If you’ve noticed, I’ve kind of sorta been quiet, which for me is unusual. Some of it has been because I am just tired.  Tired of the last two years of endless deadlines.  Tired of promoting. Tired of worrying about book sales. Tired of years on different RWA boards. Tired of taking care of everyone, and just flat out tired. I’ve spent more time doing nothing and not wanting to do anything then ever in my life.  Yes, in a funk if you will, but I think, a much needed one.  I have subconsciously been regenerating my brain, my heart and my soul.  I have much bigger things ahead of me, and I’m going to need to be firing on all cylinders.

But another reason I’ve been quieter than normal is because I’m working.  Really hard.  On a kick-ass romantic suspense proposal. I have a fabo series concept my agent is excited about. And I LOVE it. 

Being the impatient girl that I am, I rushed through the end of last year to get something, as in proposal, put together, and because I rushed, and because I didn’t stay true to what I envisioned to begin with, the proposal stalled, and ultimately fell flat.  My agent was meh, and so was I.  Not a good sign.

So back to the drawing board.  I love what I’m writing now. I can see it, like a movie playing out before me.  My h/h have so much chemistry I get excited thinking about them.  And they haven’t met on page yet!  How is that for hitting the sweet spot?  My hero is an antihero.  He’s bad.  Really bad.  But so is she. I cannot wait for them to meet. 

This entire process brought me full circle on something I have always known and tried to really adhere to, and that is the old adage, To thine own self be true. Don’t write something that doesn’t feel right, even if it sounds ok.  Don’t follow trends, unless of course the trend is what gets you excited each time you sit down to write. Write through this shitty economy.  It’s bad for 99% of us. And the golden 1%?  They’re sweating too.  Life in the big apple is a life they have never seen before. Not only are the publishing houses laying off their people, but they are laying off authors as well.  What worked last year flops today.  Everyone in publishing is scared.  And when people are scared they either panic and run or freeze unable to move.  Very few roll up their sleeves, raise their fists and say, a la John McClane, “C’mon mutherfucker.”

I kind of fancy myself Bruce Willis’ character in Die Hard.  I mean, I have to!  I have kids who would so not understand if mom bowed out.

So yesterday, after a long conversation with several good friends, (thnx Maya and Syl) and an even longer conversation with my agent, I rolled up my sleeves, put my big girl panties back on and yelled, “C’mon, mutherfucker!”

No more funk. I’m not backing down.  I’m not jumping off the ledge and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow what I’ve worked so hard for all these years be taken away because of some freakin’ recession!  Hah!  Okay, so seriously, I know when it’s time to shop this proposal, editors will be playing a different ball game, and that’s ok.  I’ll still be in the game.  I know that this story, this series is good. Better than good. It’s the best contemporary stuff I have written.  It even feels different when I sit down each day to write.  And you know what else I have discovered during these harrowing times?  Even if I never sold another book, I would write.  I have the heart and soul of a writer. I love, love.  I love to tell a story.  I have learned something else about myself: I’m a better writer than I gave myself credit for.  It’s about freakin’ time I came to that conclusion.

Despite this crazy time, I still flat out love what I do.  I’ll never stop.  And here’s something Megan McKeever (Pocket editor) said when she came out to my RWA chapter meeting earlier this year when she was asked what she likes to hear in a pitch. She said, “I want to hear how much the author loves their story.”  That simple statement has sat with me since.  It was one of those Homer Simpson “Doh!” moments. I mean if we don’t love our story, how the hell can we expect an editor to?

So, just when I think I have it all figured out, the puzzle pieces shift and fall more neatly into place. 

Life may be tough right now, but it’s good.  Really good.

So, instead of us chatting about our problems, let’s chat about challenges we have overcome and where we want to be this time next year.  Who wants to start?

And BTW, did anyone catch AI last night?  Did you see Alexis from Philadelphia come back all cleaned up?  I gotta tell, ya, that woman didn’t quit, and while she is weird with a capital W she is one determined gal.  I can’t wait for Hollywood week next week. I think the roller coaster ride is going to be the craziest yet!

Karin*

Here we go!  You know the drill!

1. “Zeus has summoned you.”

With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again. “Zeus will have you by the throat if he catches you.”

“It was Zeus who sent me.”

2. It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. Krystoff’s acute vision took in the deep crimson that covered the gray cracked sidewalk, the smell of blood thick on the air. Krystoff stopped to inhale, “You can’t hide” he said mockingly, his words echoing off the cold concrete. He knew he was close; the signs of their victims’ struggles were still fresh. “I know you’re here,” Krystoff said as he felt his body tense in response to the coming battle. His enemy was becoming reckless, leaving bodies littered in the wake of their feeding frenzies.

3. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home. She’d gone into her super-mom mode, just like every time she talked to me since her therapy “break through.”

4. Sitting in a graffiti-smeared cell on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t what Molly Hicks would call a good way to end a weekend.

“Dammit, Molly! Even if you believe I deserve being shot, it’s against the law, a federal one for that matter.” Sheriff J.T. Rogan held his arm across his bare chest, babying the wound in his shoulder. Eyes dark as hell glared at her. So appropriate as he was the devil incarnate for sure.

5. Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name? But, no, instead of letting the call stay a mystery I helped fate change my course, and pushed that stupid button to listen to the message.

6. Thick clouds of steam puffed out of manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. The radio sputtered and he reached outside the cab’s window to give the bulky antenna another twist.

“Damn new-fangled gizmo has more kinks than a pad of steel wool,” Henry told Mystic. The static cleared and a sultry melody of band music hummed through the Victrola horn protruding from the dash.

