Today I’m featured on the Romance Lives Forever blog!
Today I’m featured on the Romance Lives Forever blog!
Leyla Brand had one perfect day in her life: the day she met rock singer Arran Lake at the Bele Chere Festival. They seemed to share so much in common, Leyla was sure they were soulmates and had a future together. The next day he received the call to hit the big time and vanished into the world of California rock and roll, becoming an international star and leaving her behind. Five years later, a stranger contacts her on social media, wanting to know if she’s the Leyla Brand he met at Bele Chere. Should she open that door and discover who this might be, or, if it is him, will Arran just break her heart again?
We read stories all the time about people who reconnect with long-lost lovers, old high school sweethearts, cherished beaus who just didn’t stick around… You’ve got to wonder how they have changed, or how you have changed, over the time passed. Is it possible that if last time was the wrong time, that now might be the right time?
Here’s the lead-up to the big question:
Is this Leyla with an E from Bele Chere 2005? If so, please answer me.
The Facebook message, like the last, was from Bonsai Boy. Leyla with an E? Now that sounded a little more familiar. Who was this Bonsai Boy? She clicked through to his homepage, but found that he kept most of his information private except for those he’d chosen as friends. All he listed publicly was his hometown, Salinas, California, that his occupation was ‘farmer’, and that his birthday was March 11. A Pisces…Who did she know with a March birthday?
When was Arran’s birthday? Had she ever known that? She couldn’t recall him telling her. It hadn’t been relevant. Damn.
Think, Leyla. Someone should know. She typed an Internet search for Arran Lake, seeking one of those intrusive fan pages that collected information like a crazed stalker. She found several, and clicked through to be confronted with a host of photographs of Arran, in concert, on the red carpet, with his arm around a succession of young actresses or musicians his name had been linked with over the years. He was still jaw-dropping gorgeous, even six years later. The site featured articles about his concert schedule, his charity to raise money for the homeless, and…there it was. His birthday. March 11.
Could it be?
She went back to Bonsai Boy’s page, then his message. Why would he list his occupation as farmer, when he was a famous performer? She thought back to she and Arran, strolling through the greenhouse at the Biltmore, when he’d known so much about the plants, his education in that field.
Could it be?
Only one way to find out.
What would you do?
THAT GIRL’S THE ONE I LOVE….
In CONVICTION OF THE HEART, attorney Suzanne Taylor is a single mother of teen girls who hasn’t really considered dating much–until she meets police sergeant Nick Sansone. It has been years since she’s gone on a date other than something super casual, so she’s anxious as hell over every detail. What to wear. Where to go. How sexy to look. She doesn’t know what Nick’s expectations are, and she’s not going to take her daughters’ advice (which was something along the lines of “woo woo momma’s got a boyfriend. Is he gonna see your tattoo?”
Here she is getting ready to go:
Her hair wasn’t right.
She stood in front of the mirror in the frou-frou restroom that served the office and the rest of the tenants on the floor. She hadn’t decorated it. The ruffled pink curtains and wallpaper practically bleeding fuchsia butterflies were not to her taste at all.
She took her hair down again. Pinned it back up.
How is it her clients always managed to begin the dating life without difficulty or reservation whatsoever? For Suzanne, it was a major trauma.
She held her hair left, right, her eye critical. The Moody Blues were a sixties band. The Age of Aquarius. Hippies. Free love.
She took her hair out of its band, brushed it, then fluffed it with her fingers.
She’d chosen a feminine silk blouse, black with turquoise medallions, and black dress slacks instead of jeans, since they were going to the Benedum. If the concert had been at Star Lake, they’d have lawn seats and a blanket, and more casual would have been appropriate.
Suzanne thought about Nick, and a blanket, listening to music under the stars…going from zero to sixty pretty fast along that imaginative track. A long time since she’d made love with a man.
She shook her head to clear her mind. Focus.
The overnight bag she’d brought to the office held a pair of black pumps with a mid-height, chunky heel. She slipped them on, then looked in the mirror again.
Satisfied with her clothing, she dabbed on a hint of makeup, nothing garish, and added small dangle earrings, blue gemstones wrapped in silver, and a spritz of Opium, her favorite perfume. A deep breath gave her a moment to examine her appearance. A little less than professional, a little more than Sunday church. It would do.
