My First

Romance novel. hahahaha.

I was about 12 or 13 when my mom bought me this romance novel. It was from Avon (the perfume company) and came with a tiny bottle of perfume to match the title. In this case, Lily of the Valley by Margaret Rome.

I loved the story. The hero was blinded in an accident and is recuperating at a hospital. He convinces his nurse that he wants to marry her—thinking she is homely and won’t mind being married to a blind man. Hey, it was the ’70s and I guess that plotline sold. LOL

It had it all. Vindictive ex-girlfriend, annoying brother who points out that the heroine is actually quite beautiful, jealous ex-girlfriend who tries to sabotage his marriage and get him back, hurt feelings, sadness, true love at the end, along with a hero who is cured and can see the woman he has grown to love. Again, it was the ’70s. Romance novels had heroes who don’t seem so heroic today, who could hurt the woman they professed to love until true love opened their eyes (literally) and made them better men for the woman they loved.

As I’ve matured, I hope my choice of romance reading has matured, as well. I like my heroes to be heroic, even if a little clueless at the beginning, thinking they don’t need love. I want to believe they will grow as characters and men and deserve the heroine, who by the end of the story shows them that love is as necessary as the air we breathe, the water we drink, the shelter we need from the storm. I want the heroine to turn a man who may be rough around the edges into a prince of a guy. I need to believe he will do that to be worthy of her. That the idea of life without her is lonely and meaningless.

So, back to that book at the beginning of my post. For the beginner teen I was when I got the book, it was my first taste of a romance novel and I loved it. Fleur and Alain fueled many dreams of romance. Thanks, Mom. Because without that book and the thousands that followed, I wouldn’t be a romance writer today.

Do you remember your first romance novel?


 

Jill James, author of Sugar Sprinkled Memories

A Highwayman by Kristy Tate is Free Today Only – Pick Your Highwayman Up Now

I got the idea for this book one night while watching a documentary on the Salem Witch trials. There was speculation that the hysteria the Puritan girls experienced was caused by poisoned well water, which made me wonder what other mischief could come from tainted water. The Highwayman Incident wasn’t the only book inspired by a documentary. I also included Gregory Rasputin in my novel Beyond the Pale because of a documentary. I love history. Of course, it’s hard to know the truth of any situation–even when you’re in the thick of it–because it’s so hard to grasp all the perspectives. That’s why it’s so much more fun to write fiction. And the Highwayman Incident was a hoot to write.

Celia Quinn’s business lies in ruins at the hands of Jason West, the latest in a long line of scoundrels. As she seeks to restore her family’s livelihood, Celia stumbles upon lore about the local Witching Well, whose water is said to cause hysteria and psychosis. When a mysterious stranger slips Celia water from the well into her drink, she’s transported to Regency England. Her timeless adventure spans miles and centuries from modern-day New England to Merlin’s Cave in Cornwall, England. Only Jason West can save her.
But Celia and Jason must tread carefully, as what happens in the past can reverberate through the ages. Their lives, hearts and futures are caught in time’s slippery hands.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

Here’s an EXCERPT:

