I’ve already started by eating fewer sweets, drinking more water, and having salads instead of sandwiches for lunch.  I also cut way back on salad dressing.  A taste is plenty.  The dressing doesn’t have to be on every particle of the salad.  I’m also blogging on The Healthy Writer once a month about my progress.  Or, if it works out that way, my lack thereof.  This is my form of accountability.

I’m also starting a new writing project and setting weekly goals for myself on that.  Because I love research, I need to build in time for that, which may mean not writing every day.  I’ve never been a daily writer, though.  I like having percolating time, letting ideas simmer while I do other things.  I generally find I produce more pages when I do sit down at the computer if I’ve done that “pre-writing” first.

I made decent headway with whittling the TBR pile.  In December, I read more books than I bought.  I plan to keep that up this year.

How is your new year starting?  Are you making resolutions or plans, or are you just winging it?  How’s your RBR pile?

His house was on a cul de sac, so everyone drawn to the lights had to turn around somewhere.  I imagine his neighbors got tired of the traffic.  We never tired of looking at his lights, though, and drove by at least a couple of times during the holiday season.  We called him Christmas Guy because he got into the holiday spirit so enthusiastically.

The last time we saw his lights, he was out in the yard with some other people when we made our first pass.  I rolled down my window so we could tell him how much we enjoyed his decorations, and we heard him tell his friend, “I have to work some time, you know.”  We gathered that he took time off to decorate.  And he’d have to unless he wanted to string it out (no pun intended) over several days.  No one could do all that in an evening.

Alas, but Christmas Guy moved a couple of Christmases ago.  We don’t know where he went, but it wasn’t in this area.  Otherwise, we’d see his lights about now.

Lucky for us, though, some new people moved into the neighborhood the next year, just up from our house.  While they couldn’t rival Christmas Guy in scope, they decorated their little bungalow with lights for both Christmas and Hannukah, with Stars of David in blue lights and a winged pig (for Cleveland, we’re told) in the yard, all of it presenting a cheery note as we came down our street.  But we won’t have their lights this year because they, too, have moved.

We could put up lights, of course, but decorating the tree and doing some minimal decorating in the house seem to be the most we can handle.  We have lots and lots of Christmas decorations, many of them beautiful, handmade items.  The dh’s sister made the star on top of our tree.  We have a gorgeous, cross-stitched Christmas tree skirt and a cross-stitched angel made by a Jewish friend who loves Christmas but doesn’t feel right putting up a tree.  She and her husband used to decorate with us (before they, too, moved–is this a pattern in our lives?) and also gave us some beautiful ornaments.

We switch out a big picture for the large 12 Days of Christmas cross-stitch made by my late aunt.  We have an angel on the sideboard and a Santa also made by the dh’s sister.  A nativity candle tower I bought on sale when the boy was small goes in the middle of the tablecloth.  And we have snow globes we bought at various times, the first on our honeymoon in San Francisco.  Once those things are set out, we call the decorating sufficient.  Anything else we have time to do is gravy.

What about you?  Do you like to look at Christmas lights?  Do you celebrate Christmas?  If so, do you decorate heavily, lightly, or as time permits, and do you have a favorite decoration?

God’s blood, Geoff thought.  He’d left his bow under a tree.  The armsmaster had issued him a shortsword, though.  Charging forward, he ripped it from the scabbard.  It had less reach and power than a broadsword but would have to serve.

He dashed into a scene of chaos.  The attackers had already closed.  Archery wouldn’t serve at such close range, so he forgot about his bow.  Men in Lady Maud’s green and orange livery struggled with others in black and gold.  In the midst of it all, her face dark with fury, a re-mounted Lady Maud struggled to hold her horse steady while brandishing her dagger.

God’s feet, that puny weapon would do her no good.  There was no sign of Sir Robert Penrith, and someone had to take command.  “Pikemen to my lady,” Geoff bellowed.  “Pikemen to Lady Maud!”  If they cleared a path, she could gallop to safety.

Other voices took up the cry.  The men pushed toward her.  Geoff ducked a big man’s slashing swipe, stabbed the man’s gut under it, and ran forward.  Slowly, her guard’s green and orange swelled the melee around Lady Maud.  Her lips moved as though she shouted, but her voice couldn’t penetrate the din.

Another voice roared above the crowd, coarse and harsh.  “Get her, you bastards!  Don’t let them reach her!”

