and that. I went down on bended knees for her, and I won't do it again.” He stared into the coffee mug. “No. The next move, if there ever is one, must come from her. If she wants me then she knows how to find me.”
“This isn't like you. You were never so hard.”
“Well, maybe I've finally grown up.

Aw, bless...oh I do love my Daniel...and Rachel needs a kick up the backside.
Take care.

Viv

http://corfu-author.tripod.com

http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY-A BIT BELOW THE BELT? I DON'T THINK SO

2011-06-11T01:49:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome back to Six Sentence Sunday.

As I prepare for the imminent release of Cold, Cold Heart, I thought I would post a six from this tale that, I suppose, reflects my mood of the day....a lot of the time, men are just a bunch of.... best leave that blank. I usually steer away from posting sentences with sexual reference but I think this little speech by my heroine, Rachel, will strike a chord with anyone who has ever wanted to exact revenge on someone who has mistreated them in the past.

Rachel is confronting her ex-husband, Richard, a spiteful man who has spent the past five years trying to make her life a living hell. Fueled by too many cocktails, she finally finds the courage to give him a taste of his own medicine…..

“You once asked me a question, well, now here's your answer. Yes, he was a bloody fantastic fuck and he made me come every time. In fact, all he had to do was say my name and I came. You never made me come once in four years of marriage. Oh and just one more thing…” Rachel smiled at him ruefully. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, Richard, but you really do have an incredibly small cock!” She raised her empty glass to him. “Have a nice life!”

A round of applaud for Rachel, folks.

Want to read more? Before you do, check out all the other great Sunday Sixes.

Blurb:
Daniel Haynes has the world at his feet- fame, fortune, so why does he feel so empty inside? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness?
But Rachel Warner is scared. Daniel's interest in her threatens her ordered yet unsatisfying life because she has to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder. Can she let go of her fears?

Excerpt:

Rachel awoke to a herd of wildebeests stampeding in her head. She opened one eye, half-expecting to see Simba come charging through her bedroom, but only the cold, December rain beat down against the windowpane. Funny, she thought, I don't have Georgian windows.
Both eyes now open, she lay still, wondering where her body had gone. I've got no legs. I've died and they've donated my body to medical science, the bastards.
“Alex!” she gasped. “I'm late!” She sat up – and wished she hadn't bothered. The room spun faster than Torvill and Dean. If hell existed, she was definitely in it. She clung to the quilt and hung on for dear life as the bed rose and hovered above the ground a la The Exorcist or was it Bedknobs and Broomsticks? She couldn't remember. She just wanted to die and die quickly.
The door crashed against the wall, and die she did. Lynn bounced in with a tray of coffee and a packet of painkillers in her hands.
“Wakey, wakey!”
She slammed the tray down on the bedside table and the entire London Symphony Orchestra percussion section went off in Rachel's sponge-filled brain. She pulled the duvet over her head.
“And how are we feeling this morning?”
Lynn's flat, Belfast tones grated at the best of times but the way Rachel felt, if she'd had a gun she would have cheerfully shot her. “Why are you shouting? And what are you doing in my bedroom?”
Lynn burst into a rousing chorus of U2's “Beautiful Day.” “I'd just like to point out, my dearest friend,” she pulled the duvet down and off Rachel's face, “that a: I am not shouting, and b: It’s not your bedroom. It is my spare room.”
“And how, may I ask, did I get here?” Rachel tentatively pulled herself up into a sitting position. She winced; those wildebeests were still on the rampage.
Lynn swept open the bedroom curtains. “Ask you certainly may. Being such a kind, considerate, caring friend, I brought you. It's the least I could do, seeing as you provided me with a most memorable and highly entertaining evening. I haven't had so much fun sincewellactually, I can't remember.” Lynn grinned at her. “And naturally I could hardly take you home to 'mummy' in that state, could I now?”
“And what state might that have been?” Rachel reached out for the mug of coffee. Unfortunately, her shaking hand was having none of it.
“Give it here.” Lynn sat down on the edge of the bed and held the mug up to Rachel's lips. “Honestly, Rach, you Brits are pathetic when it comes to drink.”
“Drink?” Hot liquid hit her raw stomach. “But I don't drink.”
“Well, you do now, and quite impressively, too. It was some performance.”
“Performance?” Rachel squeaked, a cold dread creeping over her.
“Oh, yes.”
“Was I very drunk?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I thinkI think I remember Richard.” Rachel racked her brain. “Did Idid we get into a fight?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Will you stop saying that?” Rachel banged her fist down on the bed. “Oh, now look what you made me do.” A red, hot knife buried itself in the back of her skull. “Quick! The drugs. I need drugs.” She downed two pills wishing it was morphine, and collapsed against the pillows. “Okay, what did I do?”
Lynn rubbed her hands together in glee and gaily regaled her with an animated account of the evening's events.
Rachel covered her eyes. She'd never be able to show her face in Wyeston again. “I said that? I don't believe you.”
“Oh, believe it.” Lynn's face split from ear to ear with a grin the size of Zippy's. “I've waited a long time for the prim Miss Warner to tell Richard to fuck off. And that's not all. You said cock, too—and come. Three times. It was inspiring.”
Wailing, Rachel burrowed under the duvet. Life as she knew it was well and truly over.
“Give over.” Lynn tugged at the cover. “You're quite the heroine, you know. Everyone was dead impressed, except Jimmy of course. Apparently that pot cost a fortune.”
“I broke a pot?” Rachel poked her nose from around the top of the cover.
“Naw, you just threw up in it.”
Rachel eyed her giggling friend through slanted eyes.
“You made that up. You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
“I'll say. But it was when I got you home that things became fascinating.”
“There's more?”
“Not much.” Lynn paused to admire her fingernails. “Only that you finally confessed that you are most definitely not over a certain luscious-lipped, blue-eyed boy.”
“I am.” Rachel protested.
“Of course you are. That must be why you keep a picture of him under your pillow.”
“I so do not.” Rachel threw back the duvet and slid her legs over the side of the bed. The conversation was too dangerous for her liking. She made a shaky attempt to get to her feet, but her knees buckled.
“Get back into bed.” Lynn scoffed. “It's too sad to watch. I'll go and run you a nice, hot bath. Then I'll whip up a big Irish breakfast. Best cure for a hangover. I should know; I've had a few.”
Rachel groaned. The thought of one of Lynn's greasy fry-ups made her heave. “Where are the kids?” She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of nausea. How did people put themselves through this torture weekend after weekend?
“Your dad has taken them to Kidzone. They're fine.”
“So, it's not a school day then?” Relief flooded through her battered and bruised mind. She didn't have to go to work after all. She could stay in bed forever and hide from the world.
But Lynn would have none of it. Ten minutes later, Rachel found herself dragged from her cocoon and unceremoniously pushed into the rather decadent Romanesque bathroom.
“In!” Lynn ordered.
Rachel stared down dubiously into the swirling waters of the Jacuzzi. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“You should have been a prison warden!” Rachel yelled after her retreating back, and then clutched the sink. The floor moved beneath her. It wasn't The Exorcist after all. It was End of Days.

Thank you for stopping by

http://corfu-author.tripod.com

http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Viviane-Brentanos-Author-of-Womens-contemporary-Romantic-fiction/78109311746

http://viviane-brentanos.blogspot.com

http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

CLIFFHANGERS - STORY OF MY LIFE

2011-06-09T07:01:00.000-07:00

Cliffhanger? My life is a cliffhanger. I go to bed every night , wondering, first – will I wake? {Always a good start.} second – did I remember to buy coffee

three – did Sir Maximus eat his way through my PC wire and and last, but most important, what will Lady Gaga wear today?

{Quite like this idea. Wonder if it is wireless?}

Sorry – this question is supposed to be about cliffhangers in writing. I don’t know if it is anything I have considered. I think, especially when reading a psychological thriller, cliffhangers are given. In romance, I think they are more subtle. I do agree that the end of each chapter must draw the reader into the next, perhaps ending a chapter with our two lovers almost coming together but not quite.
Cliffhangers in movies are my favourite and it would seem it has become the norm to leave us with one at the end of a movie, laying the path open for a sequel. Three sagas I can think of, off hand. Lord of the Rings, of course, Revenge of the Jedi {just who is the ‘other’ that is mentioned.} And the first part of Deathly Hallows. Heavy stuff.
The we come to my favourite t.v shows – two of which have recently ended on an nail-biting cliffhanger. Big Bang Theory – did Penny really sleep with Raj?

Greys Anatomy – will Derek and Meredith get back together? Will Owen calm down and forgive Christina? Great stuff and making damn sure I tune in next season.
Okay, time for shameless promo, here. In the second but last chapter of my soon to be released Cold, Cold Heart, I leave my reader with an almighty cliffhanger – will or won’t they?

A blurb, I hear you all beg, an excerpt…your wish is my command

A world-famous rock star, a struggling single mum afraid to love. Will this explosive mix bring happiness or disaster?
Daniel Haynes has the world at his feet- fame, fortune, so why does he feel so empty inside? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness?
But Rachel Warner is scared. Daniel's interest in her threatens her ordered yet unsatisfying life because she has to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder. Can she let go of her fears?

Excerpt

There he stood again…like Jaws. Just when she thought it safe to go back in the waterda da da da daand so on. “It's late,” she blurted out, because at that moment she couldn't think of anything else to say—at least nothing coherent.
“May I come in?” he asked quietly.
“No!” she shot back before thinking it through. The sight of Daniel Haines standing on her excuse-for-a-porch had her shell-shocked.
“Okay.” He gave that wry little smile. “Now let's see how this could play out.” He rubbed at his chin. “Mmmmyou don't let me in, I stand here and bang on your door until you do, by which time the neighbors come out, see me and wonder what I'm doing here. They then probably call the Sun or worse, the Star, and—”
Grabbing him by his sleeve, she dragged him into her home, slamming the door behind him. “You certainly know how to play dirty, don't you?” She snapped “Sorry but I'm desperate.” He looked around her humble abode. “Hey, nice place.”
“Now you're being facetious.” She folded her arms across her chest, all too aware she wore nothing more than a skimpy pair of pajama shorts and a revealing camisole top that had “come and get me” stamped across the front.
“Don't be so damn touchy, honey.” He turned to her, gaze flickering over her body.
Unease stabbed in her chest. “Touchy?” She stepped back, indignation threatening to choke her. “You've got a bloody nerveshowing up here in the middle and I'm not your honey.” The absurdity of the situation sank in. She wondered if she'd fallen asleep after all and was in the middle of a bad dream. Only it wasn't so bad because he did look rather hot in habitual black. He took a step closer to her and she smelled the fresh, clean scent of damp hair. He'd obviously come straight from the shower. Now she understood how Alice in Wonderland must have felt and for one scary moment she thought she might faint. He must have sensed it too and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you okay? You look pale.”
“Lowblood pressure,” she garbled.”Just what are you doing here and how did you find me?”
“Your receptionist, Lucy isn't it? She was very helpful, although I have to admit I didn't play fair. She gave me your address and I got my driver to bring me here.”
Rachel went into panic mode. “Please don't tell me you have a limo parked outside my driveway.”
“You don't give me a lot of credit, do you? I'm not that stupid. I sent him away.”
“A bit presumptuous of you, don't you think? Your audacity never ceases to amaze me. How did you know I'd let you in? Especially after you wasted my entire evening.”
“I didn't.” Daniel gave her that lazy smile. He held up his cell. “I can call him back anytime. It's not fair keeping him out so late, I admit, but as I said, I was desperate.” The smile disappeared, as, with trembling hand, he reached out to her again.
Rachel's mouth went dry but she held her ground. “And just why were you so desperate?” For one tension-filled moment he said nothing. He just stared into her eyes, pulling her in, drawing her to him until she thought she suffocated. She had to look away.
“I had to see you again. I couldn't leave town knowing you thought so badly of me, knowing I'd upset you.”
“You didn't upset me.” Rachel pushed him away. She turned her back to him. Once again he'd read her so easily. “Why should you have upset me? I meanyou're nothing to me I—”
“I saw you, Rachel.” He slipped an arm around her waist and, gently, turned her around to look at him. “I saw your face.” His voice was a soft caress. “And I know what you were thinking, but that's not what was happening.”
“It doesn't matter—”
Daniel put a finger to her lips. “It matters to me.”
Rachel listened, feeling a complete fool as he explained about the competition winners.
“I did ask Mai to cancel, but in the end I couldn't. The girls would have been so disappointed. I'm so sorry, but you do understand, don't you? Mai was supposed to let you know, butI guess she forgot.”
Her head was ready to explode. A mixer-tap of sensation ran through her body. Her madly beating heart felt too big for her chest. She shivered. The light in his eyes thrilled her and yet she was frightened. He held her in both arms now, fingertips searing through her flimsy attire. “Please“ She faltered. “Please don't touch me.” She removed his hands from her waist. “I don't understand. Why does my opinion of you matter so much?”
“Because.” He caressed her cheek.

Thank you for listening

Viviane

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time- KAY DEE ROYAL

2011-06-06T02:25:00.000-07:00

Well, it is official. Greek summer time is definitely here. Hot, hot, hot. In a few days I should begin my seasonal job at the hotel. Kids and tourists beware. Anyway, enough of me and on to my Mad Muser guest of the week. Without further ado, I would like to introduce Ms. Kay Dee Royal. With time travel seemingly the flavor of the - well - when has it not been, I asked Kay this

If you had to pick one period of history to which you could return, when would it be and why?

Her answer is amazing. Read on and please feel free to comment. Kay will have a nice prize for the best comment

Hello Viviane and Everyone.

Thank you for inviting me in to answer one of your Monday Author questions. This one gave me the license to tell something I’ve held tight inside me for years.

“If I had to pick one period of history to which I could return, when would it be and why?”

I didn’t think about this one too long because for my whole life, as long as I can remember anyway, I’ve had a reoccurring dream…
The colors and textures spring into form so vivid, fluffy white clouds, blue sky, purple hazy mountains, deep green forest, and a dramatic mix of color in the wildflowers along the stream.
A light breeze cools the film of moisture on my face and under my arms, results of my hoeing a fair-sized garden.
I’m wearing an ankle length cotton dress with some type of billowing sleeve that gathers loosely at my wrist, and it appears to have a full-sized apron covering my front and tying in the back. It’s a crisp morning, only my bare neck appreciates it because I rolled my hair into a thick bun at the base of my skull.
My husband fishes with a long branch and something tied to it acting as line. I see him from where I’m working. He’s after breakfast in the narrow stream not far from our meek home. Our dog barks at my husband’s heels every time he casts out his line.
Mountains touch the sky all around me in the distance, like our homestead is tucked inside a valley. Trees also lay a parameter around our meager area.
I suppose in this day and age what I’m describing could be recognized as a Hobby Farm – not many animals, only a few chickens, goats, a couple cows and horses, enough for a single family.
Our home might be considered large by some because it claims a full front porch with a roof. Smoke coils up from a stone chimney. I notice windows with cloth curtains, but I’m unsure if glass fills the openings. I’ve never actually gone inside.
Wooden fence enclosures keep the animals from running off, but it doesn’t keep small animals from gaining access underneath, like our dog…or wolves and coyotes I suppose.
When I awaken from this dream, my feeling has always been that I’ve actually lived this life, and it was a good life. It has made me crave living in a location like this. I think that’s why I love natural rustic areas so much.
It’s only a dream though, right? I don’t know. This dream has always made me thoughtful because it’s so real to me, so surreal, like I was physically there in that lifetime, in that period of history. Have you ever wondered about reincarnation?

Kay

Wow, thank you, Kay. Next time you step back in time, please take me with you. Wat to know more about Kay? Read on

Bio:
Kay Dee Royal writes paranormal and fantasy romance—maybe because it's also her favorite genre to read! She pens tales with wild, rugged heroes and strong, intelligent heroines. She'll give them both a few shadowy secrets, making her stories intriguing and fun. She resides in Southern Michigan with her family (her dogs, her cats, her caged husband... you get the idea)

Here is a blurb and excerpt from her Muse release, Big Girls Don't Cry

Blurb:

After the tragic loss of her twin sister, Brea works hard to prove herself worthy of her adoptive parent’s extra attention. She focuses on the success of the rustic resort her parents deeded to her.
Priorities change when sexy twin wolves in human form walk into Brea’s life.
A dangerous rogue abducts her, but whom, if anyone comes to her rescue?

Excerpt:

Brea watched Grey’s truck drive down the dirt path until she couldn’t see it through the trees. She shivered, instantly missing the warmth of Grey’s body next to hers. She looked one more time down the path in case Grey changed his mind about leaving her.
Did I misread Grey’s intentions? Gads, I threw myself at him. Maybe he isn’t into oversized women after all. I’m such an idiot!
Brea stepped through the door of her little stone cottage. She’d never questioned her size before, always fit her just fine. Not questioning it now either. Right now she needed cozy. As crappy as she felt over Grey’s quick departure, her head throbbed like the residual effects of a hangover, but it didn’t hinder her from throwing a few logs into the fireplace. Once a nice flame got going, she absorbed the comfort of its warmth. She lay back on her divan in front of the beautiful stone hearth.
Brea pulled her favorite blanket with images of howling wolves over her and laid her head on a matching throw pillow. Her whole room reflected her love of wolves, through pictures, statues, lamp shades, and her shelves full of books about them. She needed their comfort right now to take away Grey’s rejection of her.
Brea closed her eyes for a moment, fighting an overpowering sadness. Exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep.
* * * *
A haunting wolf howl crept into Brea’s dream. It wouldn’t stop; it was so loud…until Brea snapped awake. She sat up in darkness, not even embers glowed inside the hearth, moonlight streamed in through her sliding glass door with enough light to help her maneuver through the room. She went to the glass door to draw the curtains closed, but instead she was drawn to what lay beyond her porch.
Brea opened the door, stepped out, and walked over to the railing of her ground-level deck. She saw the light of the moon cut a path across the calm lake water to the sandy shoreline fifty feet away. Chilled damp air settled over her bare arms.
She glanced to the south tree line leading into miles of forest. Something shifted the shadows of the trees, maybe an animal hiding. She didn’t hear the rustle of dry leaves that usually accompanies animal movement in the forest.
A wolf howled a short distance from Brea. Its sound reverberated against the stone cottage wall behind her, sending a shiver from her skin into her bones. She knew wolves had been sighted a few miles away, but never at the resort. For as long as she’d lived in Northern Michigan, she’d never actually seen one. Now, she was about to have a very personal experience with one.
Brea had studied them enough to know not to move or she’d spook it. She heard it breathing and slowly turned to look. Wet, warm moisture carried on the slight breeze, settling on, around, and inside her.
The moon and all its light vanished behind an ominous cloud. Two glowing green orbs appeared to float in front of her. Somewhere in her consciousness she recognized the green eyes and the assailing breath.
A direct order, something she must do, jogged her memory, compelling her. She couldn’t look away. Her body became weightless, fluid and she wanted to follow. She moved forward, off the deck, following…following something that called her. She heard it and knew she must hurry.
Suddenly hands gripped her from behind, stopping her progress.
Another warm moist breath infiltrated her senses with the scent of pine, musk, and cloves. Her need to follow disintegrated like the ash of a spent campfire. Brea came awake in the middle of the forest. Strong arms wrapped around her waist.
“It’s alright, Brea. I think you were walking in your sleep.” Grey’s voice whispered through the layers of fog that began to break apart in her mind. “Brea, take a deep breath.”
Brea turned to face Grey.
“What…I’m…it’s night.” She couldn’t seem to grasp a total thought, other than being in the middle of the forest and in Grey’s arms. What was she doing here? What was he doing here?
Grey picked her up and carried her. She heard a wolf howl, so did Grey. He stopped and raised his face. Brea watched him sniff the air. She shrugged it off, her mind in no condition to make a judgment call of what he was doing, especially for something as strange as Grey sniffing the air.
The muscles in his arms tightened, squeezing her closer to him. He ran. How he could navigate through the trees in the darkness and carry her weight, Brea couldn’t fathom, but then her brain didn’t seem to be functioning with all lobes either. She closed her eyes and tucked her head into his shoulder, like a child in his arms, safe and loved.
Loved? Where did that come from?
Grey stepped onto Brea’s deck, walking through the open sliding glass door into her cottage.
“Gads, I left my door open?”
“Like I told you, I think you were walking in your sleep. Have you ever done that before?” Grey set Brea down on the divan and went back to the door to slide it closed. He switched on a small lamp in the corner and proceeded to re-build the fire in the hearth.
“I’ve never walked in my sleep that I’m aware of. I mean I’ve never woke up in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night. I guess I’m lucky you were there. Why were you there?”
Brea watched Grey’s sleek animal-like movements, stealthy, sure-footed, with muscles rippling. Again she saw him lift his head and sniff the air. His eyes glowed silver, reminding her of other glowing eyes and a shudder quaked down her body.

Links:

http://www.kaydeeroyal.blogspot.com

http://ravencraftrealm.blogspot.com

Big Girls Don’t Cry Wolf Amazon: http://tinyurl.comeqn6zoe

BGDCW Muse Store: http://tinyurl.com/2gyh8gj

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time -Liam Stalls

2011-05-30T03:09:00.000-07:00

Good morning happy campers. Oooh - a man in the hot seat today. Welcome. We need more of you. So, here is your question, Liam.

If you could arrange an audience with God, what would you dare suggest he had got seriously wrong in his grand design. What advice would you offer him to remedy it?

Good morning, Viviane, and thank you for hosting me today...then again...what a question. God has an overall plan, so in those who believe in God he got it down pact. If you...and you did...ask me I would say to take care of our children. My heart breaks (and yes, men do have hearts) to hear and see children inflicted with adult diseases, or any other disease that sees their lives cut short. This I wish He would have planned around our children and kept them save.

Good and thought-provoking answer, Liam. We see so much suffering around us, it is sometimes hard to believe God intends this. I don't think he does. I think he made man flawed. Hey, we were an experiment and sometimes experiments go wrong. Maybe my view is a tad controversial but this is what this blog question is all about. What do you think God's plan is? Do you all share Liam's wish? Please leave a comment and I am sure Liam will find a way to reward you. Meanwhile, here is a blurb and excerpt from his...how can I say... naughty but deliciously fun little tale Enchanted Bathroom....oh if only my bathroom was so much fun.

Enjoy.

Blurb:
Sandy Warner finds more than she bargained for in the Three Lillies bathroom. Overcome by the moans and groans from the couple in the next stall, she begins to fantasize a hunk obeying her every wish.
Richard Leere didn’t expect to find the woman of his dreams flustered in his restaurant. After a surprise grab to his groin, he smiles.
Sandy, unsure if the man before her is real or her imaginary hunk, steps back. After an embarressing moment, she now must decide if she should make a move while the smile is plastered on his face, or apologize and walk out with her dignity.

Excerpt:

Having finished the pukes and cussing I took out my handy mouthwash and rinsed several times at the mirror and sink area. The door opened and I heard footsteps approaching. When I looked up I had to take a double take...

“Miss, are you all right? I heard...well...someone being sick and just wanted to make sure no one needed my help.”

I stared at him from the mirror. My hunk! My imaginary hunk stood behind me. In a daze I turned around and grabbed his crotch.

“Hey!” He stepped back.

I must have turned all shades of red because I felt the embarrassed heat flaring my cheeks and neck.

“I’m...so...sorry.” I just grabbed this guy’s crotch. What am I? Nuts? “I just wanted to make sure you were real and not a part of my fantasy. Oh my God, you must think I’m nuts.”
Totally surprised, he didn’t run out like a mad man. He actually approached me and...

Purchase link:
http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=101&category_id=9&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Elizabeth Coldwell

2011-05-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

Good morning all,
And another week is upon us. I think we are all still here. For those of you that are not and may have been raptured - well, you don't know what you are missing. My guest today is the lovely Elizabeth Coldwell and her question is ...

You are putting together a four course romantic dinner for two - you and a celeb of your choice. You have to choose each course from a different country. What would you choose? Remember -a way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

I think you will find her answer quite mouth-watering. I know I did. I have added her to my list of future dinner guests.Take the floor, Liz.

This is a great question, as if there’s one thing I really love to do apart from write, it’s cook. I shan’t name my celeb, if only because I’m pretty sure no one reading this will have heard of him! My mystery man used to play for the football team I support, and now he works as a coach for another club – if you’re really eager for a description, he’s very tall and dark-haired, with big hands and a nice smile. I know he likes to read, so I’d be able to discuss the great variety of books available from all those talented Muse authors, as well as quizzing him about his experiences in football (okay, so that last bit might sound boring to some of you, but I’d enjoy it!).
But, more importantly in relation to the question, what would be on my menu? My four courses would involve a starter, a fish course, a main course and a dessert, and I don’t want to spend a lot of time in the kitchen, because that would mean I couldn’t spend as much time with my guest. To start, I’d go with fresh Dutch asparagus, lightly griddled and served with lots of melted butter. Some of the best asparagus in the world is grown in the Netherlands, as I know from having eaten it there in the past, and not only is it supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities, there’s something very sensual about licking all that butter off your fingers.
For the fish course, the obvious choice would be oysters, but I’m not a great lover of shellfish – and oysters are a bit of a cliché, anyway. Instead, I’d choose some nice Swedish gravad lax. Cured salmon, with a delicious dill sauce – very good for the brain, because for me, being able to connect with someone on a mental level is just as important as any physical attraction you may feel for them. I’ve never been a great fan of pretty but stupid types…
The main course would have to be a classic French steak au poivre, with frites and a green salad. Unless you’re dealing with a vegetarian, what man can resist a nicely cooked piece of red meat? The pepper adds a little spice (because as you can tell from my fiction, spicy is good…), and using red wine for the sauce means you can save the cream for the dessert – my favourite course of all!
To round off the romantic dinner, I’d finish with a gorgeous English dessert, Eton Mess. The story goes that it was invented when a chef at Eton school was serving a pavlova, only to drop it on the way. Scooping the mixture of smashed meringue, fruit and whipped cream into a bowl, he served the result as a new creation. Whether that’s true or not, you can’t go wrong with this – it’s very easy, and at its best when made with juicy English strawberries. Again, the fruit is supposed to be an aphrodisiac, because of all the zinc contained in its seeds, but that, to me, is just a bonus.
All that’s left is to make coffee, serve with chocolate mints and you have a perfect evening with a perfect mystery man. Bon appétit!

Hungry yet, folks? Here is a little bit about Elizabeth...

Elizabeth Coldwell lives and writes in London. She’s always loved to make up stories, particularly ones involving hot men. Her other big passion is her home town football club, Rotherham United, and at weekends she can be found cheering them on to victory (hopefully!). Visit her at The (Really) Naughty Corner, http://elizabethcoldwell.wordpress.com

Here is a taste of her up and coming MuseItHot release

The Face In The Glass

Blurb:
Psychic Ceri is startled when her crystal ball starts showing her visions of a handsome man who isn’t the boyfriend of her current client. Things become even stranger when the man’s face appears in every reflective surface she looks into, and the visions become progressively more explicit, showing them making love. To solve the mystery, Ceri must visit the hall of mirrors when the fair comes to town, and use an ancient love spell to try to release the stranger from his bizarre captivity.

