I have the start of a romance story: Title, book cover, setting, list of characters and their role, and a rough outline. I wrote the HEA ending. Then the opening line. Now I just have to fill in all the white space in between. And write a brief synopsis.
I've written a couple of paranormal romances, but never a standard romance. The only problem I'm having so far is in resisting putting a dead body in the first chapter! Mysteries are in my blood. :)
Update: I'm trying my hand at writing a romance novel. A new genre for me.
I'm writing a novella. May end up being a novel. We'll see. Have what I think is a good title. Have what I think is a good plot. I'm bringing two characters together that are featured in other stories.
Signed up for Twitter in 2010. Never did much with it. Always felt like I was talking to myself. Nowadays, I post regularly. Try to follow trends. Try not to talk about my books too much or too often. Have picked up a lot of interesting followers. Have almost forgotten how to write complete sentences. :)
I wanted to follow a certain famous horror author just because I wanted to read anything and everything this writer -- one of my top favorites -- had to say. My follow got bumped. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
My mystery novel, CAPTIVITY, is still doing good on Apple iBooks. Sales of books two and three in the trilogy are gaining speed. I'm still smiling.
Most of my free books will remain free until mid January. Get your copy while the getting is good.
Nice weather today, but I have to go to work. Tomorrow is my day off, but it's supposed to rain. Sheesh
Tami Hoag: COLD, COLD HEART (A Stand Alone.)
Laura Childs: SCORCHED EGGS (The 6th in the Cackleberry Club Mystery Series.)
Joyce and Jim Lavene: SPELL BOOKED (The 1st in the new Retired Witches Mystery Series.)
Rebecca M. Hale: AGROUND ON ST. THOMAS (The 3rd in the Mystery in the Islands Mystery Series.)
Jeffery Deaver: TROUBLE IN MIND: THE COLLECTED STORIES, VOL. 3 (A Short Story Collection.)
E.J. Copperman (aka Jeffery Cohen): INSPECTOR SPECTER (The 6th in the Haunted Guesthouse Mystery Series.)
Waverly Curtis: THE CHIHUAHUA ALWAYS SNIFFS TWICE (The 4th in the Barking Detective Mystery Series.)
Isabella Alan (aka Amanda Flower): MURDER, SERVED SIMPLY (The 3rd in the Amish Quilt Shop Mystery Series.)
Juliet Blackwell (aka Hailey Lind): KEEPER OF THE CASTLE (The 5th in the Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Series.)
Lucy Burdette (aka Roberta Isleib): DEATH WILL ALL THE TRIMMINGS (The 5th in the Key West Food Critic Mystery Series.)
Edward Marston (aka Conrad Allen & Keith Miles): DEEDS OF DARKNESS (The 4th in the Home Front Detective Mystery Series.)
Christopher Fowler: BRYANT & MAY AND THE BLEEDING HEART (The 11th book in the Peculiar Crimes Unit Mystery Series.)
The first two episodes in my psychological thriller series—LONG NIGHT MOON & WOLF MOON—are free for the month of December.
By day, BJ Donovan is a best-selling crime writer and a New Orleans chef.
By night, Bonnie June Donovan (aka Suite Sue) is a serial killer.
Excerpt from Chapter 1 of LONG NIGHT MOON
Virgil awoke late at night to find his wife gone. He kicked off cold and clammy bedcovers, box springs screeched when he got up. A steady breeze, weighed down with humidity, carried the vanilla-like fragrance of Joe-Pye weed and the barely audible sound of laughter through an open window.
He stood behind fluttering white sheers and watched Marie trot across the back yard, her long black curls bouncing with each footfall. The opaque security light above the barn doors cast an eerie pallor through the limbs of an old elm draped with Spanish moss. He noticed her belly, in the narrow space between her shirt and shorts, seemed rounder than normal. He lazily scratched his ass, wondered what the hell she’s doing.
A man stepped out of the shadows, and drew her into an embrace. They kissed for a moment, then entered the barn.
Marie came back out. She turned her head side to side, looked up. Virgil leaned back without thinking.
The man clasped her hand. “C’mere, baby.” He brought a shiny metal flask to his lips and took a long swig.
She giggled again. “Gimme some.”