CHAPTER ONE

At any wedding, protocol demands that all attention should be focused on the bride, even if the bride happens to be your sister, and even if your sister designed a horrid dress. But Celia defied conventions and refused to look at Mia. Celia knew her funk bordered on lunacy, but she couldn’t shake it. Not even for her sister’s wedding.
The lone man sharing her table looked familiar, although she couldn’t say why. Like someone she knew from a long time ago—but a faded out version. Gray at his temples, thick head of hair, wrinkles around his eyes—handsome for his age—and yet, something tingled in the back of her mind, trying to tell her something.
Celia sat back with a humph and crossed her arms over her chest. The putrid pink dress had a bunchy bodice, giving her a va va voom that, when she first saw it, made her complain first to Mia and then to her grandmother.
“It’s her wedding,” Grandma Claudette had said. “If she wants you to dress like a cat, you better get used to whiskers.”
And in the interest of peace in the family and not wanting to upset her mom, Celia bit her lip about the dress and vowed that when it was her turn to marry, she would do it on the courthouse steps.
And Mia would have to wear a clown suit.
Complete with a red nose.
She caught the man looking at her. His glance slid away. Celia considered leaving, but where would she go? Join her friends on the dance floor? No, her shoes pinched her toes. The dessert table for more cake? No, her stomach was already churning. A drink from the bar? No, she needed to stay sober. She slumped back in her chair, wishing the stranger would leave or her friends would return.
As if he read her mind, the man pushed away from the table and left.
Perfect. Now she was alone. And this should have made her happy, because she wanted him to leave, but it didn’t. She sighed and used her fork to poke holes in the frosting roses on her slice of cake. The blush pink roses matched her dress, which matched her shoes, which matched the ribbon on the bridesmaid bouquets. Celia smashed the cake and watched the frosting ooze between the fork tines.
Beside her, someone chuckled. Looking up, she saw the man had returned. He carried a goblet and a slice of cake.
“I asked for a piece without icing,” he said as he sat in the chair beside her. He slid the cake toward her. “For you.”
She thought about refusing it, but instead said, “Thank you.”
Without saying a word, he placed the wine flute in front of her. “It’s just water,” he told her.
“Thanks. Too much—”
“Too much sugar makes your teeth hurt.” He finished her sentence with a smile that sent another warning jolt down Celia’s spine.
“How did you know I was going to say that?”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Just a guess. I could tell that you don’t like frosting by the way you were mutilating that cake.” He offered his hand. “My name is Jason.”
“Celia Quinn.” She put her hand in his, and a zing started in her fingers and spread to her center. She left her hand in his longer than necessary, before pulling away. She couldn’t be attracted to this man. He was older than her dad.
“I know a Jason.” She studied him for a moment before her gaze slid to the other Jason across the room. Dark hair, tall, lean—why were the hot guys the most lethal?
“And you dislike him.”
She met the older Jason’s warm gaze and sniffed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.” He settled back in his chair. “Just like you didn’t say anything, but I can tell you don’t like your dress.”
Celia blew out a sigh.
“You probably think it’s a poor advertisement for your grandmother’s shop.”
Celia gave a defeated shrug. “It doesn’t matter. The store’s dying anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
Celia shot the Jason across the room a glance. She hoped her look told him all the things she wished she could say to his face. He lounged against the wall between the wedding arch and an enormous swan ice sculpture. The black suit accentuated his blue eyes and dark hair. Even the hideous pink tie looked good on him. He caught her gaze and lifted his glass, acknowledging her.
She wished she had something other than her bouquet and a dirty look to throw at him.
“Just because you’re losing the lease doesn’t mean you’re losing the business, you know.”
Celia swiveled her attention back to Jason her tablemate and put puzzle pieces together. “Are you related to Jason West?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You…look like him.”
The older Jason smiled. “I’m not his dad or uncle…”
He was probably too young to be his grandfather, and he couldn’t be his brother. “What do you know about my grandmother’s shop?”
“Delia’s Dressy Occasion? It’s a great shop.”
“It was a great shop.”
“But this dress…” He nodded at the sateen fabric bunched around her like a deflated balloon. “Pepto-Bismol Pink.”
“Mia calls it pearl pink.”
“And you call it putrid.”
She stared at him.
“Maybe not out-loud, but I bet it’s what you think.”
“How would you know that?”
He propped his elbows on the table. “Tell me, what are your plans for the store?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, since you lost your lease—”
“I didn’t lose the lease.” Her attention shifted back to the younger Jason. “Someone persuaded my grandmother it was time to leave.” She slumped back in her chair. “We were doing fine.”
“Maybe now you can do better.”
Celia picked up her fork and stabbed at the cake. She thought about joining her friends on the dance floor. Becca and Lacey had both kicked off their shoes. They bounced beneath the sparkly lights. Celia wanted to be happy, too, but she felt like she carried the weight of her grandmother’s store on her shoulders.
“You’re afraid that losing the store is like losing your mom.” The older Jason leaned close. “She’ll be fine.”
“How can you know that? Do you know my mom?”
He nodded.
“You’re a friend of my mom’s?” Celia blinked back a sudden tear.
Jason touched her hand, just briefly, and the tingle returned. “The cancer won’t last. She’ll beat it. She’s strong. Like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Celia said. “You might know my mom, but you don’t know me, and there’s no way you can know my mom is going to be okay.” She stood to leave. Her toes screamed in protest, but she pushed to her feet, ignoring the pain.
Unless. She turned back. “Are you a doctor?”
Jason looked down at the goblet. He picked it up and swirled the water. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m good at that…at offending people.”
The band began a slow song and couples formed. Lacey and Becca both found partners. Mia and Brad danced in the center, directly beneath the disco ball. Lights twinkled across the room. It would have been a perfect day, except for the putrid pink dress, and Jason West.
“Do you know my sister?” Celia considered him. She was sure they hadn’t met.
He nodded. “And the groom. He’s an…old family friend.”
“Are you from Stonington?”
“Not originally, although I lived here for many years.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“I’m from Darien.”
“Oh. Is that how you know Jason West? He’s from there, too.”
“He’s a good guy, just doing his job.”
Celia couldn’t help it. She made a face.
“I know you don’t think so now, but you should forgive him.”
Celia held up her hand. “I don’t know who you are—”
Squealing cut her off. Becca and Lacey both ran to her side.
“Come on, Cee,” Becca said, taking her hand. “Mia’s going to throw the bouquet!”
Celia let her friends pull her away from the table and lead her across the room. Mia stood on the wide steps, several feet above the clustered bridesmaids and single women in the crowd. Celia’s mom sat in a chair at a table with Claudette, Celia’s grandmother. Both looked tired but happy. Celia edged toward the back, close enough to be a part, but too far to be in danger of actually catching anything.
Mia gave her a wicked smile, turned her back, and flung the bouquet straight at Celia. Flinging up her arms, Celia protected her face from the flying flowers.
People around her cheered, and Celia opened her eyes.
Becca, aloft in Jason West’s arms, clutched the bouquet. Becca wiggled as Jason set her down and turned to face him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Becca kissed him full on the lips. She held the bouquet in her hand, and it poked above Jason’s head, looking like a large, floral hat.
“I owe you!” Becca said, pushing away from Jason.
He didn’t respond to Becca but met Celia’s gaze.
She felt shaken by him, although she couldn’t say why. She felt as if his look was trying to tell her something. Something he didn’t know how to say.
He’s a good guy. Just doing his job, the older Jason’s words floated back to her.
Becca disentangled herself from Jason and smiled into her bouquet. “I love weddings,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re such a happy beginning.”
Celia’s gaze wandered back to her mom and grandmother. A beginning always comes after an ending, she thought. Celia gave Becca a tight-lipped smile, ignored Jason, and headed back to her table. The older Jason had disappeared, and Celia gratefully sank into her chair. Swirling the wine flute, she watched the water form into a small tidal wave before she took a drink.
And the world turned dark.