He patted Mystic’s steering wheel and said to the demon-possessed cab, “Take over for me while I grab my dinner from the back seat.”

Lights on the dashboard blinked and the radio tuner cycled through a dozen stations like a strobe.

7. Guilty or not, Leonardo faced a death sentence.
Alone in his father’s house, he paced his room, fearful that any moment the Governor’s guards would pound upon the door, drag him to Florence. His knees buckled at the thought, and clammy hands grabbed the doorway for support.
“Damn you, Jacopo! Which of your lovers accused me?”
In countless sketches, Leonardo had rendered the model, striving always for perfection, never dreaming the late hours alone with this Adonis would lead to such salacious charges.

8. Lacey knew the moment she opened her eyes that something was wrong. The fact that the sun was coming through a window where there should not have been a window, was her first clue, the black cotton sheets covering her naked body was the second. She looked over at the man that lay beside her, a very naked, dark haired Ewan Stevens and that was her final clue.
She lifted the sheet to see Ewan’s well-toned white butt, her heart skipped a beat. Lacey closed her eyes and took slow deep breaths for a moment before she slipped steadily out of the bed being careful not to wake the man next to her. Picking up her discarded clothes scattered about the room from the night before and hugging them close to her naked body, she crept out of his room.

9. “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days. He’d forgotten it brought out his temper.
His anger would have been hotter if he’d been let through unquestioned, though.

10. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.

Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots.

11. Cold trembling fingers reached out to trace the letters engraved on the headstone, the chilly marble slab the only tangible link to the family Jolene still missed. Ten years hadn’t even begun to numb the pain or take away the gaping hole in her heart. The years hadn’t answered the questions that screamed to be answered.

Set back from the rest of the graves, the stone sat under a shady tree. She’d picked the spot for the lack of light, her babies would never again enjoy the sunshine and neither would their final resting place. She knew it wasn’t a rational thing to want for them but at the time, and even now, it seemed fitting.

12. The culinary Casanova was at it again. No way would she go next door for breakfast no matter how tempting the fare. And damn, but Cory Traven surpassed enticing. Meg didn’t have the strength to face him after she’d been screwing him all night—in her dreams—and had been every night for the past three weeks. Quite a disturbing notion considering she’d known Cory since…well…birth.

Meg stretched her arms over her head then combed her fingers through her snarled locks of hair.

13. The piercing pain in her chest grew worse, but she couldn’t stop running. A flash of lightning split the darkness once again, temporarily blinding her as thunder roared in her ears and her racing heart felt as if it would burst. The pounding of the horse’s hooves continued to beat the dirt path behind her, closer this time. Oh God, he was closer. A high-pitched scream sliced through the night, the horrible sound quickly swallowed by the thick mist.

“Erin!” she yelled.

14.  She was going to die.

What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.

The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance. Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions.

She should be scared, terrified really, but somehow – she wasn’t.

15.  “Even Jane Eyre found her Mr. Rochester.” Lucy Bennett caressed the spine of Charlotte Bronte’s novel and released a sigh.
“I thought you wanted hot and uncomplicated. Are you now saying you’d settle for dark and moody?”
“I wouldn’t consider it settling if it meant love.” Lucy slid the book onto the shelf, turned to Angela Patterson, her best friend since grade school, and said, “But this week has nothing to do with love.”

16. That’s where the body is.

Amelia’s stomach knotted as she trudged toward the recovery site, carefully watching where she placed her feet in the snow. She yanked on the sides of her wool hat and tucked her chin into her scarf as she strode through the fluff, blinking away the swirl of snowflakes.

The weather was for skiing, sledding, and snowball fights, not for investigating old bones in a frosty tent in Boondocks, Oregon.

Her target, the old single story apartment building, looked deflated, concave along the roofline, as if it was too exhausted to stand up straight.

17. The Lord of Harmeswood was a madman and a murderer, and Alexandrina Whitsett was headed straight for his house.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true — she and her brother, James, were returning from a weekend house party in Kent and were about to drive past Harmeswood’s ancient moldering pile, but even that was too close for comfort. In dread, she glanced out the carriage window at the ominous scenery.

The dark forest that covered most of Harmeswood’s land barely let in any light from the late-afternoon sky, and the tangled tree limbs reminded her of nothing so much as spindly arms that had a stranglehold on everything within their reach.

Harmeswood… the name alone was enough to send a fearful tingle down a person’s spine, never mind that the legend attached to the lord of Harmeswood was almost as frightening.

They said he’d killed his wife.

18. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web. Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.

Bolting through sweet heather, she altered her course in the direction of his voice.

19. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.

He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.

The last thing he remembered was talking to a guy named Mars at the “Soul Mate” wrap party.

20. The man holding the gun to her head didn’t know what she was capable of.

Tess Damon braced herself in the open doorway of the airplane while shivers raced up and down her body. The frigid temperature stole precious air from her lungs. Her eyes watered. Her ears ached. Every muscle in her body flexed as her hands pressed against the metal surface and she dug her shoes into the floor.

21. The blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. Slowly, Marisol curled her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The spent gunpowder from the pistol still singed her nose.

No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal. She willed herself not to think of him as a man who might be mourned by someone who loved him. She would not let the compassion seize her heart.

22. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.

Her lover.

Her dead husband’s ghost.

Like a Ouija board’s planchette, her thoughts stood uncertain and shaking between yes, I should and no, I shouldn’t.

