If you remember, I promised a link to Amy's blog this week. She had an exciting announcement to make, and if you click http://authoreileenrichards.wordpress.com/ you will see what it is!
Meanwhile...I'm writing this with my mind still halfway on vacation ...
You know how it is with a vacation -- even a mini one like we took this past weekend. It takes two days to get ready -- wash clothes, pack, prepare food, make sure the cat has a sitter -- and then you get home and do everything in reverse. Well, at least the unpacking and washing clothes. And going through the accumulation of mail. And reassuring the cat that you will never, ever leave her again. Which is a blatant lie, but she is a very forgiving cat.
We like to rent a large cabin in the mountains or at the beach, to include family and friends who want to come along. Friday night is pot-luck, so I spent two days baking scones, cookies and a cake. And making pimento cheese for sandwiches. Others brought beans, pasta salad, assorted fruit and enough snacks to satisfy a teen-age slumber party.
It reminded me of the days when I was a working person (not that I don't work now, but I'm my own boss and set my own hours). You needed a vacation and counted down the days on the calendar. When I worked at the bank, vacation was mandatory. You HAD to take a week off, whether you wanted to or not. Surprisingly, there were workaholics who would rather stay on the job. I wasn't one of them.
At the newspaper, it was hard to set aside a week, and then it took a week to line everything up so things would carry on in my absence. I would come back to a desk piled high with correspondence and telephone memos and wonder in despair why I had ever left my office.
At the end of the day, though, it's worth it. We need to every so often climb out of our ruts and experience something new (although I politely refused an invitation to go zip-lining). Maybe we get together with family, but each time I learn something new about my sons and daughters-in-law, and my grandchildren that takes me by surprise.
I come home both tired and refreshed, which sounds like a contradiction, but isn't.
If you are going or already have been on vacation this summer, you will know what I mean.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
On a World-Wide Tour
Lynette Hall Hampton invited me on a tour with her and other writing friends -- a blog tour, that is.
Lynette is the author of 22 mysteries and romances written under her name, and since 2012 she has written several Western historical romances using the pen name Agnes Alexander. She plans to write 26 books in the genre, each using a woman's name beginning with one of the 26 letters of the alphabet! Meanwhile, she is completing her contemporary series: Ferrington Men, Coverton Mills, and the Reverend Willa Hinshaw mystery series.
Lynette says she writes because she can't imagine doing anything else. She loves to tell a good story, and writes for up to 10 hours a day! No wonder she is able to publish so many books. You can read more about Lynette and her books at www.agnesalexander.com
Now I am supposed to answer some questions bout myself and my writing. I am a slow writer, publishing a book every two years, but I'm trying to work faster to set free the stories in my head. You can read more about my books at www.sandrazbruney.com I also love to read and work puzzles on my iPad. You can find me and my husband, Jim, most any morning enjoying a biscuit at one of our local restaurants before we begin our day. Our kids are grown and gone, but we did adopt a very strange cat that we call Spooky -- because she is so easily spooked by the smallest things, such as turning a newspaper page. We think she endured an abusive kittenhood, so we try to let her know we will keep her safe.
Right now I am working on "A Question of Loyalty," a sequel to "A Question of Boundaries" that will be released by Astraea Press later this year. It's an alternative history set in the late 19th century, with an isolated United States ruled by King Thomas Jefferson the Fourth. I let my imagination run rampant in this and borrowed from paranormal, steampunk, and many "what-ifs." It differs from others of this genre in that in that I had to imagine what the United States would be like if it had been completely cut off from any contact with the outside world for almost a century.
I love to write about women and their friendships, and how they help each other cope with illness, loss, and other difficulties. I hope that by reading them, people will cherish their own friendships. These last two stories carry on the theme except that the friends have abilities a little beyond the normal. And, of course, a good dash of old-fashioned romance!
I try to have all my daily chores done before I sit down to write, as I know I am easily distracted and might jump up in the middle of a sentence to empty the dishwasher or put in a load of laundry. Once I sit down, I enter my own world. I read through a few of the finished pages to get my head in the story and then I am off. I may only write for an hour or so a day, but the story is in my head 24/7. I work the scenes out as I go about my chores, so when I sit down to write it is almost as if they are dictated.
Now I want you to meet some writing friends of mine who have jumped aboard the blog train: Maria Elena Alonso-Sierra, Robin Weaver, and Amy Pfaff. Please visit their sites and support them by leaving a comment or "like."
Maria Elena Alonso-Sierra is a full-time novelist based in North Carolina. With Cuban roots, she has lived in many countries, including France, the setting for her first novel, The Coin. She speaks English, Spanish, French, Italian, and German, and reads Latin, Middle English, and old French. She holds a Masters in English literature, specializing in medieval romances, and is currently an active member of the Carolina Romance Writers. She loves to hear from her readers, and always hopes to open a dialogue with her fans.