Excerpt:
I saw his face in my crystal ball with stunning clarity. Usually, the visions I receive are cloudy and soft-focus. They’re not always easy to define, but this was like looking into a mirror. Dark hair pushed back from a high forehead, brown eyes that sparkled mischievously, a mouth designed to be kissed till the lips were swollen with desire. Truly, one of the most handsome men I had seen in a long time.
Raising my eyes from the ball, I looked at the girl sitting on the other side of the table. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?” I commented. A visible thrill of pride ran through her, though I was sure she must hear such compliments on a regular basis. “Those beautiful brown eyes of his...”
She tensed, startled out of the relaxed pose I encouraged her to adopt as the reading progressed. “Rob doesn’t have brown eyes.”
“But that’s the man I’m seeing. Dark hair, brown eyes.” I peered at the vision once more, spotting something I didn’t notice the first time. “And a tattoo around his biceps. A Celtic knot design. Subtle, but distinctive.”
That was the point at which she stood up, snatching her purse from the table top. “That’s absolutely nothing like Rob. I knew I was wrong to come here. You can’t see a thing in that stupid ball of yours. You’re just a fraud. Well, don’t think I’m going to pay you for the garbage you’ve been spouting.”
She left, heels clicking on the floor of my little shop, the chimes hanging above the front door mocking me as they jangled in time to her exit.
I stared back at the crystal ball, but with the mood shattered so abruptly I no longer saw anything in its depths. I didn’t understand it. She asked me, as so many of my clients did, to see whether her boyfriend was faithful to her, and whether he was going to ask her to marry him. I had given her the ball to hold, telling her to concentrate on him and nothing but him. The spirits would provide the answer. Once the ball was in my grasp, that sensual, intelligent face presented itself to me. But if it wasn’t her boyfriend Rob, who was it?

Here are more links for Liz...
http://elizabethcoldwell.wordpress.com/
http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=77&Itemid=82

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - MORE COLD, COLD HEART

2011-05-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

Goodness me, is it that time again? Doesn't time fly and to think we all made it through the week. Either the Rapture didn't take place or none of us made the grade. Oh well, c'est la vie.
So, back to my six. Once again, I am posting from my up and coming MuseItHot Publishing June release, Cold Cold Heart. In this scene, Rachel Warner sets eyes on the famous singer-song writer, Daniel Haines, for the first time.

He wore almost black hair closely cropped, drawing attention to a well-sculptured profile. He was good-looking but not in a male model almost-too-perfect way nor did he possess a boy band laugh-you-into-bed cheekiness. Daniel Haynes was more the boy-next-door type; the kind of boy whose mother dressed him in Thomas the Tank Engine jumpers until age twelve.
He turned from Mai to look at her and her breath caught. Daniel Haines had the most beautiful, luminous, deep blue eyes; eyes big and soulful, fringed by the longest lashes Rachel had ever seen on a man but it was the way he looked at her that sent her heart fluttering. His gaze seemed to penetrate deep into her soul—as if he could read her innermost thoughts, feel her every mood.

Want to read more about this wee honey of a man? Here is a short excerpt...

The lights dimmed again and a crescendo of noise crashed over her head as fifty thousand people leapt to their feet and Daniel’s band ran out on stage.
“Come on!” Grabbing her by the hand, Lynn dragged Rachel from the comfort and security of her seat and plunged her into the screaming multitudes already surging up against the metal barrier. It was okay for Lynn. Years of rugby scrumming with her huge Belfast shipyard brothers and cousins stood her in good stead. She pushed and clawed her way to the front with Rachel clinging to her hand for dear life. Before she could scream an angry protest, a massive tsunami roar erupted and Daniel stepped out on stage.
In the midst of the Brazilian wave of fans, Rachel found she could not move. This man who strutted and danced from one end of the stage to the other, working the crowd, playing and teasing the girls into a frenzy as he smiled down, flirting, seducing the adoring audience into a state of near-hysteria—this was not the same man who, hours before, had been in her office, sitting at her desk, drinking coffee and listening to her trials and tribulations. As she watched him now, the worshipped idol of thousands, it all seemed like a dream.
He approached the edge of the stage and for one heart-stopping moment he seemed to stare right at her. A warm flush spread up from her toes to the roots of her hair. At her side, Lynn, in a state of near collapse, jumped up and down, screaming and twisting Rachel's arm. “Did you see that?”
Above the pounding beat of drums and guitars, Rachel just about made out her ravings.
“He looked at me! Oh, I think I'm going to have an orgasm.”
For the next hour, Rachel was pushed prodded and kicked (more often than not by Lynn). She was desperate to get back to her seat. It was impossible. Wedged tight against the barrier, hordes of screaming girls hemmed them in. With hands stretched up, they cried out for their god to touch them.
By now the Golden Boy had removed his leather jacket—much to the collective joy of thirty thousand or more females—displaying a toned torso beneath a tight-fitting, V-neck T-shirt that didn't quite meet hipster jeans: black naturally! Lynn retrieved a pair of her weeniest knickers from her pocket.
“You dare, Lynn Hudson!” Rachel shrieked in her ear. Grabbing the scrap of black lace, she stuffed it back where it came from.
“You are so not fun! Everyone does it. Oh, I can't believe it!” She dug her nails into Rachel's by now black and blue arm. “This is my favorite.”
So far every song had been her ‘favorite.’ Lynn could still do groupie with the best of them.
Slowly Rachel relaxed, caught up in the magic of Daniel Haines. The lights dimmed and when he moved to sit at a magnificent grand piano, her enjoyment turned to rapture. He mesmerized her. His fingers flew over the keys and the cacophony of noise abated. Hushed silence filled the auditorium. He held the crowd spellbound as his beautiful but powerful voice delivered a haunting ballad. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted when the pure notes soared up into the roof. She wanted to cry. She wanted to stay in the moment forever.

See you next week for more of the delectable Daniel. Meanwhile, check out some more posting at Six Sentence Sunday

http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF....

2011-05-19T06:46:00.000-07:00

I have been asked to describe my typical writing day. Oh dear, must I? Okay, confession time. I haul myself out of bed between 10am-10.30 {hey - I watch dvds til 2am}. First chore - on goes the coffee machine. I cannot function without my morning dose of good strong caffeine, all washed down wwith a lovely warm croissant straight from the bakers across the road.

While coffee is brewing, I release my agent from his cage and top up his food bowl. Next, follows the ritual dance where by Sir Maximus runs circles around my feet before settling down on the sofa with he best mates, his cuddly dog and yellow duck. There he will sit and watch CNN for hours.

Time to boot up pc and, with coffee and croissant in hand, I trawl through the mound of emails. Then - its facebook time! No day is complete without checking out the frivolous but often informative world of FB. Mr. Zucherman, I salute you.

That out the way, I will settle down to write any blog posts needed doing before attacking any edits. If I have a completed ms I then get cracking on transfering my illegible notes to Word. A time-consuming task as I am not a red-hot typist. Somewhere between now and 2pm, I release I have a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, a mound of laundry falling out of the washing machine and I haven't even considered what to cook - thus earning me, for the fifth year running Crap Mother of the Year award.

{ME - NOT}

When do you actually write, I hear you all ask, as in create? Can you believe when I am work, sitting behind the reception front desk? In those blissful couple of hours when most guests are either siesting or out by the pool, I revel in silence and I can really concentrate.

I suppose, one day, I will have to do some work and give out hotel keys to guests and probably answer the phone from time to time but, until then, I sit back in my chair, pen and pad in hand, create masterpieces

and hang up my Genius at Work sign.
P.S I do hope my boss does not subscribe to my blog.

Viviane

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time ...to Myself - Secret Girl Crush

2011-05-16T05:39:00.001-07:00

Good morning, folks. It seems I have misplaced my guest again or, perhaps my question this week has her running for cover. I have to admit it is a tad naughty. It all stems from a tongue in cheek conversation I had with a friend a couple of years back. We were playing trivial pursuit and, quite calmly, she stated , if she was a lesbian, then Angelina Jolie woould be her chosen partner. You can imagine the hilarious debate that followed. So, that was the question I posed to my guest. I shall now pose it to myself. If I were to have a girl crush, who would it be?I must be clear; when I say crush, I don't mean in a sexual context but, rather, a woman with whom we are attracted to for what ever reason. I am greedy. I have picked three.

My first and long time girl crush is Uma Thurman. When I saw her kick ass in Kill Bill, I was hooked. I love the fact that she is not pretty pretty but is so attractive, not to mention a great actress.

Second - has to be Lady Gaga. How how I would love to hang out with her. What fun we would have. I admire her talent, her style but, above all, I love her sense of humour and tongue n cheek approach to life and herself.

Last but not least - Stevie Nicks. My favouite female artist of all time and writer and singer of many amazing songs. Sixty two years old and still so gorgeous and still making wonderful music. Stevie - I salute you.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stevie_Nicks

So come on, folks; own up. Who is your secret girl crush? This question is also open to any of you lovely gay men out there. If you had one day to be staright - who would you want to be straight with? I am so looking forward to the answers on this one.

Viv

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - COLD, COLD HEART

2011-05-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

Nice to be back after a week's break. I thought, this Sunday, I would post from my June release Cold, Cold Heart. Not long before it hits the cyber shelves. This work was previously published under the title of Letting Go and I am happy to have been given the chance to tweak it and bring it up to date. So, with further ado, I introduce you to the world of Daniel and Rachel.

The boy squeezed back the tears. Needle sharp gravel dug deep into already bleeding knees and bit into stinging cheeks as merciless assailants grabbed hold of hair and twisted his neck to the side. He tasted dirt. A cruel smile spread across the ringleader's podgy face.
Still, the boy did not cry. Not wanting to give them the satisfaction, he did what he always did and shut off from the torment and humiliation.

Blurb:

Daniel Haynes has the world at his feet- fame, fortune, so why does he feel so empty inside? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness?
But Rachel Warner is scared. Daniel's interest in her threatens her ordered yet unsatisfying life because she has to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder. Can she let go of her fears?

Excerpt:

“You are not having a good day, are you?”
She sat up, ramrod-straight. Daniel Haines leaned against the open door, his arms folded and gaze fixed on her, probing once more.
“Do you always eavesdrop on private conversations?” Rachel rubbed at her eyes, grateful she'd been in too much of a hurry to bother with mascara.
“The door was open,” he replied in that Yankee tone. “I apologize….” He made a point of knocking loudly. “May I come in?”
Without waiting for her answer, he walked into the room, sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk and stretched out long legs before crossing them at the ankles.
“Make yourself at home…I would,” Rachel muttered. She pulled herself together. He was, after all, a hotel guest and a very important one at that.
For one long moment, he did nothing but stare at her, an unfathomable expression on his face. Then he said quietly, “You shouldn't allow him to intimidate you, you know.”
At first Rachel thought she'd misheard him. “Are you always so presumptuous?” she managed to blurt out.
“No.” He smiled at her. “I'm only concerned.”
A frisson of unease ran down her spine.
He leaned across the desk. “Actually, I've come to apologize for Mai. She can be real possessive at times.”
“Possessive?” Rachel tried not to laugh. “Obsessed more like. I mean I know she's beautiful and probably very obliging, but how can you stand to be smothered like that?”
“Excuse me?” He sat up. “Now who's being presumptuous?”
Guilt caused her cheek to grow hot. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply….”
He waved her apology aside. “Forget it. You are free to think what you want. As I said, I'm here because I believe my crew treated you with less than professional courtesy. Sometimes the guys get carried away. Try and understand. It's hard being cooped up in hotel rooms for weeks on end.”
Rachel couldn't hold back her grimace. Here it comes, the I'm-so-misunderstood-my-life-is-not-my-own sob story. She'd heard it a hundred times over and usually following a night of drunken excess and loutish behavior that prompted a host of complaints from the hotel cleaning staff.
“Interesting.” The smile disappeared. “You're skeptical. Are you judging me? You see me as an underworked, overpaid, and probably oversexed musician. I don't impress you much, do I?”
Her mouth fell open at the astute appraisal.
“You don't know anything about me, Miss…or is it Mrs.? I seem to recall a child being mentioned.”
Rachel’s hackles went back up. “It doesn't state anywhere in my job description that I have to discuss my personal life with the guests, Mr. Haines. I….” The words died in her throat. Reaching out to her, he pushed aside a lock of hair that strayed from her ragged chignon. Warm fingertips brushed against her cheek. She shrank back, her reaction born out of habit and her dislike of physical intimacy. She only felt comfortable hugging and touching Alex.
“Please.” His tone caressed. “Call me Daniel.”
“No.” The word left her lips before she had time to think. “I…I couldn't. It wouldn't be professional.” She looked away, heat creeping up her neck and rising to her cheeks. To her relief, he sat back, arms folded.
“You are so wound up.” Amusement etched tiny lines around his eyes. “You do need to chill.”
“I am perfectly 'chilled,' thank you.” She sniffed, more than a trifle irked.
“I think not. You're stressed. I can tell.”
“Mr. Haines, just why exactly are you here?” She was in no mood for American psycho-babble. She shuffled the papers on her desk, feigning efficiency.
“If you must know….” He folded his arms behind his head and the black T-shirt rose up, affording Rachel a glimpse of well-toned, tanned stomach muscles. “I've come to return your form. I know, I could have sent Mai, but I didn't want to be responsible for a blood bath. Quite honestly, I don't know who is scarier, you or Mai. Okay, okay, stop glaring.” He made the sign of the cross. “I'm kidding. Seriously, I couldn't think of anything to write. There’s nothing I need. We are all very comfortable here. My compliments to the man.” Gaze drifting to the shelf behind her head, he sniffed the air. “However…that coffee smells real good. I've changed my mind. There is something I need. A cup of that would just hit the spot. The stuff room service delivers is pretty damn weak. You can put that in the complaints section, if you like.”
Rachel swallowed. He wanted a cup of her coffee? The entire interlude was too surreal for words.
“Do you mind?” The blue eyes probed her thoughts again. “Only if it's not too much trouble….”
“Mind? Oh…no…of course not. Excuse me one moment, please. I'll just...em...find another mug.” Dropping to her knees, she rummaged through the cupboard under her desk for an un chipped mug.
Pushing aside four years' worth of debris, she wished the green hotel uniform had a longer, not-so-tight fitting skirt.
“Having trouble down there?”
Rachel sat on her haunches, her face flushed, cream blouse in disarray. “No.” Clutching a stained cup to her palpitating chest, she got to her feet, stumbling as her thighs protested. “Milk, sugar?” She turned to the machine. By now, she felt hot and bothered and more unruly strands of hair escaped the hairpins.
“I'm hurt. Isn't it your job to know these things? Aren't you supposed to be acquainted with my every like and dislike?”
Rachel spun round, sharp retort at the ready, but then she saw the sparkle in his eyes.
He laughed at her pique. “You really don't know anything about me, do you? Oh, but don't apologize. It's really refreshing.”

COLD, COLD HEART...Coming soon to MuseItHot Publishing

THURSDAY BLOG HOP - WHAT DO I DO WITH MY EDITS?

2011-05-12T06:42:00.000-07:00

Och aye, hello tae ye all,

I have returned from a 4 day stint in the UK and, although I stayed with my sister in a quaint little village named Quainton {I jest not}, we were visited by my relatives from Bonnie Scotland. For those who know me, you will remember that I spent most of my childhood in Glasgae toon and a braw wee place it wus too. It was amazing how quickly the lingo came back to me. I am a bonafide weegie, apparently.
So, on to the question. What do I do with my edits? I love them. yes, I am that rare breed that enjoys editing. I have to say I am most fortunate in having two of the best at MuseItUp and MuseItHot publishing. We have fun, even though I think they may need valium after working with me.

Editing should be a team effort, a question of give and take. Your editor is there to help improve and tighten your work, not change your voice.
All I can say is. Anne...Penny...I salute you.

Viv

MONDAY MAD MUSER - EMILY PIKASSO

2011-05-08T03:30:00.000-07:00

Hi folks,

I am writing this from sunny ye olde England. I quick four days oif family time - which basically means non stop eating. Anyweay, have to get back to planning today's food fest so without firther ado, I will hand the floor over to Miss Emily Picasso. Her question was...

If you had to choose three things to take with you in the event of aliens landing and hide in a safe cave, what would you select? {no family or pets asd this is a given}.

I would select:
A source of fire and fuel- matches, lighter, blow torch
Non-perishable food
Blankets

The above are if I was being sensible, now if I chose NOT to be sensible I would take:
My laptop and a solar powered battery
My music
Mead/methglin/melomel
This is taking for granted the cave has a source of water already. Also handy to have would be strong young men to do the heavy work, protect me and of course be candy for the eyes.

Thanks, Emily. Agree with the strong men. Here is a little bit about Emily..

Bio for Emily Pikkasso
Emily Pikkasso is proud Albertan, and horsewoman. She lives on a farm near Balzac, Alberta with three horses, one pony, twenty-four chickens, various dogs, cats and whatever else happens to wander into the yard. Emily’s first poems and short stories were published while still in grade school. She enjoys writing poetry and stories, both long and short. Emily welcomes feedback from her readers and can be contacted at

emilypikkasso@gmail.com
Please visit her webpage http://www.emilypikkassoauthor.ca

Emily's The Oak King's Daughter is avaiklable from MuseItUp Publishing.
Here is a blurb...

The Oak King's Daughter is a romance Fantasy. Dara, the Oak King's daughter, is in love with someone who her father deems unsuitable for her. Tinne, the court mage, is not worthy of his daughter in the eyes of the Oak King. And Tinne, well he seems to have an agenda all his own, or is he merely a pawn in a larger plan?

Dara decides to risk everything, including her father’s wrath, to run away with her lover, they succeed and Dara surrenders herself to Tinne, only to discover that the mage is more than what he seems.

Excerpt....

“Soon, Oak King’s daughter, soon,” Tinne promised her.
Before Dara had time to think or change her mind, she was astride her fastest horse and racing through the forest with Tinne hot on her heels. Her father wouldn’t discover her missing until late tomorrow morning or early afternoon if she was lucky, they must be on the ship and away by then. Despite the urgency of their flight, Dara smiled as the heat in her belly rekindled and her breasts tingled at the memory of Tinne’s touch. Yes, the sooner we reach the ship the better.
Behind her Tinne grinned and pushed the horses faster. This was even better than kidnapping the Oak King’s daughter. Making her an accomplice in her own disappearance was a stroke of genius on his part and if it included pleasuring her young body, well that was a bonus too, wasn’t it? His master would be very pleased with him when he delivered the Oak King’s daughter. The only hitch in the plan was that Tinne had grown very fond of Dara for her own sake, not just a prize to be ransomed.
The dark ribbon of road cut across the rolling hills that shone palely in the fading moonlight. Dara smothered a yawn and concentrated on staying upright in the saddle of the racing horse beneath her. I think we should have made Oak Landing by now. Dara tried to force her brain to make some sense of her surroundings and then gave up. Let Tinne worry about where we are. I just want to get there and get him in bed.
Tinne allowed his stallion to come abreast of Dara’s gelding as they crested the top of the last row of hills. The lamps of Oak Landing shimmered in the hollow below them and the last light of the moon silvered the waters of the high tide. The vessel Tinne had arranged for bobbed gently at anchor on the gently rolling swells. He reached over and took Dara’s reins, drawing her horse to halt beside his. Tinne leaned toward Dara and ran his cold hand gently down her cheek and into the hollow of her throat. Dara’s breath caught in her throat and she swallowed thickly.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Tinne’s voice hung in the darkness between them. It was better to find out here, away from anyone who might feel obligated to help her, if Dara should decide to make a scene about getting on the ship.
“Yes, I want to go away with you, where my father can’t interfere in my life.” Dara smiled against the hand that now cupped her cheek. “I want to make love to you,” Dara rubbed her face into his hand and purred like a kitten.
“Very well, then Dara, the Oak King’s daughter. Let us go.” Tinne released the gelding’s reins but stayed close by Dara’s side as they rode into town and made their way to the docks.

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Rochelle Webber

2011-05-02T02:09:00.000-07:00

Good morning all from a glorious May Corfu,

It is official; Corfu summer tourist season is underway and the first charter flights have already landed. Oh what joys await we humble souls that work in tourism. It seems Kate {sorry - Cathrine}and Will have postponed their honeymoon. Bloody cheek. I spent hours baking them cakes. Oh well, I will just have to share them with Rafa.
I digress. Without further ado, I hand the show over to Ms. Rochelle Webber who has kindly agreed to be in the hot seat this week. Before I do so, I would like to thank her and applaud her bravery. Her answer, as you will see, is straight from the heart. Take it away, Rochelle....

Is there anyone you’ve ever wanted to go “Kill Bill” on and why?

The only person I’ve ever wanted to have permanently out of my life is the woman my ex-husband married after me. I was not impressed by her when I met her (before he did). We hung out at the same singles bar in a fairly small town and I’d seen her dancing with a man I sort of liked. We happened to be in the ladies’ room together and being friendly, I made the ironic statement, “We seem to have the same taste in men.” She acted as though I’d insulted her. I tried to continue the conversation, asking what kind of work she did and she snapped, “I’m a nurse.”
Mind you, I was a Navy medic. My skill level was somewhere between that of an LPN and an RN in a civilian hospital, but I’ve never called myself a nurse. I never graduated from nursing school or took any boards. Later, after she married my ex, I saw her diploma. She’s a Certified Nurse’s Aide. I doubt she ever suctioned a tracheotomy, assisted with an IV cut-down, or did anything more complex than moving patients from bed to the toilet or a geriatric chair and shoveling gruel into their mouths. At any rate, after that encounter I avoided her. Until she married my ex and I could no longer do so.
My real reason for disliking her, however, is the way she treated my kids. She abused them. And my ex was so unhappy in the marriage, he avoided her by getting active at church and staying as far away from home as he could. You know there’s something radically wrong when a woman who has half the priests in the archdiocese of Dubuque among the guests every time she throws a party tells her son he needs to get a divorce, and his parish priest says the same thing. My ex refused because he already divorced me and had our marriage annulled. He didn’t want to be “a two-time loser” and didn’t think he could get a second annulment. Meanwhile, he was totally oblivious to how unhappy our kids were and what she was doing to them. In fact, he blamed the problems in the house on them not adjusting, or being rebellious teenagers.
If I’d known a teacher called DCFS on them when it happened, I could have gotten custody. His wife called my daughter a profane name in front of the social worker and when I tracked the social worker down three days later, she told me that if she’d known the kids had a mother, she’d have removed them from the house and called me that night. Unfortunately, since they were honor students, she couldn’t go back until they flunked out of school, ran away, etc.—which is what finally happened to my younger daughter.
Why did I let him have custody and expose them to that woman? I am bi-polar and I fly into rages with very little provocation. I have injured myself on occasion, but fortunately have never injured anyone else. I’ve had the police and even the fire department called on me and I’ve called the police on myself. Most of the time, I’m a rational person and people usually describe me as “sweet.” So how does a “sweet” person find herself in front of a karaoke bar surrounded by cops, paramedics and other fire fighters being restrained by two of her best friends while she tries to pummel first a very imposing, muscular doorman, and second a (fortunately) thick window? I’ve been wondering that most of my adult life.
I rate these episodes on the Fugita scale because they resemble tornados. They seem to come out of nowhere, do a lot of damage and leave a wake of debris that needs to be cleaned up once the shock wears off.
Usually something triggers it—some person or issue. It starts with a temper tantrum in which I yell obscenities, throw things, break things, and rage around. That gives way to what I call “the screaming heebie-geebies”—primal screaming until I lose my voice. During this phase it’s as though my brain splits in two. Doctors always ask if I “hear voices” and I always say no, but the truth is that I know what the phrase “she was beside herself” means, as there is a voice that sounds as though it’s on my left side telling me things like, “this is inappropriate behavior,” “ladies don’t use that kind of language,” “you’ll lose your voice,” and “you’ll never be able to sing again.” I count this noisy out-of-control/split personality thing as phase one even though it seems to have two parts: verbal and non-verbal. The Voice is there throughout.
The second phase is crying and apologizing, and usually lasts until I become dehydrated and have no tears, or exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open. The final phase is of course, is sleeping it off—unless you count all of the amends I have to make later, or how long I had to keep the cast on when I broke my wrist during an F-Four. The cops and paramedics one was an F-Five, and I’ve been barred from that establishment (not that I blame them). Oddly enough, I’ve never gone postal on my kids’ step-monster. Not even when she un-invited me to my daughter’s graduation party and my mother-in-law put her foot down and hauled me over there because “Rochelle is Elizabeth’s mother and she belongs here!”
I’ve run the gamut of medications—Prozac, Depakote, Tegretol, Celexa, Neurontin and now Topamax. The only thing they haven’t put me on is lithium and that’s because I’m diabetic and they haven’t wanted to risk the kidney or liver side effects. I gained weight on the Prozac and Depakote. Between the two of them, they took me up to almost three hundred pounds. The fact that I am a food addict and started over two hundred pounds didn’t help, I know. I probably would have gotten to three hundred on my own, but I’m convinced the meds contributed to or accelerated my weight gain. These days I seem to be doing pretty well on Celexa and Topamax. I’ve addressed my food addiction and given up sugar. I found out I have celiac disease and given up all foods that contain glutens—no wheat, flour or barley, and I’m very careful about where any oat products are milled. I read labels very carefully. And I haven’t gone into screaming heebie-jeebies in over a year. I’m not sure whether it’s the Topamax or dietary changes, but I’ll take it. I really am a gentle soul. I’m Wiccan and I try to live by the Rede “An it harm none, do as ye will.” I really don’t need any of that “Kill Bill” karma.
I’m doing this blog tour to promote Rock Bound. Jake saved Annie’s life. Now slaves on that God-forsaken rock, the Moon, how will they survive? You can buy it at Amazon in both paperback and Kindle versions, B&N for Nook, CreateSpace in paperback, and Smashwords in various e-book formats.
But, since we’re talking about anger issues and my bi-polar disorder, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from my upcoming book, Rock Crazy, which is due out from MuseItUp Publishing, Inc. in October, 2011. Abandoned, pregnant and bi-polar, Katie’s going CRAZY on that God-forsaken rock the Moon!
For all of my buy links, check out my website: www.rochelleweber.com

Once again, thank you, Rochelle and good luck with your release.