“Sh! Not now.” He pulled her into the barn, loosely swung one door shut, the other already latched at the top.
Virgil slipped through the half closed door. Stood beneath the loft and listened to the rough’n ready sounds of raw lust. Glossy photos in his dog-eared girlie magazines flashed through his mind. He hiked the leather rifle strap onto his shoulder, gripped the sides of the wooden ladder. Slowly mounted the rungs; aware one always squeaks.
He found them in a clearing behind short stacks of hay. Virgil recognized him. He was the same slick salesman who’d come sniffing around last April trying to sell them some kitcheny crap. He didn’t know if his wife got any. He’d left the house to spend the rest of the mild and sunny morning planting eggplants to be sold at the farmers market and to local chefs.
A July heat wave made the guy come a-knocking again. Now he was a-rocking, in the hayloft, with a young wife and mamma.
A standalone mystery novel featuring Sheriff Josh Wolfe of CAPTIVITY.
On a hot night in July a teenaged girl named Summer is murdered. She’ll be found one month later by two roofers, her lifeless eyes staring at the moldy interior of a rundown tool shed. The men responsible for her being there are two unlikely partners in crime, each with something to prove. One is the cowardly son of a decorated police officer. The other is a bully with a violent history. High on drugs and alcohol, neither knows who dealt the deathblow.
Fearing a confrontation, one of them agrees to pay the other for his vow of silence. But as time goes by, a hard life takes its toll on him. In order to put an end to the blackmail he’d have to take a risk. A risk that could easily backfire. Driven by hate and anger, he writes an anonymous letter to the sheriff recounting that killing summer.
Excerpt from Chapter 1
Stripped down to their underwear and socks, the two men walked into the chilly, snake infested waters of White River swatting mosquitoes every step of the way. Moving slowly through a shallow, rocky area with only their head and shoulders above the surface, they stayed close to the bank using their hands to feel around under submerged boulders. A half a mile or so upstream from where they had slung the rest of their clothing over a tree branch, the man in the lead, twenty-seven-year-old Kevin Rayland, took a deep breath, and dove under the water.
More than happy to play the role of spotter, Jasper Monroe kept a watchful eye out for game wardens who don’t care the practice of noodling has been legal in Missouri for quite a while. Since most flathead catfish are on the nest when they’re noodled, wildlife fanatics continue to argue that too many eggs are being destroyed, and this ridiculous and dangerous style of fishing must end.
They weren’t there to hand-fish. Not today. If they get caught, not tomorrow, either.
Kevin shot up out of the water, gasping for air. Swiped a hand down his face. “Found one.”
Jasper got behind him, and tucked his hands under Kevin’s arms to help him keep his balance while he twisted sideways to put his leg in the catfish hole. “Yep, it’s empty.” Jasper let go. Kevin fell backward, scraping his knee. Went under again trying to gain his footing. Angrily smacked the water with the side of his hand.
“Take it easy. Don’t be stirring up any damn leeches.” Jasper broke off a sturdy twig full of stiff brown leaves, stabbed the end in the ground above the hole to mark the spot. Piled rocks around the base for added support. “Let’s get this over with.”
In the waning daylight the men trudged back to their starting point, on guard for venomous snakes swimming about. “Good thing it rained,” Kevin whispered. “It turned the water brown. Maybe they won’t see us coming.” He shuddered, knowing how easy it would be to encounter snakes or beavers that have taken over abandoned holes. A sock won’t prevent sharp teeth or fangs from sinking into his flesh. Snapping turtles can also inflict a lot of misery by biting off a finger or two.
When they reached the rocky shoal, Jasper remained in the water. “Go on, get her.” Focused on the lengthening shadows in the surrounding woods he thought he saw movement. He leaned in, squinted his eyes, then pulled back. “Hurry the hell up,” he said in a low tone.
Kevin ran over to the boulder where they’d hidden the twenty-something ticket taker. He grasped her by her wrists, dragged her to the water’s edge. Jasper took hold of her hands, pulled her headfirst into the water. Kevin jumped in, reached under and found her feet. Her long hair flowed across her face like corn-yellow seaweed stems. The water washed blood from her wounds and marked her passing, as they floated her to the hole in the riverbank.