CHAPTER TWO

Her body hummed with energy. She found the quiet dark relaxing and rhythmic motion hypnotic and soothing. Crickets chirped and a breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere, an owl called out. The clip-clop of the horses…
Wait.
Horses?
Celia’s eyes popped open. She sat in a carriage. An obese woman draped in satin and furs sat directly in front of her, snoring, her mouth ajar.
Celia’s own mouth dropped open. She sat up and took note. Same putrid pink dress. Same pinchy shoes. But the wedding, Mia, her mom and grandmother? All gone. Replaced by a grotesque snoring thing wearing a satin tent.
She ran her hands first over the velvet seat cushion, then the burnished wood walls, and finally the black, smooth drapes. It all felt real.
But she must be drunk. Or hallucinating. Had she had too much champagne? No. That drink! That Jason person! He must have put something in her water! But it had looked and tasted like water. Celia ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find an aftertaste, or a hint of something dangerous.
She drew back the curtain and peered into the dark. A brilliant, star-studded sky gazed down on her. No street lights. No lights at all, except for the one bobbing on the front of the carriage. Leaning forward, she craned to see the driver, but saw nothing but a horse’s butt and its swishing tail. As if the animal knew she was watching and he didn’t appreciate her stare, he lifted his tail.
Celia sat back, closed her eyes, and let the cadence sway of the carriage lull her back to sleep. When she woke, she’d be at home in her bed, and she’d never have to wear this dress again.
Crack!
Celia’s eyes flew open. She sat up straight and glanced at the woman across from her. The woman snorted and nestled her double chin into her fur collar. What was that sound? Was the carriage breaking beneath the woman’s weight?
Crack!
Was it gun fire? The carriage lurched, stopping so quickly that the portly lady slid off the seat.
“What the devil?” the woman moaned, righting herself. She gave Celia a narrow-eyed look as if Celia had knocked her off the bench.
Crack!
“Gunshots!” the woman hissed. She pursed her full lips, yanked off an enormous emerald necklace and shoved it at Celia. “Hide this.”
Celia stared stupidly at the jewels. If they were real, she could use them to buy the shop! Wishing she had a pocket, her mind sought options. In her bra? No. The stones were too big and the bodice too tight. Not knowing what else to do, she lifted her skirts and tucked the necklace into the lace garter Mia had insisted all the bridesmaids wear. She patted her skirts back into place just before the door flew open.
“Stand and deliver!” A deep and somewhat familiar voice demanded.
Deliver what? And how could she stand inside of a carriage? Celia crouched on her seat. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw nothing but the silvery end of a gun pointing at her forehead. None of this is real, Celia told herself. It’s the champagne asking her to stand and deliver something.
“Come, come, ladies.” The familiar voice sent a tingle down her back.
The man stepped out of the shadows and his gaze met hers, but not an ounce of recognition glistened in his eyes. She thought she knew him, but since a black mask hid half his face, she couldn’t be sure.
“My lady.” He swept his arms in a low bow.
Celia gave the gun another glance. It looked real enough.
He lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his lips in a slow and lazy smile, but continued to point the gun at her forehead.
She tried not to think about the emeralds pinching her leg. She couldn’t look at them. She couldn’t adjust them. She couldn’t call his attention to them in any way.
His gaze traveled over her horrid dress and stopped at her mid-thigh as if he could see through the layers of sateen and frilly slip to the garter smashing the emeralds against her.
“Are you in need of assistance?” He held out his hand—the one not holding a gun—to help her out of the carriage. Again, that trill of recognition poured over Celia. She knew him. Somehow.
She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t touch him. If she touched him and he was real, tangible, then she would…well, she didn’t know what she would do. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
“Are you mute?” he asked, cocking his head. His grin deepened. “Or is my charm rendering you speechless?”
“Have you considered that maybe I’m put off by the gun you’re holding to my head?”
“Ah, so you can speak after all. Pity that. I do love a quiet woman.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Please, my dears, join me.”
But Celia refused to budge, and since her companion cowered behind her, they both stayed in the coach. She stared at his mouth—the only part of his face she could see—other than his eyes. She found both his eyes and lips hypnotizing. Her gaze traveled from one feature to the next, wondering which one she liked the most.
He’s a highwayman! Her inner voice of reason told her. And a figment of your imagination! Those are the best kind of men, she told her reasonable voice.
“I’m sure you understand this is not a social call.” His gaze flicked over Celia and rested on her va va voom bodice. “At least, not entirely, although I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure.”
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked over Celia’s shoulder. “What have you done with Eddie?”
As she leaned over Celia, Celia’s foot caught on the door’s lip. She would have tumbled and fell if the highwayman hadn’t shot out his arm to steady her. His hand tightened around her, and in one fluid movement, he lifted her out of the carriage and placed her on the ground.
She felt breathless and warm from his sudden, brief contact. Her breath came in ragged huffs. Not knowing whether she was grateful or disappointed when he stepped away, she hugged herself to keep warm.
