More Than a Summer Love (Formerly NaNo '08)

I decided to turn my NaNo from last year into my free read for this year. You can go to my Google Group and check out subsequent chapters. I try to update every Sunday. This story is more than just about a summer love, and that fact snuck up on me with a quickness. It's very organic and it's hitting on things I never thought I'd tackle. I won't give it all away, but hopefully you'll want to check it out and enjoy.

For a refresher, here's an excerpt from Chapter 1.

~~~~
More Than a Summer Love (c) 2009, 2008 by Savannah J. Frierson

Charleston, SC—Summer 2000

The bass from the music and the laughter of the partying crowd was muted as the sounds trickled outside to the silent quad where two teenagers, a boy and a girl, sat on the high, oversized bench in their dance attire. They didn’t look at each other, but at the silver light of the lamp in the distance mixing with the strobe lights dotting the path and grass from the revelry inside. The girl sat with her knees to her chest, the skirt of her burgundy dress long enough to allow the position while he sat hunched over his knees, his tie undone and hanging limply around his broad neck. A slight breeze fell upon them, and it made her shudder. Sensing her brief discomfort, the boy sat up and finally glanced in her direction. She kept her eyes forward, though both knew she was aware of his gaze; and when he draped his high-school letterman jacket around her shoulders, both knew she blushed even though the light was dim and she’d ducked her head.

He hadn’t removed his arm from around her after giving her his jacket. Instead, he’d sidled up to her, making sure she’d be good and warm by sharing his body heat with her. She still didn’t look at him, but both gave internal, relieved sighs when she snuggled into his body. This was the first time all summer they didn’t care what other people thought of them being together like this, showing more affection than mere friends ever should. Maybe because tomorrow everyone would go home.

She hid her face into his shoulder and let out a shaky breath. His other hand came up to smooth down her soft, thick hair.

“Ebony,” he whispered, his lips against her temple.

She closed her eyes and clutched his white dress shirt, feeling his chest muscles bunch underneath her hand. He’d never said her name with such reverence . . . such wistfulness. The lump in her throat made it impossible to say his name in return.

Liam.

“Ebony,” he said again, this time pulling back so his index finger could tuck underneath her chin and raise her head so their eyes would meet for the first time since escaping the dance. Ebony wished there were more light so she could fully see his brandy eyes and the freckles that lightly dotted the bridge of his pale nose.

“Come with me.”

She knew it was a question even though he’d said it as a statement. The lump grew larger in her throat, so she could only nod her assent.

The majority of the people were downstairs at the dance, and the counselor who was manning the residential halls was snoring up a storm at his reception desk. They stopped on her floor, the fourth floor; the boys’ floor was a level below. Ebony pulled the key out the clutch of the purse dangling on her wrist, and soon they were in her room. The way the dorm was set up was there was a common area with a single on either side. Ebony was staying with a girl from Florence—she’d been really nice—and she’d also had many male visitors after hours. This was the first time Ebony would have one, but she doubted it’d be the same type of host her roommate had been.

Liam pulled off the jacket, leaving her arms and shoulders exposed once more. She saw him drape it on the back of her chair from the corner of her eye, and Ebony slipped out of her shoes as she made her way to sit on the bed. Liam didn’t come any closer to her, just stood by her chair, his large, brawny body taking up so much space and making the tiny room feel even smaller. His hands were in the pockets of his khakis. She knew he was clenching them because the muscles of his forearms tensed and relaxed.

“Why are you nervous?” she asked, though the question sounded much sillier out in the universe than it ever had in her head. The question was painfully rhetorical—this was the first time they’d been alone alone. There weren’t any friends or books or teachers or dinners or adoring fangirls to distract them from the thing that had been building since he’d helped her carry her trunk of desk lamps, books, iron, pillows, and linens up to her room their first day here at SSGSC—Summer School for the Gifted of South Carolina.

It was Ebony’s turn to fidget, breaking eye contact with him and looking at her butter-pecan hands. They trembled, and she mimicked Liam’s nervous tick and clutched them tightly in her lap.

“Why are you?”

She wouldn’t tell him because she felt as buzzed as a lit-up neon sign by his presence, always had, but now was forced to confront it. Her dress was suddenly itchy, restricting, and she wanted to change, but she didn’t want him to leave.

She heard him approach and the bed dipped under his substantial mass. Ebony tensed at his nearness, especially when his breath brushed her bare shoulder seconds before his lips did. She sighed and closed her eyes, her head automatically tilting away from him to expose her neck to his traveling mouth. A hand slid to her stomach, and her fingers uncurled so she could touch his knuckles.

“You smell good,” Liam murmured against her flushed skin. She jumped when moisture touched her. “Taste good too.”

Ebony couldn’t believe what was happening. Of all the scenarios that had run through her mind, none of them included actually acting out on . . . whatever had been brewing between them. Even now she was thinking of ways to minimize the meaning of his mouth on her body, but when his lips drifted up her jaw to her cheek, her brain shorted.

Liam’s forehead rested against her temple, their fingers now intertwined against her stomach. Ebony couldn’t remember when that had happened, but his thumb caressing hers gave her just enough sanity so she could breathe.

“I wish you lived in Charleston.”

Ebony sighed and leaned her temple into Liam’s forehead even more. He moved and pressed his lips against her skin. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

She would, though. Her mother had said she’d be down bright and early tomorrow morning so they could get the van back to the church on time. In fact, her room now looked just as bare as it had when Liam had first helped her with her belongings, save for her linens still on her bed. Her mother had thought him a nice white boy at the time, though Ebony hadn’t understood then why her mother had even mentioned his color.

Now she thought she did.

“Who’s gonna keep me in line when you’re gone?”

Ebony laughed at that, that uncomfortable tension broken by their failsafe use of humor. She turned her forehead to his and they smiled at each other, his hand drifting atop her head to the bun at her nape. They stared into each other’s eyes, but then tears sprang into hers, so she closed them.

His lips were barely discernable as he kissed each slip of moisture from her cheek. Ebony was glad she sobbed with dignity, even if what she really wanted to do was howl into his chest and never let him go.

Trolling Nights: April 1, 2009

What if a Navy SEAL has six months to convince a wary coffeehouse barista they were made for each other?

For as long as there have been Trolling Nights, Bevin Moore has been the unofficial official Gatekeeper for her group of friends, the Femme Crew. She is always the designated driver and always makes sure the ladies do not leave the premises with someone she considers a loser. Bevin takes her job very seriously, even if she doesn’t like Trolling Nights in the first place. Yet on one particular Trolling Night, she's completely unaware someone has, finally, chosen her.

Navy SEAL Timothy Capshaw has no problem going after what he wants; and from the moment he sees Bevin sitting alone and sentry-like in a booth, he is intrigued by her. After one dance, Tim knows he wants her. How will he convince Bevin he is the man she hasn't known she's been looking for and that the need for her Trolling Nights is over?