Geoff looked toward the sound.  Sir Edmund, surging in on a roan charger.  Of course.  Son of a bitch.

A chill at the back of Geoff’s neck warned of new danger.  He twisted sideways, swinging upward to parry a downstroke that would’ve taken off his shoulder.  He kicked the attacker in the knee, stabbed him, and rushed toward the renegade knight.

The din of shouts and clashing metal faded.  The world narrowed to the edge of his blade.  Cut.  Block.  Duck.  Slash.  His arm tensed from the shocks of contact.  His breath rasped in his throat.  Yet he gained ground.

So did Sir Edmund, pressing ever nearer to Lady Maud.  Geoff angled to intercept him.

Almost there.  Almost . . . duck, slash, roll.  Where–hellfire, she was surrounded.  He took a vicious swipe at the nearest attacker’s arm.  The blade bit deep, and the man dropped to his knees, opening the way for Geoff to pass.

With a roar of triumph, Sir Edmund jerked Lady Maud from the saddle.  Her arm darted forward, dagger in hand.  He lunged aside and fell.  Together, they landed on the ground in the midst of the fight.  The frightened horses shied away.

If the whoreson killed her, Geoff would flay him by inches.

“Fall back,” someone shouted.  A trumpet sounded retreat.

Oh, no, they didn’t.  Not with the woman Geoff had sworn to protect, but the attackers were mounting again.  In moments, they’d ride away, opening the range for archers.  Where was his bow?  He looked wildly for it.  There, under that elm with his arrow bag.  He flung the sword aside, grabbed the bow and snatched an arrow.

He nocked it.  In sudden silence.  Why?

Straightening, he faced the fight.  His fellow guardsmen stood still, scowling, while their assailants mounted.

“Hold, or she dies,” Sir Edmund’s voice bellowed from somewhere in the crowd.

“Kill hi–”  Lady Maud’s shriek stopped abruptly.

Geoff’s jaw set.  No power under the sun would save the knight now.  Bow at half-draw, he elbowed the nearest of his comrades.  “Let me through.  God’s wounds, move!”

The men parted slowly, giving him a clear view.  A clear shot.  Some thirty feet away, down a lane of guards in green and orange, the knight held Lady Maud by the throat with one hand and gripped her wrists in the other.  Her eyes still blazed with anger.  Good for her.

Sir Edmund glanced over his shoulder, toward a groom holding his horse.  “I’ll have what she promised me.  You men stand down, and you won’t be hurt.”  He dragged her backward.  She kicked him, then choked as though his grip on her neck tightened.

Geoff’s body stilled with icy resolve.  “Halt,” he ordered.  He had the range now, could feel it in his shoulders.  In the elbow that would draw the string.  As though an invisible line tied his point to the knight’s left eye.  Yet he stayed his hand.  The slightest move by Sir Edmund, the least shift by Lady Maud, could put her in the path of his shot.

Sir Edmund’s lip curled.  “This time, knave, you lose.”

“Take another step, and I’ll put this shaft in your brain.”

“You’re bluffing.  You’d as easily hit her.”

Too true, or the knight would be dead already.  Thinking fast, Geoff shrugged.  “I can take you.  I’d as soon avoid all the trouble that would follow, though.”

“You didn’t–see him shoot,” Lady Maud wheezed.  Hard and angry, her eyes met Geoff’s.  “Shoot,” she wheezed, then choked again as her captor’s grip tightened.

An angry mutter burbled through her armsmen.  Understandable, but deadly if they charged this larger force.

“I’ll make you an offer,” Geoff said.  “You release the lady, and I drop my bow.  Then we settle this with steel.”
“I don’t fight common curs.”
“Except when they’re unarmed.”  He let contempt sear his words.  “You’re a coward, fighting only women and unarmed men.”

Crimson with rage, the knight jerked his head toward Lady Maud’s men.  “What d’ya call this lot?”

“Outnumbered.  We fight or I shoot.  Choose.”

“You might shoot anyway.”

Geoff bared his teeth.  “I’ll let the arrow fall, but remember, I can nock it and shoot you before you can mount.”

“Lady Maud must agree to abide by these terms.”  The knight released his hold on her neck.  “What say you, woman?”

Triumph bloomed in her eyes.  Her gaze steady on Geoff’s, she said, “I trust my guardsman.  I agree.”