A snapping twig drew her attention to three men in the shadows. They stood as silent and watchful as the trees. All three had weapons drawn.
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked out again.
“Have you hurt the driver?” Celia asked, with a hiccup catching in her throat.
The highwayman flicked his head toward a cluster of trees. “He’s unharmed, except for, perhaps, his sense of self-worth.”
“What is your name?” the woman whispered.
“My name?” Celia asked, her voice coming out in a surprised squeak.
“Not your name, you goat head! I know your name.”
Celia wondered what her name might be, or her role, or position. Was she a maid? A paid companion? A relation? She shivered, and told herself that she needed to wake. This dream had gone on way too long already. She should have come to as soon as she saw the gun. That’s what normally would have happened. Nightmares typically ended with a major scare.
She tried pinching herself. It hurt, but not enough to wake her.
The woman fixed her attention on the highwayman. “Who are you?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Celia asked, more than a little stung at being called a goat head.
The man chuckled. “You do not need my name, but I do need your valuables.”
Quiet descended, and Celia took note of the clamor of crickets, the hooting owl, and a nearby tumbling river. Country night sounds, usually masked by the roar of constant traffic on the parkway.
“Do you really need them, or do you just want them?” Celia asked.
“What difference should that make?” he asked.
“It makes a very big difference—it’s the difference between greed and—”
He waved his gun in her face, effectively silencing her. “That ring, if you please,” he said to the woman.
Celia watched, wondering what her companion would do.
Slowly, the woman climbed from the coach.
The horses stamped their feet impatiently and shook their reins. For a second, Celia thought about jumping on one and riding away. But then she remembered that she knew nothing about horses, their massive size terrified her, and getting one loose from the carriage might be tricky. Besides, even if it wasn’t real, that gun looked like an actual gun, which meant that the bullet might possibly feel real, and she didn’t like pain—real or imaginary.
The woman drew the ring off her finger. “I have a reticule in the carriage,” she told the man. “If you’d like, I’ll give it to you.”
The man barked a laugh. “Not likely.” He motioned to one of the henchmen, his gaze never leaving the two women. “Search the carriage. Tell me if you find any hidden pistols.”
Celia slid a quick glance at the woman, wondering if she was cunning or just stupid.
The second man passed by. He smelled unwashed and earthy. The woman reached out and shoved Celia into him. “Take her!”
The man stumbled under Celia’s sudden weight, but the highwayman reached out and caught her in his arms. He drew her to him and held her close. She felt safe there, although she knew that she shouldn’t.
“Hold her hostage! Kill her if you must!” The woman clambered into the coach and slammed the door.
Celia fought to breathe. She knew she had to leave, she knew that staying pressed up against the highwayman was stupid. He had his hand on her belly, his fingers splayed across her. He smelled of cloves, and when he spoke, his breath warmed her.
“That was most unkind.” He sounded surprised and disapproving.
The second man scrambled after the woman and flung open the door. Amid the screams, the carriage rocked back and forth.
“I won’t harm you,” the highwayman whispered, his lips brushing against her hair.
Celia glanced at the gun. In the moonlight, it looked very real and very lethal. Almost as devastating as the man holding her in his arms.
He shifted, bringing her in front of him. In one quick moment, he captured her lips.
Celia’s knees buckled. Her thoughts raced back to all those Regency romance novels of her grandmother’s that she had read as a girl. Georgette someone. Hideous, Horrendous, no, Heyer. Yes, that was it. Georgette Heyer. What would Georgette call this? A seduction? A ravishing? Oh my gosh! That was it! She was being ravished by a rake!
Wake up! her mind screamed. No more kissing!
Oh, but it felt so good. So very, very good.
Panic gripped her. Breaking loose, she ripped off his mask.
Jason West stood in a pool of moonlight, gun dangling at his side. Surprise filled his eyes. He touched his lips, clearly dazed. Taking two steps back, his gaze shifted to the dark, shadowy woods. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have erred.”
And with those parting words, he turned and disappeared into the dark.
#
Celia lifted her head off the table, dazed. She must have fallen asleep. How embarrassing. She checked the tablecloth to make sure she hadn’t been drooling. It felt dry. What if she had snored? She cast a nervous glance around.
The party continued as if she had never left/slept. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the band was even playing the same song. That wasn’t possible. The dream seemed longer than a few seconds, more than a few minutes even. But no one was looking or staring at her.
Becca was chatting up some guy over by the bar. Lacey had her arms wrapped around someone wearing a purple bow-tie and they moved to the music. Celia twisted and caught the gaze of Jason West.
Flushing, she looked away. Touching her cheeks, she tried to quell the heat flaming her face. So grateful no one, and by no one she meant Jason West, could read her thoughts, Celia slipped off her pinchy shoes and fled.
Later, she would have to try to explain her sudden departure to her mom and sister. But there were some things she would never be able to explain. Or understand.
Like the garter pressing something sharp into her upper thigh.