~~~~

Tim Capshaw dangled the bottleneck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, staring intently at the booth where the singular young woman with a curly bob stared sentry-like onto the dance floor. Tim wasn’t exactly sure why his eyes had stopped on her during his slow casing of the joint, but they had. Maybe it was because she looked so out of place—and it wasn’t because she was one of the few black bodies in the building. It was her rigid posture; the fact her black top covered more than exposed; and the fact there was an empty three-foot radius around her that was rarely broken by anything other than women or servers who would chat her up for a few seconds then leave her alone again. She didn’t seem sad or depressed, either, which further intrigued him. She looked comfortable in her skin, and to Tim, that was sexy as hell.

There was a continuous hum of sound in his left ear, and Tim realized it was from a slim redhead who had one of the most stunning pairs of blue eyes he’d ever seen, but a body with more angles than a stop sign. Tim gritted his teeth and took another swig of his beer. Her interest wasn’t reciprocated, unfortunately, but he would give her a B+ for effort.

“Ah, you found her,” the redhead said, pointing toward the black woman he’d been watching earlier. “If you go over there with a drink or something, chat her up, then I’m sure she’ll give you permission to take me home tonight.” The redhead ran her tongue over her bottom lip in what he assumed was supposed to be a provocative gesture. Tim took another sip from his beer so he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

“Is she your mother or something?” he asked dryly, his Alabama drawl almost sprawling as the alcohol started taking effect. He looked at the redhead with a raised eyebrow. “Your sponsor?”

Her eyes fluttered and her cheeks turned red. He grinned. The woman was much cuter when she blushed.

“Nothing like that,” she assured him, resting her hand on his muscular forearm. He watched her painted-red nails catch some of the dim amber light in the bar as she flexed her fingers. He switched his bottle from his right to left hand, the muscles underneath her fingers cording when he gripped the bottle. This time he didn’t hide his smile when she unsuccessfully stifled her whimper.

“Who is she, then?” Tim asked, staring at the redhead when he really wanted to look back at the booth.

“Our gatekeeper.”

“Gatekeeper?”

“She keeps the losers away from us.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And what makes you think I’m not a loser?”

“Other than the fact I know you wear a trident?” she asked, her blue-eyed gaze roving slowly over his form while her fingers caressed his forearm. “You don’t have the look of a loser.”

A corner of Tim’s full-lipped mouth curved. “Looks can deceive.”

“I’m nothing if not adventurous.”

The redhead smirked and leaned against the bar. Tim drank the final few drops of his beer and set the bottle on the bar in front of him. “What’s her poison?”

“Who, Bevin?”

“Is that her name?” Tim asked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, and um, nonalcoholic, I know—she’s our DD.”

He nodded and tapped on the bar. When the bartender approached, Tim ordered. “Can I get a Diet Coke and another one of these?” he asked, pointing to the empty beer bottle. A few moments later, both orders appeared before him, and Tim slapped down a ten. “Keep the change,” he drawled, and the bartender nodded thanks.

“Come back and let me know what she says, yeah?” the redhead commanded when Tim slid off the barstool.

Tim didn’t answer her, already stalking toward his quarry.

Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry (and anyone else you deigns to listen)

Well, I've moved. I'm now in sunny, warm, South Carolina in my new apartment doing laundry. And blogging on something I've been wanting to blog on since Friday, but the site was throwing a tantrum but I couldn't.

Oh, well.

Anyway, I'm here, and I'm going to stalk about Mildred D. Taylor's Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and why this novel is THE novel that started my love for reading and in many ways has influenced my writing. And even a decade and a half later, it is still at the top of my favorite books of all time. I love this book, it's as poignant now as as it was when I first read it. I think this will be a book, and this will be a series, I'll continue to read well into my eighties (Lord willing!).

In the beginning of the novel, Ms. Taylor says her father was a master storyteller, a trait he clearly passed on to his daughter. The choice to use Cassie as the narrator was brilliant because female voices were rarely heard during that time or even in the 70s when Ms. Taylor wrote the book--especially black female voices. Coupled with that, I don't think a male narrator would be able to highlight the gender differences and nuances the way a woman could; just like a white character couldn't discern the racial differences and nuances the way a nonwhite character could. More importantly, through Cassie, the reader is allowed to see the entire breadth of black family life in the 1930s South in a way an adult narrator would probably take for granted. There is the innocence and fun along with the terror and stress of what it meant to be black during that time.

And folks, I can honestly say I don't think I would've been able to make it.

Cassie is about three years younger than my grandmother, which means my grandmother is Stacey's age. Reading this book, especially towards the end and how the night riders really had the right to do whatever they wanted to black people and could get away with it...that David Logan had to burn a quarter of his crop so he could save the life of a black boy not even of his blood...wow. Black people during this time never had post-traumatic stress because there was never a "post", it was just traumatic stress every day. Can't get a good night sleep because you have no idea if you said or did something to piss off a white person. Tiptoeing in your own backyard because the laws weren't meant to protect you, were meant to be used against you, having to have those "hard" conversations with your children that white parents would never even fathom to have with theirs.

And those conversations still happening today, even if the language of it is a bit different.

I remember reading that book and believing in my heart of hearts I was Cassie Logan even though I'd never picked cotton a day in my life; or had to walk barefoot for an hour just to go to class; or had my dignity shat upon because "that was the way of things"; or having to see my parents capitulate to white people even though everyone in the situation knew those very white people were wrong. And yet...I was still told all of this growing up, warned, cautioned. I remember my uncle (may he rest in peace, as last week was the fifth anniversary of his passing) tell me to never show how smart I am to other people. I took that lesson to heart because he'd never steer me wrong and I loved him. And now that I'm older, I realize why he told me that. Because showing how smart you were was the quickest way to land yourself into trouble, specially if it were proven you were smarter than someone white. In many ways I'm still unlearning that, especially when it comes to my writing and putting myself out there. Basically, I need to own up to the fact that I am as good as I think I am, which is really hard to do when you've been taught to be humble, almost to the point of making yourself invisible, and have been very good at it for the majority of your formative years.

Although I don't think your "formative" years stop until you die.

Roll of Thunder is one of the main reasons family is such an important theme in my writing, or why my supporting characters almost mean as much to me as my main characters. Every person in that novel meant something to Cassie, even if that character was mentioned on page 57 and was never spoken of again. And while it's not a romance, it's a love story because it shows the love Cassie's family has for each other, the love the family has for the land, the love Cassie has for herself despite an entire society telling her why she shouldn't.