Trust.  The most seductive word of all.  Vowing to justify her faith, he dropped his arrow.

Sir Edmund released Lady Maud, whose grandmotherly, concealing wimple had come loose, revealing the long line of her neck.  Red marks from his fingers marred her smooth skin, and Geoff scowled.

Watching the knight, Geoff thrust his bow to the side.  “Someone hold this and give me a proper sword.”

The archer he’d met earlier, Will, took the bow.  Geoff flicked his glance at the arrow, then at Will, who gave him a slight nod, a promise to watch Geoff’s back against cheating.

A soldier handed Geoff a broadsword.  He stalked toward his foe, and the men of both sides silently formed a circle.

Sir Edmund had what Geoff’s own birth could have given him, all Geoff’s naive honesty had cost him, yet the knight dishonored his rank.  For that, too, he would pay.

“Wait!”  Lady Maud ripped a strip from her wimple.  “Master Armstrong fights as my champion.  He’ll have my favor.”

Although Sir Edmund snorted, he rested his sword point against the ground, waiting, while she tied the linen scrap around Geoff’s upper arm.

Her graceful fingers moved swiftly and surely.  She drew the knot tight and raised her grave, shadowed eyes to his face.  “Whatever happens, I do thank you.”  Her lips quivered.  Pressing them together, she touched his arm lightly and stepped back with her head high.  Her erect posture denied the fear those trembling lips betrayed.  Any man would be proud to champion such a woman.

“You honor me, milady.”  Their gazes locked, and the surprise and pleasure in hers caught him off guard.

Footsteps pounded toward him.  Wheeling, he met Sir Edmund’s slashing attack with an upward stroke that sent a shock along his arm.  He twisted the blade, disengaging, and kicked Sir Edmund in the gut.  With a whoof, the knight stumbled back.

Geoff charged.  Sir Edmund deflected the blade.  His left fist shot across it.  Geoff ducked.  Circling, he studied his foe.  Sir Edmund had strength but perhaps little stamina.  Geoff aimed a swiping blow at the knight.  Sir Edmund blocked.  Dropped his blade to stab.  Geoff twisted aside.

Back and forth across the circle they moved.  Slash, block.  Kick.  Duck.  Parry.  Geoff moved without thought, old habits surfacing.  The August sun beat through the trees.  Sweat trickled down his back and slickened his palms.  He had no time to wipe them.  Block.  Dodge.  Parry.  More used to archery than swordplay, his arm burned.

Sir Edmund’s face was scarlet.  “You fight–well, for a knave,” he huffed.  “But–not for long–”  His blade arm drooped.

Geoff stabbed over it, ripping a slit along the knight’s side.  “Bastard,” the knight roared.  He pulled his arm close but not before blood welled in the cut.  His blade hissed past Geoff’s ear.  Geoff leaped backward, out of range.  Stumbled.  Fell flat on his back and lost the sword.  It landed in the dirt inches beyond his reach.  God’s wounds.  He groped for the hilt.

Murder blazed in the knight’s eyes.  Rage contorted his face.  He jerked his blade upward for a down stroke, a dangerous move that left him exposed.  At last, Geoff grabbed his own sword.  Rolling onto one knee, he stabbed deep into Sir Edmund’s chest.  The knight’s eyes widened.  With a gurgling sound, he fell forward.  Geoff scrambled backward and jerked his blade free.  Sir Edmund’s body hit the ground.  Blood seeped from under the knight’s face and belly.

An ugly murmur rose from Sir Edmund’s men.  Panting, his arm burning with fatigue, Geoff hurried to set himself before Lady Maud.  “Any other comers?”

A stocky, fair-haired man in a black and gold surcoat stepped forward, his square face hard.  “You’ve murdered a knight.  I’ll see you hang.”

At Geoff’s back, Lady Maud murmured, “Sir Edmund’s brother, Sir Lionel.”

Sir Lionel turned to his men.  “Bring my brother’s body.  We’re for the sheriff.”  He cast a scathing glance at Maud.  “He wasted his life for a contrary, barren bitch.”
A pained hiss broke from her.  The shot had gone home.  New anger strengthened Geoff’s tired limbs.  He took a single step forward.  “A scoundrel who tries to kidnap an unwilling woman deserves what he gets.”

“As will you,” Sir Lionel snapped.