Champaign, Illinois
June, 2063

Here is a taste of Rochelle's up and coming release

She didn’t remember, later, what the woman said that triggered her. She didn’t remember deciding to react. She just remembered the hot, red rage—and the split. She watched herself do it, and the Voice kicked in.
You can’t do this, It said. This is inappropriate behavior.
Katie tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t. Her arm rose, as if of its own accord, and poured the pop on the woman’s bleach-blonde, over-processed head. The woman came off the stool and shoved Katie. She flew across the room, seemingly in slow motion. Of course she threw her right arm out to break the fall, and she still hit her head on the floor. But the pain in her wrist was worse than the headache.
I told you not to do it, The Voice said. Now, at least stay down. Don’t try to fight her. You’ve already lost.
Katie lay there gasping for breath, smelling the old, stale, spilled beer that had seeped into the floor. Someone helped her up. It was Scott, her husband, and she was in his arms, holding her wrist. The woman wanted to come after her again, but people restrained her.
The screaming started. Katie cowered in Scott’s arms screaming and screaming and screaming, while The Voice told her to stop acting this way, and people tried to restrain the angry woman with pop dripping from her soggy bangs.
“Get her out of here!” the manager demanded.
Scott half-carried her outside. She was hysterical and still screaming. The other woman followed them out to the car.
“What the f*** is wrong with you, you crazy b****?”
Katie couldn’t answer. All she could do was scream. Just scream. No words, just that high-pitched wail that was a good octave above any note she ever managed to reach when she sang.
Now why can’t you reach this pitch when you sing? The Voice asked. Stop it or you won’t be able to sing at all. Ever again.
The rage was gone and the remorse and regret and depression were overwhelming. She threw herself across the hood of the sky-car, feeling its warmth. She continued to sob, and the pain flared in her wrist again. Katie kept screaming. Her voice was going. It was gone. The screaming subsided and she began sobbing, hoarsely. Damn it. Her physical voice really was gone! The Voice was merging into the background and her mother was there. Linda Snodgrass had been dead for over five years, but she still appeared and yelled at Katie.
You stupid bitch! I told you ladies don’t fight. What the hell did you think you were doing?
“I don’t know why I did it, Mama. I think I broke my wrist,” she mumbled.
Serves you right.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry.”
Quit whining or I’ll give you something to be sorry for.
She started hearing what was going on around her.
Scott was there, and the manager and the woman and several bystanders but all she could do was cry and say “I’m sorry,” over and over.
“Who’s she talking to?” the woman asked. “She really is fucking crazy!”
“Katie is bi-polar,” she heard Scott explain.
“Get her out of here!” the manager yelled.
“I’m so sorrrrrreeeeeee,” Katie wailed hoarsely. Someone stayed with her while Scott went back inside to get her sweater and his keys. The sobbing and apologizing would go on for another hour or so. It was part of the pattern. She would apologize to everyone she met. And she would cry until she dehydrated herself and ran out of tears.
Rochelle Weber Rock Crazy Author Page at MuseItUp Publishing, Inc.

https://museituppublishing.com/musepub/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=163&Itemid=82

http://rochelleweber.blogspot.com/

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - PAST UNDONE

2011-04-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

Afternoon to you all.

A good week, a romantic week. William and Kate gave the world a day in which, for a brief moment, we could leave our troubled lives behind and share in their joy and revel in the majesty of a Royal occasion. No one does it quite like the Brits.
It was also a good week for me as I finally settled on a title for my recently finished ms. It is now officialy A Private Place. Also, for services to the British crown, my agent, received a knighthood. He is now known as Sir Maximus Rabbitus but, of course, still goes by the name of Rafa to his friends. You may have all seen him at the wedding, hiding behind Beatrice and Eugene's hats.

So on to my six of the week.....
I thought today, I would choose a six from my work, Past Undone. This m.s is doing the rounds as well a A Private Place so fingers crossed....

“Miss Jamison, there is a vast difference between being in love and loving someone. The first is often mere infatuation, a manic desire to possess the subject of one’s affection, mind, body and soul but it is a selfish love. On the other hand, loving someone, truly loving someone means giving them a part of you. It means promising to cherish and protect them for as long as you may live. It requires total unselfishness. This love needn’t be sexual but it’s a love that breathes life into your soul; a love you would willingly die for.

I leave you with a blurb and excerpt from Past Undone...

Blurb:

Sometimes Sofie Jamison wishes her father were a plumber. Her life certainly would be less complicated. At nearly twenty-one, she is a little tired of paying the price for her Director father’s caped crusader routine. She wouldn’t mind so much but the bodyguards he periodically hires to protect her possess as much charm and wit as Colonel Kaddafi.
Nik Lloyd is no exception. Mr. Lloyd has one simple set of rules: do as I say and don’t speak unless spoken to. Sofie wants to hate him on sight but it’s a little difficult when every time she looks at him, her feet leave the ground and she spins on an emotional roller coaster. Hidden away together in his beautiful Greek island home, Sofie soon realizes Mr. Lloyd is an ‘international man of mystery’, and a man, if his housekeeper is to be believed, who is hiding dark secrets. The housekeeper claims he is a tortured soul. The livid scar on his back convinces Sofie she may be right. Who does he cry for at night? It looks as if it will turn out to be one helluva weird summer. And just who is the mysterious young girl, Bella, who turns up out of nowhere, latching on to Sofie with all the tenacity of a limpet?

Excerpt:

“So, you took the job.”
Nik Lloyd closed the door and expelled a life-weary sigh. “Lily, you can’t keep barging in like this.” Ducking his head to avoid the scarred and pitted wooden door beam, he stepped down into the sitting room. The room was small, with a gentile shabbiness that betrayed its age. Nik loved it. The unsophisticated, rustic lines appealed to him. Disordered – like his psyche.
“Sorry.” Lily followed his every move, her eyes wide, innocent – too trusting.
“I would have lit the fire but…. You know how it is.”
Her smile dazzled him, turning his dark world into a place filled with love and - if not exactly joi de vivre - something close.
Not trusting himself to respond to her initial question, he crouched in front of the cast-iron grate and put a match to the already laid logs. Apple-scented wood spat and hissed into life, filling the room with their pleasing fragrance.
“It’s cold.” Wrapping arms around her wraithlike form, Lily shivered.
Nik smiled; Lily was always cold. Straightening up, he stretched his arms high above his head. His chin itched from two-day stubble. More than anything, he craved a long, hot soak, accompanied by a stiff measure of bourbon – or make that two. He’d cut down, his drinking now under control, but he knew Lily watched him like a hawk. That’s why he loved soaking in the tub. As audacious as she was, she abstained from sharing his bath time.
“So aren’t you going to tell me?” Graceful as a swan, she followed him into the tiny annex masquerading as a kitchen.
“Nothing to tell.” Avoiding her probing, he opened the fridge. Not much greeted him. Oh well, so be it. He was becoming pretty nifty at flipping omelets.
“You should shop more.” Lily sniffed in that irritatingly superior way of hers. “Your cholesterol must be sky high.”
“Lily,” Nik banged the frying pan down onto the unhealthy looking stove, “you should go. I need to be alone. I have to think this through and I can’t do that with you around.”
Silence brushed the back of his neck; a silence pregnant with hurt and rejection. Would he ever stop hurting her? He loved her. He always would but sometimes…. “I’m sorry, Lily.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I’m so tired of you doing that. I’m leaving. I know I am a pain but I worry about you. You know how much I care.”
Nik closed his eyes, her essence flooding his soul. Her warm breath caused the hairs on his arms to rise. Two years on and she still held him captive under her spell. Emptiness replaced the warmth in his heart. He knew she’d left him. Appetite gone, he turned off the gas and made for the tiny staircase tucked away in the corner of the cottage. He needed that bath – and drink – more than ever.
Negotiating the uneven steps, he pondered on his future. Was he doing the right thing? Common sense told him yes. It was time to pick up the reins of his damaged life and move on. If only he could shed the cruel mantle of guilt torturing his every waking moment, rendering sleep a distant memory.
Lily. Cranking up the thermostat dial on the upper landing wall, his old friend, sadness, crawled over him. Would he ever be free of her? Would guilt allow him to cut the fragile thread binding them together?

For more great Sunday Sixes check out this link http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/
Enjoy
Viviane Brentanos

http://corfu-author.tripod.com
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Viviane-Brentanos-Author-of-Womens-contemporary-Romantic-fiction/78109311746
http://myspace.com/chicholina
http://viviane-brentanos.blogspot.com
http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

WANT TO BE AN AUTHOR? YOU MUST BE NUTS

2011-04-28T05:21:00.000-07:00

Morning all, from the glorious island of Corfu. Yes, even here, wedding fever has struck. I did receive my invitation but, I decided not to go as there is a good movie on the box that day and I look stupid in hats.
so, on to the blog hop question of today Becoming an author, being a new author, and aspiring to be one is a confusing time. What is the most “difficult” hurdle you’ve encountered on your journey to fame and fortune.

Mmm - let me see. I think my biggest hurdle was sorting out all the paper work involved in setting up my Caymen islands bank account.

I mean, the assistent I hired to held me deal with the trials and trubulations of literary fame and fortune turned out to be useless. She ran off with the local pita shop man.

Of course, when I first put pen to paper, I never imagined it was so difficult to get published. The writing is the easy part - that is , if you have a pc and a working knowledge word and formatting etc. I didn't. It was something I had to teach myself.

I was also under the impression that agents and publishers alike would be falling over each other in the desperate race to snap up my first manuscript. I believed more was the name of the game.

My intitial effort stood at a grand total of 170,000 words of messy, pov and head hop mistakes. I loved it. It is the tale to which I have most conennection. Now, as I have grown as a writer {ha ha ha}, I have dug out this wondrous epic tale and slashed it down to 80k and fixed, I hope, all the glaring faults.

I digress, [as usual}. Back to my hurdles. I soon learned it is almost, if not more, difficult to find an agent than a publisher. Simple; I hired my rabbit, Maximus Rabbitus, to be mine. He is wonderful. Always loves everything I write and takes no cut of my amassed fortune. Initially, I was going to keep him on a private retainer but I believe he is now open to submissions. He is only looking at works from all herbivours but will consider unusual material from dogs and cats.

Okay, so I have my agent and, bless his little white paws, he has managed to land me contracts with MuseItHot Publishing.

The next hurdle in my journey to superstardom is the promotion - the bane of most authors. Newbies out there - you can't get out of it. It will take up of your time but it can be fun and I quite enjoy it. My problem is I also hold down a full time job during the summer months and this can oft frazzle my writing brain. Oh but please don't think I work because I need the money {remember Cayman islands}. It is purely for research purposes that I put up with four months of abuse from irate tourists who complain that they haven't a jacuzzi in their room even though they paid a grand total of 10 euros a night half-board.

Back to being a writer. I suppose I ought to stick to the question and answer what I believe to be my biggest hurdle. I suppose, I would have to say trying to educate people. It's a hard task convincing folk the that era of the ereader is upon us and that authors published with smaller presses are just as talented as those who have contracts with the big boys. And then, of course, up goes the cry - are you going to be rich? Why can't folk understand that we write because.... well....we can and we love it. Anything on top is just frosting. Nice frosting, yes, but it isn't what drives us. Yes, Mrs Harry Potter hit the big time, as did Mrs Twilight and Mr. Davinci Code but, as well as having talent and damn good stories {a must} they were in the right place at the right time. Publishing is a highly subjective field. I once wrote a blog thst likened it to dog showing.It went something like this....

Basically the pub game reminds me so much of dog showing.
She has gone mad, I hear you all say; too much Greek sun and retsina. What do I mean about dog showing? Let me explain, my children.
Back in the 80’s, I showed Afghan Hounds and rather successfully. We had 3 dogs in the ring but our high flyer was a silver blue brindle that did extremely well at championship level, making it to Crufts two years running. {well I have to brag} He was a beautiful specimen of Afghan, adhering to the breed standard. He became known on the circuit for having the perfect head.
In a championship level show, there can be as many as 50 dogs in each class - all equally of a very high standard. How does the judge pick a winner? At the end of the day, when faced with a sea of breed perfection, it all comes down to showmanship, presentation and the judges’ personal preference for a certain line. I soon learned this.
William was always groomed to perfection. Daily road work ensured he possessed Spartan muscle tone. I made sure his lead’s colour accentuated his coat colour. I made sure I wore dark trousers to show off his silver coat. I spent hours lead training him so that when he strode out the crowd gasped. I dtudied the judges past record and didn’t bother entering under a judge who I knew didn’t like my dog’s particular breed line.
Is submitting not the same? Its all about catching an agents or readers eye, I have read many extracts on the various promo loops and while some of the story lines are not to my taste, all have one thing in common. All these authors can write. It is a matter of finding that magical ingredient that will catch an editor’s eye. This is something, I believe, can be learned. I know it took me a while.
When I think of the initial query letters and synopsis I sent out, I cringe. But I learnt from my mistakes. I learnt about showmanship and now I have found 'judges' who appreciate my " pedigree".
See? I am not loopy after all - well not much.

The point of this rant - writing is not for the faint hearted. Are you ready for the long, often demoralising road? Do you write because you love it. If you want instant fame, well...I'd give Simon Cowell a call.Not a bad idea; I shall write to him and ask him to setme up
Have fun.
Join in the blog hop here http://bit.ly/mCySEi
Viviane

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time

2011-04-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

So, I am a tad embarrassed. My guest for this week did not show. Rather than upset my question schedule, I am opening the question as a free for all. Anyone who wishes to post an answer to this week's wacky question, go for it. Prize for best answer will be a free download of my Dreamweek.

Here goes....

You have just landed the job of Simon Cowell's assistent. His new project is to form a boy band. Your goal - to find him five contenders to take a spot in the band. Easy? Here is the catch. You must choose from the world's most important leaders to find your five. Have fun

Viviane

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - A PRIVATE PLACE

2011-04-23T05:02:00.000-07:00

Time again for Six Sentence Sunday. I was remiss last week but I plead being too immersed in my wip which, I am now proud to say, is no longer wip but complete. I have posted from this m.s before - usually an angst ridden six but I thought I would go with something more light hearted today....

He stood, leaning against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded in the stance she knew so well. The navy suit was businessman efficient. He’d always looked good in dark colours. But some things never change. Rebecca bit back a nervous giggle. Mr. J was still crap at ties.

A Private Place is as yet unpubbed but I am hoping to find a home for it soon. This tale holds a very special place in my heart. Here is a blurb and short excerpt:

Blurb:

Rebecca Harding is intelligent, witty and sometimes downright annoying. She is also damaged. To the outside world, she presents an image of a young woman in control, confident and cynical but no one knows her torment. In her nightmare, she is alone.
But then, Max Jackson enters her life when it is teetering on the brink. Despite a rocky start to their relationship, he becomes her salvation.
Max is the only person who knows the truth. He understands her fears and wants to protect her fragile heart. In Rebecca, he recognizes a kindred spirit. He would give anything to take away her pain but he comes to realize Rebecca has read more into his concern. He would rather die than hurt her but life throws him a curve ball, leaving him no choice but to walk away.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Max Jackson rested his head against the mullion window, watching the rain drum out its incessant beat. He wondered if he would ever get used to England’s capricious climate. A mundane deliberation. The weather was the least of his worries. What did he know about teaching? So, he wasn’t a total novice but an honors degree was no substitute for experience.
Tom, ever loyal, had faith in him – which was more than could be said for Max’s father. If he had, Max wouldn’t even be here, so no point heading down that long, sorry road, especially two days before the start of term and especially when he hadn’t even downed his first beer.
Raising the bottle to his lips, his gaze fixed on the photograph on top of the cast-iron fireplace. Kate’s cool beauty failed to invoke a gut-wrenching reaction. That spoke volumes. Max lobbed the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. He wouldn’t think about Kate. What was done was done.
He supposed he ought to go shopping. His stomach couldn’t handle another greasy take-away. Beans on toast it was. If he hurried, he’d make the tiny corner shop there and back in time for the rugby match. Besides, a walk in the rain just might clear the dusty cobwebs from his head.
Grabbing a black brolly from the stand, Max smiled at his reflection in the hall mirror. So English gentleman.
* * * *
Max slammed his beans onto the shop counter feeling anything but gentlemanly. His free-with- two- gallons- of- petrol umbrella had taken one look at the vigorous wind and had flown away with it. Water ran in cold rivulets down his neck and under his collar. Oh to be back in Sydney.
“Good afternoon. Just this, please and –”
“Hi, Mary.”
A riot of dark hair breezed in front of him.
“Sorry…”
The young voice was breathless, arrogant and not in the least bit sorry.
“Bloody pervert dog.” She threw down some coins and grabbed a Mars Bar from the chocolate stand. “Vicky left the front door open again and Wally made a break for it and I know he’s heading for Mrs. Blair’s poodle. The only way I can entice him home is with one of these.” She waved the chocolate bar precariously close to Max’s nose. “Stupid old bat. Why doesn’t she get her done? She really ought to pay me stud fees. I –”
“Excuse me but I do believe I was before you.” Patience on rice paper thin, Max attacked her with his best Aussie tough guy glint.
It didn’t have much effect. Eyes, the colour of velvet chocolate homed in and speared him with a look of such disdain that he squirmed. By the expression on her haughty face, he knew he’d been judged and definitely found wanting. Obviously deciding he’d taken up enough of her time, she turned back to the awaiting Mary.
“Thanks.” She picked up her change. Grabbing her Mars Bars, she spun on her Converse heels. “Bloody Colonials”
Max stared after her, speechless. “What.....” he turned to the smiling Mary. “….was that?”

Enjoy and a Happy Easter to all
Viviane

For more great six's, go to http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Marsha Moore

2011-04-18T02:12:00.000-07:00

Kalimera from a warm, sunny Corfu,

It is Easter weak - a huge event in the Greek Orthodox calender and Corfu is the place to be. The island is world famous for its spectacular celebrations and throughout the week, I will be posting pics and snippets of information. But on to todays Mad Muser question.

In the Hot seat, we have Marsha Moore, Muse It's very own 'mermaid' so who better than to answer my fun question...

Walt Disney comes back from the dead and is disgusted with the movies being produced in his name. He appoints you the task of revamping…yes, you guess it….The little Mermaid and making it a real-life movie as opposed to animated. What present day movie stars would you use to play a} Ariel b} Prince Eric and {have fun with this one} c}Ursela the sea witch.

Over to you Marsha...

This is an appropriate question since I’m certainly the Muse mermaid expert, having written Tears on a Tranquil Lake, a love triangle/adventure among a mermaid, a merman, and a pirate captain.
My taste in movies, actors, and actresses tends to be rather quirky. While Ariel is a sweet character, I’d likely select an actress capable of some spunk, wittiness, and dimension alongside her caring gentleness. My first choice would be Drew Barrymore. My second choice would be Renee Zellweger.
For Prince Eric it’s an easy choice--Johnny Depp. He’s one actor who can be convincing, charming, and funny in a fantasy setting and plenty sexy at the same time. I write fantasy romance and through five books, I have yet to not find a role for that man’s intriguing personality. The upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides has mermaids! Yeah! Cannot wait!
For Usela, another no brainer—Helena Bonham Carter. Who else could be crazy, wacky, devilish enough? And to hold her own with Mr. Depp? And to feel totally comfortable in a wild tentacled costume?

Mmm...interesting choices, Marsha. Thank you for your'professional' input.
What to know more about Miss Moore? Read on...
Marsha A. Moore is a romantic and a writer of fantasy romance. She loves being creative and enjoying the creativity of others in all art forms. Her other artistic pursuits include watercolor painting and drawing. She moved from Toledo to Tampa in 2008 and is happily transforming into a Floridian. Crazy about cycling, she usually passes the 1,000 mile mark yearly. She is learning kayaking and loving it. She’s also a yoga enthusiast and never has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at new stories with toes wiggling in the sand.

Tears on a Tranquil Lake:

What a surprise for a young woman, to find herself suddenly transformed into a mermaid.
Ciel’s first thought – track down the merman who changed her and make him reverse his magic.
Unable to find him, survival in her new world becomes paramount. She eagerly accepts help from a dashing pirate captain who takes a fancy to her, lavishing her with finery. When her merman does show up, he competes for her affection. One look into his eyes makes her life more complex -- he is her soul mate.
Which man will she choose – pirate captain or merman? Which life – human or mermaid? Caribbean adventures and dangers chase Ciel as she searches for decisions and the key to her happiness.

Warning: This book contains Haitian vodou, sultry wenches, foul-mouthed scalliwag pirates, overindulgence of fine Caribbean rum, and amorous encounters on deserted beaches.

ISBN: 978-1-926931-29-6

Hooked? Read a short excerpt...
Excerpt from Chapter 1, Tears on a Tranquil Lake, fantasy romance

The ‘gator wanted to drown me….make me an easier meal. A chill passed through my body and I shivered. Feverish heat built up inside me, spreading from my head and torso down my limbs. Eventually the wild drumbeat of my heart obliterated everything. I panicked and tried to move, but lacked control of my muscles. Immobile and helpless, I could only listen. The throbbing pulse dimmed as the lake’s waters claimed my life. I submitted…mind blank to all except the faint thump. For an immeasurably long time I heard its rhythm fading away. Seconds or dozens of minutes, I didn't know; altered perception foiled my judgment. Then, a touch against my face—shattering my delirium.Fear engulfed my barely conscious mind. What was it? Death seemed welcome compared to experiencing an alligator attack upon my body.
Something soft caressed my lips, not at all like hard reptilian scales. My sense of touch heightened. Encouraged by returning consciousness, I struggled against the darkness. My eyes searched, yet still failed to see.
Soon, I understood the feeling of lips pressing upon mine. Their burning heat made me panic. I tried to jerk back, but had no muscle control, no way to resist. They forced my lips apart, and a fiery tongue thrust inside my mouth.
In short time my limbs tingled with renewed sensation. Attempting to thrash my arms, I found them both secured.The mysterious tongue persisted, searing my own.
Strangely, the warmth moved across my entire body and I calmed, mesmerized by this unusual kiss. In some curious manner it restored my consciousness. Peacefulness spread over me, and I accepted this connection as my life force. Our kiss grew pleasurable and I slipped my tongue along the other. Waves of passion rippled through my body and I desired whatever being touched me. Wanting to know more, I opened my eyes. Light pained my limited vision.
A hazy image flashed in front of me.
I pulled back, ending the kiss and viewed a sweep of dark hair turning away, moving up toward the surface.
Marsha's links..

http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage-ask.tpl&product_id=124&category_id=2&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1

http://www.marshaamoore.com/

http://www.marshaamoore.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/MarshaAMoore

http://www.facebook.com/marshaamooreauthorpage

So, folks, there you have it; an insight into Marsha's world. Who would you choose to play Areil? Please leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Tranquil and tune in next Monday when Killarney Sheffield will be here to battle with whatever task my devious mind can come up with.
Viv

AUTHOR BLOG HOP-WHAT SOFTWARE HELPS ME WRITE

2011-04-14T06:09:00.000-07:00

Morning all from Corfu,

Sorry I could not join you last week but, what with the 'visit', I had to do some spring cleaning.

Well, it’s Thursday blog hop time again, that wonderful day when we all get to answer a question in our blogs and then share. This week’s question is – what soft ware do you use when writing?
Being none too pc savvy, I had to think for a minute. Soft ware? That would be my comfy pyjamas. Being a bit of a cheat, I clicked on to blogs all ready posted and came away thinking, hell, I cannot compete with that. Okay, so I am not that ditsy. I do know all about word and windows media blah blah but I thought it would be fun to give you my tongue in cheek take on my most precious soft ware so here is my list of what soft ware is essential for my creative juices to flow.

First off - An essential that all authors, pubbed or aspiring need; a comfy 'soft' chair

After all, this is where I spend most of my time parked so it makes sense. Which brings me on to the nest soft essential. A nice, soft arse to hold up all that creative genius.

Comfy clothes are essential in this job.I spend all the winter dressed in a variety of my son's cast-off heavy metal t.shirts and pyjama bottoms. Lovely soft material

Now I am dressed, time for a crispy soft croissant and coffee

Before I begin, its time for my morning meeting with my agent. He is one of the softest agents I know

Okay, so now I am set to rattle off a couple of masterpieces before it is time for a lovely soft piece of cake and a cup of tea

Time for a bit of soft music from the lovely Darren{ you can't get any smoother or softer than him}

Which brings me on the highlight of my day. A beautiful soft pita all washed down bu a soft golden glass of mythos beer.

Of course by the now, I am exhausted from negotiating my way around all the soft ware I need to sustain me through my writing so time to fall into bed and dream up my next plot, staring the man with some of the sexiest eyes and softest lips on the planet.

Well, folks. I hope this answered the blog question. I have to say, I am a great fan of software.

See ya,

Viv

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Roseanne Dowell

2011-04-11T02:35:00.000-07:00

And a very glorious Corfu Monday it is too. So, without further ado, I would like to welcome this week's Monday Muser's victim, the wonderful and extremely talented Ms. Roseanne Dowell. When I presented her with her question, I think the poor lady nearly passed out but she has written a beautiful answer for us all. My question was....

If you had three wishes what would you wish for? Haha - not so easy. These wishes must be entirely selfish. No world peace blah blah. This is all about you.

I turn you over to Roseanne...

Three selfish wishes. Wow, that's a tough one. Probably the first wish would be: for me and my husband's health. For no diabetes and blood pressure problems and no emphysema for hubby. It would be great to take a walk and not have to stop and rest until he can breathe. I'd love to be able to do some of the things I used to do, like hiking. Of course that includes being the weight I was 10 years ago. It's much easier to do things when your thin.
My second wish is for all my children and grandchildren to live long, happy, healthy lives and for me to see my grandchildren married and settled down. My parents got to see this with their grandchildren and they were so proud.
The third wish was originally going to be for a lot of money so my children and grandchildren didn't have to struggle. But I thought about it and my husband and I had to struggle all our lives just to make ends meet. I think that struggle helped make me who I am today. What kind of person would I be if everything had been handed to me. So instead instead of a lot of money, I'd like enough to be a little more than comfortable. I'd like to not watch how we spend every penny. It would be fun to be able to buy something for someone, and not have to give something else up. And oh, how I'd love to buy Christmas gifts. Fun things, things my children and grandchildren couldn't buy for themselves. And of course, I'd help make it easier for them. No reason they have to stuggle all the time, especially in this economy.
So those are my three wishes.

Lovely thoughts, Roseanne and thank you for stopping by. Roseanne is out of the very talented MuseItUp and MuseItHot stable of wonderful writers. Here is a little bit about her..

Roseanne Dowell is an avid reader and writes various types of romance - paranormal, contemporary, and mystery. She has several books published as well as over 40 articles and short stories published in magazines such as Good Old Days, Nostalgia, and Ohio Writer and several online publications. Besides teaching writing courses for Long Story School of Writing www.lsswritingschool.com ,she also taught two writing courses for the Encore Program at Cuyahoga Community College.

Roseanne lives in Northeast Ohio and where she enjoys life as a wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother, Besides writing, Roseanne enjoys embroidery and quilting, especially combining the two.

For a taste of just how wonderful a writer Roseanne is, here is a blurb and excerpt from her current release...

Blurb: Stranger on the Shore
It’s not every day you find a body washed up on your shore, but that’s exactly what happened to author, Jordan Blake, during an early Lake Effect snowstorm. So much for her quiet existence.
While she’s on her deck securing chair cushions and chairs, something along the rocky shoreline caught her eye. A body? Hard to tell from where she stood.
Not being one to ignore someone in need, she rushed across the yard. It was a body all right–a male’s body. Thank God he was alive, but unfortunately unconscious. After much pulling, rolling and pushing, Jordan manages to get him into her house. Finally inside, undressed and into something dry, she finds herself strangely attracted to the man.
More than a storm rages inside and out.