In many ways, nine-year-old Cassie is who I aspire to be, who my heroines aspire to be. To have that much self-knowledge and efficacy despite everything...that girl was blessed. Yes, her parents shielded her from a lot, and she had to grow up real fast between the beginning and end of the novel, but the essence of her remained the same. That impetuous, unfiltered sense of justice and demanding it; knowing you're worth dignity and respect and becoming damn affronted when it's not given instead of "accepting it as things are"--Cassie is the real definition of heroine to me. I don't mean to be all lofty about it, but she is who I want to reclaim, who I think a lot of black women want to reclaim. I think as black women grow older, a lot of us give up our inner Cassie so we can "make our way and make do", but we miss her. We really do. I know I do.

I'm slowly getting her back, though. And when I write my heroines, I try to get them back to their "inner Cassie" also. Because until you have her, I don't think you can truly, truly fall in love. And maybe it's when you're falling you realize how much you've missed her, how much you need her back so you don't fall so far you forget about yourself completely.

*rubs chin in thought* I'll have to let that bit marinate some more...

Sam Cooke on Loop

These past two weeks have been and will be extremely...off-putting. I want to thank those of you who have sent me e-mails and messages to keep my chin up regarding last week's fiasco that is still ongoing (which was capped by yet two more rejection letters from agents. Oh, it was a good week last week, yes lol). Shame on me for not realizing I would have the kind of support I'd received, but that was a singular blessing during that entire ordeal. I don't believe in coincidences, despite my reluctance to go to a church every Sunday, but I'm constantly reminded there's someone bigger than I looking out for me, and I'm eternally grateful. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning; and while I don't particularly feel joy, I do feel more at peace than I had before, and I'm definitely grateful for that.

I had my last day at work on Friday, and my coworkers took me out to lunch and gave me a really nice card. I knew about the lunch; I'd even expected a card because I'd been at my job long enough to know that's just the type of great people I work with...but I was still touched by the nice things that were said about me and the genuine well-wishes bestowed upon me. I'm going to miss them, even if I won't exactly miss Boston per se. I've met and known wonderful people up here, and thank goodness for Facebook because we'll be able to keep in touch much better than we would probably without it. But it's going to be weird not getting up before the sun rises to go to work. It's going to be weird not to contend with ice and snow for the majority of the year (or how it seems to me anyway!). It's going to be weird to step out on faith and do what I need to do...what I've wanted to do since I was a junior in high school. Write. Scary, scary, scary. And maybe one of these manuscripts will be something an editor/agent will want to represent; but until then, I'll be self-publishing, which means no guarantees of success. SC has the 3rd-highest unemployment rate in the country, and I'm moving there with no "job" prospect in sight. And yet, I'm excited as well as trepidatious about the entire thing. This is the first time I'm going to do something for me, something that's not safe...something that has a real chance of blowing up in my face regardless of how much planning I've done to safeguard against it. I believe I am resilient enough to withstand whatever comes--even success. I hope lol.

I am procrastinating like crazy with packing. I have so much junk; I didn't know it could accumulate so quickly in three years (well, 7/8 years if you count college). I load 'em up and ship 'em out on Monday and Tuesday of next week, but it's hard to let go of routine; of that safety net. But I think I need to do this in order to go where I want to be. I'm scared...really, really scared. The first thing my uncle said when I told him I was doing this writing thing two years ago was how unlikely it would be for me to be successful. That wasn't the most encouraging thing I could've heard, especially when his (and, hell, the industry's) definition of successful is one I haven't met yet. According to agents and editors, I only have one publishing credit (if that, since it's with an e-publisher and it's a short story) and those three other novels and that one novella doesn't count. Except it does to me. That's blood, sweat, tears, sleepless nights, hungry mornings, me in those books. To say that doesn't count don't do much for the ego, I can assure you.

But I'm doing it anyway, because it counts to me. I'm choosing to look at the ending of my contract as a new beginning instead of dwelling on the horror of not having a "proper" job that pays benefits and a 401k (that...has gotten smaller, *eyes economy*). And I have to believe I'm smart enough to pull this off, and dare I say it, talented enough. And God willing, lucky and blessed enough. And I have to remind myself about all those e-mails and notes I got last week from people who are rooting for me, people who are farther along in their publishing journey who are cheering me on. It's very disconcerting to have people selling you to yourself, because I'm so used to focusing on what's not right with me that I disregard what is. You are often your worst critic, after all. I wonder if I had a book signing would people come--I'm so scared they wouldn't, you know? That's why I like those multiple author signings because maybe someone will mosey on over from a more established author and give me a shot.

I say this because I plan on releasing Trolling Nights in the next few weeks. The last time I had a book signing it was for Being Plumville, and considering that was my first book, I wasn't expecting many people to come outside of family and a few friends, but I am also...shy. But that's something I'll use these next few months to work on, trusting that people want to hear what I have to say, even if the majority of my experience thus far says otherwise. I don't get many reviews or responses (which goes back to why I was surprised by the e-mails from last week!) but that doesn't mean people don't know who I am or haven't read my work. But the bubble...it's easy to live in one in Boston. When I go home, it'll be slightly different.

Change..."Yes We Can!", eh?

Hurt

Very, very hurt right now.  That's the best I can say.  I'm not a mechanic, so I don't like it when I'm thrown under the bus the way I've been thus far.  I'm upset, and it goes to show you have to be very careful about the people you trust.  I thought people knew me, knew that I had integrity and try to give my best whenever I do something, but apparently not.  It's hurtful, it really is.  I have to figure out a way to rise above all of this, but it seems all I'm good for is having my spirit broken.

Ugh.

Lesson learned.  I'll be more careful in the future.

I want a do-over.

Excuse my language, but this has been a very shitty week thus far and it's only Tuesday.

Winner of the Valentine's Day Free Read

Gunnar Daniels was seeing red…and a whole lot of milk chocolate too…

“Daaammnn!”

Gunnar slapped the picture facedown and glared at his employee-turned-partner. “Direct your eyes somewhere else!”

Damon Wilkes merely smirked and wagged his eyebrows. “Can I get an amen?!”

Gunnar’s jaw set in a firm line as his eyebrow arched. Damon stepped back, his hands up in surrender.

“I’m just sayin’…we got some fine-ass women carryin’ our names…or about to, in your case…”

Gunnar didn’t respond, but he also couldn’t help but flip the photograph over again. There was a slight glare from the light as it hit the glossy paper, but it couldn’t block the sight of his fiancée wearing nothing but a smile on a deep-red, fuzzy, heart-shaped carpet. It didn’t matter none of her goodies weren’t on full display, just the hint of all the deliciousness she had to offer made Gunnar want to commit numerous felonies.