23. The young prince was going to die. When the angry mob of outlaws and outcasts finally realized who it was that had fallen into their clutches, they would tear the young nobleman to shreds, and there was nothing Shallah could do to prevent it. Blood caked his face and hands, obscuring his features, mute testament to the fact that he had not been captured without a fight. One wrist was manacled to the wall at the far end of the cavern; in the chains that were reserved for criminals among criminals, those who had somehow betrayed the tightly woven structure of this band of misfits.

Drawing her dark cloak tighter around her, Shallah edged quietly through the throng gathering around him, never taking her gaze from his battered face. Even partly obscured by his matted, bloody hair, she could see his dark eyes were keenly intelligent, dangerously angry…and hauntingly familiar.

24.  “That man would have taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of intelligence.” Every one of Uncle John’s hate-filled words was a lance piercing Desiree’s flesh and she didn’t have the armor necessary to withstand the pain.

“I-I am s-s-sorry.” Desiree bowed her head, unwilling to struggle through any more vowels and consonants that wouldn’t come out right no matter how hard she tried.

Why did her mind form each word perfectly, yet her tongue stumble over almost every first letter? She turned to the window and flinched when the door slammed shut behind her

25.  “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on. Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.
Jake’s heartbeat matched the tempo of the helicopter’s rotors and sweat bonded her flight suit to her body.

“They’ve got those motors running wide open; the fricking hull is half out of the water” her co-pilot, Tom Crenshaw, said.

26.  “You want me to do what?” Ainsley asked, nearly choking on her tea at her mother’s announcement. She knew the invitation was not for a pleasant chat, but she had no idea her mother would stoop to this.

“It’s very simple, Ainsley,” her mother answered calmly, tapping her Montblanc pen against her leather planner. “You have the perfect man right here, and yet you persist in rejecting his proposals. Go to Wyoming and see the dirty, rough life that waits for you if you don’t make the right choice and marry Edward.”

Her mother tossed her a small manila envelope, decorated with a swirling script and addressed to Ainsley at the Fairfax home.

27. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.

Upon reaching the cover of the porch he shook the moisture from his hair and paused to look around.

28. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.

“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metallic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.

“Hold on, just—I’m coming,” he shouted into the eerie silence and began stumbling downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head.

29. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.

He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.

The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels. Sadly, he had known it was wrong for a long time, but he had been powerless to change the course of events set in motion all those weeks ago.

30. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.

Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.

“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.

The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.

Heart pounding, she raised a hand to knock but before she made contact with the door, it was wrenched open with such haste, she jumped back in fright.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Ryder.”

31. The hate mail started Monday morning.
If Parker Kennard had known about it, she might have just stayed in bed–or at least stayed away from the office.
She’d woken early, partly because she always woke early. She squinted at the alarm clock and groaned. 5:04; three hours sleep wasn’t enough when she had to face the office, Manny, and her clients, but it wasn’t going to be any easier tomorrow.
Rolling over and snuggling back into the pillows was pointless with the sound of the surf crashing through the open window.

32. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…

“Sunshine?”

33. Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. A soft weight held his shoulder down, the feel of a woman’s curves pressing hard against his chest, keeping the right side delectably warm. Cold water tickled his feet, wet sand dug into his butt and the tangy, salty smell of the ocean filled his nostrils.

A flash of red hair, spinning lanterns and Latin dance music raced through his mind before it went blank. Levering his eyes open, he winced as the first fingers of yellow sunlight bounced off the white sand to hit him right between the eyes. The infernal beat of bongos intensified just behind his right temple.

34. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. At any moment, of any day, a plethora of aromas can summon a wealth of emotions and memories. To Grace Riley, life’s happy moments were tinged with the perfume of sunshine and fragrant grass. During the moments of sorrow, sadness polluted the air with an oily, suffocating smoke, and even danger caused a detectable metallic scent. The odor that wafted up to her sensitive nose now was none of these.
The smell assaulting her, the repugnant odor of dust and stagnancy, was the same scent that had haunted her steps these last four years.

35. Darkness did not fall gently this day.

It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.

He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.

Plowing a twisted path through the woods, he ignored the slashing pines that made his cheek sing.

36. Jill tried to stand straighter, though the handcuffs bit into her wrists. If this was to be her last moment alive, she was determined to go bravely. Panic clawed at her throat, but she refused to cry out as the huge machine bore down on her, its massive treads sending a stomach-clenching, teeth-gritting tremble through the earth beneath her.
Her heart drummed against her ribs as she convulsed in a violent coughing spasm, her lungs burning from the acrid stench of diesel and east Texas red dust swirling in the air.
Over the roar of the caterpillar, a deep mechanical voice crackled through a bullhorn, “You people will have to leave!”
A tall, broad-shouldered man strode angrily toward her, the filtered sunlight glinting off his hard hat as he shouted, “Get those chains off her!”

37. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.

Something was in the wind — if I’d been a comic-book superhero my spidey sense would have been at full tingle.

38. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”
A days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, the only sign that he was any worse for wear from their time in this cinder block hell hole.

39. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?” A rhetorical question, but when the kid gasped and made a move as though to summon the men in white suits, I dredged up a reassuring smile.

40. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

OK, not invisible invisible.

Karin*

Sorry, folks, a long day.  I just checked my email to get my judge’s results, and she has been delayed by a family matter.  I’m going to find a back up judge in case this round’s judge can’t get to it by tonight.  Stand by.  Worst case scenario, the results go up tomorrow.

Karin*

I’m chattin’ about the Oscars and movies in general over at Murder She Writes, today.  C’mon over and weigh in!

Karin*

by Edie Ramer!

Thank you, Karin, for having me here again.  And for having my back since we hooked up in the critique group six years ago. 