Excerpt from Strange on the Shore

“Darn, it’s getting cold.” Jordan shivered and zipped her sweat shirt. She hated storms, hated thunder and lightning most of all. Grabbing at some papers that flew across the deck as the wind picked up, a movement caught the corner of her eye. Something washed up on the shore. Something big. A body?
Jordan jumped off the deck and raced toward the craggy shoreline. Dark clouds hovered across the lake. Cold water splashed against her as waves crashed against the rocks like angry arms hurling water at an invisible enemy. The crash of thunder echoed across the lake. Ducking her head as lightening streaked across the sky and the air crackled with electricity, she thought she must be nuts. Probably just a bunch of old clothes washed up. Still, she had to see for herself.
Surely, no one in their right mind would be in the water this time of year? There had been storm warnings on the radio all morning. No one would be stupid enough to ignore the forecast. Would they? Heavy rain and strong winds then turning to snow, with a drastic drop in temperature, and blizzard-like conditions weren’t anything to ignore. Jordan winced as lightning flashed again, back-lighting the dark clouds. Darn it, she wanted to be inside cuddling by the fire not out here in a storm. For two cents, she’d turn around and go back. But something drew her forward.
A man’s body against the rocks.
Oh, Lord, please don’t let him be dead. She had planned for a quiet weekend, writing. A weekend with a corpse wasn’t on her list of quiet. But she couldn’t leave him out here either.
Jordan came closer and stooped down next to him. Lifting his head out of the water, above the crashing waves, she felt for a pulse. Thank God, he’s alive. Now how to get him out of here? She grabbed his arm, rolled him over and tried to pull him from the fury of the lake. Wave after wave pounced on him, their foamy peaks trying to reclaim him. Lord, if she ever needed help, now was the time. Struggling to roll him to higher ground, she lost her breath. His long, muscular frame outweighed her slender five foot two body and felt like dead weight.
“You’re going to have to help me.” Jordan grunted and gasped for breath when the full force of icy waves pulled her down and washed over both of them.
No response.
“Damn it. I can’t do this alone.”
Still no response.
Great, how was she going to pull him to safety? “I hate to do this, but I see no alternative.” Jordan took a deep breath and pushed him over, rolling him like a barrel and trying to avoid cutting him on the sharp rocks. It wasn’t easy, but at least he moved.
“Come on!” Jordan tried to encourage some life from his limp body. Once he was far enough away from the waves, she stared at him for a moment, before leaning down to give him mouth to mouth. His long straight nose, eyes set wide with bushy eyebrows and the grin on his lips, even in his unconscious state, sent a ripple of excitement through her body.
Not a handsome man, but something about him caused heat deep inside her. Shrugging off the urge to run her fingers through his curly black hair, she began mouth to mouth. When her mouth touched his lips, opened them slightly, something familiar tugged on her heart. She hadn’t touched a man's lips in, what, three years. This wasn’t exactly the way she imagined touching them again. Not that she ever imagined it. Never even thought about it. She’d had enough of men to last her a lifetime.

Roseanne's links
http://museituppublishing.com/musepub/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=104&Itemid=82

http://roseanne-dowell.tripod.com/

http://roseannedowellauthor.blogspot.com/

Tune in next week when the Muse's own 'Mermaid', Marsha Moore, slips into the hot seat.

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY -BROKEN DREAMS

2011-04-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

It's Six Sentence Sunday time again and, once again, I am posting a six from my reworking of an old m.s. I have been tossing titles around in my head for this one. It is rather an angsty tale so I want to come up with the right one. Meanwhile, I leave you with my six, literally just hot off the press and another raw excerpt....

A silent laugh dragged at her throat. How ironic. After all she’d suffered, all she’d triumphed over, here she was, destroyed by a broken heart. Her hand closed around her father’s sleeping pills.Her hands shook as she tipped two of the white tablets into her hand.Swallowing them without water, she crept back to her room and locking out the world, she prayed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

Check out more wonderful sixes at this link
http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/
Excerpt:

The surreal scene that met his eyes made dread crawl over his skin like a dose of shingles. Alerted by screams, a crowd had gathered, cheering and laughing in that cruel manner adopted the world over by blood-lust hungry teenagers. Yelling at them to move out of his way, he pushed through. Brendan Hanna lay on the ground, curled up in a foetal position, blood-streaked hands holding his head in an attempt to ward off Rebecca’s brutal attack. He cried; he actually cried in fear and Max didn’t blame him.
Screaming at him with Exorcist-style obscenities, Rebecca kicked out at him again and again, her hair in disarray, her features contorted with pure rage and hate.
“Rebecca!” His command didn’t penetrate the frenzied assault. “Rebecca, stop.” She left him no choice. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off the ground and dragged her away. Turning in his arms, she lashed out at him, her eyes wide and crazed, screaming and screaming. Her torment broke his heart in two. “Rebecca.”
No response.
“Rebecca, stop!” In his arms, she grew less stiff. “It’s okay.” He lowered his tone to a bare whisper so only she could hear him. “It’s me. I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s over. Rebecca, look at me.” Tentatively, he relaxed his tight grip. “Look at me.” Hands on her face, he tilted her face up, forcing her to focus and look into his eyes. “Forget about everything else. I just want you to concentrate on me. That’s it. Take a deep breath.” He coaxed her down from the near-hyperventilation, thumb stroking her chin.”
“Oh my, God, what the hell happened, here.” Tom materialised at his side whilst Fiona rushed to Brendon’s aid. The boy remained in a ball, whimpering like a frightened child. “Get back, you morbid bunch of idiots. Show’s over. Will, help me get him to my car. We can get him to a hospital quicker. God, what a bloody mess. What the hell did she do to him?”
Max didn’t know and he didn’t care; he focused all his attention on the near-catatonic girl in his arms. Whatever punishment she’d inflicted on Brendon, intuition told him the boy deserved it. “Here.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “Go and wait in my car.” Rebecca didn’t move. She swayed against him and for one terrifying moment he thought he was losing her. “Rebecca, Go! For once in your life do as you’re bloody told.” His feigned anger jolted her out of her trance. For a split second, she looked at him as if she hated him but she took the keys and, head held high, she walked to his car.
“What’s going on, Max?” Will looked dazed, as they all did. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was....like an animal.”

Enjoy.
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Monday Muser's Mad Question Time

2011-04-04T02:06:00.000-07:00

Good day, happy little Musers. Starting off the Muse Monday happy blog is my dear friend, critique partner and fellow Gerard Butler fancier, Christine London. Her question is…

Knowing your penchant for all things and persons British, if you had to chose one British woman, historical or contemporary, whom you most admire, who would you choose and why?
Take it away, Chris....

Thanks for hosting me today Viv and for your fresh approach. Viva the questions that don't focus on our path to publication or writing style!

My first proclivity was to choose a contemporary woman that might spark recognition in everyone's eye. Lady Di and her tireless campaigning to rid third world nations of landmines, the Queen mum and her one hundred years living in both spotlight and shadow of royalty, or even Margaret Thatcher as she parried with some of the world's most powerful men.

And then my choice became as suddenly clear as this woman's meteoric rise to fame. On April 11, 2009 a plain middle-aged woman from Blackburn East Lothian Scotland took the stage on one of the United Kingdom's most popular reality television shows. The juxtaposition of the audience's first impression of her, with the standing ovation she received during and after her performance, led to an international media and internet tsunami. Within nine days of the audition, videos of her from the show, and various interviews had been watched over 100 million times. Since that time, her audition video has been viewed on the internet several hundred million times.

So unpretentious, unguarded and fresh was her rendition of I Dreamed A Dream, such an icon of everyday woman, Ms Susan Boyle brushed the gates of heaven. If she could grasp her brass ring, then so could we all. Frumpiness, unibrow and graceless appeal washed away as she sang into the blinding lights of Britain's Got Talent. Even Simon stood, smiling broadly, and applauded.

In years past such moments have been witnessed by the lucky few who might be in their presence. In the spring of 2009, the world paused to touch the face of God with her.
In September 2010, Boyle was officially recognized by Guinness World Records as having had the best selling debut album of a female artist, the most successful first week sales of a debut album in the UK, and was also awarded the record for being the oldest person to reach number one with a debut album in the UK.
Thanks for allowing us to dream with you, Susan, and to believe that just maybe anything is possible.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OcQ9A-5noM

Okay, so good answer from Chris. Tune in next week when Ms. Roseanne Dowell will be in the hot seat. Meanwhile, here is a blurb and excerpt from Ms. London's wonderful
Shadows Steals the Light

Author: Christine London
Genre: Contemporary Romantic Suspense Erotica
Release: February 1, 2011
Editor: Fiona-Young Brown
Line: Antonia Tiranth
Cover artist: Delilah K. Stephans
Word count: 95,863
Pages: 258
ISBN: 978-1-926931-34-0
E-book price: $5.95
Warning: Contains moderate violence and/or sexual

Blurb:
It’s love at first sight for rock star Colin Dunlow when he runs into sultry jazz singer, Jenna Lindstrom, with a few complications. The woman of his dreams hates rockers and there’s someone who wants him dead.
Excerpt:
He heard the pop of a gun. Diving behind the mailbox bolted to the edge of the curb, heart racing in his throat, he rolled back into a crouch. The silver coupe had turned and was now coming at him along the sidewalk. He bolted across the street and ran, full tilt into a side street bordered by old twenties houses interspersed with more modern apartment complexes. Craning his neck for a brief backward glance, he spilled over the tire of a bicycle and into a row of similarly parked bikes outside the entrance to an apartment building. Tumbling onto the grass easement between sidewalk and street, he scrambled to his feet, looking for the coupe. It was turning the corner from 32nd Street parallel to the Shrine, onto his side street. Searching frantically for someway, something to slow the vehicle down, he picked up one of the bicycles, now flattened in a domino effect against the others and flung it into the street.
He looked back toward the approaching coupe: a maelstrom of jacaranda blossoms swirled in its wake as it accelerated toward him. He took off down the sidewalk again, this time not looking back. The centrifugal force behind the speed of his flight projected him out into 30th Street as he flew around the corner toward Figueroa. At an all out sprint, he dashed across the major artery, dodging the still clogged traffic exiting the Shrine toward the freeway. Running past Carl’s Junior, he headed for the overpass just the other side of Flower Street.
Shite. Who the hell? His mind raced on ahead of him as he pumped his arms in Olympic exertion. Having the green chain link mesh of the overpass fencing in clear view, he risked a glance back. The coupe was weaving around the cross traffic of Figueroa in perfunctory fashion, nearly clipping the bumper of a black SUV. Only one way out; he bolted toward the fence, leaping in upward propulsion, reaching for the top crossbar, propelling himself over with raw strength, determination and adrenaline.
His body slammed against the freeway overpass sign, dangling like the condemned from the gallows. Hands clamped tightly to the crossbar, teeth gritted, he lowered his chin to look below him. A catwalk of sorts, supporting lights for the sign, was but a few meter drop. He stole one more glance toward the street, just catching a blur of silver going north around the corner on Flower, toward downtown, the freeway flyover and against traffic. The metallic clunk and reverberation up his legs as his feet landed on the catwalk jarred him into a contracted crouch. Looking behind and down, he saw the rooftops of lethargic traffic scooting forward in preemptory battle to get ahead.
The unmistakable sound of large masses of metal being compacted came from the direction of Flower Street. An ivy cover fence screened any view of what had occurred. It wasn’t thirty seconds later, as Colin assessed the distance to the pavement, that he saw the form of a man catapulting over the ivy clad fence, leaping onto the overpass.
Head and face covered with a black ski mask, the identity of his pursuer was impossible to detect. Judging from the agility and muscularity of the man, Colin was in for some serious trouble. Damn! He timed his descent to coincide with the eighteen-wheeler passing under him. Pulling in a resolute lungful of air, he leapt.
The roof of the truck gave slightly with the impact of his weight. Its forward movement was slow enough, that it jolted him from his feet onto his knees, but did not propel him head over heels. Palms flat, he braced himself in anticipation of greater force. Shooting a glance at the receding over pass, he saw the darkly clothed athletic figure of the man in the ski mask land on a truck with a short red trailer, not two lengths behind him. Colin searched three hundred sixty degrees, twisting his crouched body to obtain the widest possible panorama of the rapidly degrading situation. His options were narrowing.
As the red truck moved forward, its driver signaled a lane change toward the left. Traffic was beginning to pick up speed as the effects of the merging onramp were diminishing. Wind now played a factor in not only his stability, but his ability to see as his long hair whipped about his cheeks and eyes. He moved along the roof toward the cab, remaining crouched to preserve what advantage a lower center of gravity might afford.
He felt, rather than saw, his assailant landing on the cold reflective grey of the truck’s roof; vibrating shockwaves caused by the weight of his body striking the rear of the trailer telegraphed through the metal like a seismic shock. Colin turned to see the man leaping across the long surface of the roof. Who is this…f**king Spiderman? Colin’s racing thoughts jumbled in an upset of twisted incomprehension as he tried to force his mind to cooperate through the serge of adrenaline-laced resolve coursing through him.

Reviews: I really liked this one. And maybe it was because some of the plot points hit pretty close to home (no, I don’t think anyone has ever tried to kill me), but I thought that Christine London did a remarkable job with capturing the intricacies of emotional turmoil and struggle. -One Hundred Romances Project 4 stars-READ FULL REVIEW

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SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - IN LOVE - MOI?

2011-04-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's that time of the week again. I thought I would post from my wip, again {working title Class Act}. I have been steaming along with this and I am quite enamoured with my leading man.

Love - Rebecca Harding didn’t do love. She wouldn’t know where to begin. No, she hadn’t meant that. She didn’t love him because she didn’t know him and that would mean it was nothing more than a school girl crush and she, Rebecca Harding would never stoop so low. What she meant was she admired him. Yes, that was it; admire was a good word.

Does anyone remember that time when you first realised you were in love? It can make one feel so vulnerable. How would you sum up first love in one word? The best answer wins a free download of their choice from my backlist. Meanwhile, here's another excerpt from the newbie:....

CH ONE

A hard rain drummed out an incessant beat. Max Jackson rested his head against the mullioned windowpane and wondered if he’d ever get used to the capricious climate. A mundane deliberation, really. The weather was the least of his worries. Ok, it wasn’t as if he was a total novice but teaching English to foreign adults wasn’t much in the way of preparation for a class of twenty or more hormonal teenagers. All the degrees in the world couldn’t make up for hard experience.
A sense of inadequacy blotted out his earlier good mood. What the hell was he doing there? Tom was nuts.
Despite his black mood, he smiled. Tom Black – the only one amongst his Oxford chums who’d matched him pint for pint. Now the conscientious headmaster of Thamesford Independent School? He laughed out loud. How insane was that? Even crazier; he’d offered Max the post of substitute teacher of English without hesitation. That was Tom; ever loyal, always having faith in him. Was he up to the job? Certainly he knew his father didn’t think so but then his father didn’t believe him capable of much.
Max gave himself a mental kick up the butt; it wasn’t the time to be heading down that long, sorry road and, besides, he hadn’t finished his first beer. Time to remedy that.
Crossing to the chintz sofa, he sat and picked up the bottle of Fosters from the rosewood occasional table. Ice-cold nectar worked a satisfying trail down his throat. His gaze strayed to the photograph on top of the cast-iron fireplace. For once, Kate’s cool beauty failed to invoke a gut-wrenching reaction. Max lobbed the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. He wouldn’t think about Kate. What was done was done.

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WHAT'S IN A GENRE?

2011-03-31T11:06:00.000-07:00

I have never really got to terms with all these different genres now floating around the writing world. For me, anything that has a love interest present is romantic and when I was a mere lowly reader, as opposed to an even merer and lowlier author, I didn’t give two willies about genre. I picked up a book, read the blurb and if it tweaked my interest, I bought it. Too much analyzing, folks: Romantic fiction, contemporary romance, suspense, historical suspense, futuristic suspense, futuristic romance with flash backs to historical. Chick lit, mummy lit, manny lit, nanny lit, Erotic, Erotica, paranormal, historical suspense, and romantic erotic starring aliens from outer space – gay aliens at that all dressed up as cowboys. Anyway, barring the outer space angle, I think Tolkien pretty much covered everything in Lord of the Rings.

I think I will create a new category. How about; anything I bloody want it to be romance coz its fantastic and you ought to buy it? Have I answered this question? Probably not but I have had fun trying. Back to work I go on my romance whatever it turns into and if any agent or publisher is reading this - I plead insanity.

Viviane

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - MY FIRST WRITING LOVE

2011-03-26T04:31:00.000-07:00

I know it sounds weird but I was glad you bawled me out. Do you know how annoying it is to have everyone walk on egg shells around me? I hate being treated as if I am some basket case and it’s so...so patronising. And then you arrived and I thought, finally, someone who doesn’t know about the ‘accident’ and probably wouldn’t care anyway.”
” Did I come across as so heartless?”
“Yes...no,” She shrugged her shoulders, “Thing is, I respected you for your honest treatment of me and then

They say you never get over your first love. I think this applies to our writing also. My first attempt at a novel, begun in the spring of 2004 and finished by Septemeber. It was a great summer that year. Greece won the Euro soccer 2004 turnament, Athens hosted a wonderful Olympic games, I discovered the wonderful talent of one singer/song-writer extraordinaire, Darren Hayes and I fell in love with my novel's hero - a one Mr. Max Jackson. Of course, my 170,000 word ms was unpolished, rife with first time author hideous mistakes and consequently did not find a home. Since then, I have completed five novels, four published and one on the submission trail but I keep coming back to Max. I want him back in my life. I want us to share that joyous, heady relationship we once had so....I a giving him a second chance. This time, after many failed attempts at ironing out the glitches in our 7 year relationship, I want to make it work. I will make it work. We share too much history to give up on him. I leave you with a small, raw excerpt from Class Act {working title.} Enjoy....

She ran; ran so hard the sound of her own breathing hammered against her skull. Her heart raced. A tight band clawed at her chest, the pain excruciating but she couldn’t stop. To do so would be to die. Low-hung branches scratched and whipped at her face. She wiped at her cheeks, feeling the warm stickiness, knowing it was blood; her blood. Feet tangled in hidden roots and she tumbled to her knees. Panic caused bile to rise into her dry, raw throat. “No,” she moaned. “I have to keep going.” Drawing on every last vestige of strength left in her battered body, she stumbled to her feet. He drew closer; she heard his heavy lop-sided gait as he crashed through the trees. His foul, enraged curses carried through the still of the night, searing her ears and chilling her to the core. “No, please, Daddy. Where are you?” Her dry sobs were futile, she knew. She was on her own. No one was coming to save her. He was closing in. His acrid stench filled her nostrils and she whimpered. Down she went again, knees connecting with a sharp stone, cutting into already too abused flesh. Her skin crawled as her pursuer curled a calloused hand around her neck. “Not so fast, you bitch.....”

Rebecca shot up in bed. Hand shaking, she found the bedside lamp switch and the room flooded with welcome, warm apricot. Whimpering his own fears, Wally shuffled on to her lap and licked the tears from her cheeks. “It’s ok, Wally,” she whispered, fondling her loyal friend’s silk ears. “He didn’t get me. He didn’t get me.” Clutching the dog to her damp, sweat soaked body, she wept into his coat. “You won’t tell, will you? No, I know you won’t. You understand. Best they believe what they want. I don’t have to remember, do I?” She turned off the light and she lay, mentally exhausted, back down against the pillows. She was safe. She only dreamt the dream once a night. For now, it was over. She closed her eyes.

She couldn’t run anymore. Her legs held no strength, her lungs empty of oxygen. Blood covered her hands, smeared her torn and dirty t-shirt. Head bent to her knees, she curled into a foetal ball. She cried again but this time her tears were for her father. He wasn’t coming. No one was.
“Rebecca.”
Head raised, she squinted through the threatening dark. A silhouette, tall, upright, stepped out from the shadows, whispers of ethereal moonlight dancing on his smooth, strong face. He held out a hand. “Rebecca, it’s ok. I have come for you. You’re safe now.” Warmth thawed her frozen soul. She believed him. She trusted him. His gentle tone held compassion; love. He would protect her – with his own life, if need be.
“Daddy...” Tentatively she reached for his out stretched fingers. They entwined with hers. His touch calmed her. Everything was going to be alright. “Daddy...hold me.”
Strong warm arms scooped her up and held her close in their protective folds. “Shh...Don’t cry, honey. I am here. I will always be here. No one will ever hurt you again. I would rather die than let that happen.”
Breathing in the warm scent of him, Rebecca closed her eyes and let his words lull her to sleep. Cool lips brushed against her cheek. Her eyes flew open. Raising her head, she stared into eyes the colour of sea-green.......

Rebecca woke with a start. Fingers twisted in sheet folds, she pulled it over her head. My god – what was wrong with her?
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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2011-03-24T12:19:00.000-07:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2) Bill Shakespeare.

Are names important? You bet. A name is often our first connection to someone and, as we shouldn't judge a book by its cover, we often sum people by their name - until we get to know them a little better, of course.
Examples:

Elmer - sorry for any Elmers out there but conjures up an image of a Louisiana moonshine swamp boy.

Rupert: A Lord Byron wannabee popinjay with Robert Pattison hair {quite nice image. actually}

John: Strong, dependable, hardworking family man. Think The Walton’s and you’ll get my drift.

Henry: Hurrah – speaks for itself. Green wellies and fox-hunting.

And on to the ladies
Drizella: ugly – as in sister. Heaving bosom and as string of pearls. Probably gives singing lessons in a Victorian parlor.

Fiona: A wee Scottish lady in a tweed shirt and walking stick, a basket of heather and oatcakes in her hand. Probably secretly yearns for a good rutting session on the moors with her secret love, Jamie

Cassandra: Ooooh cool ice-queen. Poised, super-intelligent and most likely possessing the gift of foreseeing the future. I can see her in cool ivory linen, a cloche hat on a precision cut Nordic blonde bob.

When I choose names for my heroes, I like to go for the short and snappy and traditional but also a name that will command attention; a name that will conjure up sexy but dependable, intelligent. Daniel, David, James, Michael. For my ladies, again I tend to go for the old-fashioned. Rachel, Sarah, Rebecca. I love names that end in ‘a’, that can be shortened. Isabella – Izzie. Elysianna – Ellie. Cassandra – Cassie.
A name must trip lightly from a readers lips, a sensual caress to the inner ear.

As for book titles, sometimes they come to me in a flash. Other times, I will lie awake all night long, fretting that I will never find anything to make me happy. I usually try to have a title tie in with one line form my story.
Example.
Written in Stone “Stranger things have happened. Nothing is written in stone, Jamie.”
So, folks, just remember; a writer's life is not an easy one. Decisions, decisions and please - choose your childrens'names wisely....

Viv

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY -

2011-03-19T09:08:00.000-07:00

This week, my six comes from Fragile Dreams

“How? How did you know?”
“It wasn’t difficult.” Expression neutral, he laid his book face-down on the table. “You wear your emotions so flagrantly. You were too happy. I sensed someone was rocking your world and it wasn’t me.”

Fragile Dreams holds a special place in my heart. It is probably the one work in which I have injected so much of myself. Continuing my love affair with all things Greek, and following the success of Dreamweek, it seemed a logical step to create another tale set on the enchanting imaginary Greek island of Kuros.
Re-introducing some of Dream’s main characters, I have, once again, leaned on my experiences working within the travel industry to provide much of the backdrop. But the love story is all brand new. This is a tale that touches on many issues; psychological bullying, culture clash, controlling spouses – all mixed in with a young woman’s battle to recover her self-esteem after struggling with Breast Cancer {based on my personal experience. I am hoping to donate any future royalties to cancer research. I believe Fragile is a tale that goes beyond a simple romance and will touch something in all of us. Here is a short blurb and excerpt:

Introducing Elysiana Rouva and the young Michael. Drawn together by an inexplicable bond, they share so much more than mere physical attraction. Ellie is at the point where she is questioning her life. Recently overcoming a long, hard battle with breast cancer, she is vulnerable and depressed. Her husband Pavlos, although outwardly supportive, provides her with no real comfort. Their marriage is a farce. She no longer loves him and is not threatened by his numerous affairs or his obsession with his work. Her friends say all the right words but she cannot make them understand.
Enter Michael. Michael becomes Ellie’s salvation. The young man Pavlos sends to tend their garden turns Ellie’s world on its head. As for Michael, Ellie provides escape from a past clouded with bad memories. Can she rid his heart of so much betrayal?

Excerpt:

Ellie awoke, refreshed and feeling alive. For the first time in months, she’d slept like a baby. But now, a new day dawned, Pavlos had gone and….who was she trying to kid? Tomorrow was here. He was coming.
I’m only excited, she told herself as she showered, because finally the rose garden will be sorted. No other reason. Nothing whatsoever to do with captivating grey eyes and a tender smile. Genuine. That was the word scurrying around in her head. She sensed his interest in her. It felt good.
Ignoring Maria’s disapproving stone expression as she washed up a wine glass, Ellie poured out a cup of coffee. Good, strong Columbian. None of the decaf rubbish Pavlos tried to make her drink.
“Maria,” leaning against the worktop, she sipped at the fragrant brew, “It was one friggin glass, not a bottle. But I am sure you will report back how you see fit. Either way, Kyria Rouva will be delighted I have transgressed yet again. Just make sure you tell her I opened one of dear, departed’s finest cava red.”
Maria didn’t respond but the crashing of wet dishes told Ellie she’d got in her first serve. Her mother-in-law thought she was so clever by hiring her cousin to ‘help’ around the home. It had taken Ellie all of one day to suss that the sour-faced women was there in capacity as a spy. A staunch tee-totaler, her mother-in-law didn’t approve of women drinking but then she didn’t approve of much, least of all loose-moral foreign girls running off with her beloved first born. Ten years had passed and Ellie was over it. She didn’t care what Pavlos’ mother thought of her. With the benefit of hindsight, she was only surprised he’d found the guts to stand up to the Gorgon matriarch and marry her at all. Glancing at the brass clock above the ornate china cabinet, Ellie drained her mug. Time to hit the pool.
The bikini was new. Still bandeau style, it kept the prosthesis in place and — more importantly — hid the scars but the bottoms were definitely sexy. Pavlos hadn’t seen it yet but then, she hadn’t bought it with the purpose of enticing him. Actually, she didn’t know why she’d bought it. When she’d laid it out on her bed, it had taunted her, clearly screaming what were you thinking? And to think she’d nearly given it to Lisa. Well now she needed it because….. Oh God, she was acting daft; plain teenage, immature daft.
“I’m a married woman,” she chanted as she rubbed Piz Buin into her skin. “Old enough to be his mother.” Ok, so that was stretching it a bit. She’d settle on big sister. Besides, he wasn’t even that good looking. For a start, his nose was too long and how the hell had she noticed that?
“I am insane.” She addressed the Red Arrow team of house-martins skimming the pool’s surface. Yesterday she acted like a gauche schoolgirl. Today she would be in control; professional and short to the point. He knew what to do so there would be no need to hang around. She would call Lisa and go into town.
So why, three hours on, did she lay on the sun-bed, morose, with all earlier sense of well-being evaporating up into a cloud of doom? Maybe she had that bi-polar thing. Ok, reality check. Disappointment raked at her soul. Tears sprung; hot, grit tears of rejection — which was silly because how could one reject someone one barely knew? Could Pavlos be right? She should call up Dr. Balis. It wasn’t possible to continue in this way. Her emotions were out of control, a cartwheel spinning too fast and furious.
“Good morning”
A dazzling shower exploded in her heart. And God said let there be light…
“I’m sorry for coming so late but I was on airport duty last night. There was a major delay. I didn’t get to bed until—”
“Late?” Aiming for casual, Ellie sat up. “Is it? I didn’t notice. I was reading….” Too late. No book in sight. She left it on the kitchen table.
He smiled his understanding, obviously too kind to point out this tiny discrepancy. The glasses were perched on his head which didn’t do a lot to bridge the troubled waters between her sanity and downright lunacy. Today, he’d dressed in shorts. On Pavlos, the gaudy Aussie-style floral print of blue and orange would have looked ridiculous but Michael made them look good. He wore no shirt and fine beads of sweat lined his broad shoulders along with a faint smattering of freckles. They also dusted his face. Funny, she hadn’t noticed yesterday but then his eyes did tend to hog the limelight.
“I hope you don’t mind but I drove the van right down to the steps…only until I unload the stuff.”
“No...It’s fine.” Ellie cleared her throat and reined in her emotions.
An awkward lull unfolded, pierced only by the persistent buzz of plump nectar-drunk bees.
“Mrs. Rouva, forgive me for being forward but are you ok? You look a little flushed.”
“I do?” As if with a will of their own, Ellie’s palms pressed against her cheeks. They burned to the touch. “Too much sun, I expect.”
“You should swim.” He spoke carefully.
“Yes.”
More deep, {meaningful?}silence.
“Well….” This time it was he who averted his gaze. “I’ll get on.”
“Yes.” Fascinated, she watched a red hue creep up to his throat. He felt it too. This thread, so fine and yet strong, like spun silk, drawing them together. Before she could mentally expand on this theory, he turned on his heels and left as quietly as he’s arrived, his gait long, fluid. Ellie jumped into her favorite mind game; matching people to dogs. Michael was pure sight-hound, a Saluki, tall, elegant, cautious — sensitive. The glittering azure of the pool beckoned and she dived in before her remaining brain cells disintegrated.