“You’re crumplin’ the edges, man,” Damon said, his own dark-chocolate hand pointing to Gunnar’s pale fingers. “I don’t think Tyler would appreciate that.”

Gunnar threw down the pictures and shot up, pacing in what little space he had behind his desk. Running his fingers through his light-brown hair, he wracked his mind trying to figure just when the hell Tyler had even had time to take the pictures…and who did.

Plopping back down in his chair, Gunnar dialed a familiar number, not even caring it was butt-crack in the morning where this person was.

“Somebody better be dying,” came the surly voice.

“You will, søster…”

“Why?” the woman asked on a yawn, sounding far too unconcerned about her impending execution.

“Why do I have naked pictures of my fiancée sitting on my desk?”

Inge gasped, and then she squealed. Gunnar heard her husband complain in the background. “You got them! How do they look? She just looks decadent, doesn’t she?”

“Inge…”

“Oh, shut up and accept the fact din forlovede er nydelig,” Inge commanded.

Gunnar gritted his teeth and huffed. He didn’t need pictures to know Tyler was beautiful. He’d noticed that the first time he saw her, although he hadn’t accepted her type of beauty as immediately. He’d been used to the manufactured variety from the fashion world—had been part of it. But Tyler was a different kind, natural and overflowing with it from the inside that Gunnar had forgotten “beauty” meant a single-digit dress size and long, flowing hair like his industry had tried to make him believe. Never mind the fact that, point blank, Tyler was stunning regardless of her measurements, but they’d had a few rocky moments during the beginning of their relationship trying to convince each other that Tyler’s beauty was acceptable…preferred…to the commoditized versions magazines and commercials sold.

“Who took the pictures?” Gunnar asked, changing tack. When Inge didn’t answer immediately, his gray eyes narrowed. “Inge, tell me the photographer didn’t have a penis.”

“What if he were gay—”

“I don’t fucking care—!”

“What if she were gay?”

Gunnar’s nostrils flared and his hand tightened around the receiver, both at Inge’s question and the fact Damon wasn’t doing a very good job of not laughing at him.

“Point being,” Gunnar said, doing his best to keep his voice level. “Nobody should be seeing my woman naked but me!”

“The photos are tastefully done and they aren’t going on sale, Gunnar,” Inge said, irritation seeping into her speech. “And if it makes you feel any better, I took the photos and I developed them, okay?”

He felt as if he were about to pop several essential blood vessels even though Inge’s confession did lower his heart rate dramatically. Taking a deep breath, Gunnar dropped his tone even more. “Whose idea was this?”

“Tyler’s.”

Now that did surprise him. “Really?”

“Yes, she said she wanted to do something special for you. What a jerk she’s being, huh?”

Gunnar scowled at his sister’s sarcasm. “I got it.”

“Do you? Why are you so pissy? I think she looks hot. If I weren’t happily married and heterosexual, I’d do her.”

Gunnar rolled his eyes. “Really, Inge.”

His sister chuckled and blew a kiss into the phone. “Hush up and go make passionate love to your woman. I’m ready to be an aunt, bror. Get to it!”

And with that, the little hellion hung up the phone. Sometimes Gunnar wondered if Inge knew he were the older of the two…and then he remembered Inge didn’t give a flying darn. She was a bossy little thing, knew what she wanted and made sure she got it, which was why she headed a successful talent agency with the love of her life.

But when Inge was right, she was right.

“I’m leaving,” Gunnar announced to a Damon who’d been leaning on the back two legs of the chair.

“Now? Ain’t this a bit early for you?”

It was Friday, the day before Valentine’s Day, in fact, and the sun had just set. To be fair, Damon had a point. He was usually the last to leave, especially with the plans to open a new GD Gym and Fitness in Chapel Hill in full bore. The only times he saw Tyler were when she stopped by the gym for a quick visit, and usually with Wendy and Damon, Jr., who was now three and a half months.

Gunnar hung his head. He’d not been the world’s most attentive fiancée these last few weeks, letting the excitement over the new baby disguise the fact he hadn’t been as available as he should’ve been.

I don’t even have a gift!

Damon’s eyes widened just as Gunnar’s did. “Oooh, you in trrooouubbllee!”

“Shut up!” Gunnar groused, gathering his items so he could go directly to the mall.

“I’m taking my wife to the Sheraton in Raleigh so we can have a romantic Valentine’s Day without Junior…I knew there was something off when Wen said Ty would help Carmen watch the baby for us…”

Gunnar had thought it was impossible for him to feel like a bigger idiot, but he’d been so wrong. Hell, he’d just called Inge and she was in Australia for her romantic Valentine’s Day getaway!

“For what it’s worth, Tyler doesn’t strike me as the type to want a big production,” Damon mused.

Gunnar paused his frantic motion. That was true. Last year he’d given her a box of Girl Scout cookies and she’d acted like he’d given her the world’s biggest diamond.

“That’s not the point,” Gunnar said, resuming his packing of his messenger bag.

“At least you know that,” Damon said.

“What am I gonna do? Super Bowl’s over. March Madness hadn’t started…”

“If you have a tape of last year’s Super Bowl that might help,” Damon said with a little grin.

Gunnar chuckled. Last year Tyler’s favorite team had won it all. This year, they’d been one and done in the postseason. He’d had enough foresight to sit with her through that tragic evening at least.

“She deserves more than that,” Gunnar said.

“Again, you are absolutely right. Good luck trying to prove that to her in the eleventh hour!”

Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, Gunnar hopped into his Jeep and went to the mall. He’d never seen so many men there in his life, and all of them were running in and out of frou-frou stores trying to find that perfect last-minute gift. However after an hour of looking himself, nothing jumped out at him…nothing shouted, “Tyler”, so he left. He didn’t know exactly where he was going when he got into his Jeep and pulled out of the parking lot, so he was slightly surprised when he ended up in Tyler’s driveway. When he rang the doorbell, however, the last thing he’d expected to see was his fiancée holding a sleeping Damon, Jr. in her arms.

Tyler’s eyes widened with surprise, then her brows furrowed together as she bounced the baby to keep him lulled. “Gunnar?”

She shouldn’t be shocked he’d come to see her, and that was entirely his fault. Sighing he stepped across the threshold and kissed her forehead. “Hallo, elskling.”

Tyler leaned into his kiss, one of her hands pressed against his chest so he didn’t crush her and the baby. “Are you okay? You seem upset…”

Gunnar shook his head, letting a gentle finger trace the top of Damon, Jr.’s head. “I’ve been an awful intended.”