What’s in a Name Anyway? By Stephanie Queen

mystery-man

Myren, my chauffeur, will tell you names aren’t important, but I disagree (he isn’t particularly fond of his name, so it’s a sour grapes thing with him and probably why he goes by some other crazy nickname which I can’t remember). That’s my big problem with names: I have trouble remembering them. I seem to have an impenetrable block. You would think my biggest headache is when I’m in a room full of new people trying to keep track of names, but no. At least then I have faces to go by.

No, my biggest name-headache is when I have a book full of characters. I have trouble remembering their names. Heck, I have trouble coming up with their names. I start using place markers, like Mr. X (thus the Name That Character Contest) and when there’s yet another character introduced I have to call them Mr. Y. You get the picture. I’ve gone through quite a bit of the alphabet while writing a book this way before I throw up my hands and give into the need to come up with the actual names.

Once I give into the challenge of coming up with character names,  I create a cheat sheet  of course. Then I go on line and browse names. They have to be good ones, meaningful and appropriate. At least that’s what I look for from my contest entries. The names I choose may be a bit more random. I have two rules.

  • Rule one: I must be able to pronounce the name.
  • Rule two: I can’t use the same first letter twice. (the exception here is if I ever write a book with more than 26 characters needing names. Then I probably will name one of them Mr. X.)