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HOW DOES A WRITER STAY SANE? HOW DO ANY OF US STAY SANE?

2011-03-17T07:19:00.000-07:00

A muted hello from Corfu, today. I say muted because it's hard to be chirpy was so much suffering going on all around us. I am sure most of you, like I, has been left speechless by the devastation and hardship Japan is dealing with. This is not the first catastrophe to strike this year; it, I am sure, will not be the last. Whether you buy into the end of days 2012 scenario or not doesn't really matter but, personally, I believe these cataclysmic events are becoming more frequent. Why - I do not know. Of course, some will say, its the wrath of God, others, mankind's blatent lack of respect for the environment. All I know is, no matter how rich and powerful and technologically advanced we think we are, we are but tiny, insignificant souls in the this wonderful Universe. We have no power over Mother Nature. This planet is not our right; it is a gift.

"Mankind inhabits this Earth subject to geological consent," says Simon Winchester in Newsweek. And, as demonstrated by the earthquake and resulting tsunami that brought Japan to its knees, this consent "can be withdrawn at any time."

So true. Why do we believe we are Omnipotent? Will the events in Japan change us? I fear not. Man is inherently selfish. No good sitting in one's comfortable armchair, spouting off about the wisdom of nuclear energy or the rising price of fuel when we all do little to curb man's ferocious appetite for the 'good' life. It comes with a price.

How do we sane? Perhaps we don't.

How do I stay sane as a writer? I am realistic. I know the odds of my reaching No. 1 on the New York Times best seller list are slim; which isn't the same as me doubting my abilities. I have confidence in my writing. I love what I do. It's important to stay grounded. Forget ideas of stardown and huge advances. Concentrate on improving your craft. Maintain a sense of humour and a touch of cynism. Oh - and the occasional gin helps. I leave you with an excerpt from Written in Stone...

Viviane

“Tell me about Gus.”
“Gus...” Extracting himself from her needy embrace, he stood. Arms folded, he crossed the room. He reached out with a finger, touching the cheek of the giant man-creature. “You don't want to know about Gus.”
He spoke quietly, but his pain reached out and touched her heart.
“No one wants to know about Gus.”
“I do.” She went to him and slid her hand into his, fingers entwining. “I want to know what happened to him. My father taught me never to bury my head in the sand. He says toomany of us are guilty of doing that.”
He turned to her, lips twisted in a raw smile. “Apt turn of phrase, my darling,
softhearted Cassie. You see, I found him...lying in a shallow grave.” Focusing on the portrait once more, he rubbed at his temples. “That beautiful head. It was gone. They’d decapitated him and left his body to the mercy of scavengers. And for what purpose? So some rich bastard can display it in a glass cabinet…as if his head were some inanimate piece of china or glass wear. A senseless, avaricious killing, and no one gives a damn.”
Cassie held her breath. His cheeks were wet. She’d never seen a man cry before.
Moisture coated his thick eyelashes, but he made no attempt to wipe it away.
“I should be immune, but it never gets any easier. I came away from that clearing in Rwanda feeling so...dejected. That day is something that will live with me for the rest of my life. It haunts me because—”
“Because you feel guilty. Because you are ashamed you couldn’t do more to stop it.” As if with a will of their own, her fingers rested on his arm He made no effort to draw back.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he brought his hands up to his face, pressing against his skull with open palms, as if trying to push back every ugly image that must have been clicking open
and shut in his mind.
“How do you do it?” His bruised breath escaped his lips. “How is it you seem to know me?”
“Because I understand what it is to stand by and feel so inadequate. To know there is a creature in need and yet not be able to do anything to help. My dad calls me his eternal bleeding heart, always making every wounded bird, every stray puppy my personal responsibility, but of course, I could never save them all. It made me feel so guilty.” He dragged his hands away from his face, a fragmented smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “We could be soul mates, you and I.” The smile faded, regret, once more painted on his strong yet so sensitive face. “Alex doesn’t get it, you know, can’t understand why I allow Gus’s death to eat away at me. After all I have been witness to enough of man’s cruelty to humanity and his rape of the natural world to be hardened against it. I’ve seen babies dying in the arms of their emaciated, desperate mothers. I’ve observed the ravages of
civil war and the utter devastation that it brings to a country and its people, but every starving child, each hunted and tortured animal chips away at my soul until think I’ll go crazy with it.
"Somehow, finding Gus—that majestic beast, beaten, degraded—ripped away any last
vestige of hope I had for mankind’s salvation. And you’re right. I do feel guilty simply because I am a man. I bear the brunt of our collective responsibility in my heart. No, Alex doesn’t get me at all, but you…

http://corfu-author.tripod.com
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Viviane-Brentanos-Author-of-Womens-contemporary-Romantic-fiction/78109311746
http://myspace.com/chicholina
http://viviane-brentanos.blogspot.com
http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

It's in our hands.

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY-DID THE EARTH MOVE FOR YOU?

2011-03-12T06:12:00.000-08:00

Is it Six Sentence Sunday time again? Doesn't time fly when one is having fun? A glorious week of writing, editing, blogging, promo-ing all mixed in with the occasional bout of mother and wifely duties and the odd beer. Who needs a day job - not me.
Today I have gone to my February releas, Fragile Dreams, for today's six.

Suddenly it was hard to breath. Her grandmother’s words drowned all reason. There will be a time in your life, girl, when the world will stop turning, even albeit for a second, when you know your life will never be the same again. It will be the time when you lose ownership of your heart and soul, entrusting it to the care of someone, even if that person may not even realize you have done so. Maybe they don’t want that responsibility but, nevertheless, your happiness will be in their hands. Wise woman, her grandmother.

I want to ask the question - was it like that for you? Is there such a thing as love at first sight? I know we all write about it? The best answer will win free download of Fragile Dreams.

Here is a blurb and excerpt to get you in the mood

Introducing Elysiana Rouva and the young Michael. Drawn together by an inexplicable bond, they share so much more than mere physical attraction. Ellie is at the point where she is questioning her life. Recently overcoming a long, hard battle with breast cancer, she is vulnerable and depressed. Her husband Pavlos, although outwardly supportive, provides her with no real comfort. Their marriage is a farce. She no longer loves him and is not threatened by his numerous affairs or his obsession with his work. Her friends say all the right words but she cannot make them understand.
Enter Michael. Michael becomes Ellie’s salvation. The young man Pavlos sends to tend their garden turns Ellie’s world on its head. As for Michael, Ellie provides escape from a past clouded with bad memories. Can she rid his heart of so much betrayal?
Excerpt:
“You didn’t eat much.”
“Oh you know how it is.” She feigned detachment although her heart raced. This was not the time to ruin the evening. She was having too much fun. “It’s just when I cook… well I tend to taste everything and then….well I’m not hungry and…I have been ill.” Oh God, why had she said it? The words had slipped away from her like a slippery eel on the end of a rod, out of her box of pride. She had no desire to court sympathy, especially his.
His quiet I know caught her square on the chin. “How?” Her defensive comeback betrayed suspicion.
“I just know.”
Breath froze her lungs. He reached across the pale lilac damask table-cloth and covered her hand with his, touch electric, cool fingers caressing her too-warm skin.
“No one told me.” His tenderness made her head swim. “I can read it in your eyes.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected.
“You’re so sad,” he continued, words cradling her senses, soft as goose down. “Tired of life.”
Ellie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak.
He went on, tone seductive. “I understand, you see. I understand because my sister had the same look. She suffered but, like you, she was a fighter. She had strength. I know you too have that strength. Use it. Don’t give up. You will be ok.”
And still he cradled her hand in a cool clasp, thumb tracing snowflake patterns on her palm. It was too surreal and yet his intensity didn’t frighten her. He breathed sincerity.
“She died, didn’t she?”
Pain flickered in his eyes, giving her the answer.
“She did.” His return was unfaltering. “But you won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” She held his gaze, challenging him to reassure her.
“Because…” He smiled. “I won’t let you.”

The One Hundred Romance Project Review:
I loved everything about this story. The characters were so vivid and so real that they felt like old friends. It was so easy to feel for Ellie – her bitterness was palpable, her loneliness was haunting, her feelings of hurt, betrayal, and love ran so deep that it felt like I was experiencing the same things. This was really just a beautiful, poignant piece that I absolutely want to read again and again.

Click on to this link for some more great six sentence posts

http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/p/about.html

Clean Monday, Stunning Corfu and Why I Am TiRed of Alpha Men

2011-03-10T07:33:00.000-08:00

Greeting all from a cold Corfu,

Yes, my husband definately married me under false pretenses. Corfu does get cold and then some. I just can't believe it decided to pick Spring in which to do it. Typically Greek that; perverse. So, it's the start of Lent and Monday saw my friends and I troop off for the grand annual kite flying and picnic. As is tradition in the Orthodox faith, from clean Monday {Καθαρά Δευτέρα}nothing is supposed to be eaten that contains blood.

Isaiah 1:1-20), which says, in part:

Wash yourselves and ye shall be clean; put away the wicked ways from your souls before Mine eyes; cease to do evil; learn to do well. Seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, consider the fatherless, and plead for the widow. Come then, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: Though your sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow; and though they be red like crimson, I will make them white as wool

Wikipedia can explain it better than I:
Clean Monday is a public holiday in Greece and Cyprus, where it is celebrated with outdoor excursions, the consumption of shellfish and other fasting food[2], a special kind of azyme bread, baked only on that day, named "lagana" (Greek: λαγάνα) and the widespread custom of flying kites. Eating meat, eggs and dairy products is traditionally forbidden to Orthodox Christians throughout Lent, with fish being eaten only on major feast days, but shellfish is permitted in European denominations. This has created the tradition of eating elaborate dishes based on seafood (shellfish, molluscs, fish roe etc.). Traditionally, it is considered to mark the beginning of the spring season, a notion which was used symbolically in Ivan Bunin's critically acclaimed story, Pure Monday. People on Clean Monday usually take their picnic baskets and put inside fasting foods because it is the day that Lent begins.
The happy, springtime atmosphere of Clean Monday may seem at odds with the Lenten spirit of repentance and self-control, but this seeming contradiction is a marked aspect of the Orthodox approach to fasting, in accordance with the Gospel lesson (Matthew 6:14-21) read on the morning before, which admonishes:

When ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face, that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret... (v. 16-18).

In this manner, the Orthodox celebrate the fact that "The springtime of the Fast has dawned, the flower of repentance has begun to open..

So, quick theological lesson over, I am happy to report, we had a lovely day. It was cold, with a biting wind but the rain stayed off long enough.

So on to the question of the week:

Alpha men? I hate them. Now, don’t get me wrong, here. I love strong, handsome guys as well as the next woman/man. How could I not when such godly delights as Gerard Butler and Russell Crowe and Daniel Craig roam this earth in human form. BUT, what do these three guys have in common? Think of their most famous roles?
Russell Crowe – Gladiator. Strong, brave, loyal, ready to kill for the freedom of men and yet, emotionally, he was a destroyed man. The loss of his wife and child meant he no longer had the will to live and did so only to exact revenge. Who can forget that moment when he falls to his knees and weeps for his dead wife and child?
Gerard Butler – 300. Oh Spartans don’t come any tougher. {Those bodies in leather underpants. I will never be the same again}. Ah but do you remember the tender love scene with his wife when he admits he doesn’t know what to do?
Daniel Craig – James Bond. Why is Casino Royale my favourite Bond film? {Apart from the delectable Daniel}. Because we are allowed to see his vulnerability. We find out, for the first time, what it was that shaped his character.
I look for the same criteria in my romance books – in ones I write and read. I want my men to shed a tear occasionally, I want them to be kind to animals, children and defend the underdog always. I want them to be emotionally flawed, human, make mistakes and sometimes-bad judgment calls but, above all, my hero needs to admit he is in love. No more macho crap, boys please: we all know you are the weaker sex. I do not want a tattooed, bear-swilling redneck nor do I want the kind of man who – let’s be honest here – all too often grace the cover of torrid romances. Boy next door is good, as is nerd, at times. Personally, I find Sheldon from Big Bang Theory very cute and oddly sexy. So I am weird. So, to sum up, no more macho crap, boys please: we all know you are the weaker sex.

BAZINGA!

{My little Shelly}

Six Sentence Sunday. Oh my first time was sooo good....

2011-03-04T13:55:00.000-08:00

So, its time for the Six sentence Sunday. I had so much fun last week. The response to Written in Stone was so favourable, i have decided to stick with James and Cassie for this week's offering. Here is the blurb as a refresher.

Dumped five days before her wedding, Cassandra Hall decides not to waste the
honeymoon. She sets off to London. What was supposed to be her dream week turns into a nightmare time of introspect, self-doubt. Then she meets James, literally falling at his feet in an attempt to save his Afghan hound from colliding head on with the traffic.
James is witty, charming, too good-looking and also—not available. Despite this,
Cassie is captivated by him. What follows is a week of fun, companionship and a bonding Cassie has never experienced.
James, sensing Cassie’s unhappiness, goes out of his way to make up for her jerk of a fiancé’s rejection. He is drawn to her vulnerability—something he finds disturbing, threatening to shatter all he thought he knew about himself. Cassie, he senses, is falling in love with him. He ought to back away but cannot. Cassie
bravely makes her true feelings known and when he rejects her, he knows he has broken her heart. He is left confused, guilty because…James has a secret.

“It's funny isn't it, how many of us choose partners with whom we cannot share our inner thoughts.”
“I think...” She trembled at the intensity burning in his eyes. “We conjure up images of who we want our loved ones to be. Initial passion clouds our judgment. Their faults are shrouded in a veil we draw over them, and then, when that veil slips away, we're surprised, hurt even, and yet...we have no right because they haven't changed. Only our perception of them.”

Thank you for allowing me to share a little of Cassie and James with you all.

http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

Viviane

STOP PRESS: This amazing 5 star review just in from The One Hundred Romances Project
I am over the moon with it.
http://onehundredromances.blogspot.com/2011/03/review-written-in-stone.html?zx=79d6dc5a30d4a6b2

Crap Mother of the Year Award.

2011-03-03T02:24:00.000-08:00

Good afternoon, all

Ah, the sun is shining.

Oh dear, the dreaded question has been posed – How do you manage your writing time and family commitments/job? My answer – I doubt very well. My writing takes priority.

I have decided I may be up for crap mother and housewife of the year awards. Not that I am bothered. I have won before. I have to confess, housework and motherly duties come second to my writing. Ok, before you all raise your hands in horror and call up social services, I have to inform you my children are old enough to move out {why don’t they?}. Rafa, of course, is still too young to leave home but he is content with a handful of bunny food and a nice spot by the sofa and, as my literary agent, he does provide a service therefore I do not mind taking time away from the pc to care for him. He is cuddly too.
My life is split into two seasons; winter and summer. Winter is for bumming around the house in baggy pyjama bottoms and my son’s discarded Death Metal t-shirts. I have a horror of early morning rising. I feel physically sick. I was like this as a child. While most kids dreamed of ponies and the latest chopper bike, my wish was to own a mechanical bed that, at the push of a button, would drive me to school and then park up in the back of the classroom so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed at all. I once went to bed fully dressed in my school uniform so I could nab an extra hour of slumber in the morning. My mother was not amused. Needless to say I had to change.
But now, older and definitely not wiser, I am free to set my own time schedule. I drag myself from my bed around ten {ish}, let Rafa out of his cage, shove on the coffee and then, with a huge mug of brew, I switch on the pc. Somewhere around midday, I remember I haven’t got any food in the house,

I need to put on a wash and I better start on the dishes. As for cooking – my family is used to eating a bizarre hours. It could be 2, 3, 4pm. I do actually love cooking. I have been told I am a very good cook but then, with a 5 star chef quality mother and grandmother leading the way, I had no choice. But I am not a faffer. I hate this measuring out malarkey. Cooking should be instinctive.
And so, on to the rest of my day. After lunch/ dinner {whatever it is}, back to the pc. Someone once said to me, you’re ok, you don’t have to work. You just sit at the pc all day. Er – excuse me? As you writers out there know, there just isn’t enough hours in the day to accomplish all we want to accomplish: works in progress, editing, blogging, promo, querying agents/pubs. The dreaded synopsis writing, researching for w.i.p, Facebook…oops, where did that come from. Actually, ladies and gents, we need FB. It is an essential tool, right? RIGHT??? Somewhere around 11-12, I fall into bed and watch some TV. I do love police tales. My fave show of the moment is The Closer. So that is my winter day
Summer is not so easy to balance. I am seasonally employed as a hotel receptionist. Work begins at 2pm and I get home around 10 – 10.30 pm. Every year, I promise myself I will keep up with my stuff at home but it never quite works out that way. Summer, however, is when I will start on a new story. Usually, in the afternoon, the hotel has a slow couple of hours when the guests are down the beach and I manage to scribble down my thoughts on a scruffy notebook hidden under the desk. Sometimes, however, it’s just too damn hot to think straight. Also kinda of difficult to write out a steamy scene when the phone rings or someone comes and asks for their room key. I think, this year, I will get a sign. Do Not Disturb, Genius at Work – Get your own Bloody Key.

{Guests have been known to do this but just don’t tell my boss}.
So, is it really about balance? I think it is more about making a choice. If you want to go out for Housewife/mother/wife of the Year award than all I can say is – don’t take up writing. If you want to be a writer, well, in the words of Marie Antoinette – Let Them Eat Cake. {Or in my case, pitas}. Off to order in. See you all soon.

Winning comment

2011-03-02T12:21:00.000-08:00

And the Oscar goes too.....Deborah Gill

Debz said...

It makes me think of: the heady scent of gardenias on warm summers evenings, romantic strolls along shingle beaches, a crystal blue ocean, cloudless skies, the sound of gentle waves lapping against the shoreline, skinny-dipping under the stars, the the Aspi Mera being played in a local taverna, olive groves, walnut trees, the sound of crickets, little lizards scurrying up walls, being young and being in love, laughing (and sometimes crying) with friends, beautiful churches, narrow streets, tanned skin & firm bodies, a small yellow car, a picnic on the beach, a little fishing boat, ouzo with lemonade, and feeling truly content and happy.

Thanks, Debs. A copy of Dreamweek is heading your way.

Viv

Fragile Dreams Wins Best First Chapter

2011-03-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

Good evening to you I am thrilled to announce that my single title contemporary romance, fragile Dreams has won best first Chapter, best cover, best first and last line over. It is indeed an honour, especially since my first book in the Dream series, Dreamweek, also won this completion last May. To celebrate, I am running a little competion I will post an excerpt from Fragile Dreams, a descriptive passage that evokes the magic that is Greece. All you have to do is leave a comment and tell me what you imagine when you think of Greece. The best comment will win a free digital copy of Dreamweek. Please check back to my blog tomorrow. I will post the winning comment at 1pm EST.

Godd luck,
Viv

. The party had spilled out onto the terrace. Pool-side tables bathed in the soft light of Chinese lanterns, the balmy evening humming with easy chatter and clinking of glasses. Beyond the terrace balustrade, the navy Ionian Sea glittered under the incandescent light of a full moon. The sound of gentle surf rolling onto shore carried up on the kind breeze. Ellie knew where she wanted to be. Slipping off her ridiculously too-high sandals, she headed for the steps leading to the beach below.
The stretch of cool sand was raked and already laid out in fine military style, ready for the morning barrage of eager tourists. Gaudy sun beds stretched out in rows, spaces between measured to an exact inch. Well, it was a German
owned hotel, Ellie mused. From above, the noise and laughter filtered down. Was there no escape?
Shoes in hand, she walked along the shoreline until she reached the colossal black edifice separating the hotel‘s private beach from the picture perfect cove Ellie knew lay beyond. The rocks formed a natural barrier between tranquility and the frivolity going on above.
Ellie paddled in the cool surf, not caring that her expensive designer gown might get wet. Carefully she negotiated the smooth and slippery slabs of flat rock lurking below the water‘s surface. It was worth the risk of falling flat on her face. The tiny cove was heaven on earth, its gold dust sand cool between her toes. Head thrown back, she breathed in, the tangy brine of the sea filling her nostrils. How bitter-sweet. A lover‘s paradise but no lover with whom to share it.
Sighing her regret to the wind, she sank to the ground. Arms folded around drawn up knees, she stared out to sea. The gentle hush of the swell hypnotized, soothing her troubled mind. Closing her eyes, she drifted into her world of make-believe.

WHO WANTS TO BE A GROWN UP?

2011-02-28T07:43:00.000-08:00

My answer to the above is no, not really.Grown ups have too many problems; boring problems. A Monday Musing question was posed - which do you prefer: Adult -or- Young Adult books? Or, both? Why? As most of you know, I write contemporary romance - for adults because sometimes my characters can get a little too naughty to be able to label them Young Adult. I must adhere to the guidelines. No naughty stuff before 18, please {even though we all know 18's and under, especially in this day and age tend to have 'fun'.}
Are the adult storylines too predicatable? Shitty ex husbands, no money, job loss, memory loss, you name it loss.. I suppose they are but then, isn't this what our readers of romance expect? People like to feel safe. I think this can be said for any genre. I love psycological thrillers, detective and lawyer stories but - hey - it does tend to be the same old. As someone once said, there are no new stories, just a retelling of old. As authors we strive to make our interpretation as unique as we can. Even Shakespeare 'stole' Romeo and Juliet but, boy, did he make it his own.
Oh but I do love the passion of the YA heroine.There is more scope for the imagination. Feelings are raw, perhaps more honest. Angst is always at its most angsiest when felt by teenagers. The joy and pain of first love, when the world can can crashing down because of something as trivial as a new crop of spots just before that all important first date. Being the eternal teenager, I love these tales of first love. I think this is where The Twilight saga excels. I felt Bella's pain. Excessive, maybe, but so real. Who doesn't recall feeling that sense of abject dispair?
Of course, in the 'grown up' world, our characters are expected to follow the current fashion for being strong and and sensible. I think this is why I prefer to make my heroines young, late teens or early twenties and always inexperienced in love. This is where my older and not always wiser hero comes in, helping them to grow and become aware of their sexuality. It's more fun.
Saying that'adult' books can be fun. Check out Jilly Cooper's Bella, Harriet, Emma. You will see what I mean

Viv

Six Sentence Sunday Virgin

2011-02-25T02:03:00.000-08:00

Welcome back, all you happy campers,

What - two posts in one week? Ha ha - well I have decided to join those in the know and participate in Six Sentence Sunday. Oh , my first time. I hope it won't hurt. So, what shall six sentence about? I think Written in Stone. quick blurb to set the scene....

Dumped five days before her wedding, Cassandra Hall decides not to waste the
honeymoon. She sets off to London. What was supposed to be her dream week turns into a nightmare time of introspect, self-doubt. Then she meets James, literally falling at his feet in an attempt to save his Afghan hound from colliding head on with the traffic.
James is witty, charming, too good-looking and also—not available. Despite this,
Cassie is captivated by him. What follows is a week of fun, companionship and a bonding Cassie has never experienced.
James, sensing Cassie’s unhappiness, goes out of his way to make up for her jerk of a fiancé’s rejection. He is drawn to her vulnerability—something he finds disturbing, threatening to shatter all he thought he knew about himself.
Cassie, he senses, is falling in love with him. He ought to back away but cannot.
Cassie bravely makes her true feelings known and when he rejects her, he knows he has broken her heart. He is left confused, guilty because…James has a secret.

Cassandra Hall stared across the park. A fresh autumn breeze teased at her shoulders,
cool fingers determined to infiltrate the gap between neck and coat. Hastily, Cassie pulled
up her collar.
The day was September mellow. Trees whispered to one another, shedding their
tiresome load of brown and russet, mocking the aged park attendant as he struggled to keep
up with the deepening blanket of leaves. A gentle sky, cream and blue-tinged, held a warm
sun. The rays danced upon her knees, and yet Cassie shivered. Her toes felt numb inside her
new, wildly expensive boots, but then she was numb all over.

If you like what you read, go to the Muse bookstore for further details
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=112&category_id=64&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

More sentences next week, folks.

INK,GLORIOUS INK

2011-02-24T05:32:00.000-08:00

Afternoon, all.