“What?”

He kissed her mouth gently. “I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry.”

“Neglecting me?” Tyler asked, confused. “You’ve been busy with the gym—”

“I should never be too busy for you, kjære,” he insisted, not moving from her lips. “You are going to be my wife. You have to be the most important person in my life, and I haven’t adjusted as well as I’d like to that fact.”

Tyler pulled back and held the baby tighter to her, looking at Gunnar sorrowfully. “I should apologize to you, too, then. I’ve been all about the baby these last few weeks, I haven’t really been home, made myself available—”

“She’s your sister, and he’s your nephew, I understand,” Gunnar said.

“But the same applies for me,” Tyler challenged, cooing a little when the baby started to fuss. He settled back down, burying his face into Tyler’s chest, and Gunnar grinned. He couldn’t blame Damon, Jr. for his new position. As if knowing where Gunnar’s mind had gone, Tyler sucked her teeth.

“He’s a baby and family!” she chastised.

“But he’s also in one of my favorite places,” Gunnar said, wagging his eyebrows.

Tyler blushed but shook her head, leaving the doorway to go back to the living room where there was a blanket spread out for Damon, Jr. Gunnar followed and watched Tyler put Damon in the baby bouncer. When she was done, he held out his arms and Tyler cuddled with him on the couch. They just watched their nephew sleep and Gunnar felt his hand slide down until it rested on Tyler’s stomach.

She chuckled slightly and looked up at him. “Gunnar…”

He shrugged and grinned also. “I can’t help it. I want several of my own.”

“Several?”

“Hmm,” he intoned, settling his mouth into the crook of her neck. She tasted so good, his favorite butterscotch candy, and he let his tongue swirl around her collarbone. He grinned against her skin.

“Thank you for my Valentine’s Day gift.”

He saw her frown, and then he saw her eyes widen. “What?!”

Chuckling, Gunnar pried his mouth away from her flesh and rifled through his messenger bag for the envelope that held the pictures. He pulled out the glossy paper, watching Tyler’s eyes widen even further.

“That’s not me…” She sighed with awe and frowned. “That can’t possibly be me…”

And yet it was. Sultry chocolate-brown eyes peeked over a smooth, dark-brown shoulder. The way she’d manipulated her body only displayed peeks of sensuous feminine curves, her natural hair pinned up in tempting disarray. All of the photos were classy, a Nubian Botticelli and Ruben in digital form, and he was just as much in awe as she was.

“My God, you are exquisite,” Gunnar whispered, not even looking at the photos anymore, but of a real, breathing Tyler sitting next to him wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt that had a hole in the left elbow and sweatpants that stopped right at the ankles.

“I think Inge sent us the wrong photos!” Tyler joked.

Gunnar shook his head and captured her chin in his grasp, turning her face to his. “These are of you. This is how beautiful you are. She didn’t do much. The makeup is minimal; the hairstyle you do by yourself occasionally when you step out the shower. But it’s your eyes, Tyler…I don’t know if it was because you were taking these for me or—”

“I was taking them for me,” Tyler murmured, relieving him of the pictures. “I’d mentioned I might show them to you, but Inge…she convinced me…”

“She said it was your idea—”

“Well, to do it, ultimately, yes. I approached her when we went to California for Christmas. But I’m talking about earlier than that, when we went to LA the first time…”

That was when he’d proposed to Tyler. It hadn’t mattered they’d only known each other for eight months; he knew she was supposed to be his wife much earlier than that. But they’d had some rough times, complete with her having a hospital stay because she hadn’t been eating properly and exercising too much while taking diet pills. His Tyler, his voluptuous, sexy, beautiful Tyler, had been tripping because she couldn’t believe he’d wanted her just the way she was. And he couldn’t blame her; he hadn’t been very nice to her when she’d come to the gym that first time for a personal training session. He’d taken his bad mood at the time out on her and had insulted her weight. His mother and Inge had socked him good several times when they’d found that out.

“So you decided to take these pictures to prove something?” Gunnar ultimately asked.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I think I did.”

“I’ve always known you were lovely, kjære,” Gunnar said, letting his nose drift along her temple. “Another reason why I’ve been a bad fiancée—I haven’t shown you just how beautiful you are in a long time.”

“Gunnar—”

He cut off the protest he knew was coming by kissing her. When he pulled back, Tyler’s eyes were glazed and the baby was whimpering once more. Grinning slightly, Gunnar went to Damon, Jr. and settled him down, returning to the couch to sit next to Tyler.

Damon, Jr.’s brown eyes looked at Gunnar curiously, and then the baby grinned.

“You two are conspiring against me,” Tyler complained.

Gunnar chuckled, not bothering to look at Tyler as he gave a thick finger for the child to grasp. “Why do you say that? Damon’s just bonding with his Uncle Gunnar, isn’t he?”

“No…you two are trying to convince me it’s a good idea to go half on a baby right now…”

Gunnar laughed as quietly as he could, nipping Tyler’s nose with his teeth. “Because you know you want to give me some babies. Like I don’t know you taking care of Damon isn’t practice—”

“How chauvinistic of you!” Tyler cried.

Gunnar laughed again. “You know good and well it isn’t, Tyler Marie. Whenever we went to California I was with Greta and Singe more than their parents were!”

Tyler’s mini ire softened and she rested her chin on his shoulder. “You really want these babies.”

“I love children, and I’d love them with you. I’ve never made a secret of that.”

Tyler dropped her eyes, knowing he was right. Shifting to place her cheek on his shoulder, she let her fingers trail over his and Damon’s. “A baby…”

“Yes.”

“We aren’t married.”

“Neither were Wendy and Damon when they conceived Junior here.”

Tyler was about to say something further when the front door opened. Immediately, she shot off the couch and went to the woman who was entering the home.

“Hi, Mommy, how are you?” Tyler asked, hugging the older, shorter, slimmer woman. Though in her sixties, Gunnar didn’t think his future mother-in-law looked a day over forty.

“Beuna, chica, buena,” Carmen said, kissing her daughter’s cheek. She walked further into the house and Gunnar leaned his head back against the couch. “¿Hijo, como estás?”

“I am well, mor,” Gunnar said as Carmen kissed his forehead. Carmen Colón Carver had become a second mother to him, stepping in while his own mother Tekla was in Norway. Carmen and Tekla got on very well, and sometimes Gunnar thought they were more excited about August 8^th than he and Tyler were.

“Mommy, I gave Damon a bottle and hour ago and then—”

“Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, corazón,” Carmen said, cupping her daughter’s cheek. “Spend it with your young man.”

“But—”

“Go on, you two,” Carmen said with a grin, taking her grandson from Gunnar’s arms. “It’s a day for lovers.”