“Yes, We Can” is more than a political cry.  It’s a writer’s cry.  It’s our heroines’ cry.  My favorite heroines are “Yes, I can” women.  They do what needs to be done, no matter how life batterred them in the past.  No matter what horrible things happen during the book.  (’Cause we’re making them suffer, aren’t we?)  They might want to wimp out, but they don’t.  They stick it out, because … well, because otherwise they wouldn’t be heroines. 

Like Karin’s heroines.  Like Allison Brennan’s heroines.   Like Jo in LITTLE WOMEN.  Like Scarlett in GONE WITH THE WIND.

Most writers I know are heroines, too.  Karin leads my list of writers who are heroines.  She’s a wife, mother, successful writer, successful businesswoman, and — I can attest — a fabulous friend.  It’s not easy for her to do so much.  It takes stamina and determination and hard work.  If it were easy, she wouldn’t be a heroine.  But she never whines, she just does what needs to be done.

When J.K. Rowling was 15, her mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.  Later, Rowling married a man who was abusive.  She divorced him and was on the dole when she wrote the first Harry Potter book in her brother-in-law’s restaurant.  Though life wasn’t easy for her, she did more than survive.  She thrived!  She was a heroine.

Allison Brennan was married with five children — one a baby — working a full time job when she sold.  She’s a heroine. 

I can go on and on, but we are all heroines or heroes, because we’re <em>here</em>.  We’re writing.  We’re selling or hoping to sell soon. 

Publishing isn’t an easy business.  It’s not easy to get into.  And it’s not easy to stay in the magic circle.  Published writers can’t rest on their backlists.  Charlaine Harris wrote cozies before she hit the publishing jackpot with her Sooky Stackhouse books. 

Disappointment and rejection make some of us drop out.  It makes the rest of us work harder to write better and bigger books. It makes us heroines.

If you are reading this, I know you can do it.  I want you say, loudly, “YES, I CAN!  YES, I CAN!  YES, I CAN!” 

If you’re in a public place, it’s okay to whisper or say it in your mind.  But think it loudly.  Because it’s true.  With determination and grit and hard work, you can do it.

What writer, pubbed or unpubbed, do you consider a heroine?  And why?

Edie Ramer

http://www.romantictimes.com/news_amtitle3.php 

PS (from Karin)  Go VOTE for DEAD PEOPLE!!!!  

NOW!  Here’s how easy it is: send an email here: votes@romantictimes.com and put DEAD PEOPLE in the subject line.  Send one from every freakin’ email addy you have!  Command your friemds to vote for Edie’s DEAD PEOPLE!  I can vouch for her story!  I’ve read it!  IT. NEEDS. TO. BE. PUBLISHED!!!  Now, go vote!    

Here you go!  And you know the drill!

1. It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. Krystoff’s acute vision took in the deep crimson that covered the gray cracked sidewalk, the smell of blood thick on the air. Krystoff stopped to inhale, “You can’t hide” he said mockingly, his words echoing off the cold concrete. He knew he was close; the signs of their victims’ struggles were still fresh. “I know you’re here,” Krystoff said as he felt his body tense in response to the coming battle.

2. “Zeus has summoned you.”

With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again. “Zeus will have you by the throat if he catches you.”

3. I hissed when I saw it, my gut coiling, hide crawling in alarm. Skin, damn it, not hide; I hadn’t transformed yet. But the increase in my symptoms and the arrival of this innocuous looking envelope meant it wouldn’t be long. Even now a rush of heat suffused my limbs, and I lifted sweaty hair off my hot, aching neck, thrusting away the craving for raw steak, the tangled images of wings and tails and tongues.

I’d stuttered to a stop when I noticed the letter, waiting for me on the mantel like a serpent in muddy waters, a known danger lurking beneath a tranquil surface.

4. Lacey knew the moment she opened her eyes that something was wrong. The fact that the sun was coming through a window where there should not have been a window, was her first clue, the black cotton sheets covering her naked body was the second. She looked over at the man that lay beside her, a very naked, dark haired Ewan Stevens and that was her final clue.

She lifted the sheet to see Ewan’s well-toned white butt, her heart skipped a beat. Lacey closed her eyes and took slow deep breaths for a moment before she slipped steadily out of the bed being careful not to wake the man next to her.

5. The piercing pain in her chest grew worse, but she couldn’t stop running. A flash of lightning split the darkness once again, temporarily blinding her as thunder roared in her ears and her racing heart felt as if it would burst. The pounding of the horse’s hooves continued to beat the dirt path behind her, closer this time. Oh God, he was closer. A high-pitched scream sliced through the night, the horrible sound quickly swallowed by the thick mist.

6. Sitting in a graffiti-smeared cell on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t what Molly Hicks would call a good way to end a weekend.

“Dammit, Molly! Even if you believe I deserve being shot, it’s against the law, a federal one for that matter.” Sheriff J.T. Rogan held his arm across his bare chest, babying the wound in his shoulder. Eyes dark as hell glared at her.

7. Thick clouds of steam puffed out of manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. The radio sputtered and he reached outside the cab’s window to give the bulky antenna another twist.

“Damn new-fangled gizmo has more kinks than a pad of steel wool,” Henry told Mystic. The static cleared and a sultry melody of band music hummed through the Victrola horn protruding from the dash.

He patted Mystic’s steering wheel and said to the demon-possessed cab, “Take over for me while I grab my dinner from the back seat.”

