“Join me for a dance, Mrs. Willoughby?”

Rachel looked up at Frank Watson and smiled demurely though her skin crawled at the prospect of waltzing with the man. Accepting his offered hand, she turned on her newly acquired Memphis accent and answered, “I would love to, Mr. Watson, but please, call me Rachel.”

“If you promise to call me Frank.” The tall, red-haired snake led her out onto the crowded dance floor.

Leaving Jack’s side a moment earlier, she’d made a beeline for the reptile they intended to snare, sidling up beside him as he’d excused himself from a small group of men. She’d introduced herself, complimented his home and then thanked him for inviting her and her husband to the charity gala, all while concealing two emotions. Repugnance was the first. The thought of what this man had done to innocent people for the last ten years made her sick. The second was a feeling of extreme pride.

She’d been nervous about her first assignment, so much so that she’d thrown up early this morning just thinking about it. Tom had held her hair as she retched like a sorority girl over the toilet. He’d held her in bed afterwards, asking if she was sure she still wanted to be a major player in the operation. She’d answered without any hesitation —“Yes. I want to get this guy.”

And here she was, in the lion’s den being whirled across the polished floor by the guy himself. And it had been easy. The minute she’d recognized him across the room it was like her fear flew out the two-story windows. She knew what she had to do and wasted no time doing it. “Make contact as soon as possible,” Jack had said. And she’d done it…without throwing up all over her gown.

Pride was an understatement. She felt downright exhilarated.

“You mentioned you just moved to Atlanta from Memphis?” Frank’s hand slid lower down her back as he did a change step to the right in time with the chorus of violins.

Graze my ass again and you’re gonna draw back a stump, she wanted to growl, but instead answered, “Yes.” She frowned.

The expression did the trick. Frank took the bait. “You don’t look happy about the move.”

“Atlanta is lovely, really, it’s just that…,” she broke off, allowing her voice to crack.

“What?” he asked, as he side-stepped her to the left in time with the music.

Rachel studied the swish of her gown as it brushed her toes while she drummed up the requisite emotion. After a moment she let him see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. As a kid, she had realized she could cry at will. The trick came in handy now. His cinnamon-colored brows knitted together and she looked away quickly as if she didn’t want him to see her distress. He leaned in closer, ducking his head to see her tear- streaked face.

“Are you all right?”

Rachel allowed him to pull her closer, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose. He wore too much cologne. She’d never been a fan of cologne. And thankfully neither Tom nor Jack appeared to ever wear the stuff. The best way she could describe Tom’s natural scent was Thanksgiving dinner—spicy, warm and inviting. She’d breathe him in and immediately feel comforted, at peace, totally calm. She could wrap herself in that scent and loved the way her skin absorbed the fragrance when he held her in his strong arms.

Jack’s scent, on the other hand, conjured a completely opposite set of emotions. His skin smelled like the slopes of Aspen, sharp, brisk…dangerous. His scent made her feel on edge. It gave her goose bumps, reminding her of the ice and snow of the frigid Rockies. Jack’s scent wasn’t comforting. It was disconcerting.

“Rachel?”

She looked up at Frank’s face and grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his arms and hurrying to the edge of the dance floor. She made her way to an unoccupied corner of the ballroom hoping he would follow.

After a heartbeat passed, Rachel felt a hand on her shoulder. Smiling inwardly, she turned to make eye contact with her prey.

“Whatever it is, I bet I can help,” he assured her.

She shook her head in defeat. “This isn’t your problem.” She hesitated and swiped at the few tears lingering on her cheeks. With a nervous chuckle she looked up at him. “God, I can’t believe I just teared up. You must think I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Not at all.”

“I feel like an idiot.” She moved to walk away, but he took hold of her elbow, stopping her.

“What’s bugging you?” he asked softly.

The bastard actually sounds sincere. Rachel realized it was his charm that put people at ease. His handsome face and gentlemanly manner were no doubt responsible for his success as a ruthless criminal. The idea made her think of the poetic words, “Will you walk into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Even more determined to bust this guy, Rachel let tears fill her eyes again. “You can’t help.”

He smirked with obvious confidence. “I’m a very wealthy man,” he said, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Wealth opens doors, and those doors inevitably reveal answers to problems.” He took a sip and then added, “Let me open a door or two for you.”

“Why would you be willing to help me, a virtual stranger?” She blotted her tears with a small napkin he had handed her while trying to remain inconspicuous from the other guests.