A professional
computer geek, Robin Weaver started writing extensively when she traded in her
ski-boots for flip-flops and moved to North Carolina 
Lynette is the author of 22 mysteries and romances written under her name, and since 2012 she has written several Western historical romances using the pen name Agnes Alexander. She plans to write 26 books in the genre, each using a woman's name beginning with one of the 26 letters of the alphabet! Meanwhile, she is completing her contemporary series: Ferrington Men, Coverton Mills, and the Reverend Willa Hinshaw mystery series.Lynette says she writes because she can't imagine doing anything else. She loves to tell a good story, and writes for up to 10 hours a day! No wonder she is able to publish so many books. You can read more about Lynette and her books at www.agnesalexander.com
Now I am supposed to answer some questions bout myself and my writing. I am a slow writer, publishing a book every two years, but I'm trying to work faster to set free the stories in my head. You can read more about my books at www.sandrazbruney.com I also love to read and work puzzles on my iPad. You can find me and my husband, Jim, most any morning enjoying a biscuit at one of our local restaurants before we begin our day. Our kids are grown and gone, but we did adopt a very strange cat that we call Spooky -- because she is so easily spooked by the smallest things, such as turning a newspaper page. We think she endured an abusive kittenhood, so we try to let her know we will keep her safe.
Right now I am working on "A Question of Loyalty," a sequel to "A Question of Boundaries" that will be released by Astraea Press later this year. It's an alternative history set in the late 19th century, with an isolated United States ruled by King Thomas Jefferson the Fourth. I let my imagination run rampant in this and borrowed from paranormal, steampunk, and many "what-ifs." It differs from others of this genre in that in that I had to imagine what the United States would be like if it had been completely cut off from any contact with the outside world for almost a century.
I love to write about women and their friendships, and how they help each other cope with illness, loss, and other difficulties. I hope that by reading them, people will cherish their own friendships. These last two stories carry on the theme except that the friends have abilities a little beyond the normal. And, of course, a good dash of old-fashioned romance!
I try to have all my daily chores done before I sit down to write, as I know I am easily distracted and might jump up in the middle of a sentence to empty the dishwasher or put in a load of laundry. Once I sit down, I enter my own world. I read through a few of the finished pages to get my head in the story and then I am off. I may only write for an hour or so a day, but the story is in my head 24/7. I work the scenes out as I go about my chores, so when I sit down to write it is almost as if they are dictated.
Now I want you to meet some writing friends of mine who have jumped aboard the blog train: Maria Elena Alonso-Sierra, Robin Weaver, and Amy Pfaff. Please visit their sites and support them by leaving a comment or "like."
Maria Elena Alonso-Sierra is a full-time novelist based in North Carolina. With Cuban roots, she has lived in many countries, including France, the setting for her first novel, The Coin. She speaks English, Spanish, French, Italian, and German, and reads Latin, Middle English, and old French. She holds a Masters in English literature, specializing in medieval romances, and is currently an active member of the Carolina Romance Writers. She loves to hear from her readers, and always hopes to open a dialogue with her fans.
Her blog: http://mariaelenawrites.
A professional
computer geek, Robin Weaver started writing extensively when she traded in her
ski-boots for flip-flops and moved to
She teaches
workshops on point of view and pacing, and is a regular blogger with
Romancing the Genres (www.RomancingtheGenres.blogspot.com).
She loves Latin dancing, pistachios, Def Leppard, and the five o’clock shadow,
not necessarily in that order. Please
visit her on Facebook, LinkedIn or via her website: http://www.authorrobinweaver.com.
Like Marie Elena and Robin, Amy is a fellow member of the Carolina Romance Writers. She is going to make an exciting announcement on her blog next week, so I will remind you then to take a look. The suspense is rising!
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
First steps are the hardest
Well, the third thing happened -- I accidentally provoked a nests of wasps into attack mode and was stung twice before I could retreat. Time to pull back and do a little planning before wildly hacking at any old weed that comes along. First thing is to spray the poison ivy and wait until it is dead before trying to pull it up.
Also, with the new trash rules, I can't put umpteen bags of dead leaves and vines out to be picked up. There is a limit of four bags per week now, so there is no point in working every day. Frankly, with the heat, I decided if my project isn't finished until fall, that will be all right too.
Do you ever do that? Rush into a project with enthusiastic abandon, only to realize half way though that it is going to take more energy and more time than you thought? I think that is true of many first-time authors. They decided that by golly! I am going to sit down and write that book. And then halfway through...
They realize they aren't sure where they are going with the plot. They see that it takes much more commitment than they thought. They discover they have to find a balance between The Book and Work, Family, and Other Life Priorities.
Unfortunately, many authors give up in the face of these obstacles. Which is too bad, because they do have a good story to tell.