What do you thinking about dating after forty? Easier or harder than at twenty? What special considerations have you made or seen others make to present a good first impression on a date?
I’m on the Romance Lives Forever blog today with an introduction to Inessa Regan from SECOND CHANCES!! Thank so much, Kayelle Allen! Come by, check it out, and get a copy for your Mother’s Day reading!!
I’ve got to say that I’m of various opinions on this. Depends where my piece is going next.
If it’s a contest, where THIS IS IT, I tend to lean toward perfection. If it’s going to a beta reader or an editor, I want it to be good, of course, but I think it’s important to let go of perfection in favor of getting some other eyes on it and opening up.
by Randy Ingermanson
I realized recently that I’m a perfectionist.
That has an upside and a downside.
The upside is that when I finally finish something, it’s the best I can do. It’s something I can be proud of.
The downside is that it often takes me a very long time to finish things. And sometimes I don’t get them done at all. And that means there are a lot of unfinished things on my plate. Which is not something to be proud of.
So I’ve been asking myself lately whether it’s better to be “done” or “perfect.”
And I can’t see that either one is always the best answer.
Some things simply don’t need to be perfect. (That’s very hard for me to say, but I have to admit it’s true.)
I own a couple of acres of land, in a state where there’s lots of rain and quite a bit of sunshine. Which means that weeds grow like crazy here. Short of a nuclear blast, I don’t think it’s actually possible to get the entire lot free of weeds at any given time.
But even if it was possible, they’d be back in a week. So it makes sense to just blaze through and knock out all the big weeds and leave the little guys alone. Painful as it is to let the little weeds live, there are just too many of them.
Now that summer is approaching, I’m facing that reality again. So there’s a case for getting the job mostly done, rather than perfectly done.
I had a manager once who used to say, “Make it good enough for now.” I never liked that idea, but often it was the only way to work.
When you have a hard deadline that absolutely must be met, usually the best you can do is “good enough for now.”
But there are times when you really need perfection.
For example, when lives are at risk. Every airplane crash is a reminder that somebody, somewhere wasn’t perfect.
As another example, sometimes there are outsized rewards for being the best. If you’re an Olympic athlete in an event that gets a lot of media attention, there can be a huge financial difference between a gold medal and a silver. Even if the performance difference is only a hundredth of a second.
When you’re in a high-risk situation or a high-reward situation, “good enough for now” really isn’t good enough.
Let’s bring this home for writers. What about that book you’re writing? Is it better to get it done, or get it perfect?
I’d say that depends.
It depends on what your goals are for the book. It depends on your strategic vision for your writing career.
It may very well make sense for you to write books quickly, doing the best you can in a set amount of time, producing good quality books on a regular schedule. That works for many writers. We might call this the James Patterson model. Mr. Patterson does very well by writing about a dozen books per year.
But it may also make sense for you to write the best book you possibly can, no matter how long it takes. You might take years between books, while your fans loyally wait, knowing that you’re going to give them an amazing experience every time. That also works well for some writers. We might call this the J.K. Rowling model. The last three Harry Potter books were spaced two to three years apart. And Ms. Rowling has done very well by that model.
You are in charge of your own life, so you get to decide how you’ll run your writing career.
Remember, it’s not all or nothing. You don’t have a binary choice between “fast and good enough” or “slow and perfect.” There’s a spectrum of options, and you get to choose where you’ll fit on that spectrum.
Here are a few questions to guide you:
Every project is different. You don’t have to put all your books at the same point on the spectrum. You can bend some of them toward the “fast” end and some toward the “amazing” end.
I make only one recommendation here: make the decision on where you want your book to be on the spectrum at the beginning of the project.
And then live by that decision.
This article is reprinted by permission of the author.
Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson, “the Snowflake Guy,” publishes the free monthly Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine. If you want to learn the craft and marketing of fiction, AND make your writing more valuable to editors, AND have FUN doing it, visit http://www.AdvancedFictionWriting.com.
I write about lawyers a lot. I mean, they say, write what you know, right? After 30 years practicing family law, I know a little bit about them.