But I love memorable character names, the ones that fit and that you couldn’t imagine being anything else. One of my favorites is Jack Reacher, the main character in Lee Child’s thriller series. Love that name—suits the character. Few syllables. Uncomplicated. Blunt. Another character name I love is Scarlet O’Hara. Fiery and sexy. Earthy and unconventional.

What are your favorite character names that work?

NOTE: I’m officially inviting you to enter my Name That Character Contest to name the current Mr. X occupying the story world of my work-in-progress, Beachcomber Investigations. It’s available for pre-order now.

Here’s the blurb for Beachcomber Investigations:CoverBeachcomberInvBook1

Ex-special ops legend Dane Blaise is desperate to recruit Shana George away from Scotland Yard to partner with him in his new venture, Beachcomber Investigations. She has impressive skills and if he’s honest, he needs her to keep him grounded. But most of all, Dane wants to keep Shana on the island of Martha’s Vineyard because he can’t get past his insane longing for her.

Shana’s boss David Young forces her to decide on the spot when he assigns an important case to Beachcomber Investigations. She chooses to partner with Dane, going with her gut–or more accurately her heart–rather than her brains. They may be good partners in crime-fighting, but they are all wrong for each other in every other way possible. He’s soulless and lost and likely has more wounds from his past than the bullet and knife scars scorching his body. But she’s crazy. About him.

Their big assignment is to protect Dane’s old special ops buddy, Acer. They need to find whoever paid a sniper to take a shot at Acer–before the sniper takes another shot and doesn’t miss.

Dane and Shana need to be on top of their game to keep Acer alive, and not on top of each other. But each of them is secretly worried whether that’s possible–and worried about what will happen if it’s not.

Pre-Order at Amazon

Leave Time for Joy by Joan Reeves

Cover of Heat Lightning by Joan ReevesI couldn’t decide between blogging about all the organizing and clutter elimination I’ve been doing or talk about this lazy summer that I’m enjoying. Perhaps I can do both.

By the way, since I have a new release coming out July 21, I had to show the cover here, but this post is not about my romantic suspense novella, it’s about. . .

Getting Organized

We’ve had so much going on this year that a lot of things just fell through the cracks. All these onerous tasks wouldn’t have taken much time if I’d done them when they needed doing. Now, it’s like climbing a mountain to take care of all these things from filing to finishing the print editions of my books.

Throw in updating copyright and ISBN files, publishing my subscription newsletters, updating various websites, and I am underwhelmed at the prospect of tackling these overwhelming tasks.

Help!

I decided I needed a refresher course in avoiding procrastination and managing my time and focus better, and I needed it now, not on New Year’s Eve when I make new resolutions. {LOL}

I pulled my copy of Time Management for the Creative Person: Right-Brain Strategies for Stopping Procrastination, Getting Control of the Clock and Calendar, and Freeing Up Your Time and Your Life by Lee Silber from my bookshelf.

I read this book several years ago when it first came out. In 2010, it was released again so it’s available to buy if you haven’t got a copy.

One of the quotes in the book stuck with me: “Always leave enough time in your life to do something that makes you happy, satisfied, even joyous. That has more effect of an economic well-being than any other single factor.” ~ Paul Hawken

This goes against all the “work hard, put in more hours, keep your nose to the grindstone” philosophy by which too many of us live.

Organizing and Finding Joy

So that’s what I’m doing, organizing, cleaning out clutter, doing all the necessary evil that an administrative assistant would do for me if I were rich lucky enough to have one. Most importantly though, I’m taking time every day to find the joy in the day whether it’s walking to the lake and watching the ducks or sewing that sundress I cut out last year or putting the top down on the car while I drive to the grocery store.

Giveaway

What do you do each day that makes you happy? Leave a comment with your email address written out and be entered in a random drawing for a free copy of Heat Lightning: Romantic Suspense Novella (Outlaw Ridge, Texas Book 1).

Post Script

NY Times and USA Today bestselling romance author Joan Reeves lives her happily ever after with her husband in the Lone Star State. Her books, available as ebooks and audiobooks, all have the underlying theme that is her motto: “It’s never too late to live happily ever after.” Readers, sign up for Joan’s email list. Writers, sign up for free newsletter, Writing Hacks. Find Joan at SlingWords, her blog, and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

Summertime Reflection by Joan Reeves

Cover of Heat Lightning by Joan ReevesI love that old song “Summertime?” Maybe it’s just me, but it’s like the summertime I lived as a child.