In the past, I have had would-be writers ask me about helping them write a book. I invite them to attend writers' club meetings or tell them about a workshop that would get them started. I am no longer disappointed when they don't show up. It's hard to make that first step.
Like the little boy in the comic strip "Frazz:" who states his summer goal is to jump off the high dive, they begin to second guess their goal, and find excuses why they can't do it.
One summer I, too, decided to jump off the high dive at the pool. It was scary, but exhilarating, to find out I could do it and live.
It just takes putting your foot on the first step up the ladder.
Or writing that first sentence.
Or pulling that first weed.
Also, with the new trash rules, I can't put umpteen bags of dead leaves and vines out to be picked up. There is a limit of four bags per week now, so there is no point in working every day. Frankly, with the heat, I decided if my project isn't finished until fall, that will be all right too.
Do you ever do that? Rush into a project with enthusiastic abandon, only to realize half way though that it is going to take more energy and more time than you thought? I think that is true of many first-time authors. They decided that by golly! I am going to sit down and write that book. And then halfway through...
They realize they aren't sure where they are going with the plot. They see that it takes much more commitment than they thought. They discover they have to find a balance between The Book and Work, Family, and Other Life Priorities.
Unfortunately, many authors give up in the face of these obstacles. Which is too bad, because they do have a good story to tell.
In the past, I have had would-be writers ask me about helping them write a book. I invite them to attend writers' club meetings or tell them about a workshop that would get them started. I am no longer disappointed when they don't show up. It's hard to make that first step.
Like the little boy in the comic strip "Frazz:" who states his summer goal is to jump off the high dive, they begin to second guess their goal, and find excuses why they can't do it.
One summer I, too, decided to jump off the high dive at the pool. It was scary, but exhilarating, to find out I could do it and live.
It just takes putting your foot on the first step up the ladder.
Or writing that first sentence.
Or pulling that first weed.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Mother Nature 1 -- Me 0
I'm waiting for the third shoe to drop.
Yes, I know it's the other shoe (since shoes come in pairs), but then again "they" say misfortunes come in threes.
First, I got caught up in a brag. Jim told me there was poison ivy in the patch of back yard I'm trying to clear of ground ivy and honeysuckle vines. I said "I know, I saw it." I donned long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, gloves, and knee boots before pulling the first vine. I was being careful, right?
And, I informed him, I''d never had poison ivy. In. My. Life. In spite of playing in the woods as a child, picking wildflowers in the spring, berries in the summer, or colorful foliage in the fall. Sinusitis, yes, but no itchy rash.
As if Mother Nature heard my boast, she flung it at me. I saw what I thought was a bug bite on my wrist. I'm very allergic to mosquito bites, so figured the red, itchy swelling was just that. Then I started itching in other places. Little blisters formed. The itching grew more and more intense and spread over more and more of my skin.
To give Mother nature even more of a chuckle, when I called my doctor I discovered she had left. I mean left the county. With no warning. I was told to come in and pick up my records and good luck finding another doctor, honey.
Trying nowadays to find a doctor who not only takes new patients, but also accepts Medicare is like searching for one particular grain of sand on the beach.
I finally found one, but couldn't get an appointment until late August.
I hope by then the poison ivy will be but a distant memory.
So you see, it's no wonder I'm looking fearfully over my shoulder for the last blow of the trilogy.
I'm afraid to guess for fear it might come true.
Yes, I know it's the other shoe (since shoes come in pairs), but then again "they" say misfortunes come in threes.
First, I got caught up in a brag. Jim told me there was poison ivy in the patch of back yard I'm trying to clear of ground ivy and honeysuckle vines. I said "I know, I saw it." I donned long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, gloves, and knee boots before pulling the first vine. I was being careful, right?And, I informed him, I''d never had poison ivy. In. My. Life. In spite of playing in the woods as a child, picking wildflowers in the spring, berries in the summer, or colorful foliage in the fall. Sinusitis, yes, but no itchy rash.
As if Mother Nature heard my boast, she flung it at me. I saw what I thought was a bug bite on my wrist. I'm very allergic to mosquito bites, so figured the red, itchy swelling was just that. Then I started itching in other places. Little blisters formed. The itching grew more and more intense and spread over more and more of my skin.
To give Mother nature even more of a chuckle, when I called my doctor I discovered she had left. I mean left the county. With no warning. I was told to come in and pick up my records and good luck finding another doctor, honey.
Trying nowadays to find a doctor who not only takes new patients, but also accepts Medicare is like searching for one particular grain of sand on the beach.
I finally found one, but couldn't get an appointment until late August.
I hope by then the poison ivy will be but a distant memory.
So you see, it's no wonder I'm looking fearfully over my shoulder for the last blow of the trilogy.
I'm afraid to guess for fear it might come true.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Introducing Heather Gray
This week I''d like to introduce Heather Gray, a fellow Astraea Press author. If you don't know about Astraea Press, they are a "non-erotic e-publisher that offers wholesome reads but still maintains the quality of mainstream romance."