Geoff and his comrades watched in silence as Sir Edmund’s men lashed his body across his horse and led it away.  When their procession vanished over the hill, the armsmen dispersed, gathering scattered gear and tending the injured.  Geoff turned to Lady Maud.  She looked pale, hurt lingering in the smoky, blue depths of her eyes.

“We should tend the wounded,” he said.  “Where’s Sir Robert?”

“Struck down in the first charge.”  She pressed her lips together.  Her throat worked as though she fought nausea.  At last, she added, “I pray he lives.”

“I’ll let you know straight away.”  He tugged his forelock.

As he stepped back from her, she whispered, “Sir Lionel was right.”  She stared into his eyes with despair darkening her own.  “I’m not worth all this.”

“Sir Edmund knew what he risked.”  Geoff paused.  An archer shouldn’t make personal remarks to a lady, but ladies didn’t ordinarily confide in guardsmen.  Besides, he couldn’t just walk away from her pain.  “Milady, I’ve never seen a woman display such courage as you did today.”
“You mean when you threatened to shoot him.”  A bitter smile twisted her lips.  “You’ve great skill, but if you’d missed, death would’ve saved me from marrying another brute.”

If Sir Edmund had taken her to his castle and ravished her, both her father and the Church would have counseled her to wed him.  “No sane woman would want to wed Sir Edmund.”

Old pain shadowed her eyes.  “He’s much like my late husband.  I couldn’t have borne another such man.”

Her first husband must have been vile indeed, then.  Geoff tamped a surge of new anger.  “You placed great faith in my skill with a sword, milady.  If I’d lost–”

“You shoot well, but you don’t brag of it.  Nor are you a fool.  You offered him the one bait he couldn’t refuse, another chance at you.  You don’t seem likely to issue a challenge unless you believe you can win.”

She spoke with admirable logic, especially for one who’d been through what she just had.  Dirt and grass stains marred her torn wimple and her gown, including a dusty handprint over her left breast.  Spotting it, Geoff bit back a curse.  He hadn’t had to kill anyone in a long time.  He’d been grateful for that, but he’d have no regrets about today.

Yet even as he jerked his gaze away, he noticed how the loose, old-fashioned gown draped her curves.  The sight stirred his blood and tempted him to touch her, to test the firmness under the silk for himself.  He wrenched his gaze away.  “I’ll see to the men, milady.”

Nodding dismissal, she didn’t seem to notice his improper glance.  Instead of the outrage he deserved for ogling her, the pain in her eyes had given way to respect.  He couldn’t savor it, though, for she didn’t know what a fool he could be.  Long ago, he had risked all for the sake of honor.  And he had lost.

Lady Hawkstowe said, “Let’s try a new exercise.  Move your chair closer to mine, so you’re facing the hearth.”

Miranda complied, and the older woman said, “Take my hand.”

Doing so felt presumptuous, but disobeying seemed more so.  Miranda laid her hand in the older woman’s outstretched one.

“Now, child, I’ll scry, and I want you to feel what I do.”  An image appeared in the flames, Hawkstowe and another man sitting in the library.  “Extend your perceptions until you can feel mine.  Open your senses and then try to reach farther.  Close your eyes if it helps.”

Miranda shut her eyes and opened her mind.  The ticking of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire grew sharper.  She reached outward, and her power brushed someone else’s.  It created a tingling at the nape of her neck.

“Very good,” Lady Hawkstowe murmured.  “Now trace my power and align yours with it.”

Miranda tried, but the tingle vanished.

“Don’t try so hard, child.  Let the power flow.”

Flow?  Trace?  There was something . . . like that?

“Very good,” Lady Hawkstowe breathed.  “Hold your power there and open your eyes.”

Miranda obeyed.  The image in the flame remained steady.  The tingle faded.  The image flickered.

Miranda caught her breath.  Was she doing that?

The older woman released her hand.  “Now change it.”

The image wavered.  Faded.  Lady Hawkstowe had said no one could scry into a warded place, like Winton house, except the one who’d placed the wards, so Miranda thought of Lucy, back at the inn.  Nothing happened.

“I’ll help you,” Lady Hawkstowe murmured.

As the other woman’s power joined hers, nudging it, the tingle on the back of Miranda’s neck grew stronger.  Lucy’s face appeared in the flame.  She stood chatting with the scullery lad.  Miranda smiled.