He looked around the room and then back at her. “It’s a charity ball. Let’s just say I’m in a giving mood. Plus, a little bird told me all about you. You headed up the Hispanic Children and Families Foundation, chaired Women for Latino Youth Development and Achievement and helped find homes for immigrants in Memphis. And in the few months you’ve been here in Atlanta you’ve already become a major part of our String of Pearls charity. I think you deserve a little help.”

Rachel smiled both externally and internally. The FBI sure knew how to manufacture an alias. “That bird must really do his homework,” she said, wiping her nose.

“I’m giving a tidy sum of money to your charity this evening. I feel I have a right to do a background check or two.”

“One or two?” she asked with a raised brow, still dabbing her moist cheeks. Glancing around the ballroom at the couples dancing and the ones sitting at tables, she smiled and then looked back at him. “There are more than a few people here, Mr. Watson. You must have a great memory for detail to recall my history so easily.”

He flashed a brilliant, bleached smile. “Photographic. And I like to know as much as I can about my friends.”

Rachel hid her mounting concern. Maybe the tears were too much. Was this guy playing her? Did he really have a photographic memory or was he on to them?

She couldn’t read his slate eyes and wondered if she should continue luring him into incrimination or back off. She suddenly doubted her ability to make the decision on her own. She scanned the room, looking for Jack. At first she couldn’t locate his tall, broad-shouldered form, but after a moment she found him.

He stood near the huge bank of windows. His body language was casual and laid back, his smile devastatingly sexy. He leaned in close, chatting with a woman. But not just any woman. His companion was none other than Olivia Watson, the snake’s wife and partner in crime. Rachel recognized her immediately from the intel photos they’d been issued. She was even more beautiful in real life. Blonde hair, blue eyes, bronzed skin, a body that belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.

Jeesh, I’m gonna be sick. Rachel’s stomach clenched painfully, but it wasn’t nerves this time. The roiling in her gut felt more like…jealousy.

Jealousy? Over Jack?

Tom had become so important to her in such a short amount of time. He was sweet and giving, courageous and brave. His kisses curled her toes. His touch set her skin on fire. How could she feel all of those things with Tom and still manage to feel jealous watching Jack flirt with another woman?

She looked away, giving herself a mental slap.

Her first assignment and already she was blowing it. Get a grip. He’s doing his job. Now do yours and stop acting like a damn rookie.

Meeting Frank’s gaze, Rachel softened her expression, lowering her lashes. Tom said when she looked at him that way there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. Rachel just hoped the expression worked on sociopaths, too.

“I assure you,” she hesitated for effect and then added, “Frank.” He smiled, obviously pleased she’d finally used his first name. “I am a friend. I’m just, well,” she glanced at Jack and then back again. “I’m at the end of my rope.” Grimacing, she leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s funny, I’ve only just met you but I feel like I can confide in you. I’m not sure why.”

“For some reason I put people at ease. Always have. You have my undivided attention,” he urged with a nod.

“It’s my husband.” She hesitated, worrying at the napkin she clutched in her fingers. “He’s been unfaithful to me,” she finally added.

“How do you know?”

“I caught him.” She glanced Jack’s way, but he wasn’t there. Scanning the outskirts of the room, Rachel couldn’t locate him.

With one last stroke of a violin, the waltz ended and the couples on the dance floor clapped for the six-piece orchestra. Rachel began clapping without much emotion, but Frank took hold of her elbow and maneuvered her through the throng of guests. She allowed him to lead her out into the cavernous foyer. Couples mingled on the black and white checkerboard tiles beneath the diamond-like glow of a crystal chandelier. Frank ignored them, led her past the wide, central staircase and then straight into a large room off the main entryway lined with books and smelling of leather.

He closed the door behind them, indicating a pin-striped sofa. “Sit, we’ll have more privacy in here.”

Rachel took a seat, sweeping her gown out from beneath her heels. “I don’t want to take you from your guests.”

“It’s early. I’ll have plenty of time to rub elbows later.” He opened a crystal decanter and poured two generous drinks. Walking up to her, he held out a glass. “It’s Glendronach, single malt. If angels drank,” he held the glass up to his scrutiny, “this would be their beverage of choice.”

Rachel accepted the liquor. It smelled amazing, but she didn’t take a sip. Instead she shrugged lightly. “You’ve just been so kind.” She hoped her Memphis twang wasn’t beginning to sound hokey. “I wish everyone was as kind as you are.”

He took a sip of his drink and then sat across from her. “Tell me what’s going on with your husband.”