Heather is the author of the Ladies of Larkspur inspirational western romance series, including Mail Order Man, Just Dessert, and Redemption. She also writes the Regency Refuge series with titles His Saving Grace, Jackal, and the soon-to-be-released Queen. But that's not all! Interested in contemporary Christian romance? Take a look at Ten Million Reasons and Nowhere for Christmas.
Heather loves coffee, God, her family, and laughter – not necessarily in that order! She writes approachable and flawed characters who, through the highs and lows of life, find a way to love God, embrace each day, and laugh out loud right along with her. And, yeah, her books almost always have someone who's a coffee addict. Some things just can't be helped.
Hiding in the shadows just got harder.
When tragedy strikes, Juliana and her family must flee their home. Can they persuade a virtual stranger to help them? Juliana isn't so sure, especially after their chaperone threatens to cane him. Even as Juliana struggles to trust him, she finds herself drawn to this mysterious man. Surely all she wants from him is refuge…
Rupert is a man whose life depends on his ability to remain unnoticed. What, then, is he supposed to do with this family he's inherited? His life is overrun with an ancient chaperone who would terrify a lesser man, two spirited girls, and the secretive Juliana – someone he comes to think of as his own precious jewel.
With this new responsibility thrust upon him, Rupert will have to make sacrifices – but will God ask him to sacrifice everything?
Excerpt:
1810
A duke had been cut down in the prime of his life. According to the War Department, The Hunter was to blame.
Jackal had been put onto The Hunter's scent and told to ferret him out at all cost. It was his job, his duty to the crown, and he treated it with the seriousness it demanded. Evil could not be allowed to go unpunished, and people who took pleasure in destroying the lives of others would not walk away with impunity, not on his watch.
Jackal met with his contacts in the Austrian government and found no gratification in revealing they had a traitor in their midst. It had been a necessary move, and now the problem would be dealt with. The Austrians would put The Hunter down, and England's hands would remain clean of the mess, exactly as the minister wanted.
Grim foreboding furrowed his brow as he left the meeting with the Austrians. His lack of evidence mocked him. He'd done as ordered, and they'd believed him, but had it been his choice, he'd have gathered more proof first.
Jackal climbed into his carriage and slapped his hand against the roof, signaling the driver with his readiness to depart. A lengthy ride awaited him. He would leave the carriage and his current identity behind in Munich once he arrived there. New papers and fresh horses were waiting for him. The same would happen again when he crossed over into Stuttgart, and then again in Brussels. His task was clear: remain alive long enough to claim each of the new identities and return safely to his homeland.
Sitting back on the roughly cushioned seat, he accepted what he'd begun to suspect. This would be his last assignment for the crown. He was getting too old for the job. The time to retire was upon him. The younger bucks were willing – if not entirely ready – to take their place among the ranks of the unseen, unknown, and unnamed heroes of war. Jackal shook his head. Not too long ago, he'd been one of those young bucks. Ready for retirement at age thirty-two? The thought would be laughable in any other career. In his line of work, though, only those who retired young lived to be old and grey.
Lost in melancholy, Jackal barely noted the change from the raucous noise of a bustling merchant district to the quiet pastoral sounds that would accompany him on most of this journey. Europe was a large land with rich cities interspersed with vast emptiness dotted with small hamlets. Traveling by carriage would take weeks, but as long as he could report back that he'd done as ordered, it would be worth the time.
He settled into his seat. They were still days from their first sanctioned stop. As always, the best defense was to keep moving.
A change in the carriage's soothing methodical movement woke Jackal from his doze and alerted him that something was amiss. Awareness coursed through his veins, pushing away the remnant of sleep. A quick glance at the curtained window told him it was late morning. They'd ridden through the night to put as much distance as possible between them and Vienna – the current hub of Austrian government.
The carriage was moving with a wildness he'd felt only one other time in his life. Dread snaked through his middle as he accepted the truth. There was no longer a driver in control of his conveyance. Jackal crouched low on the floor for balance as he prepared to throw open the door and jump. Perhaps he should have sought retirement one assignment sooner.
Before his hand could touch the door, a jarring force threw Jackal against the seat to his left, shooting pain up his arm. They'd been boarded, then, and his driver – an agent he'd worked with for years – had likely not been alive to sound the alarm. Emotion would come later. For now, Jackal needed to focus on one thing: Survival.
The carriage gained speed under the skillful hand of whoever now sat in the driver's seat. I should have jumped when I had the chance. Jackal shook his head as he calculated the odds of survival.
Palming his gun, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, commanding the driver to stop. Surprise flared to life as his conveyance did indeed come to a standstill. Rather than slow to a gentle stop, the carriage halted its forward momentum in a skidding bone-shaking fashion. It was the kind of stop that guaranteed no beast would be able to walk away from it afterward.