Gunnar stood and saw Tyler’s indecision all on her face. He suddenly realized why she’d conveniently let Gunnar forget about the holiday. Carmen. She would be spending it alone, and after years of not having her mother close, Tyler deigned to leave her by herself.

His heart swelling further with love, Gunnar approached Tyler and cupped her cheeks in his hands. “She’ll be all right, kjære,” he whispered.

Tyler looked at him in confusion. “What?”

“Your mother…she’ll be all right.”

She looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Grinning, he kissed her softly. “Being alone. She’ll be okay, honey. Besides, she knows where to get us and Wendy and Damon should something happen with the baby.”

Pulling back slightly, Tyler looked around Gunnar to see her mother grinning at a beaming Damon. “Mommy.”

“Listen to your young man, corazón,” Carmen said. “We will be fine, won’t we, nieto?”

The baby laughed and reached out chubby hands to his grandmother’s lips.

With that, Gunnar went back over to Carmen and Damon, kissing both on the cheek before grabbing his messenger bag and the photos from the couch, then taking Tyler’s hand in his.

“We’ll be at my house,” Gunnar told his future mother-in-law.

“And we’ll be here. You two have a happy Valentine’s Day.”

“We’ll have dinner tomorrow!” Tyler said as Gunnar led her out the door.

“I better not even see you tomorrow, corazón!” Carmen said on a laugh. Gunnar guffawed, especially at Tyler’s shocked expression.

“Did my mama just—?!”

“Give us permission to give her more grandbabies? Yes, yes, she did.”

Tyler glared at him, jutting her glorious hip out and crossed her arms underneath her breasts. Grinning further, Gunnar approached her and, to her obvious amazement, lifted her off her feet and buried his face in her chest. She laughed and wrapped her arms and legs around him.

“Gunnar!”

He kissed the space over her heart and started walking them to his Jeep. “Hmm, kjære, you were saying something?”

“Put me down before you throw out your back!”

He leaned her against the Jeep and kissed her hard, grinding his hardening crotch against her. “Oh, I plan to throw it out, all right…”

Tyler laughed harder. “You are a mess!”

“A mess o’ love!” Gunnar yelled, leaning back and shaking his head like a maniac. He chuckled as Tyler pulled his head back up and kissed him again.

“I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day,” he said when they broke apart for air.

Tyler just arched an eyebrow and ground her pelvis against his. “I think you can more than make it up to me…”

And with that Gunnar immediately set her on the ground and told her to get in the vehicle...

To continue reading, please visit Savannah's Google Group!

Wisdom Teeth...

Will no longer be in my mouth, which means I need to hurry up and write this Valentine's Day Free Read or it'll stop making sense around the sixth page lol. I don't think I'm going to, but hopefully drugs will be my friend so I can finish it.

Wish me luck!

A Helpful Rejection Letter

Is one where the agent/editor tells the author exactly why her work was not accepted. Granted, I understand the numerous rejected projects do not feasibly allow for everyone to get one, but as an author who is trying to make it, I...kind of need them. I just got a helpful rejection letter for Trolling Nights; and while I am not pleased the project was rejected, it made me feel a whole lot better to know why it was--and furthermore, that adage that it's "not the right fit" really is true. Because, as many authors know, regardless of their success, form rejections don't do much to help maintain what (sliver) of self-esteem we have. When everything you've written is constantly rejected, at some point an author beings to think it's not the project, it's the producer. But what made this a first, especially, for me was the invitation to submit directly to this editor should I have another project I want to submit because she sees potential in my writing.

THAT...yes. Almost balanced out the "bummer!" feeling of the rejection in the first place.

Just the knowledge you are not awful is half the battle. Now, the other half...probably the HARDER half...writing that story that people want to sign on, that people, other than the author, believes in. I haven't done that yet, or I haven't submitted to the right people yet, but I have so many stories being written or need to be written that I hope one of them is the one. Or else, Lulu and I will be close and intimate bedfellows!

ETA: I got another one, this one not so helpful, and from an agent, but that's all right. It's becoming clearer to me and I should just stop fighting it, I think.

Valentine's Day

Yeah, so that wretched...I mean...no, I think I'll stick with wretched...holiday is coming up, and I'm feeling contradictorily festive. So, for those who read this blog, let me know which couple you would like for me to write a short something about, or if you want a brand new couple, feel free to let me know. The more details the better if it's an original one especially, but you can tell me what you'd like to see with an established couple as well. And while I understand this is incredibly short-notice. I'll take suggestions until Saturday night.

Goal, since I'll be nice and drugged up when I get my wisdom teeth taken out next week, is to have something for you next Saturday. It'll be a free read. And who knows, if it's an original something, it may become something more...

Anyway, I hope everyone's having a good week!

Agent/Publisher Search

One of the hardest things for an "up-and-coming" author to do is choose which manuscript they think will be "the one" to get them at least a partial read, better a full request, and ultimately a contract. I have self-published four books and had an e-publisher for the fifth work, but even still, I know I have an uphill climb to go. I have five other manuscripts that I could shop (and even some people have said why not shop the novels you've already self-published?) but that's a tricky thing, isn't it? Nevertheless, I have NO idea which to shop. At least one that I'm considering has been to the second-ring of acceptance (the partial) but was ultimately passed over by an agent. One has a full request, which is a yay! , but I guess that means I can't submit that to an agent (although to be fair, that one is with a publisher also).Ironically, that manuscript has also been rejected by another publisher (but that publisher had also requested a full manuscript...hmm, I may have my answer!). Then again, this very same manuscript got rejected in full by another publisher (but they demand unsolicited queries to include the full MS, so it wasn't "requested" per se).

I then have two more manuscripts that I haven't really sent out yet, but I don't know how to label them. I think they both might be women's fiction, but I am not sure. The advice from authors is to just submit your strongest work, but the agents/editors want you to tell them what kind. One very nice lit agent said that my submission for RJC wasn't romance, but rather women's fiction. I can see what she meant by that, but for me, I am telling a love story. All of my stories are love stories...but they don't call IF BEALE STREET COULD TALK a romance even though Fonny is one of my favorite "heroes" ever. I don't know. It's like divining the future. The other complication is I'm actually doing very well with my self-publishing. . From all the articles I've read about "average" self-publishing sales, I'm doing twice as good--three times as good as those averages. Maybe the rules are different for AA writers? Word of mouth is huge, and I have a lovely crew of readers who do like to talk! And I don't know. I'm being pulled in several directions, but I don't want to "give up" and be content with the self-publishing. I'll just put my stuff out there and hope an agent likes it, I reckon. At the very least I know readers do!