8. Guilty or not, Leonardo faced a death sentence.
Alone in his father’s house, he paced his room, fearful that any moment the Governor’s guards would pound upon the door, drag him to Florence. His knees buckled at the thought, and clammy hands grabbed the doorway for support.
“Damn you, Jacopo! Which of your lovers accused me?”

9. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.

Her lover.

Her dead husband’s ghost.

10. “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response.
He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days. He’d forgotten it brought out his temper.

11. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. At any moment, of any day, a plethora of aromas can summon a wealth of emotions and memories. To Grace Riley, life’s happy moments were tinged with the perfume of sunshine and fragrant grass. During the moments of sorrow, sadness polluted the air with an oily, suffocating smoke, and even danger caused a detectable metallic scent. The odor that wafted up to her sensitive nose now was none of these.

12. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home.

13. Cold trembling fingers reached out to trace the letters engraved on the headstone, the chilly marble slab the only tangible link to the family Jolene still missed. Ten years hadn’t even begun to numb the pain or take away the gaping hole in her heart. Or answer any of the questions still screaming to be answered.

Set back from the rest of the graves, the stone sat under a shady tree. She’d picked the spot for the lack of light, her babies would never again enjoy the sunshine and neither would their final resting place.

14. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.

He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.

15. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

16. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.

Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt.

17. The culinary Casanova was at it again. No way would she go next door for breakfast no matter how tempting the fare. And damn, but Cory Traven surpassed enticing. Meg didn’t have the strength to face him after she’d been screwing him all night—in her dreams—and had been every night for the past three weeks. Quite a disturbing notion considering she’d known Cory since…well…birth.

18.The blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. Slowly, Marisol curled her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The spent gunpowder from the pistol still singed her nose.

No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal. She willed herself not to think of him as a man who might be mourned by someone who loved him.

19. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.

20. The Lord of Harmeswood was a madman and a murderer, and Alexandrina Whitsett was headed straight for his house.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true — she and her brother, James, were returning from a weekend house party in Kent and were about to drive past Harmeswood’s ancient moldering pile, but even that was too close for comfort. In dread, she glanced out the carriage window at the ominous scenery.

The dark forest that covered most of Harmeswood’s land barely let in any light from the late-afternoon sky, and the tangled tree limbs reminded her of nothing so much as spindly arms that had a stranglehold on everything within their reach.

Harmeswood… the name alone was enough to send a fearful tingle down a person’s spine, never mind that the legend attached to the lord of Harmeswood was almost as frightening.

21. “Even Jane Eyre found her Mr. Rochester.” Lucy Bennett caressed the spine of Charlotte Bronte’s novel and released a sigh.
“I thought you wanted hot and uncomplicated. Are you now saying you’d settle for dark and moody?”
“I wouldn’t consider it settling if it meant love.”

22. The man holding the gun to her head didn’t know what she was capable of.

Tess Damon braced herself in the open doorway of the airplane while shivers raced up and down her body. The frigid temperature stole precious air from her lungs. Her eyes watered. Her ears ached.

23. Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. A soft weight held his shoulder down, the feel of a woman’s curves pressing hard against his chest, keeping the right side delectably warm. Cold water tickled his feet, wet sand dug into his butt and the tangy, salty smell of the ocean filled his nostrils.

A flash of red hair, spinning lanterns and Latin dance music raced through his mind before it went blank. Levering his eyes open, he winced as the first fingers of yellow sunlight bounced off the white sand to hit him right between the eyes.

24.The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.

He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.

The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels.

25.  “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on. Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.

Jake’s heartbeat matched the tempo of the helicopter’s rotors and sweat bonded her flight suit to her body.

26.  “You want me to do what?” Ainsley asked, nearly choking on her tea at her mother’s announcement. She knew the invitation was not for a pleasant chat, but she had no idea her mother would stoop to this.

“It’s very simple, Ainsley,” her mother answered calmly, tapping her Montblanc pen against her leather planner. “You have the perfect man right here, and yet you persist in rejecting his proposals. Go to Wyoming and see the dirty, rough life that waits for you if you don’t make the right choice and marry Edward.”

27.  “I suppose there’s no turning back now,” Lady Emma Caulfield whispered.
“You should have thought of that before you put the story in the Post,” Mary Lambert whispered back. The two young women peeked between the fronds of a potted palm in the corner of the Markingham’s crowded ballroom.
“I merely let slip a bit of gossip around a certain society matron,” Emma said with an innocent shrug, “and, well…now the rumor of the engagement
 is printed for everyone to see.”
“I don’t see what you hope to gain from this insane notion of yours,” Mary replied, rolling her eyes.

28. “That man would have taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of intelligence.” Every one of Uncle John’s hate-filled words was a lance piercing Desiree’s flesh and she didn’t have the armor necessary to withstand the pain.
“I-I am s-s-sorry.” Desiree bowed her head, unwilling to struggle through any more vowels and consonants that wouldn’t come out right no matter how hard she tried.
Why did her mind form each word perfectly, yet her tongue stumble over almost every first letter?

29. Darkness did not fall gently this day.

It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.

He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.

30. She was going to die.

What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.

The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance. Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions.

31.  Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name?

32. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.

“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metalic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.

33. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web. Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.

34. Nadia Reynolds’ cheatin’ SOB of a husband had dumped her for a twenty-something with plastic tits, telling Nadia he didn’t find her attractive any longer. Whatever. She had a brand new divorce decree, would turn forty in a month and was ready to move on.

Jax Madison arrived at his office at Goodman & Brady, grabbed a cup of coffee and took a few minutes to savor his future. When his phone rang just before lunch, he didn’t recognize the husky let’s-go-to-bed voice.