Jackal jumped before the dust could settle. His best chance would be to go on the offence and catch the driver off-guard. Though he'd assumed the driver had a partner, nothing could have prepared him for the vicious attack awaiting him on the other side of the door.
Jackal no sooner touched the ground than he was trampled under the anxious feet of a high-stepping horse. He'd not even had a chance to gain his footing. As he lay on the ground, Jackal both heard and felt the breaking of bone in his left leg. A couple of his ribs surrendered to the heavy hooves as well. Rolling onto his side, he took aim at the perpetrator. The sun blinded him, and he could distinguish no features on the man whose gun dared him to move. In the split second it took for him to reassure himself he was not aiming at an innocent bystander – for they were indeed in one of the numerous modest hamlets that dotted the continent's countryside – the rider pulled the trigger, and pain seared through Jackal's already throbbing leg. It felt as if the lead had burrowed its way into his very bone.
He pulled the trigger of his flintlock pistol, and the man on the horse recoiled. Even as Jackal reached for the gun concealed at the ankle of his wounded leg, he knew it was futile. The rider had a second gun in-hand before his own fingers even brushed against the grip of his hidden weapon. Pain tore through his shoulder, immobilizing his shooting arm. Another ball of lead ripped into his middle. He felt his blood seeping out onto the street.
Accepting his fate, he asked only one thing. "At whose hand am I to die this day?"
Laughter vile enough to sour port met his question. "Today the Jackal shall meet his end at the hands of The Hunter."
The Hunter? The Austrians were supposed to have him by now.
"Your plan failed, and I am free. Prepare to die."
Blackness closing in around him, Jackal released the last thought held captive in his mind.
Why God?
Cold claimed his body as he slipped into darkness. He neither heard nor felt the next shot.
Amazon US Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Smashwords iTunes
You can find Heather at:
Website – http://www.heathergraywriting.com
Blog – http://www.heathergraywriting.com/blog
Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/heathergraywriting
Google+ – https://plus.google.com/+Heathergraywritingnow
Twitter – http://twitter.com/LaughDreamWrite
Pinterest – http://www.pinterest.com/LaughDreamWrite
Heather is the author of the Ladies of Larkspur inspirational western romance series, including Mail Order Man, Just Dessert, and Redemption. She also writes the Regency Refuge series with titles His Saving Grace, Jackal, and the soon-to-be-released Queen. But that's not all! Interested in contemporary Christian romance? Take a look at Ten Million Reasons and Nowhere for Christmas.
Heather loves coffee, God, her family, and laughter – not necessarily in that order! She writes approachable and flawed characters who, through the highs and lows of life, find a way to love God, embrace each day, and laugh out loud right along with her. And, yeah, her books almost always have someone who's a coffee addict. Some things just can't be helped.
Hiding in the shadows just got harder.
When tragedy strikes, Juliana and her family must flee their home. Can they persuade a virtual stranger to help them? Juliana isn't so sure, especially after their chaperone threatens to cane him. Even as Juliana struggles to trust him, she finds herself drawn to this mysterious man. Surely all she wants from him is refuge…
Rupert is a man whose life depends on his ability to remain unnoticed. What, then, is he supposed to do with this family he's inherited? His life is overrun with an ancient chaperone who would terrify a lesser man, two spirited girls, and the secretive Juliana – someone he comes to think of as his own precious jewel.
With this new responsibility thrust upon him, Rupert will have to make sacrifices – but will God ask him to sacrifice everything?
Excerpt:
1810
A duke had been cut down in the prime of his life. According to the War Department, The Hunter was to blame.
Jackal had been put onto The Hunter's scent and told to ferret him out at all cost. It was his job, his duty to the crown, and he treated it with the seriousness it demanded. Evil could not be allowed to go unpunished, and people who took pleasure in destroying the lives of others would not walk away with impunity, not on his watch.
Jackal met with his contacts in the Austrian government and found no gratification in revealing they had a traitor in their midst. It had been a necessary move, and now the problem would be dealt with. The Austrians would put The Hunter down, and England's hands would remain clean of the mess, exactly as the minister wanted.
Grim foreboding furrowed his brow as he left the meeting with the Austrians. His lack of evidence mocked him. He'd done as ordered, and they'd believed him, but had it been his choice, he'd have gathered more proof first.
Jackal climbed into his carriage and slapped his hand against the roof, signaling the driver with his readiness to depart. A lengthy ride awaited him. He would leave the carriage and his current identity behind in Munich once he arrived there. New papers and fresh horses were waiting for him. The same would happen again when he crossed over into Stuttgart, and then again in Brussels. His task was clear: remain alive long enough to claim each of the new identities and return safely to his homeland.