I don’t always like them, mind you–so I understand why some people really dislike them.
The same thing can happen inside a law firm. Lawyers have different ways of doing things, and sometimes those ways can lead to outright discord. Wise senior partners do what they can to minimize these fractures, because that protects the bottom line.
In ENCOUNTER, one such law firm with offices in Chicago, Washington DC, and Denver, finds itself in distress. Annike Lorant and Mitchell Kadeen, the law firm’s senior partners, have divorced, now working in separate offices, but their bitter split is poisoning the daily work of the firm. Cattrin Odeon works with Mitch in the D.C. area, a sniping little birdlike woman determined to make others as miserable as she is. New partner in the Denver office John Kirk Nicholas is still living his college football hero days, at least in his mind. Judy Norell is the worker bee who’s trying to bandaid things together despite the odds. Chicago partner Teo Haroun has just been given a deadly diagnosis that he’s struggling to keep from his law partners. Mitch and Judy decide a retreat in New Mexico is just the thing to get his firm back on track.
They hire a team-building group to lead them through the retreat, and venture to the Sherman Ranch, outside Santa Fe. The Ranch is managed by Jake Patrin, a recovering addict (and probably the favorite character of all I’ve written), who has his own issues.
What they don’t know is that they are about to collide with a truckload of illegal immigrants coming from Mexico who get caught in a freak March snowstorm. With nowhere else to go, the survivors make their painful way to the Ranch, dropping in on the lawyers, who must find a way to co-exist until the snow melts. As you might expect, some of the lawyers do better than others at this.
Here’s an excerpt:
The screaming from inside yanked Jake Patrin’s attention from the successful start-up of the generator where he worked in the shed. His head swiveled back toward the house. What in sweet Jesus’ name…
It was the women, he could tell from the pitch. Hell, maybe someone’d found a dead mouse in the kitchen closet, in amongst the merlot he couldn’t get out of his mind. Muttering a curse under his breath, he pulled his pea coat closed to trudge to the house through the knee-deep snow.
He came through the mud room, doffed his coat and boots, slipped on softer- soled shoes as the rumpus continued. The door between the mud room and the kitchen area was closed, but he could hear a babel of voices, some of which he recognized, others…
Someone was yelling and cursing in Spanish, male voices he didn’t recognize at all. It didn’t sound like a performance, one of his guests playing a role for effect. Jake didn’t speak Spanish well – hell, it had been nearly twenty years since his time in Central America – but he knew enough to understand it was a threat.
Christ on a rutting Harley.
A quick look around the mud room showed him more than he’d noticed at first. Twice as many clothes as there should have been. Much more snow melting in piles than two men would have brought back. Something was seriously not right.
He scanned the room, but found nothing he could use as a credible weapon. Jake picked up a rough-handled shovel; it was the best he had. He leaned close against the door, listening a moment more to see if he could get any clue what might be going on, but there was only more yelling. The young kid from the team urged people to be calm, something about the fire. No help. He took a deep breath and swung the door open.
He was unprepared for the scene that faced him. He came in behind several huge dirty men in the kitchen, along with the kid, Will. The big boss, Kadeen, was pinned in a chair with something shiny at his throat, a wild-eyed wetback holding his shoulder. Everyone else cowered on the far side of the pass-through, watching with horrified expressions, eyes he was sure were as wide as his.
There wasn’t much time to think. It seemed to him to unfold in a jerky slo-mo. As the door opened, the two men closest to him turned, saw the shovel. The younger guy holding Kadeen yelled and made a movement with the shiny object as women screamed. It clicked in his mind that the men weren’t fat, they were bundled in layers of wet clothing. The kitchen floor was slick with water and mud. He went to raise the shovel, but Will Starlin jumped across the space between him and the others.
“No, wait!” Will grabbed the handle of the shovel, his gaze intense. “They don’t mean to hurt anyone. They need help. They’re half frozen! Please.”
There was a scream in the other room, and Judy’s anxious face appeared in the pass-through. “Will—they’ve passed out, the two women. Something’s wrong with them.”
The older blonde made some comment to the other fancy woman, sotto voce, looking down on the fallen. Judy, standing behind her, shot her a look, then turned back to Will.