One Day, Some Day, Today: January 20, 2009

I have not cried once today. My smile has been permanent on my face. Even did the running man in the privacy of my own home lol. I'm a blessed young woman to bear witness to this, knowing that those who came before me fought, bled, lived, died, sang, laughed, cried, toiled, cussed, stood up, sat down, marched, carpooled, prayed, hoped...that someone would see this someday.

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

~From "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

The son of a voluntary African immigrant moves into a house built over two hundred years ago by involuntary African immigrants who are the collective ancestors of his wife and daughters.

Well done, America, well done.

My e-mail @sjfbooks.com

If you sent an e-mail and got a bounce back saying the mailbox was full, it's not full anymore. Apparently, when deleting e-mails, they just go to the "trash"; they aren't really "deleted". I have to "delete" them delete them for them to be deleted properly.

Oy.

Anyway, there should be no further problems!

Productive, I Have Been

I have finished two short stories (unfortunately, neither are the one that I'd lost on the AlphaSmart, but oh, well.). Well, one of them should've been finished years ago as I'd started it back in August of 2007...yeah, I eventually got around to it. Anyway, I hope to submit it to some e-pubs. Maybe you'll see that one around. The other is related to a novel I finished. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with it yet as it's contingent upon what I ultimately decide to do with its parent novel. But the fact remains, I did some writing, and that's a big ole yay! if I ever heard one.

AlphaSmart...

Lost the story I'd been working on. Am I pleased? Not really.

*mumbles under breath*

The Official Web Site

Hi, all,

I've updated the reviews page on my Web site with new reviews for Reconstructing Jada Channing and The Beauty Within. I hope you check it out! Also, please tell your friends and family about the new releases as well.

PS--go join Badazz Authors Yahoo Group. Yeah, apparently these other authors think I'm badazz. Holler!

:)

Best,

Sav

Plethora of Publishing Options Perpetuates Panic

Okay, maybe panic is a strong word, but it's perilously close to it.  I feel gridlocked because I don't know what I should/shouldn't do in terms of how to get my name out there even further.  It's a chess game, one that gives me a headache, as I've never been that glorious at the game.  Yes, I know the basic rules and the objective, but actually executing a plan leaves me very perplexed.  So, I have all of these completed manuscripts that are languishing on my hard drive.  What to do?  I could either send them out to publishers and agents or I could just skip those middle men and put them out myself.  The obvious pros of self-publishing is I keep the lion's share of the money and I can put out whatever I want whenever I want.  But publishers have resources that me and my lonesome do not; and I have many people constantly encouraging me to get my stuff out there.

Yet when I do, it's a whole lot of "thanks, but no thanks."

I'll admit I don't write for a particular market, although I would say I'm a romance/women's fiction writer.  I can stand by that; however, the "rules" of those genres leave me, if I admit it, a bit irritated.  It doesn't allow for diversity, to the point I've read the same story by different authors (or even sometimes the same author!).  It gets a little stale; and if I'm at the point I can write the story in my head before I even read it, that's a problem.  I want fresh, and so do the publishers and agents, if you read their submission guidelines, but maybe they don't want it too fresh.

Which begs the question:  what is too fresh?

I have at least four manuscripts I'd love to submit, and I have, but I've gotten replies back: "It's too sad; too heavy; too controversial."  I know I'm a new author (does that still apply even though I have five credits to my name), I thought those things sold.  I guess if you follow the "romance is an escape" paradigm, I'm not your woman; but I like my romance tempered with reality, and I've found a nice niche of people who seem to as well.

My plight is further complicated because I primarily write about interracial themes.  Not only that, many of my heroines aren't typical heroines even in same-race romances.  They are thick women; short women; not society-branded "beautiful" women, but they manage to capture the interest of a very attractive, usually white, hero.  There have been plenty of honest readers who've admitted they cannot buy into the BBBW/WM pairings, thinking it's unbelievable.  I mean, clearly I don't think it's unbelievable--whether that's me wanting to sell my books or my own personal wishful thinking--but if I, as a black woman, can relate to and empathize with a white heroine, why can't a slim woman not empathize with and relate to a bigger heroine?  The primacy on the physical is a bit disconcerting, and isn't that what we as women fight against during the everyday?  Or one step further, is it really that impossible for a big woman to be absolutely stunning?  I present to you Queen Latifah and Jill Scott as examples that it is most certainly not impossible.  Yes, I did touch upon it in The Beauty Within, but clearly this is a topic that should have continuous exploration.  We don't want superficial men in real life, so why are they acceptable in our fiction?

Though that little rant seems tangential, it really isn't.  Maybe those agents and editors to whom I've submitted believe the same as those honest readers.  Maybe they really want a fantasy and don't want any sort of reality incorporated.  But I want to be inspired, I want to learn something no matter what I read.  No, I am not trying to be some lofty writer, but I guess I'm as cerebral in my entertainment choices as I am during other endeavors.  I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea, nor do I expect to be, but I do think there are more readers like me than many people think.  I appreciate a real struggle, an internal struggle, because I want my hero and heroine to live up to those labels.  I want to see growth out of my characters, not just the ones I write, but the ones I read also.  I want to feel like I've overcome something, not read a soap opera time and time again.  Look, I can appreciate the melodrama as much as the next person, but if that's my only option, it's boring.

Anyway, all this to say, I don't know what to do!  The immediate returns versus the long toil of submission-rejection-ignorance-rejection-ignorance-rejection...maybe full manuscript request...maybe full manuscript acceptance.  I gotta make money now because I need to eat and pay rent and wear clothes, etc.  But the payoff patience could possibly bring, I shouldn't deny myself that, either, right?

(Also, VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!)

Happy New Year! Happy New Release!: Reconstructing Jada Channing

Jada Channing never thought she would see Aaron McKensie again after that night, that one glorious night when she'd lost all good sense and muzzled all the voices telling her why being with him wasn't a good idea. He was older, wealthy, and white. Jada was none of those things, and yet she'd fallen for Aaron anyway-just as her black great-great grandmother Dorcas had fallen for her white great-great grandfather Mr. Joseph all those years ago. Their relationship had been doomed from the start, and Jada saw no reason to think hers and Aaron's would be any different.

Yet what happens when Aaron reappears years later, completely oblivious to the knowledge of his child Joshua, and the feelings Jada had locked away after that one night return twice as powerfully? Will history repeat itself, or will Jada give herself the chance to create an entirely new future?

Excerpt:

“Jada?”