She set the glass on the coffee table and stood. Pacing the finely-woven Oriental rug, she wove a tale. “I have two young women working in my home as maids. They’re Venezuelan, very pretty.” She stopped pacing and chewed her thumb nail. “Sisters.” She glanced at him. “My charity work puts me in contact with large numbers of immigrants here on work visas on a regular basis. I find them employment, homes, support. On occasion I hire some of them myself. I’ve never had any trouble before.”

She slumped into a wing chair opposite him and put her hand over her mouth with a distressed look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled through her fingers. “I can’t believe I’m laying this all on you.” As tears fell from her lashes, she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“You think your husband is involved with one of these women?”

She looked up. “They’re girls, teenagers, eighteen and nineteen.” Worrying at the fabric of her dress she continued. “And I don’t think he’s involved with one of them. It’s both of them.”

He drained his scotch, leaned back in his chair and looked at her pointedly. “I’m so sorry.” He hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Does your husband know you know?”

She looked down at the floor. Trying to appear uncomfortable she began wringing her hands in her lap. She shook her head. “No. I left the room before they saw me. I’m not good at confrontation. I’m a wimp if you want to know the truth. I’m not proud of that.” She looked at the ceiling and shook her head again. “God I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you all of this.” Wiping away tears she looked back at him.

“Did you fire the girls?”

She shook her head no. “I caught him this morning. I haven’t talked to them yet. I just keep seeing their faces. They were scared.”

“I’m surprised you’re here with him.”

She wrinkled her brows. “My husband’s marriage vows may mean nothing to me right now, but this charity means everything. I can’t turn my back on these people. They need our help.” She studied the floor and continued wringing her hands. “I know I have to confront my husband, and I will. I also know I should fire the girls as soon as I get home, but I.…”

“What?” he urged.

“They have nowhere else to go. They have no family but each other. In Venezuela they had to prostitute themselves just to eat. Here they hoped to be safe from that, but….” She shook her head ruefully. “My husband took that hope away from them. I don’t blame the girls. I blame him. He took advantage.” She stared off into space. “It’s what he does best.”

Her gaze re-focused and her hand fluttered at her throat. “I know you probably think I’m a fool, but I can’t just kick them out in the street.”

“I don’t think that at all. You’re sympathetic. I admire your integrity.”

Looking at her lap, Rachel kept comments about his compliment to herself. If she didn’t know Frank Watson’s true character inside and out, she’d think he was actually as caring and compassionate as he was wealthy. But the vast wealth he enjoyed on a daily basis flowed into his hands on a tidal wave of blood, despair and pain. His legit business associates and the law-abiding world in general seemed to look at Watson through rose-colored glasses. But in the dark underworld of white slavery there was no such illusion. His sadistic cruelty and terrifying fits of rage were well known. The man was a modern day Jekyll and Hyde.

He stood and walked to the bar. After he poured himself another drink, he turned and leaned against the burled walnut cabinet. “Let me help you out.”

Rachel looked up, shaking her head back and forth. “No. I’ve already imposed on you too much.” She stood to excuse herself. “You invite me into your home and I thank you by dumping my problems into your lap.” She kicked her gown’s train out of her way and turned to leave. “Thank you Mr. Watson.” She glanced back at him. “Frank…thank you for being so kind, but I should go now.”

“Rachel.”

She stopped after a few steps and turned to face him.

“Listen,” he said, walking forward. “I want to help you.” He came closer, standing just inches away. His grey eyes bore into hers. “Let me help you,” he whispered.

Rachel looked up at him with hope in her gaze, trying to look helpless and vulnerable. He lifted his hand and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Holy shit. Are you kidding me? He’s gonna hit on me now?

She didn’t know why she was surprised at the turn of events and did her best to conceal the emotion along with hiding her extreme disgust. “How can you help?”

He lowered his hand and smiled. Rachel got an image of the Cheshire cat in her head. “I’m Frank Watson.”

As if those two words explained everything. And of course, they did.

“I’ve spent years cultivating friends in a wide variety of circles. Some of them just pretend to like me because of the money.” He shrugged lightly. “Their loss. But some of my acquaintances are true friends and I know they’d agree with me that you need help.”

“My marriage is already ruined. No one can help with that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Let me take the girls off your hands.”

Her eyes searched his and she allowed a note of hope to creep into her expression while inside she jumped for joy. Here it was. The first step. Oh sure his words weren’t enough to condemn him, but they were a step in the right direction. She was sickened by his nonchalance, but she was also glad to be a part of his downfall. “Take them off my hands?”