Great news this week. Finally, I have completed the first draft of Past Undone. I have to admit, I have really struggled with this one. Begun last June while at work {hope my boss doesn’t read this blog}, I somehow become distracted and never completed it. Ok, so I lie with the ’somehow’. I know exactly how but best not get into that. The wad of scribbled story languished on my coffee table until two weeks ago when. {trumpet fanfare, a shaft of light from above} the muse came upon me. Actually, I embellish the tale. Due to my household being one laptop down, I had to share Facebook time with my daughter – which left me with time {do I really spend so much time in Mark Zuckerberg’s kingdom?} to take another look at my poor, abandoned project. Well I had to do something to combat the FB withdrawal symptoms. I am so glad I did. I am very happy with Past Undone. It represented a challenge, straying slightly, as I did, out of my comfort zone. More on this next week.
So do you all think I am eccentric? Do I care – no. I think one has to be a little off the wall to be a writer. Why else would you choose to spend more than half your life chained to a desk, recreating worlds in which your always get your man. {Who, incidentally, all look like Enrique/Russell/Gerard}.
And why else would I put myself through the emotional angst of my characters as they tread the rocky, oft grief-laden road to true love and happy ever after happiness? Because I am a masochist. Thing is, if I cannot relate to my characters pain, how can I convince my readers to do the same? Hell, at the end of my recently finished new tale, I cried, it was so sad.
And that’s just the fun part of a writer’s life. Did I mention the endless hours of promo – blogs, review chasing, loop posting? As I mentioned a few days back – send me an assistant, please. Oh but not for all for this. Someone to take care of my household would suffice. Being eccentric, I actually love all of the above. It’s the infringement of the ’real’ world I object to.
We writers all have our little quirks, I suspect. Let’s concentrate on one: our writing tools. Personally, I cannot write straight on to pc. I love the feel of paper and pen in my hand.
When I was still at school, my favourite possession was a Parker fountain pen. It was a gift from my boyfriend {thinking back, I suspect he probably nicked it but that’s another story.} I digress. I have always adored fountain pens. As a weirdo child, I loved to browse the local stationers, staring wistfully at the display cases of beautiful Parker and Schaeffer pens. My favourite Christmas gift of all time was a little post office set, complete with ink well and old-fashioned dip pen. There is something about the smell of ink that drives me crazy {No, it’s not a fetish before you writers of erotica get all hot under the collar”}
My faithful Parker pen took me though two years of Sixth form and my A levels. I know, had I lost that pen, I would never have been able to sit them. {This was in the days when you actually had to write pages of coherent essays to pass}. It was with this same pen, I churned out reams and reams of a teenage romance that I passed amongst my classmates. When I say reams, I mean reams. Margaret Mitchell, eat your heart out.
I carried this pen with me when I set out on my new life on Corfu. There, I begun yet another never to see the light of publishing day work. And then – disaster. While I was in the UK, giving birth to my son, my delightful mother in law found my six inch high manuscript with pen attached and burned it because she thought it was rubbish. Not that my writing was rubbish – after all she can’t read English so wouldn’t know {it probably was rubbish} – but she really believed It was for the trashcan. I think she may even have started a bonfire with it.
So, into the present I jump. I never did replace that beloved Parker. First loves are so hard to recover from. What could I do? I didn’t have sufficient money to buy another fountain pen with the required gold nib plus I abhor ballpoints. I cannot write with them. They make my wrist hurt. But, then I discovered the wonder of the gel pen. This opened up a whole new world of stress for me. There are sooo many different makes of gel pen. Added to this nightmare problem, Corfu town is inundated with wonderful little stationers, all selling a great variety of this 21st century gem. I have been known to spend an entire shopping evening, traipsing from store to store, trying out numerous pens until I am satisfied. Great success, as Mr. Borat would say. I thought I had found one; one I would be destined to spend the rest of my writing days with. Alas, life is too cruel. The b**stard pen company discontinued the line. And so, I struggle on in my quest for the perfect writing tool.
I have improved, I stress. I am no longer so fussy about the quality of my A4 paper. When in the ‘zone’ I will jot down notes anywhere. {not quite used toilet paper yet but it will come.}. I often wish I had one of those Star War force mind thingies that instantly transported my thought from my brain to paper. I often come up with my best scenarios sitting on the bus but, being a bad traveler, I cannot look down to write or I throw up. I have been known to talk to myself as I run through dialogue. I am lucky. No one in Corfu cares. Half the folk on my bus route are on day release from the psychiatric home anyway. I blend in a treat but I guess you all realized that. Until next time, in the words of the delectable Jon Bon Jovi, keep the faith. {I know the Right Hon Rev Ian Paisley said it first but he is hardly delectable.}

oops - nearly forgot. Lst week's competion winner is Wendy Thompson from the UK. She succesfully picked my top three fave lovesongs. actually, it was four because two tied for fouth place. I couldn't decide.
1}Sara - Fleetwood Mac.
2}Fist time - Roberta Flack
3} Run - SnowPatrol tied with Electricity - Anathema.

I leave you with a song about writing.

Viv

NOT IN IT FOR THE MONEY...AND MY TOP TEN LOVE SONGS

2011-02-17T09:48:00.000-08:00

Bonjour, Kalimera and welcome,
And so another week passes and, I am pleased to say, it’s been productive. Two reviews and an interview up on my various social network sites, future blogs and interview questions sent off and the mastering of PowerPoint {ish}. My greatest week’s achievement, however, is that I have managed to steam ahead on my work in progress. It really was beginning to drag me down. This work is a tad out of my comfort zone; still romance but with certain plot twists that had me struggling. All I can say is hats off to all you suspense/mystery writers out there. I will not be giving up my day job anytime soon.
Ah, what a nice lead in to my next topic. Writing – career or hobby. Recently the question was put to me, am I reaping financial benefits from all my hours of slog? I had to answer, not yet but I do hope to in the future. My friend’s response to this was, so really, your writing is just a hobby. This wasn’t said in a disparaging way but it made me think, is it a reflection of modern day society when success is judged on financial gain? As a writer, I feel far from unsuccessful. I have written and had four novels published with plenty more, I hope, to come. For me, I feel such a thrill when I received a positive review, perhaps more than if I receive news of a sale. I never went into this game expecting to come out JK Rowling rich, although it would be nice. In fact, I was so not into financial reward, I let all my friends read my manuscripts for free. That, I no longer do. Hey, they can buy the book like everyone else. Do I give my books as gifts? I have done on occasion and usually to a special few close friends. I know they probably won’t read them {these friends tend to be guys and not really into romance} but it was more about finding a personal gift. What can be more personal than my thoughts, feelings expressed on paper?
And so on to Valentine’s week. Needless to say, I received the same gift I receive every year; a big fat nothing. I think Rafa would have gone out and bought me something but he’d spent all his pocket money on sunflower seeds. Being the week of love, it got me thinking it was time for one of my Top Tens. I thought, this week, I would post what I consider to be the top ten most romantic love songs of all time. A daunting task because I could list a hundred. Let’s face it; everyone has a personal favourite, one that will evoke memories of one’s first love, first kiss, their wedding day. Some of my choices have been covered by many different artists, in some cases well and some disastrously. Where I can, I will include a cover version that I feel did a fairly good job. So, I think I will make this interesting. The songs will be listed in no order of my personal preference but, anyone who can list what they think is my own top three {in order of my preference} will win a free download copy of Dreamweek – the prequel to Fragile Dreams. Closing date will be tomorrow 2pm est. time. Please listen to all the songs first and then post a comment with your answer. I would love to hear your thoughts. Til next week, get out the tissues and let’s have a good romantic weep.

1} Run Snow Patrol : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOBs8dU4Pb8
Run Leona Lewis {cover} http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iL_SmIjlg3s&feature=related

2} First Time Ever I saw your Face - Roberta Flack http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Go9aks4aujM
First time Ever -Leona Lewis: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYrt7coJE5Q&feature=related

3} Electricity – Anathema: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LwN_J88-Nc

4} I Want to know what love is – Foreigner: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loWXMtjUZWM
{A footnote here. I know Mariah covered it but so badly I refuse to post the link. Some things should be left alone.}

5}Is this Love ? – Whitesnake: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoJMLBWTkrw

6}Tu M’ Aime Encore – Celine Dion : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7RzWQqcIfA
Tu M’aime Encore – Il Divo {purely coz they look so GOOD}
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCn3hsrBKgA

7}Knights in White Satin – Moody Blues: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rkgm1yGgbM
Knights in White Satin – Matt Cardle: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgPTL-_wnCM

8} It’s Over – Roy Orbison: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjMfQG4DejQ

9}Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6xb_ddP4nM
Unchained Melody – Il Divo {again coz they’re hot} http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVtrPwxpeJw

10} Sara – Fleetwood Mac:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHJb87nNsGY

Wanted - Personal Assistent

2011-02-10T06:34:00.000-08:00

Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day….tra la….
Good morning, happy campers. I really shouldn’t rub it in. I know, but the weather, here, in Corfu has been beautiful for the past week; brilliant sunshine, crisp air, snow-kissed mountains shimmering in the distance. I think I should be out there walking or swimming or something…which leads me nicely on to a question posed by my dear friend over at Alternative Read – what does an over-worked, stressed author/mother/chief cook and bottle washer do for exercise? Answer? Not a lot – although I hasten to add my typing fingers are extremely toned. There just does not seem enough hours in the day to fit in a measly one hour work out {which my spreading pc chair bum desperately needs}.
To be fair to myself, I have tried. I did begin on a workout program two weeks ago. I managed at least four sessions but all the while, my gaze strayed to my screen, the constant messenger ping of mail received tugged at my heart. Oh how I long to go back to four years ago when I was so focused and devoted to exercise. {Blame Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance floor –} Two one hour sessions daily of a routine I put together, followed by the lifting of small weights, not to mention the ballet plies whilst washing up or cooking. And with the arrival of summer, top this up with one-hour morning swim before work. Also, I had been known to perform butt squeezed while standing in the bank queue. Needless to say I was very popular with the old boys waiting for the pensions behind me.
I had never felt or looked so good in all my life – or so I believed. Apparently, I was too thin. I ask you – when can a girl be too thin. Ok, at a mere 43 kilos I was a tad skinny but, hey, did I look good in jeans. Where am I going with this? I have a question – Why is it when someone has been on a diet, lost a lot of weight, up goes the nagging cacophony….oh…..you have lost too weight BUT…who ever comes out and says…hey I think you’ve piled on the pounds and, yes, you do look like a fat f***ck. No-one, is my answer.
And I fear I am straying from the topic. So what do I do to maintain some form of exercise while writing? Ok, it’s confession time. When I am alone, I shove on my disco/ funk play list and boogie on down until my heart is content and my legs give out. Rafa, my rabbit is rather impressed by all of this. He joins in by running around the coffee table.I have this dilemna. I would love to grow old gracefully and not care about my appearence but I do. I want to be slim and wrinkle free but, at the same time, life is too short to give up on life's little pleasures. How can one live without freshly baked chocolate croissanr, pitas, mythos beers and nights out at a favourite taverna? What is the answer, I ask? Easy -money. That way, I could employ a personal trainer,have botox and throw in a bit of lipo suction for good measure. Otherwise I may end up like this...

So what is new in my life this week? Ah yes, a little brag or two. I have received some great reviews for Fragile Dreams.

http://onehundredromances.blogspot.com/2011/01/review-fragile-dreams.html?showComment=1296566146188#c1610128398814922795

http://www.manicreaders.com/index.cfm?disp=reviews&bookid=6829

I am waiting on a couple for Written in stone to be posted.
It’s always a great feeling for an author when all their blood sweat and tears is rewarded. I also have a couple of interviews coming up. Oh I feel quite famous. Unfortunately, promoting takes up a huge part of any author’s time. Sometimes I am tearing my hair out because I just want to get back to working on my w.i.p but I know I have promo commitments to fill. What I need is a personal assistant. I think I will advertise. How about…

Wanted. Young, handsome, sexy male between 25 and 30 to assist struggling, gorgeously hot, witty and intelligent author, in a very personal manner, in their goal to topple JK Rowling from her perch. C.V nor references essential. I only ask that all candidates bear more than a passing resemblance to either Enrique Iglesias or Rafa Nadal. The successful applicant will be required to escort me to social functions as well as performing daily duties of cooking, cleaning, shopping, typing and any promotional work I deem necessary. Must have a working knowledge of Heavy Metal, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars and Big Bang theory.

There, I shall post this in the Times. I wonder if I will receive any applicants.

BUSY, BUSY BUSY

2011-02-03T10:38:00.000-08:00

Busy, busy, busy.

It’s been a hectic week over here in sunny/snowy/rainy what the hell is going on with the weather Corfu. I am delighted to say Written in Stone was released on the 1st of the month. Also great news from my publisher. They did extremely well over at the Predators and Editor awards for this year. Congrats to all who carried off a prize.
Great personal news. I received, not one but two very nice reviews for Fragile Dreams

http://onehundredromances.blogspot.com/2011/01/review-fragile-dreams.html?showComment=1296566146188#c1610128398814922795
http://www.manicreaders.com/index.cfm?disp=reviews&bookid=6829
I hope these links work.
It is actually quite difficult having two works released so close together. It’s a bit like trying to divide your time fairly between two children. You love both but who has priority?
Also, this week, I achieved the nigh on impossible. I managed to cut an earlier work of mine from 140, 000 words to just over 90, 000. It took a while and lots of heartache over losing some favourite chapters but I am pleased with the end result. I believe I have created a improvised version. This novel was previously released under the title of Letting Go but will now be re-released with MuseItHot under the new title of Cold, Cold Heart.
AND – I am finally getting to grips with my w.i.p, Past Undone. More info on this later. It is still in creative early stages.

So that’s my news, I think. I am sitting here, slurping at a cup of tea, wondering what I can blog about this week. The previous two topics have been somewhat heavy. I believe it is time for a little frivolity.
Time for another look at ten years out of my life…..but first I want to discuss my favourite kind of hero.
For those of you who have been kind enough to read my books, you will notice one thing my handsome stable of men has in common. They all cry quite a bit. That is not to say they are weak. Au contraire, they are emotionally strong and not afraid to show their feelings. They will, if necessary, die for their loved ones, sacrifice what is most precious to them, maybe even kill…..They are warm, funny and possess boyish charm. They are all kind to animals. They have to be or I would kick their arses from here to eternity.
Example: let’s meet Michael from Fragile Dreams

“You didn’t eat much.”
“Oh you know how it is.” She feigned detachment although her heart raced. This was not the time to ruin the evening. She was having too much fun. “It’s just when I cook… well I tend to taste everything and then….well I’m not hungry and…I have been ill.” Oh God, why had she said it? The words had slipped away from her like a slippery eel on the end of a rod, out of her box of pride. She had no desire to court sympathy, especially his.
His quiet I know caught her square on the chin.
“How?” Her defensive comeback betrayed suspicion.
“I just know.”
Breath froze her lungs. He reached across the pale lilac damask table-cloth and covered her hand with his, touch electric, cool fingers caressing her too-warm skin.
“No one told me.” His tenderness made her head swim. “I can read it in your eyes.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected.
“You’re so sad,” he continued, words cradling her senses, soft as goose down. “Tired of life.”
Ellie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak.
He went on, tone seductive. “I understand, you see. I understand because my sister had the same look. She suffered but, like you, she was a fighter. She had strength. I know you too have that strength. Use it. Don’t give up. You will be ok.”
And still he cradled her hand in a cool clasp, thumb tracing snowflake patterns on her palm. It was too surreal and yet his intensity didn’t frighten her. He breathed sincerity.
“She died, didn’t she?”
Pain flickered in his eyes, giving her the answer.
“She did.” His return was unfaltering. “But you won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” She held his gaze, challenging him to reassure her.
“Because…” He smiled. “I won’t let you.”
Crickets chirped out their symphony, piercing the emotionally layered air. Ellie was all out of logical words. Logic had no place in this dream conversation. “Em….cheesecake?”
The tension fragmented around them, their shared laughter giving Jiminy and company a run for his money. Ellie felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She was light-headed, free as a bird because….she believed him. He was her salvation.

So, my dear readers, this is the kind of guy who is my hero. Someone who is caring, sensitive – a real man.

And now for a walk down memory lane.

My Top Ten Twenties Moments.

Mmm – this is difficult. So much upheaval in my life: marriage, divorce, moving to Corfu, losing my sister to cancer, another marriage, falling pregnant. I cannot remember exact dates. But let’s concentrate on the fun parts {sorry – pregnancy is not fun}

1} Going to see Superman the Movie in Leicester Square. The moment I lay eyes on Christopher Reeve, I was in love. Kinda weird, seeing I was on my honeymoon.

2} My beautiful black masked silver-blue Afghan puppy, William, winning three championship firsts on his first outing. For any of you who think dog showing is easy, it is not. A lot of hard work and dedication goes into it. Ring craft training, daily exercise to make sure your pooch is in tiptop shape because what is under that magnificent coat is very important. Did I mention the two-hour weekly bath and grooming session? The endless hours on the road? It was great though and the one thing I miss about my life in the UK.

3} Watching Michael Jackson’s Thriller video for the first time. What can I say that has not been said before? Even today, I am enthralled by this dance routine. Will never be one to top it.

4} Watching that historical Borg/McEnroe Wimbledon final. I adored Bjorn and never thought I would find another player to love as much as him but now, of course, I have my Nadal.

5} Fleetwood Mac live at Wembley Arena. Superb. What else can one say about the incredible Stevie Nicks and co?

6} Torvill and Dean winning the gold medal for Ice Dance at the Sarajevo Olympics. Sixes across the board and still one of the most spine-tingling routines ever to grace an ice rink.

7} My first view of Pontikonissi {Mouse Island} from my hotel window. I knew there and then Corfu was the place for me. The Oasis Hotel was where I landed my first job and where I met my hubby to be. Incidentally, 26 years later, I am back working there as receptionist. What can I say? My disco dancing days are over.

8} Hiring out a moped and touring the island with my friend Sara. Back then, Corfu still had many undeveloped beaches, Glyfada being one of them. We arrived there just as the sun was setting. I remember to this day, bathing in that glorious sea, laying after on the warm sand, thinking I was in paradise.

9} Staying up all night with friends and then breakfasting on toast and hot chocolate on the famous Liston of Corfu. We would sit there all day and just watch the world go by.

10} Running around Corfu with my dear friend Wendy Thompson, playing at the Famous Five. How we avoided a term in Corfu’s notorious Psycho ward, I don’t know but then I have come to realize, the inmates of Corfu Psychiatric Hospital are the sane ones. All the nutters – like me – are running loose on the outside. I had a wonderful summer with Wendy, probably because she is on the same wavelength as I am. Crazy! Can’t remember if she was George or Dick.

That’s it, folks. Another insight into my oft-wacky world. Next top ten will my thirties. Oh dear, serious motherhood time. I am sure I will find something nutty to discuss. Live long and prosper, keep the faith and may the force be with you.

Viviane

Wendy and I in Famous Five mode doing our synchronised swimming routine.
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And here I still am....27 years on.

If I were you……

2011-01-27T03:28:00.000-08:00

Morning all from a frosty Corfu. Yes – yesterday -1. Hey – for us, this is positively Arctic.
So, today I thought I would rant about that one little phrase that drives me crazier than any other. I wouldn’t put up with that if I were you. Well, you are not me, are you? In the words of Mr. Bond…never say never.

In a way, this rant is a follow on from the last blog post in so much as it touches on another issue raised in my novel, Fragile Dreams.

Why did Lisa always feel it necessary to remind her of her husband’s iron-rod of control? But that was women; secretly delighting in even their friends’ less than perfect marriage. It drew the spotlight away from their own miserable existence.

Ellie is a women trapped in a loveless marriage. Worse, her husband is a psychological bully. Before I go any further, I must stress I am not going to discuss domestic physical violence. I am not qualified to do so. It is a whole different ball game. No – I would like to focus more on the subtle mind games many men play on their partners. It was a comment made by a friend of mine that led me to consider this topic. We were discussing a mutual acquaintance who, for want of a better word, is controlled by her spouse. His wants always take first place in their household. She bends to his will. My friend’s comment was….how do these women get themselves in that situation…..if that were me, I wouldn’t put up with it. Stop right there, I said. How do you know what you would do? Second, who the hell are you to judge?
I am sure no one sets out for this to happen but that is the thing about control freaks. They are clever, they know what buttons to push and before they know it, their victims are sucked in, seduced maybe by a sweet smile and deceiving words…it’s because I care about you. I can understand how seductive it is in the first throes of romance to believe your man is so possessive because he adores you. A pattern is set, one that is hard to break and once the children come along, it is often too late to change it. More often than not, a woman will put up with the verbal abuse, the constant nagging to try and keep the peace. Of course, for those foreign women there is the added problem; if they were to leave, were can they go? Back to their home country? Not always feasible. One has to look at it from the children’s point of view. In their hearts they are Greek. They do not want to leave everything familiar to them.
My point – do not be too quick to judge. In fact, by coming out with this rubbish, all you are doing is making this person feel even more inadequate. It’s added pressure. If you know someone in this situation then try to be supportive and understanding. What they need is a friend, not a jury.
But what is it about women? Why do we always have to judge? If it isn’t about relationships, it’s about how we raise our kids? Judging, judging – always judging. You don’t let him/ her do that do you? I wouldn’t put up with it. If he was mine blah blah. Oh please – we all have our ideas on child rearing and while we are on the subject of child rearing, what is it with this competitiveness? You know the parent I am talking about. Whose sole conversation revolves around her children’s achievement and begins every conversation with and what is such and such up to, purely so they can ram down your throat what a band of budding little geniuses they have stashed at home. Please – let your kids breathe. Let me breath. Life is not a battlefield. There are no winners or losers. And – I beseech you, less of the…if I was you…

Let’s move on to a happier topic. Music. Where would we be without it? It certainly rocks my world. It is the inspiration behind most of my work. I hear a song and – whoosh – it gives me the mood and atmosphere I am seeking. Do I play music while I write? Not initially, while I am scribbling out my first draft. I am too immersed in my story for any distraction. If I were to play my favourite artists, I would lay down my pen, pick up my air guitar and burst into song or worse – leave my desk completely and jump into disco mode. However, once my tale is down on pc and I begin the tweaking process, then it’s no holding back. The music blares from all speakers. My play list? Depends on my mood. For those who know me, Savage Garden and Darren Hayes are at the top, closely followed by anything heavy metal and rock. I do confess to being a huge Gaga fan. There is something about that feisty, talented, arty young woman that appeals to me. What I do have is particular songs to fit the mood of each one of my stories; a set of lyrics which helped me form the characters.

Cold, Cold Heart – Daniel: ‘Mine’ by Savage Garden http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwjWfal3v4Y
Actually, Daniel has two songs: Electricity by Anathema
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LwN_J88-Nc

Dreamweek – Izzie: ‘Pour Que Tu m’aime Encore’ by Céline Dion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDkPWd6B7rU&feature=related

Fragile Dreams – Ellie: ‘In Your Eyes’ by Darren Hayes http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFTmt27R4K4

Written in Stone – Cassie: ‘I Just Want You to Love Me’ by Darren Hayes http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHN4EQxyf5Y

Class Act – Rebecca: {still looking for a home} ‘Name of the Game’ by Abba
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJ90ZqH0PWI
Past Undone {wip} –Lily: ‘You Can Still be Free’ by Savage Garden
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AQuiYPUBiE

Spin – Sara: {ongoing project since…ever, really} ‘Sara” by Fleetwood Mac
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHJb87nNsGY

Class Act – Rebecca: {still looking for a home} ‘Name of the Game’ by Abba
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJ90ZqH0PWI

Well, I hope you have enjoyed my little selection. If I had to pick an all-time favourite? It has got to be Sara – Fleetwood Mac.{Well I always wanted to be Stevie Nicks}. See you next week. Back to frivolity and my Top Ten Twenties Moments.
Viv

Life is Fragile

2011-01-13T06:23:00.000-08:00

Kalimera. Long time, no speak. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year and I wish you all the best for 2011.
Ah – 2011. One year to go til the fated year – if you believe in all of that. Who knows? The way the world is going there could be something in it. But for now, let’s all stay positive.
Today is a good day for me. My second novel in the Dream series is released through Red Rose Publishing. Once again, I take you on a Grecian journey to the imaginary island of Kuros {yes it is inspired by my own beloved Corfu}. We meet up with some of the characters from Dreamweek, Isabella and David Wells. Once again, the tale is set against the backdrop of the tourist industry but, more important, Fragile Dreams tells the tale of Ellie Rouva, a young woman recovering from Breast cancer; a woman whose life has been turned on its head and doesn’t know where life may lead her – until she meets Michael.
I originally intended this blog to be a follow on from the last; my ten top moments….but with the release of Fragile, I thought it might be a good idea to touch on the subject of breast cancer. I am somewhat of an expert on the matter, having been through it twice. Expert isn’t really the correct word; everyone’s experience is different, everyone copes in a different way. I would like to give you my take on it.
First off, it’s a topic usually I steer clear of discussing. Why? To be honest, after ten years of the disease being part of my life, I am a little bored with it. I hate all the drama surrounding it; the endless magazine articles, the survivors being wheeled out on chat shows, the hushed tones when folk find out what I have ‘been’ through. Yes, I have been through a lot but hey, so have lots of folk. What is it about the word, Cancer, which evokes such reaction? Someone says…. I have heart problems, liver disease and folk say – oh, that’s sad. But say Cancer and people pale before your eyes.
And that is what I hate most. It is an illness like any other and certainly not the hopeless situation folk have been led to believe– which brings me back to the endless MGM produced magazine articles. Listen up, folks. It needn’t mean a death sentence. Great strides have been made and positive mindset plays a huge role. Again, this is why I hate the Hollywood take on it all. Please, less of the drama.
One moment has stayed with me. It was my first time round. I was in hospital, recovering from a full mastectomy and reconstruction {now that was a barrel of laughs. Pain? Never again}. It was a Sunday evening. All the ward new intakes were scheduled for surgery the following morning. I knew they were scared; who wouldn’t be but what did we do? We set up a card ring and got drunk on laughter. I think, when the consultant came round, he thought we had all lost the plot. {He was bloody gorgeous, btw. Daniel Craig eyes and boyish charm. Bloody good doc too. Wherever you are, Mr. Drabble, we salute you}
A friend of mine constantly says to me. You are/were so strong. Strong? I had no choice. Once over the initial shock, I just had to get on with it. I was too preoccupied fighting the fight and looking after my kids to think about the outcome. As a mother, it’s just what I had to do. First time round, my children were young and probably scared. They knew I had lost my elder sister to the disease so there was no pulling the wool over their eyes. There was no way I could not be upbeat.
Going through both times, one thing struck me. The people around you often find it harder to cope. A word of advice to anyone who has someone close to them coping with Breast cancer or any life-threatening illness. All we want is to be treated as normal. I know that’s all I wanted. I only wanted my life to get back to normal. I hated the disruption – never mind the joys of Chemo and surgery. I wanted to be me again but the folk around me kept reminding me that I couldn’t be. Oh but you shouldn’t go back to work. Why the hell not? Better to be occupied than to lie around at home all day, feeling sorry for myself. I was going to throw up anyway so might as well get paid at the same time. I know the concern is well meant but please give the patient credit. We know what’s what. We know what we have to do to fight.
And please, don’t tell anyone losing your hair doesn’t matter in the scheme of things, and that we should just focus on getting well. Duh – a tad condescending, I believe. And, sorry, losing one’s hair is a big deal initially but it gets better. Quite fun wearing different hats. And don’t tell us we look fine when we know we look like an extra from MJ’s thriller video. We prefer honesty.
But there is a plus side to everything, even Chemotherapy.
1} No more leg shaving needed for months.
2} best diet known to mankind
3} You save a fortune on hair conditioner.
4} You can act crazy and blame it on the drugs.

So that is my rant for the day. I am sure there is a lot more I could say on the subject but I wanted to give a little more insight to the character of Ellie. To quote a line from Fragile Dreams.

“Thing is…well, the way I see it, everyone flirts with death. Every day of our lives we take risks. I am no different. My time just came around sooner.