Sitting back on the roughly cushioned seat, he accepted what he'd begun to suspect. This would be his last assignment for the crown. He was getting too old for the job. The time to retire was upon him. The younger bucks were willing – if not entirely ready – to take their place among the ranks of the unseen, unknown, and unnamed heroes of war. Jackal shook his head. Not too long ago, he'd been one of those young bucks. Ready for retirement at age thirty-two? The thought would be laughable in any other career. In his line of work, though, only those who retired young lived to be old and grey.
Lost in melancholy, Jackal barely noted the change from the raucous noise of a bustling merchant district to the quiet pastoral sounds that would accompany him on most of this journey. Europe was a large land with rich cities interspersed with vast emptiness dotted with small hamlets. Traveling by carriage would take weeks, but as long as he could report back that he'd done as ordered, it would be worth the time.
He settled into his seat. They were still days from their first sanctioned stop. As always, the best defense was to keep moving.
****
A change in the carriage's soothing methodical movement woke Jackal from his doze and alerted him that something was amiss. Awareness coursed through his veins, pushing away the remnant of sleep. A quick glance at the curtained window told him it was late morning. They'd ridden through the night to put as much distance as possible between them and Vienna – the current hub of Austrian government.
The carriage was moving with a wildness he'd felt only one other time in his life. Dread snaked through his middle as he accepted the truth. There was no longer a driver in control of his conveyance. Jackal crouched low on the floor for balance as he prepared to throw open the door and jump. Perhaps he should have sought retirement one assignment sooner.
Before his hand could touch the door, a jarring force threw Jackal against the seat to his left, shooting pain up his arm. They'd been boarded, then, and his driver – an agent he'd worked with for years – had likely not been alive to sound the alarm. Emotion would come later. For now, Jackal needed to focus on one thing: Survival.
The carriage gained speed under the skillful hand of whoever now sat in the driver's seat. I should have jumped when I had the chance. Jackal shook his head as he calculated the odds of survival.
Palming his gun, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, commanding the driver to stop. Surprise flared to life as his conveyance did indeed come to a standstill. Rather than slow to a gentle stop, the carriage halted its forward momentum in a skidding bone-shaking fashion. It was the kind of stop that guaranteed no beast would be able to walk away from it afterward.
Jackal jumped before the dust could settle. His best chance would be to go on the offence and catch the driver off-guard. Though he'd assumed the driver had a partner, nothing could have prepared him for the vicious attack awaiting him on the other side of the door.
Jackal no sooner touched the ground than he was trampled under the anxious feet of a high-stepping horse. He'd not even had a chance to gain his footing. As he lay on the ground, Jackal both heard and felt the breaking of bone in his left leg. A couple of his ribs surrendered to the heavy hooves as well. Rolling onto his side, he took aim at the perpetrator. The sun blinded him, and he could distinguish no features on the man whose gun dared him to move. In the split second it took for him to reassure himself he was not aiming at an innocent bystander – for they were indeed in one of the numerous modest hamlets that dotted the continent's countryside – the rider pulled the trigger, and pain seared through Jackal's already throbbing leg. It felt as if the lead had burrowed its way into his very bone.
He pulled the trigger of his flintlock pistol, and the man on the horse recoiled. Even as Jackal reached for the gun concealed at the ankle of his wounded leg, he knew it was futile. The rider had a second gun in-hand before his own fingers even brushed against the grip of his hidden weapon. Pain tore through his shoulder, immobilizing his shooting arm. Another ball of lead ripped into his middle. He felt his blood seeping out onto the street.
Accepting his fate, he asked only one thing. "At whose hand am I to die this day?"
Laughter vile enough to sour port met his question. "Today the Jackal shall meet his end at the hands of The Hunter."
The Hunter? The Austrians were supposed to have him by now.
"Your plan failed, and I am free. Prepare to die."
Blackness closing in around him, Jackal released the last thought held captive in his mind.
Why God?
Cold claimed his body as he slipped into darkness. He neither heard nor felt the next shot.
*****
Sound s interesting, doesn't it! You can get her books atAmazon US Amazon UK Barnes & Noble Smashwords iTunes
You can find Heather at:
Website – http://www.heathergraywriting.com
Blog – http://www.heathergraywriting.com/blog
Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/heathergraywriting
Google+ – https://plus.google.com/+Heathergraywritingnow
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Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Time spent or time wasted?
The question was, "How many hours a day do you spend writing?"
I wish I could have answered, "Oh, eight or ten..."
But my mama taught me not to lie. She didn't wash my mouth out with soap, but she did give me a pretty good snap on the ear with her thumb and forefinger.
So I said, "Two, on a good day."
The problem is, I am finding it increasingly harder to concentrate these days. I hate to attribute it to age, so let's just say there are a lot of distractions.
I got to thinking about what I actually do do all day.