35. The hate mail started Monday morning.

If Parker Kennard had known about it, she might have just stayed in bed–or at least stayed away from the office.

She’d woken early, partly because she always woke early. She squinted at the alarm clock and groaned. 5:04; three hours sleep wasn’t enough when she had to face the office, Manny, and her clients, but it wasn’t going to be any easier tomorrow.

36.  “What do you mean, ‘You can’t be alone with me?’” Saari planted her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned closer to her laptop’s webcam. “Start explaining, Brogan.”

“I don’t mean I can’t ever be alone with you.” Brogan’s olive complexion took on a ruddy hue.

37. That’s where the body is.

Amelia’s stomach knotted as she trudged toward the recovery site, carefully watching where she placed her feet in the snow. She yanked on the sides of her wool hat and tucked her chin into her scarf as she strode through the fluff, blinking away the swirl of snowflakes.

The weather was for skiing, sledding, and snowball fights, not for investigating old bones in a frosty tent in Boondocks, Oregon.

38. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.

Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.

“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.

The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.

Heart pounding, she raised a hand to knock but before she made contact with the door, it was wrenched open with such haste, she jumped back in fright.

39. Jill tried to stand straighter, though the handcuffs bit into her wrists. If this was to be her last moment alive, she was determined to go bravely. Panic clawed at her throat, but she refused to cry out as the huge machine bore down on her, its massive treads sending a stomach-clenching, teeth-gritting tremble through the earth beneath her.
Her heart drummed against her ribs as she convulsed in a violent coughing spasm, her lungs burning from the acrid stench of diesel and east Texas red dust swirling in the air.
Over the roar of the caterpillar, a deep mechanical voice crackled through a bullhorn, “You people will have to leave!”

40. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…

41. The young prince was going to die. When the angry mob of outlaws and outcasts finally realized who it was that had fallen into their clutches, they would tear the young nobleman to shreds, and there was nothing Shallah could do to prevent it. Blood caked his face and hands, obscuring his features, mute testament to the fact that he had not been captured without a fight. One wrist was manacled to the wall at the far end of the cavern; in the chains that were reserved for criminals among criminals, those who had somehow betrayed the tightly woven structure of this band of misfits.

Drawing her dark cloak tighter around her, Shallah edged quietly through the throng gathering around him, never taking her gaze from his battered face.

42. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?”

43. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.

44. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”

45. A hand–oh God, she hoped it was a hand–gripped her ankle like a vise and tugged. Tina clung to the rope for dear life and winced when its nylon thread chafed her leather gloves, but her grit and determination was no match for the sheer force pulling her downward. Silently swearing and left with no other choice—other than a crash landing to the rain-deprived ground which would bruise more of her than just her ego—Tina loosened her hold and did a half-slide, half-fall down the rope and right into the arms of—well, hell—Kent Nicholson.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, just hanging around.”

Karin*

It’s been a busy week.  It’s been a quiet week, and it’s been a very sad week.

Busy because I have been working hard on my copy edits for MASTER OF CRAVING, quiet because for the most part the family has left me alone to work, and very sad because a friend of mine lost her husband Tuesday to cancer.  A relatively short battle, but a hard fought one.  He was 51, and up until his diagnosis after a routine check this time last year, he was healthy as any man could hope to be.  He was a good, quiet, gentle man. He leaves behind four children all under the age of 16 and his childhood sweetheart and wife of 25 years. 

I am sad for my friend, sad for the children, and just, sad. There is no negotiating death.  It’s so final.  There is nothing we can do to prevent it.  It comes sooner or later.  I’m not afraid of dying.  But I’m afraid of losing my loved ones closets to me.  I’m afraid of the soul-shattering grief my friend is experiencing right now.  I’m afraid of waking up to find my life mate gone-forever.  How do you carry on when a vital part of you is gone?  How do you get out of bed each morning and embrace the life you still live?  I suppose, as with everything, time is the answer. When my friend broke down the other day, and apologized I almost smacked her!  I told her to let it out as long and as loud as she needed to, that I wasn’t going anywhere.  When after awhile she dried her tears and looked at me, my heart just stopped.  I felt her pain, it radiated with such a force, I saw it, smelled it, yet I could not even comprehend understanding the depth of her loss.  It scares me. I felt, completely and utterly useless, and I almost smiled.  Cause there I was making it about me!  And it so isn’t.  I realized after I left, my value to my friend was just being there for her.  In the end, it’s all any of us can do.

I came home emotionally drained, kissed my husband on the cheek, told him I loved him, hugged my son, then went upstairs and cried.  I slept most of last night away, and this morning, my first thoughts when I woke were of my friend, and my heart ached again because I knew she was not waking up with her husband beside her.

In someone else’s grief, my love and appreciation for my family has been reaffirmed, and while we always tell each other, every day we love each other, and we are a very huggy-kissy family, for me, I will not only continue to tell my family how important they are to me, but will show it in small intimate ways.  Because, maybe tomorrow, I won’t have the chance.

My heartfelt condolences go out to those of you who have loved and lost someone near and dear to you.

Karin*

It’s American Idol time!  First stop Phoenix, AZ!  And I have to say right out of the gate my money is on Stevie!  Loved her!  But, I’m not too sure how I feel about the new girl, Kara.  Hubby and I looked at each other at one point and went, “Huh, uh.”  But, I’m trying not to be too judgmental so soon, so I’ll give her a few more shows.  But I do love Paula, Randy, and my man Simon.