I am not sure if this has helped or maybe will help someone in the future. As I said at the beginning, it’s a personal battle. No one handles it in the same way. What I can do is a little bit to help in the research so that, perhaps, in the future, there won’t be a need for a blog like this. I have asked my publisher, Red Rose, to donate any royalties I may make to breast cancer research. So, my dear friends, I leave you with a short excerpt:

“But, Michael,” Leaning forward, Ellie brushed his cool cheek with nervous fingertips. “We have no control over our lives. That’s one thing I have learned from all of this.” Embarrassed, she shrunk back in her chair. “I think that’s what annoyed Pavlos so.”
“Annoyed.” Honey eyebrows drew together.
“Oh yes.”Ellie failed to keep her contempt at bay. “For the first time in his life, Mr. Pavlos the Omnipotent lost control of me. To him, my illness was an irritation, a hiccup in his well-ordered life.
“Seriously? I find that so hard to understand. Surely he was afraid for you. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with his fears?”
Ellie laughed. “Maybe. Granted, he made all the right gestures, spouted forth with meaningful phrases but his words were empty. Actions do speak louder and his clearly stated I was a disappointment and I’m sorry. I’m putting you in an awkward position. Pavlos is your boss.”
“He’s not my boss; I only work for him.”
His forcefulness surprised her. His eyes held defiance. Ellie surmised that his outward tranquil nature disguised a vein of steel.
“Please...” The glint dispersed. “Go on. What do mean by disappointed? Surely he didn’t blame you for being ill?”
“No.” Ellie rummaged in the fruit bowl and pulled out a ripe strawberry. Biting into it, she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s how I handled everything that he took issue with. You see, when the doctor told us I would need a full mastectomy I thought Pavlos was going to throw up. The thought of it horrified him. His perfect wife — flawed? He wanted me to have reconstructive surgery but I refused. He begged, actually. First time he’s begged me for anything but I didn’t give in. And why should I?” The words scraped at her too dry throat, a stockpile of resentment clawing up and out of the depths of her months of despair. “It’s my body, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He covered her forearms with comforting hands, making the hairs there stand to attention. His touch, again, threatened to release those tears. How long had it been since Pavlos had shown such sincere affection? Too long. She couldn’t cry. It would be too awkward. “And then,” she pressed on, fighting against waves of emotion. “When my hair fell out, I refused to wear a wig. I don’t know why really. It seemed…well it was the ultimate insult. My body was in enough pain without having that added discomfort. Can you believe losing my hair upset me more than anything? Silly isn’t it, to be so vain when one’s life is hanging in the balance. At least that’s what my dear mother in law told me.” She didn’t need to hear his answer; gut instinct told her he understood. “As for my friends, they said that it didn’t matter in the scheme of things and that I should focus on getting well. As if being pumped full of poison every three weeks isn’t ‘focusing’ enough. People can be so patronizing.”
“I agree.”
“Thing is…well, the way I see it, everyone flirts with death. Every day of our lives we take risks. I am no different. My time just came around sooner. They told me I should stop trying to be brave. I’m not brave, only realistic.”
“You won’t die.”
“I know.” She fashioned what she hoped was a convincing smile. “You won’t let me.”
“You won’t die.”
Silence engulfed them, a cotton wool cloud blanketing reality.
“How can you be so sure? Ellie whispered, almost too afraid to ask, wanting it so much to be true.
“I just am. I…I feel things. Here.” Capturing her trembling hand, he brought it up to span his chest. “Here….in my heart. You’re afraid, Ellie. Don’t be.”
Ellie drew in her breath, holding it until she felt faint. It was as if a whirlpool sucked her down. How did he know that? She’s never admitted it to anyone; not even herself.

Fragile Dreams – purchase link
http://redrosepublishing.com/books/product_info.php?products_id=836&CDpath=2

Viviane

My Top Ten Teen Moments

2010-12-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

Winter is here and I don’t like it. Those of you who did me the honour of reading last week’s blog post will know I spent the first 4 years of my life in Singapore. I still maintain this is why I have such low tolerance to the cold.
People often ask, do we have snow in Greece? Oh yes, is my answer. While not much will fall on Corfu {apart from the northern mountains}, just across the narrow stretch of Ionian sea, the mainland mountain ranges resemble a winter wonderland. Greece is more than sun-kissed islands. The terrain is mountainous, with some of the last remaining virgin forests in Europe. Anyone who watched the devastating fires of 2008 will attest to this and understand why the fires were such a tragedy for the country. Anyway, I digress……
Last week I shared with you my top ten childhood moments and, as promised, this week I will attempt to list my top ten teen moments. When I got to thinking about this, I realized I had bitten off more than I had bargained for. The reason – my teen years were not always that great. Age 13, my family hit some rough times. My father, in an attempt to better our lives, made some decisions that ultimately resulted in a vast change of life style for us all and a complete upheaval from all we knew and loved, a fact which contributed to my mother having a breakdown. Suddenly, I was forced to grow up and become the buffer between harsh reality and my younger sisters’ childlike confusion. Looking back on it now, as a parent myself, I do not blame my parents. I have learned from experience, as parents we are human and thus all make mistakes. We are not infallible. To cut a long story short, we left Glasgow to try and make a life in France. It didn’t work out. The UK was not yet a member of the EU and it was tough to find work. After 6 months, we left the continent, ending up in Huntingdon, Cambs and this is where I remained til I married my first husband {oh how Liz Taylor} at age 20. Anyway, life was not all bad and I did experience many high moments. Here is my list…

1} Glasgow age 13 – singing a duet with my best friend, Allison, at my brother’s wedding. We really thought we were the bees’ knees - a female Simon and Garfunkel. I remember it to this day. There we were, up in the balcony, decked out in our best long frocks, minister announcing us, congregation as serious as hell and what did we do? We broke down at verse two of Morning has Broken and collapsed into giggles. My sister-in-law hasn’t forgiven me to this day.

2} Writing my first piece of descriptive prose for an English assignment. My teacher read it out in class and it was then I realized I just may have a talent for this writing lark.

3} No man’s land Age 13 – driving to France with sisters and parents. The whole trip was a blast. Exciting for us. France is a beautiful country. The most memorable day was stopping over in Fontainebleau. We stayed in a very old hotel, across the road from the palace and slept in the same room as one of Napoleon’s artists. It was amazing. In the morning, we breakfasted in a beautiful walled garden. I can still taste the aromatic bowls of steaming café au lait and the melt-in-your-mouth freshly baked croissant.

4} Spain – age 13. My first sight and smell of the Mediterranean Sea, golden sands and warm, balmy evenings strolling along Cambrils pier, sharing a plate of fresh sardines with my parents, French uncle and my beloved Grandmother. For me, it was a dream come true.

5}Spain – age 13. Taking my grandmother to the local Spanish fiesta. It was wonderful. We danced and drank sangria and she wore my big sombrero.

6 {a, b and c} Huntingdon, UK – fast forward to age 15. New life, new school, new friends – and falling in love with Donny Osmond. I have made this a 3-part answer because Donny was the root of three most memorable episodes
a} After a bout of tears and tantrums, when my mother refused to allow me to camp out on the streets of London overnight in order to secure a ticket to the Osmonds concert, I set off the next fine morning with my friends, resplendent in our Osmond badge encrusted coats and Donny caps for London. Of course, being 12 hours too late, there weren’t any tickets left. A riot quickly followed. Thousands of disgruntled teenage girls went crazy. Looking back on it now, I sort of feel sorry for the police. In our 70’s wedges, we all got a few lethal shin kicks in. Still ended up with no tickets but great fun nevertheless.
b} Heathrow airport. Joining thousands of other screaming, hysterical Osmond fans, I waited with my friends for the boys’ plane to arrive. When it did, I clambered up to stand on the 5in wooden railing of the viewing terrace wall. To this day, I can feel it bending under the weight of too many of us. I later found out that another section of the wall had collapsed and several fans were hurt. Of course, guess whose mother rung the airport and asked if Viviane was ok? Very emotional time but an experience. Kids are no fun these days.
c} Well what do you know? Fighting police again. This time in Glasgow. My friend and I followed the group up there, found out where they were staying and proceeded to follow their trail around the city. Finally found the right hotel and proceeded to scream our heads off. The boys obviously approved because they threw little notes to us from their window. When they finally left the hotel, I got within inches of the limo – only by shoving and kicking a policeman’s shins. I remember I knocked off his hat. He retaliated by shoving me back til I fell and landed on my arse in a puddle. Police brutality or what!

7} Glasgow – age 16. Visiting my elder sister and her husband in the city of my childhood. By then I had ditched Donny and discovered the joy of the electric guitar. Status Quo {the metal head starter pack} were paying at the Apollo. I desperately wanted to go but no one would go with me. So – I went on my own; the only female amongst 4,000 denim jacketed, tattooed longhaired guys all air-guitaring as if their lives depended on it. What could I do? I joined in, of course. One of the greatest experiences of my life.

8} Huntingdon – age 16. I became the proud owner of my first Afghan Hound, beginning a love story that has lasted until this day. Her name was Tara, a two-year-old dark blue brindle rescue bitch and she was the founder member of my subsequent household of this elegant and fascinating breed. Only one downside. My steady boyfriend was insanely jealous. Men are weird.

9} Huntingdon – age 16. Start of Sixth Form College. Two years of fun {and hard work} followed. It was here I learned so much from two of my teachers who, to this day, I thank for sharing their knowledge, for their patience and for their genuine interest in their pupils. Their lessons were a revelation. I have no idea if these two men are still alive today but where ever they may be, Mr. Daniels and Mr. Hurst, I salute you.

10} Huntingdon – age 17. A level year. Oh the stress, the angst but I did it. I passed with the grades I needed and set off for Sheffield University. Time for the next stage in my life – or so I thought but that is for another day…….

Well, I hope you have enjoyed this tiny peek into my teen life. I look forward to reading yours. Take care and a merry Christmas to you all.

Viviane

Top Ten Childhood Moments.

2010-12-09T07:14:00.000-08:00

A nearly merry Christmas to you all. Corfu is doing its usual so-you-think-you-have-the-weather-sussed thingie. Yesterday it was mild and probably in the 20's. Not quite festive mood weather but it beats freezing.My tree is up - thank goodness.I know some folk get a real kick out of decorating their tree but, while I do enjoy it,I do get stressed. It's the Virgo thing. I want perfection.
And so this is Christmas, as the wise and great but, sadly, late John Lennon said and what have we done? It got me thinking back to my childhood. After all, Christmas is about children and the birth of one very special child. As I lay in bed last night, I scrolled through my vast collection of childhood memories. Some happy, some sad but mostly zany. I was an eccentric child from the day I was born - or so my mother tells me. "You are a non-conformist" I heard this from her most of my life.
Now married, with two grown up kids of my own, I believe I still am. But that is for another time, another blog. Today I thought it would be fun to put together my top ten list of my childhood escapedes and dreams.

1}Reading UK. Age...not sure but I was still a baby. All I remember is waking up in my cot and seeing this huge plastic monster grinning down at me. She was called Bella. Bella my arse; more like Chukky. I have hated dolls ever since. From that day, my toy box was filled with guns, cowboy hats and airfix models.

2}Singapore. Age 3 Running away, with Gary and David, the five year old twins from down the street. At this time in my life, I was living in Singapore. My father was in the army and we had a Chinese maid called Pok. I remember hiding in the twins' room. We locked the door and threw the key out the window while Pok stood outside screaming Missie Missie!. My poor brother had to climb up on to the balcony.

3} Age 3. Still in Singapore. Going butterfly hunting with my elder brother in the jungle. I was barefoot and scantily clad in a pair of white undies that always managed to end up somewhere around my knees. I wasn't known as droopy draws for nothing. I love my big brother. He was my hero and partner in crime. His favourite trick was to wait until all of poor Pok's weekly wash was dry and then spray it down with the garden hose. But I digress. Back to the butterfly chase. He could never understand why his collection didn't grow. As fast as he put them in the tin, I let them go.I have remained a staunch animal rights activist ever since.

4}Age 4 Singapore. Jumping off the top diving board at Changi swimming pool only to find my rubber ring had burst. Luckily for me, older brother saw me floundering and saved me. Later on, when I pissed him off, he used to say it was the biggest mistake of his life.

5} Age 6 Glasgow. Climbing my first tree, much to my mother's great fear. She so desperately wanted me to be princess in a pink dress. I just wanted to be a boy. From there, I progressed to running along 12 foot high walls and jumping from buliding to building. When I think of it now, I feel sick at the thought of the danger I put myself in. Those back garden walls were Victorian and far from stable.

A word about Glasgow. I grew up in this wonderful city. I lived in an area called Hillhead. A place full of beautiful parks, museums and art galleries. It became my adventure play ground. 20 minute bus ride and you are in the countryside. Stunning scenery, lovely people and great food. I had the time of my life.

6}Age 8. Glasgow. Reading my first Enid Blyton Famous Five book. My world changed. I now KNEW I wanted to be a boy. I wanted to be George. I became George. Out went the frocks and in came the blue shorts, welly boots and t.shirts. I formed my own little gang and we lived out our own adventures in my back yard well into the long northern summer evenings. And yes - I got into a few scraps. I loved fisti cuff fighting, always trying to prove I was as good as any boy on the block. I did have one dilemna though. I was madly in love with Manilito from the High Chaperal. I was going to marry him but didn't I have to be a girl for that?

7}Glasgow. Age 9. Discovering Santa Claus did not exist. I was gutted and also furious with my parents for making a fool out of me for all those years.On the plus side, I received my first 'big' bike. It was blue and gold and I adored it. Again, I flirted with danger. Telling my mother I was just cycling around the corner to my friend's house, I would whizz off to the clyde tunnel and cycle under the river to the other side of the city.

8}Glasgow Age 9 .I discovered my passion for horses. Blame Champion the Wonder Horse. I was desperate for my own pony but I understood it was never going to happen. I did, however, save my pocket money and enrol for weekly riding lessons. First time I got on a horse, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. During the week I practised perfecting my mount and dismount. Resplendent in my Oxfam jodhpurs and hard hat, I tacked up the back yard railings and rose off into the sunset - much to the bewilderment of the neighbours who finally thought that 'mad, half-foreign girl from upstairs has lost the plot". Not content at this, I turned my spacehopper into a trusty steed named Thunder and set up spacehopper gymkhanas in the garden. Lucky my parents couldn't afford therapy because I am sure I would have been in it.

9}Glasgow. Age ten. Joined the Girl Guides and discovered the performing arts. Actually, I had always been a bit of an actress, a fact to which my long-suffering family will attest but under the inspiring guidence of our wonderful pack leader, our little troop put on numerous plays and pantomines for the local community. We were all crap at the usual friend to whatever badge stuff but we could all belt out a tune. Highlight of my career? Playing Buttons in our version of Cinderella, and so excited because Adrian Laine, the boy from school on who I'd had a major crush since year 4 was coming to watch me. Unfortunately, he feel instantly in love with the girl with long blonde hair who was playing the part of Cinderella. Teach me to cut off all my locks.

10}Glasgow. Age 11. My final year at Primary school. Encouraged by my teacher,I put myself in for the Glasgow High School for Girls entrance exam - and got in! This was the year when I truly did discover boys and thought, perhaps, it was time to ditch the George image. I think it was playing postman's knock in my living room closet that did it. Kissing boys was much more fun than punching their lights out.
To be continued.....

Next week... My ten top Teen moments.

Ok, your turn now. Would you like to share your top ten childhood moments?

Viviane.

What is love part one and two.

2010-11-27T12:11:00.000-08:00

Evening to you all from a chilly Corfu. I think winter is finally upon us. Last week, the island was lashed by storms and some of the heaviest rainfall in years, resulting in damage to many properties. Thank goodness the internet didn’t go down in my area. What a case of sacre bleu that would be.
Christmas is approaching fast but I am resisting putting up my tree just yet otherwise, come Christmas day, we are all already sick of the decorations. Corfu at Christmas time is pretty nice. The town’s tree-lined avenues are lit up by tiny white lights; simple but so effective.
So- on to today’s ramble. I must confess, this week I am cheating. I am going to repost a couple of discussions I posted back in 2008, originally on Myspace. My reason for reposting? To share with my new blog followers and fellow writers my insight into that mysterious thing called love. After all, isn't it what makes the world go around? So here goes and I look forward to your feed back....

Viv

What is love part one

What is love? An easy enough question. Then again, maybe not. First off, love is a word. It defines an emotion, a state of mind. What makes one person's emotion any less or more than another's? What is true love as opposed to infatuation, crush, obsession? To me there should be no difference. Love is a feeling, a spiritual connection with someone or something, be he/she/it be known to us personally or not.
Why do I bring this up? Yesterday, I read on a posting {doesn't matter where or who} that this person felt sad because no one close to her could understand her 'love' for a certain singer who she admired. I can imagine the snorts of disbelief, the 'aren't you a little old to be having crushes?' 'Why are you wasting energy on someone you will never hope to meet and if if you did, he's Gay.'
My answer to these scoffing, cynical folk is - and so what if she doesn't ever meet him? Does that make her feelings any less real? As for wasted emotion, emotion - especially of love - is never wasted. It is what makes us human and what keeps us alive. It is better to give than receive, to love is more important than to be loved. It is what is in your heart that is important. The sense of euphoria, the joy, the laughter of the person who prompted this blog is experiencing is just as real and intense than if this object of her desire was known to her.
Love is a feeling, nothing tangible that we can grasp on to and label. I am no big fan of opera but when I hear Pavarotti sing Nessun Dorma I want to cry. At that moment I am in love; with his voice, the music. He moves me into a state of high emotion. When I watch Russell Crowe deliver his final speech in Gladiator, I weep for this imaginary character of Maximus and for all he has suffered. I feel as if my heart is being ripped from my chest. At that moment I love him. I want to kill all those who have hurt him. Is this emotion wasted? No and if anyone of you out there cannot grasp what I am saying then I truly feel sorry for you.

Love part two

Someone once sang - Love is a drug. Pop quizzers amongst you will know it was the suave, sexy Bryan Ferry. Mr.Ferry was so right. For those of you out there, caught up in the whirlwind of fresh, sweet new love, you will know what I am talking about. For those who are settled in a relationship - albeit husband/wife/lover - I want to take you on a journey, a voyage into those first golden days; of halcyon days of a relationship. Isn't the rush incredible? That liquid warmth seeping into your blood, surging through your veins,powering its way to take a grip on your heart,squeezing all sanity from what you believed to be your rational, logical oh so controlled thought. Oh how arrogant.Just a look, one smile, a simple touch and your world explodes into brilliance, shattering your ice shield of reserve. You can barely speak, words that usually come so easily to your quicksilver, all too often caustic tongue freeze in your throat. The world around you fades into insignificance. Senses are heightened, You are floating, his/her words caress your ear, a symphony of pleasure, eyes devour you, until your stomach is doing more back-flips than Comeneci. Euphoria! Food of the Gods! Yes indeed, love is a most powerful mind-altering drug.
But then - the come-down. Can there be such raw, gut-wrenching pain? Your stomach churns, heart pulls and tugs inside your chest, lungs ready to explode from repressed sobs because - hey- you are an adult. You cannot allow people to see you weak, emotional - oh so vulnerable.
This unbearable sense of total dejection has many causes. A failed relationship, betrayal. A love you now know to be futile because as much as he/she still cares for you as a person, you know it is over. Your fingers ache to touch him/her, to draw him/her back into your arms and let free what is in your heart. So what do you do? You swallow your pain and continue giving him/her what they have come to love about you; your undivided loyalty, your love, understanding and support as a friend. A shoulder to cry on when their life is not going well. when he/she is down and lonely. You bite down hard on your lip and smile as he/she confides in you about their love, their real love, a new love to which you take second place. You cover up your incredible hurt and envy (you are human} with humour. You give all the right answers, offer up calm, adult advice by the bucket-load but really all you want to do is childishly kick sand in your 'rival's' eye.
So,what is the cure? Go cold turkey? Walk away from what is an emotional whirlpool? Feasable - if you are sensible, strong but no. You are too heavily under the influence of the 'drug' and, as with all addicts, the desire to quit must come from within and let's face it, who of you out there are strong enough to walk away? You are so bound by the barbed claws of your addiction, one drop of their affection is enough to send you soaring back up to dizzy heights? How can you walk away when each minute, hour you are with him/her is sheer heaven? Is it enough to sustain you through night's lonely, cruel hours as you toss and turn, consumed by longing, despising yourself for your weakness? It has to be because, as much as you rationalise, as many times as you tell yourself there is no hope, one tiny mutant cell in your brain continues to grow, spreading to your soul and heart which, in turn, cling fearlessly to a gossamer thread. A thread called....hope. Hope the love that was once so magical, can be rekindled.

Brilliant Response.

2010-11-16T04:47:00.000-08:00

My blogs of late have managed to provoke quite a but of discussion. I am sure my dear friend and critique partner Christine London will not mind if I post her enlightening response....take it away , Chris

I hope we never figure it out because it is as personal as the individual. Some of us require absolute attention from our beloved. Others find seperate holidays and weeks apart the glue of relational longevity. Some define monogamy in purely physical terms and are not bothered by their partner spending time with members of the opposite sex. Others are more jealous by the shared laughs and smiles than walking in on a tumble in the sheets.

In general our society traditionally defines infidelity by the sex act, but why should society have a say in the our individual hearts and minds? If nothing else good comes from our over exposure to the exponentially growing amount of information produced by mankind, perhaps the fact that we all have our own individual needs and feeling should be central. Freedom should no longer be limited to democractic politics or choice of job/place of residence and religion. Freedom, should be choice of the way we live in our relationships as well. Societal boundries are being pushied and challenged daily as we grow into the future.

Change is always messy, so to, meaningful relationships. It is through the give and take of relationship that each of us must decide with what we are comfortable. Whether it be open marriage or tradtional coupling where no appreciable contact is desirable with members of the opposite sex that are not the spouse--it should be the sum of the hearts and minds of the individuals involved. Messy? Sure. But anything worth negotiating is.

Now all we have to do is be ever vigilant to protect each person's right to make those choices and get our corporate noses out of other people's decisions. Love is good. Love is never wasted. It should always be respected in any healthy form which it manifests.

Thanks.

Viviane
* ·

14 hours ago

INFIDELITY - PART TWO

2010-11-14T03:15:00.000-08:00

“The way I see it, marriage is a contract; a contract with which two people promise to love, honour and at least try to remain faithful. Pavlos broke the contract which means…” She spat out a shell. “In my humble opinion, it’s now null and void.” Fragile Dreams

Lepon – as we say in Greece, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. What is cheating exactly? Ok – someone sleeps with someone else. By today’s moral criteria, that is considered betrayal but what about mind cheating? Hands up out there who have ever cheated on their partner mentally? Is harboring lustful designs on someone other than your spouse/partner just as wrong as going through with the physical act? I hasten to add, I am not talking about drooling over Brad/Gerry/Enrique but, rather, somebody one could have access to if they put their mind to it. Ask yourself the question – do you feel guilty about these thoughts? If yes then, no, it’s not so innocent.
Why is the emphasis always on sex – or full-on sex? A simple kiss, a hug, a stroking of the hand, anything vaguely intimate – is that not cheating? Sharing a clandestine glass of wine – is that not betrayal? Do we convince ourselves because full consummation does not take place we are not hurting anyone? What constitutes a relationship? I do find it rather ironic that in modern day thinking, you are not in a relationship unless you are sleeping together. So even if you spent time together, laugh, kiss, hug, joke, generally enjoy the company of someone, you do not have a ‘real’ relationship because you are not doing the deed. It does make me titter when I hear people gloss over their actions with…oh, but we haven’t gone the whole way. Hey, dear, you have committed more sexual acts than found in the Karma Sutra so, in my book, that is cheating. Do not try and justify you actions.
It would seem this topic of infidelity which I opened up last week has invited vigorous discussion. My dear friend and critique partner asks the question – is man really meant to be monogamous. She asks...…What precludes loving more than one man (or woman) not only in a lifetime, but concurrently? What indeed? Who decided the rules? Dare I suggest man-made religion? We often hear…he /she is the love of my life…my soulmate. Granted, we may believe this at the time. We see our present partner through those too-oft deceptive rose-coloured specs but how can we be sure? It’s a vast world out there, filled with, perhaps, a barrel full of potential soul mates. I believe the problem we face is no two people view this matter in the same light and I think it all comes back to the green-eyed monster, jealousy. No one wants to share a loved-one, no matter how much the “errant” partner will tell you it can be done. Which brings us back to physical v emotional infidelity. Will we ever figure out this game of love? Thoughts please…..

Viviane

FALSE WORDS

2010-11-06T10:26:00.000-07:00

Good afternoon from - yes- sunny Corfu. Once again, mother nature has had the last laugh. Winter clohes are packed away, quilts laid out on beds and oil in tanks ready to turn on that cental heating. Suckers! Summer is back! 28 degrees , today, and perfect skies.If it remains so, I am off to the beach tomorrow. So - on to todays little word/phrase......

IT DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING.

It didn’t mean anything, honey. It’s you I love.

Before you all scoff, let’s consider this more carefully. Can it be possibly true? When men stray, does it necessarily mean they no longer love their partner and if, indeed, they claim to love them, how can they stray in the first place? Are men really so different than women? Is it possible for them to detach the emotional from the physical?
Before I continue with today’s discussion, let me say for the record, I am in no way defending the cheat. I, as those who know me will testify, would be the first to be devastated if a man I loved cheated on me. I am an extremely jealous person. I see betrayal every way I turn but….. and now you can throw stones…. For me, the ultimate betrayal would be if my partner/ loved one turned to another for companionship. It would be the thought of them sitting, laughing, talking – sharing together that I would find intolerable. Let’s face it; sex is sex. Anyone can do it – and men usually can with brain and heart detached but the emotional bond that lies between a couple, if that is broken, for me, that is where the biggest hurt lies.
So why have I chosen this topic for today? Let’s say it ties in well with my soon-to-be released contemporary romance, Fragile Dreams. Ellie Rouva is married to a serial cheat. After ten years, she no longer cares. When my dear friend and critique partner read through my first draft, she commented that I had made Ellie’s husband too much of a cliqued bad guy. I needed to somehow humanize him. In a conversation Ellie shares with a young confidante, he asks her the million-dollar question “why did you marry him?”
Basically, Ellie says she saw what see wanted to see. She allowed herself to be seduced by the glamour of his position and the pull of the island. She conjured up a false image of the man. He did not change but Ellie did. In another scene, Ellie confronts her husband, accusing him of never loving her. His answer?
“The other women meant nothing. Everything I did…It was to provoke a reaction from you. You were always so controlled; so cold. You never showed me affection. Every time I tried to touch you, you pushed me away.”

