Monday Muser's Mad Question Time

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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http://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Steal-the-Light-ebook/dp/B004M5HHVE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1301587381&sr=8-1

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - IN LOVE - MOI?

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?

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

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?

"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 -

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?

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…


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