Fish jumped. The cotton was high. The heat was a palpable thing because no one had air conditioning back then.

The bluesy melody plays in my head as I write this, and it makes me think about all the things I loved about those long ago summers when the living did seem easy.

Bygone Years

Since we had no air conditioning, summer evenings were spent on the porch and out in the yard. We kids chased lightning bugs, or fireflies if that’s how you know those little insects that could make a Mason jar glow like a lantern if you caught enough of them. If it wasn’t quite dark yet, most of us played baseball. We never seemed to tire of baseball.

The porch swing creaked as it swayed back and forth. The quiet voices of the adults on the porch talked about the happenings of the day, and the talk gleaned from the grapevine that always seems to wind through every small town and rural community.

The Evening Calm

Evenings were peaceful and a time to relax after a long day. I think people in today’s world lose that winding down at the end of the day. Instead of talking quietly, as a family, about the day, we seek relaxation in front of a television set, computer screen, or video game. It’s just not the same.

In fact, a lot of scientific studies have been done that say these activities interfere with sleep rather than make it easy. In a society where sleep deprivation is rampant, maybe we should change the way we unwind in the evenings?

The habit of enjoying the quiet calm of evening still lives in small towns and rural America. I see it whenever I visit my brother on his farm or talk with friends who live in the small towns near our country house. That small town environment is what I often write about in my romance novels.

In my most recent work, Heat Lightning for Summer Fire, the NY Times and USA Today bestselling romance collection, I touch on this a little. Tessa and David are secluded at a lake house in West Texas. When their WiFi goes out, a neighboring rancher offers his mobile device for David to use.

That’s what people in ranch country do. If a neighbor has a need, they’re willing to help. Later when there’s trouble at the lake house, not only does the county Sheriff show up, but also the neighboring ranchers. Farm and ranch folk are used to helping each other out.

Weather Phenomenon

The title for my romantic suspense novella was a no-brainer for me because the phrase heat lightning has always had a certain cachet for me. Perhaps because I remember watching it often in the night sky at summer.

I’ll be publishing Heat Lightning on June 30, apart from the box set which will be taken down in a few weeks. The story ended up being one of my favorites because the phenomenon known as heat lightning, where lightning can be seen but no thunder is heard, figures in the story.

I hope your summertime is full of good books, good times, and easy living!

Post Script

Bestselling romance author Joan Reeves lives her happily ever after with her husband in the Lone Star State. Her books, available as ebooks and audiobooks, all have the underlying theme that is her motto: “It’s never too late to live happily ever after.” Readers, sign up for WordPlay, Joan’s email list/newsletter. Joan also publishes Writing Hacks, a free newsletter for writers. Find Joan at SlingWords, her blog and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

LIVE!!! Love Blooms on Main Street is LIVE TODAY!

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Love Blooms on Main Street

Every flower tells a story. Just as the first fragrant blooms of spring stir the senses, Love Blooms on Main Street is sure to touch your heart. Ranging from sweet to spicy, these stand-alone contemporary romances are inspired by the symbolism of flowers, with each story representing a different flower.

The set can now be ordered from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBooks for the limited time price of 99 cents.

Here’s a closer look at the stories included in Love Blooms on Main Street:

Small Town Hot Shot Bride
by Stephanie Queen, USA Todaybestselling author
Red roses symbolize compassion and romantic love. Tammy is a hot shot in a small town, but she’s tired of getting left behind by guys just passing through. Will she get swept up by charming out-of-towner Roark and his runaway train attraction? Or will she derail him for good?

Perfect Match
by Carol DeVaney,
national bestselling author
Forget-me-nots symbolize true love and remembrance. Sometimes love needs a little push. Can two lonely hearts re-kindle their abandoned passion the second time around?

Heather of His Heart
by Leigh Morgan, national bestselling author

Heather symbolizes admiration, beauty, good luck and protection from danger. Heather has given up on the idea of finding romantic love. Billy never had the idea in the first place. When circumstances throw them together, they find that love, like heather, blooms in the most unlikely places.

To Have & To Hold
by E. Ayers, national bestselling author

Peonies symbolize compassion, happiness and prosperity. When Melissa meets Drexel, she realizes that the estate’s gardener has found something that she’s never had—happiness. But sometimes things aren’t what they appear to be, and she needs to follow her heart.