So, before the show, the hubster and I along with my in-laws went to see Gran Torino.  Oh. My. God!  I am writing Clint Eastwood a letter of appreciation!   I loved this movie.  The characters were amazing, and well, when it was over, I just sat there in the dark theater crying and did not want to leave.  Poignant, funny, and heartbreaking.  I want to see it again.  And again.  And again. Sigh.  It was so good.

What good movies have you seen lately?  And raise your hand if you’re watching AI this year!

Karin*

I can’t believe we’re down to 50!  You ladies know the drill: Post the next line by midnight this Friday, Pacific time!  

1. “Who—What—oh God!” Susan shouted, bolting up in bed. “Why are you here?”

Goddamn it—she wasn’t supposed to wake up. He reached for the knife on his belt.

2. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

3. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.

Her lover.

4. The piercing pain in her chest grew worse, but she couldn’t stop running. A flash of lightning split the darkness once again, temporarily blinding her as thunder roared in her ears and her racing heart felt as if it would burst. The pounding of the horse’s hooves continued to beat the dirt path behind her, closer this time. Oh God, he was closer.

5.  “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response.
He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days.

6.  “Zeus has summoned you.”
With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again.

7. Thick clouds of steam puffed out of manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. The radio sputtered and he reached outside the cab’s window to give the bulky antenna another twist.

“Damn new-fangled gizmo has more kinks than a pad of steel wool,” Henry told Mystic. The static cleared and a sultry melody of band music hummed through the Victrola horn protruding from the dash.

8. It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. Krystoff’s acute vision took in the deep crimson that covered the gray cracked sidewalk, the smell of blood thick on the air. Krystoff stopped to inhale, “You can’t hide” he said mockingly, his words echoing off the cold concrete. He knew he was close; the signs of their victims’ struggles were still fresh.

9. Sitting in a graffiti-smeared cell on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t what Molly Hicks would call a good way to end a weekend.

“Dammit, Molly! Even if you believe I deserve being shot, it’s against the law, a federal one for that matter.” Sheriff J.T. Rogan held his arm across his bare chest, babying the wound in his shoulder.

10. She was going to die.
What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.
The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance.

11. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.

12. The culinary Casanova was at it again. No way would she go next door for breakfast no matter how tempting the fare. And damn, but Cory Traven surpassed enticing. Meg didn’t have the strength to face him after she’d been screwing him all night—in her dreams—and had been every night for the past three weeks.

13. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.

He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under.

14. The man holding the gun to her head didn’t know what she was capable of.

Tess Damon braced herself in the open doorway of the airplane while shivers raced up and down her body. The frigid temperature stole precious air from her lungs. Her eyes watered.

15. Guilty or not, Leonardo faced a death sentence.
Alone in his father’s house, he paced his room, fearful that any moment the Governor’s guards would pound upon the door, drag him to Florence. His knees buckled at the thought, and clammy hands grabbed the doorway for support.
“Damn you, Jacopo!

16. The best thing about being an heiress – the low expectations. Dad still ran the company, and the stockholders would freak if she even started to show an interest. And forget the concept of drawing “more” media attention – she’d maxed out. She could crash the party, dis the party, smile for the camera, flip-off the camera… it was literally impossible to disappoint anyone.

17. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.

18. I hissed when I saw it, my gut coiling, hide crawling in alarm. Skin, damn it, not hide; I hadn’t transformed yet. But the increase in my symptoms and the arrival of this innocuous looking envelope meant it wouldn’t be long. Even now a rush of heat suffused my limbs, and I lifted sweaty hair off my hot, aching neck, thrusting away the craving for raw steak, the tangled images of wings and tails and tongues.

19. Nadia Reynolds’ cheatin’ SOB of a husband had dumped her for a twenty-something with plastic tits, telling Nadia he didn’t find her attractive any longer. Whatever. She had a brand new divorce decree, would turn forty in a month and was ready to move on.
Jax Madison arrived at his office at Goodman & Brady, grabbed a cup of coffee and took a few minutes to savor his future.

20. The blood on her hands trickled down between shaky fingers. Slowly, Marisol curled her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, and looked down at the dead man before her. The spent gunpowder from the pistol still singed her nose.

No pity would be spared for the likes of him, a paltry criminal.

21. “Even Jane Eyre found her Mr. Rochester.” Lucy Bennett caressed the spine of Charlotte Bronte’s novel and released a sigh.
“I thought you wanted hot and uncomplicated. Are you now saying you’d settle for dark and moody?”

22. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. At any moment, of any day, a plethora of aromas can summon a wealth of emotions and memories. To Grace Riley, life’s happy moments were tinged with the perfume of sunshine and fragrant grass. During the moments of sorrow, sadness polluted the air with an oily, suffocating smoke, and even danger caused a detectable metallic scent.

23. That’s where the body is.

Amelia’s stomach knotted as she trudged toward the recovery site, carefully watching where she placed her feet in the snow. She yanked on the sides of her wool hat and tucked her chin into her scarf as she strode through the fluff, blinking away the swirl of snowflakes.

This weather was for skiing, sledding, and snowball fights, not for investigating old bones in a frosty tent in Boondocks, Oregon.

24. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.

He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.

The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul.

25. Lacey knew the moment she opened her eyes that something was wrong. The fact that the sun was coming through a window where there should not have been a window, was her first clue, the black cotton sheets covering her naked body was the second. She looked over at the man that lay beside her, a very naked, dark haired Ewan Stevens and that was her final clue.

She lifted the sheet to see Ewan’s well-toned white butt, her heart skipped a beat.

26. Traveling through time hurts, at least for the broker. But I’ve grown resistant to the pain and that makes my bounty hunting services invaluable.