“Good,” her teacher said.  “Now hold it steady.”

The tingly prodding died.  Miranda reached for the image.

“Steady, child.  You’re losing it.“

The image died.  No!  Miranda reached, throwing her perceptions outward.  The image flickered.  Died, then surged into one of a great city.  London.  The East End, she somehow knew.  Where she had once lived with Father and Johnny and Father’s brother.  But with streets nearly empty.  Houses marked with the red X of the plague.  Men with cloths over their lower faces stood guard outside.  Stooped men, also covering their mouths and noses with cloths, pushed carts laden with corpses.  A man seized a cat.  Raised a knife–

“No!”  She sprang to her feet.  Heart pounding, she turned to Lady Hawkstowe.  “How can that be?  There’s no plague now.”

The older woman looked grave.  “If you have the Seer gift, you perhaps could scry the past, the plague of 1665, but aside from the fact that’s now impossible, the buildings are wrong.  They’re brick.  Stone.  Not the wood of the plague year.”

“But–“  Miranda swallowed hard.  “Was that . . . the future?”  Pray, no.

“We must look again to find out.”

“If it is, I don’t want to know.”  Men had killed stray animals during the plague, fearing them as carriers.  Had sealed afflicted families into their homes to die.

Lady Hawkstowe’s solemn gaze stopped further protests.  “If plague is coming, the mageborn can prepare for it.”

Reluctantly, Miranda sat before the fire again.  With Lady Hawkstowe’s power bracing her own, she tried scrying.

An image formed, then turned nightmare gray with swirling mists.  Her heart leaped into her throat.

“Hold,” Lady Hawkstowe urged her.  “Stay with it.”

The mists thinned.  A dark-haired man crumpled on the ground.  Around him darted ghostly shapes with ghastly faces, some with gaping wounds and others bones with no flesh.  He curled his arms over his head, shielding it, but in vain.  With each raking touch of the spectral hands, his body jerked as if in pain.

He was Lord Hawkstowe.  Miranda couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was certain.  Her chair crashed backward.  She hadn’t realized she’d stood.  “I can’t–can’t stop it.”

“Let it go.”  Lady Hawkstowe stepped in front of her.  “Miranda.  Look at me.”

She couldn’t.  Power surged through her, a link from somewhere else to her head to the fire.  “Make it stop,” she panted, heart pounding.

Lady Hawkstowe yanked the bell pull, then rushed into the corridor.  “Fetch Lord Hawkstowe at once,” she ordered someone.  She hurried back into the room.

Power surged against the link.  Miranda scarcely felt it.  In the flames, the horrifying torment continued.  Hawkstowe writhed, helpless against it.

Then he stood before her, his face real and solid in front of her own.  “Look at me.”

“I am,” she choked, but she couldn’t shut the vision from her mind.  It lay over his face like a transparent painting.

He caught her against him.  With a gasp, she burrowed into his shoulder.  He was here, not in some eerie shadowland.  Safe and strong and sturdy, not writhing in pain.  He was safe–but for how long?

His lips brushed her temple–or did she imagine it?  Power rolled into her mind, a wall inching up between her and the hearth.  In her mind, silver flickered against the fire, smothering it.  As the sense of it ebbed, so did the strength in her knees.

“The fire’s out,” a man’s voice said from behind him.

Supporting her with one arm, Hawkstowe reached around her to right the chair.  She sank into it, suddenly cold and queasy.

He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her.  Kneeling in front of her, he took her icy hands in his warm ones.  “Breathe slowly.  Deeply.”  Over his shoulder, he said, “Jeremy, you know what to mix?”

“I’ll borrow Lady Hawkstowe’s herbs, if I may.”

Shivering, Miranda huddled in Hawkstowe’s coat.  “You can’t–“  Her teeth chattered.  “You–I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Don’t worry about it now.”  His eye grave, he brushed her hair gently out of her face.  “Just breathe.”

“But–I think–you might be in–in danger.”  Her teeth clacked together so hard they hurt.

“The flames do not lie,” Lady Hawkstowe said quietly.

“Later for that,” he snapped.  “Ah, Jeremy.”

Holding a goblet, the solemn-faced man they called Jeremy leaned over her. “Drink it swiftly, mistress.”