My mother once told me…there are worse things men can do to you than sleep with someone else. Believe me, she has a point: emotional torture, mental bullying, or a man who drinks, gambles, who refuses to work and support his family. Worse – an unsupportive father. But it does seem to be the sexual infidelity that evokes strong reaction in most. Before I go on, I would like to say I am not talking about a man who goes off and embarks on a full-blown affair. At the end of the day, we cannot control with whom and when we will fall in or out of love. Most men, I am sure, genuinely do not want to hurt anyone but what if they simply married the wrong person? What if they have connected with someone much more suited to their emotional needs? Perhaps the women they married and fell in love with has changed and, again, before I have the women’s lib breathing down my neck, I think we need to face a hard truth, here. More times than not, it is the woman who has changed – or rather our tolerance of the man we married has lessened. We notice faults that have always been there but in the throes of the fairy tale romance after which we hunger, we conveniently ignore them. We become caught up in our role of housewife, perfect mother. Often, our children become the centre of our universe and, as bizarre as it may seem to we women, men can become jealous. They feel left out from that special mother/child relationship. Men can be like petulant children. Does this give them right to seek solace elsewhere? After all, many, many husbands do not go out and sleep with the nearest bimbo because their wife is too tired or too involved with day to day running of the home to understand them. No – it does not. I am not condoning such behavior, merely trying to understand.
Now, this is where old school got it right, I believe. The professional mistress – nothing to do with a man’s love for his wife or family. But in today’s modern society, we want retribution. Ultimatums are issued. Decisions made without careful consideration. “Pack your bags and leave. Go to her…your cheap little whore.” Ladies – most times your man had no intention of leaving you for her. You forced his hand. Let’s face it, guys. You love your comfort zone. Ok – if you are a young couple, no kids involved, do as you please. Rush off to the divorce courts but, if children are involved, you owe it to them to try and work out your differences. It may sound, here, as if I am placing the entire onus on the woman. Maybe I am. Let’s face it, girls. We are the superior gender. We think with our brains, not our wil…. If you get my meaning.
My uncle once told me, men are weak; women are by far the much stronger sex. We are mothers and, as such, should be put on a pedestal. I am not sure if I agree entirely but I think I understand what he was trying to say. Men follow their baser instincts. Love, for them, can be separated from sex. For most women, this is not the case. Probably why, when the shoe is on the other foot, a man will be destroyed. He understands, for a woman to cheat {again, I generalize} there has to be emotional involvement. In time, I believe, a woman can forgive and move on, forgive the infidelity. A man – he may say he does but he never recovers nor does he forget. Food for thought? I would love to hear you opinions.

Next week…. It was only a joke…..

Viviane

Yet Another Word: GRIEF

2010-10-30T03:43:00.000-07:00

Good morning happy readers.

Yes, another week has passed on this glorious island and – yes, once again – it rained for most of it.
So what have I achieved this week? Mmm – well {fanfare trumpets} I managed to complete a couple of chapters on w.i.p. No mean feat given my present state of mind. Taking the plunge, I sat down one afternoon and, allowing for breaks for the Young and the Restless, I read through all that I had written this summer. I decided I wasn’t such a bad writer after all and my tale was worth saving.
I also achieved another different but equally daunting task this week. Since the death of Michael Jackson, I have not been able to watch this great performer, although a kind friend of mine presented me with ‘This is It’ for my birthday. In a way, it was in remembrance of another tragedy that spurred me on to taking the plunge.
28th October, 2010. Oxi Day - the National Greek holiday, celebrating the day when the Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas quite vehemently said ‘oxi’ {no} to the axis forces of WW2. Cheeky buggers that Hitler and his fat buddy Mussolini - wanting to march into Greece and set up ‘strategic’ bases. On the morning of October 28, the Greek population took to the streets, irrespective of political affiliation, shouting 'oxi'. From 1942, this day has been celebrated.
But…this day, for myself and many friends here in Corfu, has come to be remembered for a tragedy much closer to home. On this day, 2009, we lost a dear friend; a woman in her prime who, for reasons known only to the powers above, died of an aneurysm. I suppose numb is the only term that springs to mine. Our little community was in shock. We still are. It’s so hard to believe this vibrant mother of two has left us. It makes no sense. But back to Michael….
Perhaps many of you are thinking… how can she compare the death of a close friend to that of a man she did not know? This question leads me nicely into today’s word : Grief.
What is grief, exactly? I am not sure I have the answer – except to say, there is no wrong or right way to grieve nor should there be a scale of grieving.
In the case of MJ, I believe the world saw grieving on a mass scale for several reasons. Personally, I not only mourned the passing of an amazing talent; a man who had been poised to, once more, take the world by storm, by also, but, simmering inside of me was a deep anger. I feel very strongly that this was a man very wronged by the world. He was publically hung, drawn and quartered in the press and ridiculed for, yes, I admit, his oft-strange behaviour. As for his innocence or guilt, I am not getting caught up in that argument. Suffice to say, I have my views and no one will change them. My point is, he was tried and found guilty by an a scavenger press, a press aided and abetted by a salivating public, hungry for scandal with no thought as to how their actions were affecting this man. So what – he’s rich, famous, he deserves it. Who deserves that? Does his wealth make him any less of a human being? Did he not deserve the respect of privacy and compassion we all take for granted? In my mind, what happened to MJ was akin to a public flaying. The humiliation and strain, I believe, caused him to step over that fine line between sanity and total despair. And this is why, I believe, the world-wide grief that manifested after, was a reaction to collective guilt. Somehow – somewhere, the world knew it had contributed to this man’s downfall; a man who only wanted to share his amazing gifts with the world.
Grief – guilt; how they are so often bound together. How many times have we lost a loved one, only to ask ourselves, shoulda, coulda? This year, I have watched many of my friends try to cope with the loss of a parent. I see the same pain every time. Why didn’t I do more? I couldn’t be with them at the end. Unfortunately, this is another down side to living far across the waters from or family. It isn’t always possible for us to be there for them. Work, kids, family responsibilities get in the way. Of course, people understand but it doesn’t erase the guilt. I know this. I lost my sister in 1987. I never made it home in time to say goodbye. Did I feel guilt? You bet I did. Did I grieve? I did – I still do but quietly. I do not openly sob as I did for MJ of Freddy Mercury. Not because, I feel in any way that their death is more important to me. I believe, in fact, it to be the contrary. Sometimes a death so close to home leaves us feeling so bereft we bury our grief. It is too painful to grieve. Perhaps this is why we need the public show of emotion we give to MJ, Diane, Freddy, the Pope – Mufasa even. It is a safety valve that allows all the suppressed emotions we bury to come to the surface; emotions, otherwise, too painful to conjure up. Is this making sense to you all? I hope so.
So, where am I going with this? I think the point I am trying to make is, please do not judge anyone. We all grieve in different ways and for different reasons. Many people need the ritual of funerals and grave visiting. It helps them in the healing process. Personally, I don’t feel the need for this but I understand others that do. Others may refuse to attend and not shed a tear. We cannot possibly know what is going on in their hearts.
Don’t be so quick to scoff at those that do weep for celebrities or for the death of a much-loved pet. This could be their way of dealing with personal grief.
Next week – I will try to find a happier word to dissect. Until then, may the force be with you and live long and prosper.

Viv

PS: I didn't cry, watching Michael. I was too fascinated. To what him at work was amazing. Such a perfectionist.

MORE WORDS......

2010-10-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

Welcome, happy campers.

And, yes, another week has passed me by and still my muse eludes me. On a positive note, I have completed another round of edits on Written in Stone and managed to get a week’s worth of washing finally dry. Oh, I can just see the bored eye-rolling going on and the internal ‘whatevers’. Hey – this was no mean feat. Have you ever tried drying a week’s supply of heavy/thrash/death metal t-shirts? {My son’s - not mine and you can imagine the faces of the passer bye. I swear they make the sign of the cross as they gaze up in stupefaction at my washing line}.
Back to the rain. This beautiful island of mine was under siege to a series of tempestuous storms, worthy of a Cecil B De Mille movie: forked lightening, streets awash with monsoon rains, 2-inch hailstones rain all washed down with a 4, 5-magnitude earthquake. Kinda hard to type when your pc screen is waving from side to side {and, no, it wasn’t the gin – must get more of that in, actually}.

So time to get down to business. Continuing last week’s theme of misused words in relation to that great human burden called love, I thought, today, I would focus on the term, heart-broken.
Someone once told me they find me remarkable. They cannot understand how I have faced such difficult times in my life, dealing with them in a stoic way, and yet, I go to pieces over a trifling, relatively unimportant matter – such as….well, you can guess the rest. For those who do not know me, my friend was referring to my two-times battle with a potentially life-threatening disease and the discomfort and humiliation the subsequent treatment entailed. While I am not saying it was easy, I find the physical pain in no way can compare to damaging of one’s heart. Our body, at the end of the day, is God’s protective shell for our soul; the essence that makes us who we are. When this is damaged, the pain can be far greater than any physical trauma. So – my well-meaning friend – unimportant? I think not.

HEARTBROKEN:
From thesaurus: inconsolable, grief-stricken, lovesick, crushed, wretched
My heart is breaking; he /she broke my heart blah blah.

I don’t know about you lot out there but, really, what an ineffectual term. To me, a break defines something quick – intensely painful, yes but does it really describe the angst?
I doubt there is anyone who has not experienced the incredible pain that accompanies the end of a relationship. And if you deny it – you are either lying or are a robot. Again, I am not just talking about love between lovers. {As a good friend of mine once said, sex is ok but – hey – what do you do for the next 22 hours?}. The loss of a dear friend can be just as painful.
Ever cut your figure on a serrated knife? The tiniest of cuts. In the beginning, it bleeds a little but the bleeding soon stops. You think it’s ok, not too deep but it throbs for hours. For me, the pain of losing someone pretty much follows this pattern. In the beginning, there is an ouch. I’ll be ok, you tell yourself but as the hours drag by {and boy, don’t they drag} you realize there is this rather painful hole somewhere in the middle of your chest. The tiny cut becomes a full-blown gash as that serrated knife of rejection is twisted and turned, slowly but surely gouging out another part of you. Your heart is being torn and shredding into a thousand little festering pieces. You wonder - will it ever heal? The damage is too great, the pain too much to bear. The tears you cried in the beginning dry up, leaving in their wake, a burning rawness at the back of your throat. Your head swims with unanswered questions; why, when, because of? Drowning in a sea of misery and masochism, you relive the good times which only serves to increase the incredible sense of loss. It’s like scratching and picking at a scab trying to form over the wound. A temporary release from the itch but, nevertheless, futile. You cannot let it go.

GUT WRENCHING.

I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach,
Oh God, yes – now here is one term that is spot on. Rejection, break-up. It’s like someone stuck in their hand and twisted your insides until you real sick and I mean actually nauseous. Your body grows cold, head pounds and you shiver. The thought of food makes you want to vomit. There is pain, there. Real, physical pain.
Of course, time can be a great healer and, the human spirit is resilient. Gradually the pain will fade. Not gone – never gone but buried deep, to be resurrected by a memory, a song, a moment. Some folk never truly get over a loss. People can and often do die of a broken heart. Don’t dismiss it and whatever you do, do not make light of someone else’s suffering. It may seem trivial to you but – hey – wait til it hits you. Then you will know. You will realize….
I wonder if this is why so many of us write romance. In our imaginary worlds can we vent the emotions we are too wary of sharing with friends and family? And, of course, in our worlds, we do get to control the outcome.
Until next week, folks, I leave you with a little ditty. Not my words, I hasten to add.

Enjoy your weekend.

Viv

Days have come and gone
Since you were here
Nights are twice as long
Without you near
Pictures on my mind
Stand out so clear
No matter where I am
Or what I do
My dear friend,
All I see is you
Everyday I find
You're on my mind
I close my eyes
But I'm not blind
I see you still.

Three Little Words

2010-10-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

– summer is over. My work as receptionist extraordinaire is done. How do I feel? Pretty much out of sorts. It’s a strange thing, this season business. For all of you who live on an island, you will understand where I am coming from. For those who live relatively ‘normal’ lives, let me explain.
Our year is divided into two; winter: endless days of damp and torrential rain, log fires and cozy night in with dull TV. Summer – a time of sweltering days, balmy nights and cold beers with friends. Did I mention the grueling months of working within the tourist industry? Most of my friends do, in some capacity or other: repping, hotel work, airport work, car hire. It can be fun and certainly never dull. What it is is stressful. We work long hours with a hundred and one problems to deal with.
I used to be a holiday representative but, now, I am employed as a hotel reception in a small, family run business. I call it repping in one place. Our guests are mainly Greeks from the mainland and a few Serbs.
For the most part I enjoy it but after a few days, I find myself becoming institutionalized. Four months with no day off tends to have this effect. I find all the promises I made at the beginning of the season go out the window. I won’t neglect my writing, I will write a blog on a regular basis, I will cook great meals and stay on top of things. Sadly, it never works out. My mind is consumed with hotel problems. My literary brain cells go into hibernation. I promise myself…tomorrow, tomorrow. Tomorrow never seems to come.
This summer, I started off well, brimming with enthusiasm for a new story line I had. In the quiet hours of the afternoon shift, I managed to get down more than half of the tale. And then…brain shut down. Real life kicked in and then some. Suffice to say, I became distracted. Reality was suddenly more interesting than my imaginary romance but that is another tale. As the weeks turned into months, writer Viv was a faint memory.
And now? Summer is gone and where do I find myself? As I said at the beginning of this post, out of sorts, a little like an inmate released from a prison sentence. I am trying to find my muse; it’s around somewhere. The fact that I am attempting to write this blog is progress but, of course, I am rambling, as usual. The blog is supposed to be about those famous {or infamous} three little words.

I love you. I love you. My question is…but do you? Do you really?
In these times of new age, touchy feely claptrap, the words, I love you, are used too often, so indiscriminately and with little thought behind their meaning. When someone tells you he/she loves you – be it as a lover or a friend – they ought to realize this declaration carries a lot of responsibility. At least it should – especially if they know the recipient of their supposed affection really cares for them. As I said, it is an expression bantered around too lightly. What does it mean – I love you? I know what it should mean. It means you will never willingly hurt the person you love. You will never lie to them, deceive them or lead them on to expect more than you are capable of giving. It means wanting to be with them as much as your time allows. It doesn’t mean playing games or trying or be cool to play hard to get. Above all, it should stand for honesty and loyalty. I reiterate, I am not only discussing romantic love, here. I believe the same rules apply in friendship – another much- misappropriated term. My best friend. We are friends. Are we? Are we really – or are we acquaintances that get together once in a while. Can I depend on you in times of personal crisis? Will you always be there for me and be sensitive to my feelings as I am to yours?
I am fortunate to have what I consider one true best friend who meets all of the above and the funny thing is, I have not known this person as long as those who I used to consider my ‘best’ friends but , from day one, there was an inexplicable connection. This friend taught me the meaning of real friendship. That’s not to say all is always roses between us. We argue and bicker like an old married couple but I know said friend is always there for me. This friend truly does love me and I return the compliment. It’s a wonderful feeling.
So, that’s it for this Saturday. I am quite proud of myself for getting this blog out. Next week, I will be discussing what it truly means to be broken hearted. Thanks for listening.

Anyone for Tennis and I need inspiration.

2010-06-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

So I await , with bated breath, the rematch between Rafa and Soderling. May the best man win...and long as it is Nadal.
So what's been happening this week?
Took second swim of the season, only to nearly die of heart attack when I thought I was being pursued by a shark. I never hit shore so fast. [da du...da du...dadadadadadad}.Turns out it was only a dolphin and now I am regretting my hasty flight. 25 years on Corfu and it's the first time I have seen one so close, although I know they are always out there. Poor thing. I think my friends and I scared him off.
This week saw the start of yet another diet. I have come to realise food is what makes one put on weight so best not eat any. Gin, on the other hand, served with slim-line tonic, is ok.It sort of takes the edge off starvation. I am not a drinker, I hasten to add. In fact my capacity for alcohol is so low I have become somewhat of a joke amongst my wine-swilling friends.
Went to see Sex and the City. Sorry, but I wouldn't stay in that hotel if you paid me. And is it me or did anyone else want to seriously slap Carrie Bradshaw? Bring on Robin Hood and Mr. Crow.
Oh - and wasn't the Eurovision Song Contest fun? it's worth it for the outfits. Greece did ok but poor old UK. Here's an idea, you Brit organisers. Next year, send George Michael or Robbie Williams.
In my parallel author world,I am suffering a huge dilemna. My hands and brain matter is itching to get to work on a new wip but I have about five projects spinning around in my head and don't know which one to go for. I really envy authors that just go for it. I need inspiration. A lot of times, a song will inspire me, plant the seed, so to speak. It may be one simple lyric, the depth of emotion behind the singer's delivery. My first pubbed novel, Letting Go, was inspired by such a song, 'Mine' a song from the first Savage Garden album. Even now I cry when I listen to Darren Hayes emotional lyrics. The sentiment behind the song helped me shape the character of Daniel.
Sometimes inspiration comes to me in a dream but all I seem to dream about these days are planes taking off between high rise buildings and crashing back down? Any dream intepreters out there?
Lying on a beach. listening to the gentle rolling of surf works. I am lulled into a dream-state, where I can imagine all sorts of.... ok, best not go there. Signing out. Think I'll go to the beach.

Viviane

ME AND THE UNDERDOG

2010-05-29T02:48:00.000-07:00

And another week bites the dust. It's been hot. Thursday afternoon heralded the official Viviane Brentanos First Swim of the Season. It was wonderful. My daughter and I crossed the island to my favourite beach, Ag Gordis {much of the inspiration for both Dreamweek and Fragile Dreams}. That first plunge into the as yet cool water was shocking but after a few strokes so exhilarating. Floating on my back, staring across the beautiful back-drop of cypress and olive clad mountains, I understood why I chose to live here. Greece may be in financial dire straits, we are all having to tighten our belts but there is no where else I would rather be.
It's 25 years since I left Britain and came to this island. I may be British born but my heart and mind is now Greek. Greece is more than a country. It's a state of mind. It becomes one's soul - a passion.
So, as a red-gold sun shone down from a Cerulean sky, dusting my pale winter skin with its tender warmth, I looked out across the glittering azure sea and my love for this island re-kindled.
Which leads me in nicely to my ramble of the week. The underdog. Ever since I can remember, I have always routed for the underdog in movies and novels. I cried when King Kong died.{ok big underdog but he was so mistreated} I even wept for the shark in Jaws. Hey, it's the sea. Sharks swim in it. And who amongst you saw through Darth Vader's scary mask to the tortured soul beneath? I did. Oh God - she's on happy pills, I hear you all sigh. I wish: gotta be cheaper than Gin. I digress.
Ah yes - the underdog. People ask {usually my family back in UK who cannot understand my loyalty} why is it I am so passionate in my defense of Greece? It's simple. Greece, in population, is a little country but its heart, soul, culture, intelligence is huge.
I don't think people mean to be ignorant. I blame the lack of proper education. I remember, when I first came to Corfu, I truly believed that Britain was the greatest country on this planet. I realize all believe this of their own country and, don't misunderstand me, it is good to be patriotic but not by maligning others.
What I hate is this inherent aura of superiority that most Brits wear - again, I add, through ignorance. We are taught that Britannia still rules the waves. There is still a vast cultural divide between Old Albion and the European mainland - especially with the Southern countries. It's the scoffing, the tittering into hands, the sarcastic supposedly witty barbs that really offend me.
Greece has given the world so much; democracy, culture, literature, a wealth of history. Yes, that was a long time ago but the spirit that was Ancient and Classical Greece, I believe, still lives on in the hearts of the modern day Hellenes. They are a proud race. They have suffered a great deal in this past century; two world wars in which they fought hard and valiantly on the side of the allies , civil war in from which scars are still healing, oppression under the thumb of a dictator and now fighting to recover after too many long years of government corruption but they will pull through. Forgive them if the odds have been stacked against them. Greeks can be their own worst enemy. Greeks may argue amongst themselves but God help any outsider who attacks them. They will close ranks so fast you will be left reeling.
Their spirit is second to none. Who can forget their amazing sporting successes? The 2004 Euro soccer championship which, against all odds, they won. And not because they were technically the best team but through sheer guts and will-power. Greeks are also stoic. They know such a victory may never happen again. Were the Gods on their side that year? Who knows but they did it. That's all that matters to them and no one can take that away from them.
2004 was also the year Athens hosted the Olympic Games. Once again, the foreign press seemed hell bent on maligning Greece. They would never be ready, the games would be a shambles, and security was lax blah blah. The negativity was unbelievable. To say it made my blood boil would be an understatement. All I can say is...he who laughs last... Athens showed the world. The games were a spectacular success and the press was left with egg all over their faces but they are at it again.
Irresponsible journalism apparently is now the accepted norm. According to the dear old BBC and CNN, Athens is a war-zone; Greece is not safe for tourists. Oh my goodness - how daft is that? The recent protests in the capital took place within one square. Live in the city carried on as normal. Greece depends heavily on its tourist industry for its survival. All I ask is that the so-called journalists out there get there facts straight. How about a little research?
So have I finished my ramble? I think so. I am sure I could site many other examples of ‘bullying’ tactics but I think I have made my point. All I ask is for a little respect and understanding for Greece - the underdog with the heart and soul of a lion. See you all next week and I leave you with this link. The heart of a nation
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDUbqL_kSfs

Viviane

WHERE DOES TIME GO?

2010-05-22T09:09:00.000-07:00

WHERE DOES TIME GO?

It seems only yesterday I was hanging up my receptionist’s uniform for a life of baggy house clothes and endless hours of sitting at my pc – with a couple of housewifely duties thrown in for good measure. {Well, got to keep the troops happy, I suppose.}
Summer is just around the corner – at least it is supposed to be. If volcanic ash disruption is not enough to tax the poor, weary travelers, this week the tourists were met by torrential rain and Cecil B De Mille thunderstorms. And let’s not forget the reams of irresponsible reporting from supposedly esteemed news agencies. CNN, BBC…shame on you. Greece is not a country in chaos. The streets of Athens are not running amok with anarchists and violence.
For us Corfiots, our summer life is so different from our winter. The majority of folk, here, are employed seasonally. Working in the tourist industry means long hours, often seven days a week…. and for not much financial reward. It is, however, a time for long, balmy evenings relaxing on the veranda or down at our favourite coffee shop, sipping on ice-cold beer or chilled wine. There is something about hot days and sultry nights that brings out the muse in me. This is the time when I get creative, when I feel ‘romantic’. It’s when I fall in ‘love’ with male character.
I am old-school. I love to feel pen and paper in hand. It makes my work seem more personal. Somehow, when I transfer to pc, I detach. My ‘art’ then becomes ‘craft’ as I get down to the nitty-gritty of editing, formatting, subbing etc.
In the quiet afternoon shift behind my hotel reception desk, I sit, writing pad on my knee, one eye trained on the entrance lest my boss arrive and wonder why he’s paying me to write ‘malakie-es’ {Greek for….best you don’t know}. The pages are a mass of scribble that would challenge the Rosetta stone but it is my baby or as Golem would say…my precious. I am possessive, totally immersed in my story. Believe me, I have tried many times to write straight on to pc but I cannot. The words do not come.
Now – fast forward to October. Novel finished and a stack of coffee-stained, ink-smudged A4 waits on my desk, begging to be transferred into something resembling a legible WIP. Stage two begins….. To be continued.

BEAUTIFUL PROSE V INSTANT FIX

2010-04-11T02:48:00.000-07:00

This topic recently came to the fore on one of my web groups. Do movies do justice to the novel from hence they sprung? Does the modern generation prefer the visual masterpiece of…e.g. Lord of the Rings, Alice in Wonderland and so on as opposed to sitting down and wading through what is now sadly considered by many as long-winded unnecessary prose? God help us all, if this is the case.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore movie versions of the great classics. Let’s take Tolkien’s epic as an example.

Lord of the Rings; While I except that it may not be considered as great as the book {and why should it be} for me, it has to be set aside on its own and allowed to be judged as a movie - where, in my humble opinion, it is one of the greatest movies of all time.{closely followed by Gladiator} Characterization, acting, depth of emotion, photography, blah...I could go on all day. Would Tolkien have liked it? Probably not. After all, Middle Earth was his creation, his genius. If I had penned anything half as outstanding, I would die a happy woman and probably as possessive as hell with my manuscript. However, yes, the movie was a cinematic masterpiece but should the youth of today not be encouraged to read the Tolkien’s literary vision? Goodness me, children are no longer familiar with the classic fairy tales, preferring, instead to wait for Disney’s or Pixar’s next d.v.d offering. {No offence – I love Disney}. My point is – everything these days is about instant fix and this seems to be the trend in modern publishing – especially in the romance field

While I understand the desire of the 'modern' reader wanting to 'cut to the chase' as such, {I often included} who amongst us have not immersed ourselves in realms of beautiful prose, simply because...it's beautiful. It is rather ironic to think that, in these times, the great romance writer, Shakespeare may not have found a home for his great works - as would be the case for Dickens, Austen {the original kick –ass chick litter} Now wouldn't that be a huge loss to mankind.

I believe writing can be likened to art and photography. We all love our digital cameras and camera phones for quick fixes but do we not sigh in awe and wonder when studying the great masters; De Vinci's Mona Lisa, Monet's water-lilies? Sure, we can pick up a couple of postcard copies but where is the depth and compassion behind each stroke? It is the same with prose. A well-written albeit long passage can be so beautiful that it draws us in and takes our breath away. I believe we must give the modern reader more credit and refrain from telling them what they want to read. I hear so much, these days, about limited attention span - both for adults and children - but which came first? The Chicken or the egg?

Love to hear your thoughts.

Viviane

.There is no balance of power in love

2010-03-30T02:58:00.001-07:00

....................There is no balance of power in love

I posted this comment on Facebook to see what kind of response I received. None, so far, so I decided to turn it into a blog.

My 19 yr old daughter asked me what I meant buy it. Good question. I have a theory, one you may not all agree with.

Who remembers the game of love? Shall I call first…do I wait for him/her to ring first? Will I appear weak if I show how much I care? Ok, so that’s the practical but what about the depth of feeling, the balance of power?

Who can recall having a boyfriend/girlfriend who worshiped the ground we walked on? And who can truthfully raise their hand and say that, on some level, they didn’t abuse that power? Wasn’t it great, knowing that they hung on our every word, gave in to each whim? Did we know we were doing it? It’s so good to feel the security of being in control. We held the power. But what happens when the balance of power shifts, when the love we took for granted wanes – or even disappears forever? The rules of engagement change. We them become the weak, clinging in our desire to rekindle that once unfailing devotion. Bur when does it all become too much?

There was a line in a movie I watched last night. It read – The greatest truth of all is that love never lasts. Is this true? People become bored with each other, critical of one’s partner’s faults…I could go on and on but surely if it really is true love then such irritations or glitches can be worked through. Or – do we only feel ‘true’ love when we believe we have the undivided attention and devotion of our partner/husband/suitor?

Woman fall out of love with their partner because they snore, don’t take out the rubbish etc while others declare their dying love even as the man of their dreams is taking away their personal freedom or – worst – slapping them around. Can some of us love unconditionally? I have a friend who recently bemoaned the fact that she has been in love for the past few years; a deep love on so many levels that she has never experienced before, but now she has reached the stage where she ‘hates’ him because she loves him so much. She feels she has lost the ‘balance of power’. She feels that she wants to wound him because he makes her so vulnerable.

This response is common. Indeed, a characters from my w.i.p is one such person. He is a serial cheater. We begin by stereo-typing him; macho, selfish blah blah but somewhere into the story, he admits to his wife that his behaviour was prompted by her coldness. He realized she had fallen out of love with him. He had lost the balance of power and wanted to provoke a reaction, rekindle her ‘love.’ “B***”. I hear you all cry but, believe me, it happens. It is human nature to lash out at the ones we love because we hate them; because they don’t love us as we want them to. Love can indeed be selfish.

Before I am accused of cynicism, let me say that I do know of many successful marriages. Note I say successful and not necessarily fair because – and we are back to the word balance. I strongly believe one within every relationship, one partner loves a little more deeply than the other; one will make more sacrifices for the sake of the greater good of the relationship. Perhaps this is just how it is meant to be.

Viviane