Mickey, my apprentice, and I have tracked our latest time-jumping fugitive back to the year 2010, which is why we’re hoofing it around New York City in the dark.

“Ava, I think the jump was easier this time,” Mickey said, tucking his trembling fingers inside the front pockets of his blue jeans.

27. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face.

28. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.

29. Darkness did not fall gently this day.

It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.

He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now.

30. She expected the ragged skeletons that thundered through the orchard on their will o’ the wisp chargers, expected the slow parade of pale eyed ladies with their gossamer hair and butterfly wings, expected even the raven with the broken tail feather that flew among them, darting and swooping through their insubstantial forms to send them whisking skyward like so much smoke, but the heavy hand on her shoulder, the warm breath tickling her ear and the soft, masculine voice whispering “Jane” – these were the trappings of nightmares, the first indication that her life was about to change for the worse.

“It’s done,” he said. “Your uncle is dead and Edward has inherited all.”

Her fingers tightened around her dagger, small comfort against ghosts or the treacheries of kin.

31. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me.

32. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.

Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.

“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.

The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.

33. The Lord of Harmeswood was a madman and a murderer, and Alexandrina Whitsett was headed straight for his house.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true — she and her brother, James, were returning from a weekend house party in Kent and were about to drive past Harmeswood’s ancient moldering pile, but even that was too close for comfort. In dread, she glanced out the carriage window at the ominous scenery.

The dark forest that covered most of Harmeswood’s land barely let in any light from the late-afternoon sky, and the tangled tree limbs reminded her of nothing so much as spindly arms that had a stranglehold on everything within their reach.

34. Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. A soft weight held his shoulder down, the feel of a woman’s curves pressing hard against his chest, keeping the right side delectably warm. Cold water tickled his feet, wet sand dug into his butt and the tangy, salty smell of the ocean filled his nostrils.

A flash of red hair, spinning lanterns and Latin dance music raced through his mind before it went blank.

35. Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me.

36.  “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on.
Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.

37.  “That man would have taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of intelligence.” Every one of Uncle John’s hate-filled words was a lance piercing Desiree’s flesh and she didn’t have the armor necessary to withstand the pain.

“I-I am s-s-sorry.” Desiree bowed her head, unwilling to struggle through any more vowels and consonants that would not come out right no matter how hard she tried.

38. “You want me to do what?” Ainsley asked, nearly choking on her tea at her mother’s announcement. She knew the invitation was not for a pleasant chat, but she had no idea her mother would stoop to this.

“It’s very simple, Ainsley,” her mother answered calmly, tapping her Montblanc pen against her leather planner. “You have the perfect man right here, and yet you persist in rejecting his proposals.

39. “I suppose there’s no turning back now,” Lady Emma Caulfield whispered.

“You should have thought of that before you put the story in the Post,” Mary Lambert whispered back. The two young women peeked between the fronds of a potted palm in the corner of the Markingham’s crowded ballroom.

“I merely let slip a bit of gossip around a certain society matron,” Emma
 said with an innocent shrug, “and, well…now the rumor of the engagement
 is printed for everyone to see.”

40. The young prince was going to die. When the angry mob of outlaws and outcasts finally realized who it was that had fallen into their clutches, they would tear the young nobleman to shreds, and there was nothing Shallah could do to prevent it. Blood caked his face and hands, obscuring his features, mute testament to the fact that he had not been captured without a fight. One wrist was manacled to the wall at the far end of the cavern; in the chains that were reserved for criminals among criminals, those who had somehow betrayed the tightly woven structure of this band of misfits.

41. Cold trembling fingers reached out to trace the letters engraved on the headstone, the chilly marble slab the only tangible link to the family Jolene still missed. Ten years hadn’t even begun to numb the pain or take away the gaping hole in her heart. Or answer any of the questions still screaming to be answered.
Set back from the rest of the graves, the stone sat under a shady tree.

42. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web. Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

43. Jill tried to stand straighter, though the handcuffs bit into her wrists. If this was to be her last moment alive, she was determined to go bravely. Panic clawed at her throat, but she refused to cry out as the huge machine bore down on her, its massive treads sending a stomach-clenching, teeth-gritting tremble through the earth beneath her.
Her heart drummed against her ribs as she convulsed in a violent coughing spasm, her lungs burning from the acrid stench of diesel and east Texas red dust swirling in the air.

44. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood.

45. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

46. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

47. A hand–oh God, she hoped it was a hand–gripped her ankle like a vise and tugged. Tina clung to the rope for dear life and winced when its nylon thread chafed her leather gloves, but her grit and determination was no match for the sheer force pulling her downward. Silently swearing and left with no other choice—other than a crash landing to the rain-deprived ground which would bruise more of her than just her ego—Tina loosened her hold and did a half-slide, half-fall down the rope and right into the arms of—well, hell—Kent Nicholson.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

48. The hate mail started Monday morning.
If Parker Kennard had known about it, she might have just stayed in bed–or at least stayed away from the office.
She’d woken early, partly because she always woke early. She squinted at the alarm clock and groaned.

49. “What do you mean, ‘You can’t be alone with me?’” Saari planted her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned closer to her laptop’s webcam. “Start explaining, Brogan.”

“I don’t mean I can’t ever be alone with you.”

50. “Oh, hell,” Brit Roberts snapped when the ringing phone on her kitchen wall stopped her in her tracks at seven AM. Already late leaving for work, she turned away and reached for the doorknob, then paused at the second ring. What if the call is important, like Julie in a panic, a sick car, or a family emergency?

“Dammit all!”

Good Luck!

Karin*