He was leaning against the doorway, towel haphazardly tied low on his hips, black hair still damp, and water dripping from its curled ends. His head rested on the arm he leaned against, and he stared at her with slumberous eyes. If he’d been in any other setting, Jada would consider him drowsy, but she knew better. He was very alert and all his attention was on her, filing her in a compartment in his brain because he couldn’t live his life in chaos. She pulled the sheet tighter around her bare torso as if to shield herself from his eyes and whatever category he’d designated for her. However, it was too late for that. He’d broken down whatever defenses she had had long before last night.

“Aaron.”

It was a flat sound, a plateau of a name whose owner meant far more than he should.

Jada never would’ve imagined this when they met three years ago as tutors at a community center in Roxbury. They had been colleagues and treated each other with the typical polite detachment of co-workers, only asking superficial questions and responding with superficial answers. The age difference had had much to do with it—she being a freshman in college while he a semester away from starting at the business school—but there had been something more salient keeping them at a distance, and, if she were honest, it had been more because of her than him. Yet the genuine warmth with which he had greeted her that first day and every day since then had surprised her, disoriented her to the point where she had limited contact with him. This had forced Aaron to initiate the conversations that usually, seconds later, ended with his awkward chuckle, small smile, and shy wave.

He had eventually given her a nickname: Jaybird. It had been ironic because she rarely spoke to him, but each small, brief, impersonal greeting he’d given her had paved the way to conversation, greater intimacy, friendship. It were as if she had been a block of stone and Aaron the sculptor, his conversations a chisel chipping away her unnecessary hardness to reveal the woman who was Jada Channing. She wasn’t quite sure when the sculpture had been completed—perhaps it wasn’t yet—but she knew she felt far more exposed now than she had at any other point in her life.

And that fact had nothing to do with their current nudity.

Jada watched him approach, his towel falling away mid-stride, and she detached herself from the situation enough to appreciate his body. Slightly muscular, yet strong—her preferred body type. He was well defined and hard, but he had yielded to her so well, and she shivered at the memory.

Gentle was the first word she’d think of whenever she remembered last night. His gentleness alone had made her want to cry—soft touches of his hands and lips; soft caresses of his breath and voice along her skin; soft embraces that left her too weak to leave. There was even a soft declaration of love she had convinced herself she’d imagined, and Jada didn’t have the courage to ask him to confirm it. She was so sure, now that the heat and passion of the moment were gone, the answer would change.

Jada couldn’t take a retraction.

A retraction would mean her family was right, her community was right, that a white man like him could never fully understand or love a black woman like her. This was the one time she needed her upbringing to be wrong, to know what she did last night could not be a mistake; that the feelings she’d been nursing for almost two years could blossom and grow into something that would survive long after both had taken their last breaths.

The bed dipped when he sat, and he crawled next to her, sliding a damp, pale arm around her dry, darker waist. The black, wet hairs on his arm tickled her skin and her body quivered from the contact. He moved her curly tresses from her neck and replaced them with his lips, making Jada sigh and grant him more access.

“Good morning, love.”

That was certainly a matter of opinion, but Jada responded in kind, not wanting him to know her inner turmoil. The “adverbial questions” of last night, suspended due to overwhelming feelings and long pent-up desires, seeped into her consciousness, and she drew up her covers to hide from them. What would happen now? He was leaving for New York that night and probably wouldn’t be back until graduation in the spring. When would they see each other again? Where would last night lead them today or even two months from now? How would they continue this relationship—as friends, as lovers, or, God forbid, as strangers? Why should it even matter?

It did matter.

It mattered because Jada felt like she had turned her back on everything for this man, compromised everything because she loved him. She didn’t hop into bed with just anyone; she’d been taught sex was about giving something so personal and sacred that she had to be explicitly sure and confident about her partner, regardless if she were a virgin or not. The fact Jada had chosen Aaron McKensie had consequences that reverberated well beyond themselves.

Squeezing It In!

First off, Happy Holidays. I hope they have been and will continue to be safe and enjoyable!

Yes, it's been a month and ten days since I've last made a post, but I have a very good reason.

1.) I'm moving from Boston to Charleston, so I've been putting my ducks in a row for that--including writing ducks. This means I'm amping up the editing side of my writing life, although I will admit this is coming at a slight expense for my authorship. I hope things will settle down once the move finally happens, but because my contract in Boston is ending, I figure I need to make a break for it now or else I never will!

2.) I am now a member of Badazz Authors Group. Again. I'd left because I didn't think my style of writing would fit very well, but then I got over myself because the ladies of the group are fantastical and variety is a lovely spice of life, so, onward!

3.) Expect a new release in the next few weeks. What release, you ask? Oh, just the one that's been on the Upcoming Releases page for almost two years. Reconstructing Jada Channing, people! Yes, it's coming, and I hope you will all enjoy it! This is my baby, the first original fic I ever started with any seriousness (because that "original" story I started when I was 12 so doesn't count!). This is the thesis that let me graduate college, thank you, Jesus! Hopefully, it'll translate to a bona fide novel just as well.

4.) NaNo '08 is on a brief hiatus. Thank you sticking with me so far, but that's put on the backburner for a bit, but it'll come back!

5.) Tell your friends and family about me! Don't be a stranger! Join the Google Group or send me some e-mails. Also check back here because I have some serious plans for all of you.

6.) And thank you all so much for making 2008 wonderful for me. Yes, the year had its ups and downs, but I learned more about myself this year than I ever thought I could. And it's all your fault! ;) Have a wonderful New Year, everyone!

Contests and Me across the Web

First: Y'all be dears and vote for me in the Endless Romance Writing Contest held by Midnight Seductions! You can read the excerpt here and vote here. I chose a scene from The Beauty Within, but you have to read it to know which one ;).

Second: EDC Creations has listed The Beauty Within as a Literary Hallmark for 2008--Shoulders of Giants! This is fantastic news and I'm very appreciative!

Third: I've updated my NaNo 2008 to Chapter to on the Google Group. Those who've been reading--y'all are awesome and continue to surprise me and humble me with your support. Every new effort, an author wonders how it will be received, and I'm thankful that y'all are sticking with me!

Fourth: Not really on the Web, but as of late, I've gotten really nice e-mails about my work. I really, really, really appreciate them! I just do. I'm still trying to crack through, but every e-mail I get is so great and a reminder to keep on keeping on. I might not have industry love yet, but I have reader love, and in the end, that's the main thing that a writer wants. Y'all trust me to tell the story that comes, even if it's not your cup of tea upon first glance. I thank you for giving me a shot! *hugs readers* And to fellow authors (y'all know who you are) this is a community, a family. I am so grateful to y'all. Truly.

Fifth: Y'all pray, because I'm also entering other contests other than the one mentioned in #1, and I have to write synopses. *shudders* Pray I can write them and do my novels justice! Shoot, they're harder than the actual stories!