A spurt of angry Spanish burst from the man holding Kadeen. Jake looked at the two men closest to him, both of whom looked worse for wear. Will pushed Jake forward.
“This man…uh, el hombre es….um… medico. Ayuda. Doctor. Um…”
“Son, I ain’t no doc—“
“Shut up!” Will hissed, leaning close in to the older man. “You’re the closest we got. These people need help and fast. They’ve been out in the snow for hours, I think. Please, Mr. Patrin. They’re not thinking right, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Jake took a deep breath. “Fine.”
ENCOUNTER, from Three Fates Press. Now on sale at Amazon—$2.65 for paperback!
Inessa’s gaze flicked to the opening in the fence. The man waiting there stepped through, approaching with apparent reluctance. When he wavered at the steps, Ann took his arm and helped him onto the porch.
“Inessa Regan, this is Kurtis Lowdon. Kurt, this is Inessa Regan, the lawyer I told you about. She is fabulous! She can draft up what you need in no time at all!”
Inessa studied the man, taking in his thin frame, shadowed brow, and very close-cropped blond hair. Something about him wasn’t right. She set her wine glass aside and waited for one of them to explain.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said. His apology was followed by a boyish grin, and that’s when the oddity of the picture came together. He moved and stood like an old man, but he had to be less than thirty, perhaps just college age. “Annie insisted.”
“It’s her way.” Inessa managed an answering smile, shreds of courtesy tugging at her conscience. “I usually don’t see clients outside the—” Realizing she was about to say “office,” the irony stopped her. “Well, seeing as I don’t have an office, I’ll have to make different arrangements.”
“No office?” Ann’s brow twitched, but she hesitated only a moment before barreling right on. “You can help him, though, can’t you, Nessa? Kurt’s just finished his second round of chemo. He wants to make sure his life is in order—just in case, you know? I told him not to worry, that everything’s gonna be perfectly fine, but he’s so stubborn, you know, like men are, and thinks it all has to be written down in black-and-white…”
Ann babbled on, but Inessa didn’t really listen. She looked into Kurt’s blue eyes and recognized there knowledge of his imminent mortality. His smile, however, was undimmed in spite of it. She felt like an ass for indulging her self-pity over an employment setback.
“Nice to meet you,” she said at last, leaning forward to shake his offered hand.
“Same here.” The warmth of his regard jolted through to her toes as their hands met. He glanced down at her feet. “Never met a barefoot attorney before. I guess I thought you were all born wearing wingtips.”
Nonplussed, Inessa finally laughed.
“Aha! My new marketing brand. ‘The Barefoot Attorney.’”
“It could work.” A mischievous streak sparkled in his eye. “When can I meet with you? Time is of the essence, as you people say.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure where.”
“Nothing wrong with right here, if you ask me. How about tomorrow? I’ll bring breakfast?”
That smile. Hard to resist. He and Ann together were like an oncoming city bus. Best get on, or get run over.
“Umm, well, all right. Sure. Nine a.m.?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” He squeezed her hand again and stepped back.
“Great!” Ann gushed. “I just knew this would work out! And so convenient, too. You’re a saint, Nessa.” She stamped a foot on the porch as the gray cat poked its head up out of the bushes. “Moonbeam! Get your butt back home now!” The animal vanished into the growing darkness. “Come on, Kurt, honey.”
She took his arm, and they walked away, Ann talking a mile a minute. The young man paused to wave before he closed the gate.
After he was gone, his smile lingered with Inessa, stirred something deep within her. She tried to get hold of herself. Inessa Lin Regan, that’s nonsense. You’re old enough to be his mother.
Well. Maybe an older sister.
An unexpected bubble of joy trickled up inside her. As night settled in and the stars flicked into visibility one by one, she finished her glass of wine slowly, looking forward to breakfast for the first time in years.
SECOND CHANCES, by Alana Lorens, from Zumaya Embraces; Trade paperback, $14.99, ISBN 978-1-61271-080-8, 236 pp.; Ebook, $5.00, ISBN 978-1-61271-081-5 (Kindle), 978-1-61271-082-2 (epub)
Available wherever fine books and ebooks are sold.)