If I wake early, I read until it's time for the newspaper to be delivered, around 6 a.m. Then I fix my coffee and read the paper, ending with the crossword. I have to make sure my brain is in full function mode.
These past few weeks I've been going outside while it's cool (comparatively) and whacking off some shrubs and pulling up ivy that seem determined to turn our lawn into a habitat for wild animals. I've seen deer and would not be surprised to see a bear some fine day.
By the time I come back inside, Jim is up and most days he wants to "go get a biscuit" which takes a half hour or so, followed by a leisurely trip through the grocery store. Jim likes to go up and down every aisle in case he see something we need. We go in for one item and come out with several bags, unless I remember to carry in my own reusable shopping bags. This entails catching the clerk before she starts loading up. "Miss! Miss! I have my own bags..." Waving them around in case she doesn't understand what I mean. Then it's one bag or two at the most. If the clerk packs our stuff, it could be a dozen, due to a store rule of packing no more than two items per bag. I think it must be a rule as they all follow it.
Then it might be the pharmacy, the post office, the library, or it might be the day we pay our utility bills. We get home close to noon and I do a few household chores before settling down in front of my keyboard.
Even then, I might not begin writing. There is email to check, better look at Facebook and see what's happening...
Then I settle down and write until my mind rebels. If I've had a good day and accomplished my word count goal, I might reward myself with a few games of Spider Solitaire or Eggs, with the sound turned off because every time I make a hit in the Eggs game it sounds like glass shattering.
Then at five, time for the evening news and a glass of wine. Jim fixes dinner which we eat while watching Jeopardy! Then I clean the kitchen (believe me, this is more work than cooking) and grab my book. Evening is my time to read and I do until bedtime unless there is a program I want to watch, which is getting less and less likely.
And that is my day. It could be more productive, but hey! Life is short. Keep on doing what you enjoy doing. And if it's writing eight or ten hours a day, go for it. And if it's "wasting time" with your fella or reading the latest best seller, go for that, too.
Last I checked, the only person grading you is you.
I wish I could have answered, "Oh, eight or ten..."
But my mama taught me not to lie. She didn't wash my mouth out with soap, but she did give me a pretty good snap on the ear with her thumb and forefinger.
So I said, "Two, on a good day."
The problem is, I am finding it increasingly harder to concentrate these days. I hate to attribute it to age, so let's just say there are a lot of distractions.
I got to thinking about what I actually do do all day.
If I wake early, I read until it's time for the newspaper to be delivered, around 6 a.m. Then I fix my coffee and read the paper, ending with the crossword. I have to make sure my brain is in full function mode.
These past few weeks I've been going outside while it's cool (comparatively) and whacking off some shrubs and pulling up ivy that seem determined to turn our lawn into a habitat for wild animals. I've seen deer and would not be surprised to see a bear some fine day.
By the time I come back inside, Jim is up and most days he wants to "go get a biscuit" which takes a half hour or so, followed by a leisurely trip through the grocery store. Jim likes to go up and down every aisle in case he see something we need. We go in for one item and come out with several bags, unless I remember to carry in my own reusable shopping bags. This entails catching the clerk before she starts loading up. "Miss! Miss! I have my own bags..." Waving them around in case she doesn't understand what I mean. Then it's one bag or two at the most. If the clerk packs our stuff, it could be a dozen, due to a store rule of packing no more than two items per bag. I think it must be a rule as they all follow it.
Then it might be the pharmacy, the post office, the library, or it might be the day we pay our utility bills. We get home close to noon and I do a few household chores before settling down in front of my keyboard.
Even then, I might not begin writing. There is email to check, better look at Facebook and see what's happening...
Then I settle down and write until my mind rebels. If I've had a good day and accomplished my word count goal, I might reward myself with a few games of Spider Solitaire or Eggs, with the sound turned off because every time I make a hit in the Eggs game it sounds like glass shattering.
Then at five, time for the evening news and a glass of wine. Jim fixes dinner which we eat while watching Jeopardy! Then I clean the kitchen (believe me, this is more work than cooking) and grab my book. Evening is my time to read and I do until bedtime unless there is a program I want to watch, which is getting less and less likely.
And that is my day. It could be more productive, but hey! Life is short. Keep on doing what you enjoy doing. And if it's writing eight or ten hours a day, go for it. And if it's "wasting time" with your fella or reading the latest best seller, go for that, too.
Last I checked, the only person grading you is you.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A snippet from "A Question of Boundaries."
I've finished my second round of edits on "A Question of Boundaries" and today I am sharing another excerpt. Comments and/or opinions welcome!
Caroline had brought no jewels with her, but the feathers plucked from the hat Nathan had given her were tucked into her hair, which Tabby had drawn up into an elaborate arrangement of curls and waves. Amelia judged her ready and complimented Tabby on her handiwork. To Caroline’s relief, her companion managed to answer politely enough and the three descended the stairs.