Love at the Apple Blossom Inn
by Kristy Tate, national bestselling author

Scotch broom symbolizes overwhelming and everlasting love. Small-town girl Janey Tyler falls for Eric Roudell, the quiet and reclusive music teacher. But will she still love him when she discovers he is really Derrick Cordell, the rock star?

Forever Your Valentine
by Susan R. Hughes, national bestselling author

Daisies symbolize loyal love. Attraction crackles between Faith and Cole when they meet, but since Cole’s career takes him on the road most of the year, Faith resolves to keep their relationship platonic. Will one night together ruin their friendship, or could they be falling in love?

Naomi’s Heart
by Pepper Phillips, national bestselling author
:
Paperwhite narcissus has the most delicious fragrance, bringing spring into the room. Delighted that Ben is back in Boggy Bayou, Naomi teams up with him to enter the Egg Knocking contest. Can they win? Can Naomi figure out why Ben is kissing her? Can her heart stand it if Ben realizes that she’s not what he deserves?

Mother’s Day Babies
by Mona Risk, USA Today bestselling author

White lilies symbolizes virtue.
Can Love Bloom between a powerful TV Director who’s certainly not marriage material and a widow loyal to her late husband?

Call Me Yours
by Kelly Rae, national
bestselling author Hydrangeas symbolize devotion and gratefulness. When Thad finds himself falling for Brianna, the only surprise is how natural it feels. It’s going to take more than words to convince her, but he will do anything to hear her say,Call Me Yours.

Old Enough to Know Better
by Joan Reeves,
national bestselling author
White roses symbolize new beginnings.
Stormy Clarkson, on the brink of fifty, is crushing on sexy Sean Butler. He’s been after her for six months, but she’s resisted every advance. One night he kisses her. That kiss changes everything!

We are all so thrilled to present these stories to you; as we feel strongly about love and relationships and how important a little happily-ever-after can be in a our fictional lives. Enjoy and thank you for being our fans, our friends and our supporters, with each new boxed set we write and publish!

Small Town Romance: Real or Fairytale? by Stephanie Queen

I’m on “Team Real”. Small towns are real. Romances are real–they happen all the Small Town Hot Shot Bride-2time–even in small towns (or else where would they get all those kids playing in the streets and the parks?)

It should come as no surprise however, that Myren, my chauffeur, is on “Team Fairytale”. He says small town romances remind him of Disneyland–all shiny and pretty on the surface,  and nothing but an illusion once you look behind the curtain.

So I said to Myren, “Quit looking behind the curtain.” I mean after all, why bother reading a novel if you’re looking behind the curtain to see what’s there?

What it comes down to is this: [Stephanie Queen Wisdom coming up] it’s a matter of being authentic rather than being real. It’s a matter of capturing the magic moments from life and blowing them up into a proportion that you can wrap your arms around and enjoy for a few hours as you read the story. The moments are real. Everyone has some in their life. The settings are ordinary and authentic. We all know a town with a charming Main Street that looks picture perfect at least sometimes.

The kind of magic moments that happen in small towns romances are particularly charming and have a tendency to make this reader very wistful. Because we could imagine being there, imagine that moment from our own life maybe. That first kiss with a guy you’ve admired from afar for months. Or the moment a special man proposed to you at the town fireworks display and you actually saw the explosions of color in the sky. Ordinary authentic moments.

We can look back or forward at our own lives to see moments like those in small town romance novels. Unlike a romantic suspense where most of us don’t have magical moments from our lives about capturing bad guys at gunpoint or being rescued by a super spy. [I’m on the record saying now that I’ve never been shot at.] The feeling I get from the larger than life stories is more like an escape into someone else’s life than wistfully remembering or imagining a snippet of our own.

That’s why I love writing small town romance novels–you know, the kind set on Main Street. Writing these lets me explore those wisps of time where the stars aligned and things were wonderful, and then expand on them. Writing these stories lets me re-imagine my world with some minor adjustments to make things exactly right. You know–the kind of world where the characters say the things you wish you could have said when you were there in that situation–when you were tongue-tied.

In my small town story world, things work out, at least for that magical moment in time, perfectly.  Until the next story starts with a new journey to the next moment of magical perfection.

You can read my latest story about Tammy from the small town of Hamlin who is wary of a charming guy from out of town. It’s a classic tale of a small town girl being swept away by the irresistible force of the forbidden stranger. Small Town Hot Shot Bride is available now in the Authors of Main Street Boxed set Love Blooms on Main Street.