Her shaking hands banged the goblet against her teeth.  Hawkstowe cupped his fingers around hers and guided it to her mouth.  “All of it,” he said, “and hurry, so as not to taste it.  Jeremy believes in nasty medicine.”

He truly did.  The bitter, acrid taste made her stomach churn, but she would drink anything to stop the shivering.

Most of the brew went into her mouth.  Some dribbled down her chin.  Hawkstowe gently wiped it off with his fingers.  “That’s it.  Breathe.”

Slowly the shivering subsided.  “What was that?” she asked.

“Herbs.”  Jeremy glanced at Hawkstowe.  “Your power escaped your control.  Unpaced, it drained you and trapped you in the vision.  The herbs will let you rest and recover.”

As she nodded her thanks, Hawkstowe said, “Think of something pleasant.”

“But shouldn’t we talk about my vision?” she asked.  “It was ghastly, and it was about you.”

His eyes wintry, he said, “It can wait.”

He knew what it was, or he had some idea.  That horrible truth lurked in the depths of his eyes.  She had to help him.  She reached for him, but his face flicked in and out of focus.  Words failed her.  Through a drug-induced haze, she stared at him, trying to speak.  Her fingers tightened on his shirt front.

He covered her fingers with his.  His face blurred.  Receded into darkness.  From a great distance, his voice reached her faintly.  “Think of something pleasant.”

How could she, if such horrors awaited him?  But she couldn’t manage to say so before the darkness swallowed her.

Thanks for having me today Nancy and hello to all your readers. I’d love to talk about how I finally got one of my books published.

“ADDICTION-an unusually great interest in something or a need to do or have something.”

When I started writing sixteen years ago it was one of those, “I wonder if I could write a book” moments.  That’s something that happens to every author, thousands of writers and millions of people.

So, one late night I picked up a pen and started writing a scene that was milling around in my head. Next thing I knew I had five handwritten pages. Wow! I’d actually written a very interesting scene. A pregnant woman recognizes a murderer inside the mercantile store, (did I mention it was a historical scene?) and has to escape, find a safe place to leave her step daughter and then hide before the man finds her.

Now what to do with it?

Like many late twentieth century families we had a brand new computer at home. Excited, I had my husband teach me how to use the writing program on the computer and after some practice sessions with a typing program, I quickly converted my handwritten pages to typed copy. Pretty soon these pages went from five to ten, from one scene to two scenes, then one chapter after another, until finally, a whole story existed beginning to end. Yes, I was addicted.

“PERSISTENCE-the quality that allows someone to continue doing something or trying to do something even though it is difficult.”

After the first book was completed I knew two things. I needed to send it to editors to see if they would jump at the chance to publish my “baby” and that I had to write a second book for the two characters I’d left dangling in the wind.

So I made a list of my favorite authors’ publishers, looked up their addresses in the Writer’s Digest and mailed query letters off to half a dozen. In the meantime I began writing the second book, sure that I’d need to have it ready to go once someone snapped up my first book for publication.

I wrote and waited. Wrote and waited. Wrote. Waited.

Then letters came from publishers. Joy! This was it!

Sigh. Unfortunately, these were not letters claiming the book to be the best thing they’d ever read, although some did ask to see the whole manuscript. No, these were form rejection letters at worst and kind rejection letters at best.

But I kept writing. I finished that second historical romance. Then the bottom fell out of the American/Western romance market. So, I wrote two contemporaries, followed by a contemporary suspense. This one won a writing contest by a big publishing house. They paid me money. They asked to see the full manuscript. They asked for revisions, which I did. Sigh. They rejected it.

“PERSEVERANCE-continued effort to do or achieve something despite difficulties, failure, or opposition”.

I wrote a second contemporary suspense romance. Both were entered into the RWA Golden Heart contest. They both were finalists. One was again requested by a NY house, but ultimately rejected and the market for romantic suspense slowed to a near crawl.

The next step on the path was small-town contemporaries. These were stories based on my upbringing in the Midwest. The heroes and heroines had great emotional depth, but unlike the sweet small-town stories, mine had a bit of heat and bite to them. I enjoy external conflict that affects the characters’ internal conflicts. I like sex that is hot. Alas, not what the market was ready for.

Got lots of requests, followed by lots of rejections.

“STUBBORN-performed or carried on in an unyielding, obstinate, or persistent manner.”