Nathan was waiting, dressed in evening clothes that had been brushed and pressed. Although trousers had been popular for years, formal wear still included knee breeches and stockings. Caroline noted Nathan had splendid calves.
His eyes lit up as he saw her. “You are beautiful,” he said and then reached into his pocket and took out an oblong box. “Just one thing more.” He opened the box and removed a necklace. “I thought you might wear this, but I don’t think you need any more adornment.” He held up a chain of gold links holding deep blue sapphires and sparkling diamonds.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Caroline began, but she was overruled by Tabby and Amelia. Tabby seemed startled to find herself agreeing with her supposed enemy.
“Of course you can,” Nathan decreed. “Think of it as advertising my business. My cousin Evan designed it, if anyone asks. The sapphires are from North Carolina and the diamonds from our mine in Arkansas.”
Tabby took the necklace and fastened it around her mistress’ neck. “Lovely,” she declared, and no one disagreed.
Ready at last, Nathan and Caroline walked out to the carriage where a faithful Jim was waiting. As they approached the Rasmussen mansion, for the overly-ornate, three-story brick building could not be described without using superlatives, Caroline began to doubt her wisdom in insisting on coming. Every window shone with light and the carriages lined up along the drive reflected the glow from polished wood and metal trim. Alluring as the scene was, she couldn’t help feeling she was walking into a beautiful trap.
Nathan told Jim to be back at midnight. “We won’t stay a second longer,” he said as he took Caroline’s elbow and they followed the crowd of elegantly-garbed men and women to the steps leading to the double front door.
Caroline shivered as much from the chill night air as fear, for her shoulders were bare and the décolletage exposed more of her bosom than she was accustomed to.
Too soon they had climbed the stairway and were in the front hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen stood greeting their guests.
“Mister Llewellen! I’m so glad you came, and your lovely cousin.” Her eyes expertly appraised Caroline’s gown and jewelry, and her smile became warmer. “Miss Llewellen. Mister Rasmussen, may I present—”
“I know who he is,” Rasmussen interrupted her. “Evening, Nate. Miss Llewellen.” His eyes swept over her body, lingered at her bosom, then looked beyond her, his eyes already on the next guest.
Caroline breathed a sigh. The first hurdle had been passed; he had not recognized her.
Caroline had brought no jewels with her, but the feathers plucked from the hat Nathan had given her were tucked into her hair, which Tabby had drawn up into an elaborate arrangement of curls and waves. Amelia judged her ready and complimented Tabby on her handiwork. To Caroline’s relief, her companion managed to answer politely enough and the three descended the stairs.
Nathan was waiting, dressed in evening clothes that had been brushed and pressed. Although trousers had been popular for years, formal wear still included knee breeches and stockings. Caroline noted Nathan had splendid calves.
His eyes lit up as he saw her. “You are beautiful,” he said and then reached into his pocket and took out an oblong box. “Just one thing more.” He opened the box and removed a necklace. “I thought you might wear this, but I don’t think you need any more adornment.” He held up a chain of gold links holding deep blue sapphires and sparkling diamonds.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Caroline began, but she was overruled by Tabby and Amelia. Tabby seemed startled to find herself agreeing with her supposed enemy.
“Of course you can,” Nathan decreed. “Think of it as advertising my business. My cousin Evan designed it, if anyone asks. The sapphires are from North Carolina and the diamonds from our mine in Arkansas.”
Tabby took the necklace and fastened it around her mistress’ neck. “Lovely,” she declared, and no one disagreed.
Ready at last, Nathan and Caroline walked out to the carriage where a faithful Jim was waiting. As they approached the Rasmussen mansion, for the overly-ornate, three-story brick building could not be described without using superlatives, Caroline began to doubt her wisdom in insisting on coming. Every window shone with light and the carriages lined up along the drive reflected the glow from polished wood and metal trim. Alluring as the scene was, she couldn’t help feeling she was walking into a beautiful trap.
Nathan told Jim to be back at midnight. “We won’t stay a second longer,” he said as he took Caroline’s elbow and they followed the crowd of elegantly-garbed men and women to the steps leading to the double front door.
Caroline shivered as much from the chill night air as fear, for her shoulders were bare and the décolletage exposed more of her bosom than she was accustomed to.
Too soon they had climbed the stairway and were in the front hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen stood greeting their guests.
“Mister Llewellen! I’m so glad you came, and your lovely cousin.” Her eyes expertly appraised Caroline’s gown and jewelry, and her smile became warmer. “Miss Llewellen. Mister Rasmussen, may I present—”
“I know who he is,” Rasmussen interrupted her. “Evening, Nate. Miss Llewellen.” His eyes swept over her body, lingered at her bosom, then looked beyond her, his eyes already on the next guest.
Caroline breathed a sigh. The first hurdle had been passed; he had not recognized her.
Coming soon from Astraea Press.
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