My father says I have the tenacity of a mule stuck in mud when I want something. So, one day I was thinking about my critique partner’s newest Heat erotica book and an idea popped into my head. Why not try my hand at an erotic historical? All my books have been more sensual than the average book. Could I push the envelope further into the erotic world? I didn’t want to write sex scenes just to write sex scenes. They’d need to further the story and the plot along like my CP’s did.

So I took a poll of what I liked about or in eroticas I’d read, applied them to my love of Western or American historicals and started writing yet another book. The result was The Surrender of Lacy Morgan. A western historical erotica set in 1880′s Wyoming. I submitted it to two more writing contests and it won the erotica category in both.

I attempted to gain the interest in some literary agents for this book, as I have all the others, but no one wanted to take on me or my work. But I believed in this book. So I submitted it to the largest romantica publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

“SUCCESS-the correct or desired result of an attempt.”

Then in May of last year, I received the best e-mail ever. My now editor wanted to contract my book for EC’s Lawless westerns line. And much rejoicing was heard throughout the land. I did have to agree to change one character’s name. Then through the editing process, I learned more about how to write a smooth story, which hopefully will translate into the next book and thereby make the editing process easier for my editor and myself.

So on February 4th, 2011 I became a published author.

Does addiction, persistence, perseverance and sheer stubbornness guarantee success? Honestly, not always. However there is one sure way never to achieve your goals. That is to give up. By never giving up, you keep hope alive, and wherever there is hope, there is always possibility.

So dear readers, have you ever had to hold onto a dream when everyone else has tried to talk you out of it or rejected your efforts repeatedly?

The dog, of course, has plenty of ideas for things we could do–explore the neighborhood, chase things in the yard, give her something to eat.  Weather doesn’t bother her.  She would as soon go out in the rain as in sunshine, at least if it isn’t raining too hard.  Unfortunately for her, the humans in her house do care what the weather’s like.  We indulge her when when going out doesn’t make us cringe.

Winter also seems to call for comfort food–soup, mac and cheese, quiche.  When the weather’s cold, a cup of tea goes perfectly with a book.

How do you like to pass the time on dreary winter days?  Are you watching any particular movies or TV shows?

A very different crowd converges on Atlanta about a month later, for the four days of DragonCon. Many of these people will be wearing costumes related to their favorite science fiction, fantasy, comic book or movie worlds.  Most of the others will opt for what the dh calls “appropriately decorated t-shirts.”  The packing is much easier–spare jeans in case of spills, t-shirts, toiletries, etc.  Not very glamorous, but there’s lots of fannish enthusiasm.

Which do you prefer–casual occasions or dressy ones?  Do you have any packing secrets?

The TBR pile is kind of like a hardware store, where I walk in and see possibility all around me, especially when the authors there are new to me.  Maybe this will be someone else whose work I’ll love.  Or not.  But it’s fun finding out.

This summer I’ll be sharing the pleasures of the TBR pile, the books I dig out, read at last, and enjoy.  I hope you’ll do the same.  Just leave me a comment and let me know what you like about the books you’re reading.  I’m especially interested in any new authors you discover and enjoy.

When I look over the stack, I see history, multiple subgenres of romance, science fiction, fantasy and mystery.  Which one I pick up next always depends on my mood at the moment.  I have several new authors (either to the market or to me) in the stack.  I love picking up a new or unfamiliar author and falling into the book, having a new name to add to my watch-for list.

I recently discovered Caitlin Kittridge’s Black London series–very dark urban fantasy.  Of course, not all experiments end happily.  Some books don’t engage me the way I thought they would when I bought them.

In honor of the website’s new look, I’m having a contest.  The prize, to be awarded at the end of May, is a package of three novels (mass market paperback) I enjoyed that were by authors new to me, plus a $15 gift card for an independent bookstore or one of the chains I have easy access to.

To enter, send me an email via the site link telling me what author you recently read for the first time and why you liked that author’s book.  I’ll put all the names of those who enter in a hat and draw one out on May 26, which will also be my May blog day on Romance Bandits.

If it’s a financial plan, it won’t work if you deviate from it.  If you’re supposed to put a certain amount of money into the plan every payday and  you start finding excuses not to do it, or something keeps coming up, as things are wont to do, success moves farther and farther out of reach.

We all know that.  Yet every year, lots and lots of people subscribe to quick fixes.  Why do you think that happens?