“You don’t want to put them out on the street and I agree with you. They’d just end up getting into more trouble. They’re just kids really. Who knows what their fate would be.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be much different than their lives had been in the Venezuelan slums. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“I know a few people who would be happy to take them in.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank smiled. “They’re families who have the same interests that you do. One of them, a Senator and his wife, take in immigrants all the time. Like you, they find them jobs, set them up with housing, and acclimate them until they can earn citizenship. I think they’d be a perfect match for your girls.”

“So you could find them a place to live?”

“I definitely could. And this way, your husband doesn’t have access to them, and they can live in a safe, nurturing environment until they get themselves on their feet, so to speak.”

“Really?” She smiled, her hand rising to touch her heart. She inhaled deeply before letting her breath filter slowly through her lips.

The gesture wasn’t lost on him. “Really. I’ll make some calls later and get it all set up.”

“But what if they can’t take them in?”

“That’s not an issue. I know they’ll be glad to help.”

Rachel smiled up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’re a beautiful woman. That smile is a good start. But I wouldn’t turn down a hug.”

Rachel envisioned herself kneeing him in the crotch, but he was so damn slimy she was sure the blow would glance off with little effect. She couldn’t stand being in the room with him, talking to him, smiling at him.

And now she’d have to hug him.

She wanted to vomit, but instead she smiled brightly and opened her arms. He swooped in like the predator he was and crushed her in his arms.

That second, the library door opened.

“Get your damn hands off her.”

Rachel recognized the voice immediately. She turned to see Jack standing in the doorway with Olivia Watson at his side.

*****************

Uh-oh, what now? Stay tuned for Chapter Three Thursday, September 9. And don’t forget our guest chef tomorrow, the fabulous Barbara Monajem.

Comment below for a chance to win either a copy of Cooking with the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales – our brand new, hot-off-the-shelf cookbook OR a $25 gift certificate to your choice of Amazon, Barnes & Nobel, Books a Million, or iTunes.

Georgia Romance Writers (a sub-chapter of RWA) and the powers that be came up with a brilliant idea.  Every year we have a drawing in December.  This drawing is called Finish the Book.  Members pay five dollars.  The money goes in a pot and at the end of the year the people that actually finished a WIP all hope to win the nice chunk of change that accumulated. 

I always enter, never win.  (The part about never winning has to do with procrastination on my part.)  But those that win seem very happy to earn some extra cash right before Christmas.

This year, the GRW powers that be decided to kick things up a notch.  I’m not sure the newest drawing has a name, but I’m referring to it as “Dang, I’ve earned a crap load of rejections this year and I’m lovin’ it!”

“Lovin’ it?” you might ask.

Why would anyone love rejections?

I’ll tell you why.

Because even though rejections are tough, demoralizing, heart breaking, and sometimes, yes, the reason sales of chocolate ice cream and Krispy Creme are so high, a rejection means that you’re putting your work out there.

It’s a brave writer who pours their heart and soul into a novel and then mails it out to an editor or agent.

And bravery should be rewarded!

Whether the rejection is a form letter, a cutting criticism or a helpful page long no thank you, you should be proud that you have one…or one hundred for that matter.

So ladies of GRW put in your money!  Enter the drawing and collect those rejections.  Those of you who don’t happen to be a member of the best darn chapter in the nation (and host to the GREAT M&M conference) never fear, you can be rewarded for your efforts too.

One day those many rejections and the insight that comes with them just might lead to a sale.  And then you can say you’re “Lovin’ rejections too!

Keep writing!!

Have a wonderful day,

Tamara

So far this month we’ve discussed the indoor appearance of unwanted forest friends, cell phone etiquette, and other blood pressure spiking subjects. I loved the posts, but the comments have been great as well. And some of them were down right hilarious. It’s comforting, in a way, to find out that I’m not the only one who has numerous grrr, arggg moments throughout the day.

I have two teenagers. A sixteen year old son and a thirteen year old daughter. The makings for frustration at its best.

Even though my children happen to be good kids, they are still teenagers and, well, nobody’s perfect.

So here is my Teenagers home for the summer grr, arggg list. 

1. Why do teenagers think, “Clean the clothes off your bedroom floor,” really means, “Stuff the clothes, dirty or clean, under your bed?”

2. Why do teenagers think it’s okay to bring their friends into the house without warning mom that she might want to put a bra on, change out of her pj’s and possibly do something with the rat’s nest she calls hair?

3.Why do teenagers need to get a clean glass from the cabinet when there’s already fifteen dirty ones stacked on the desk in their bedroom?

4.Why do teenagers suddenly realize they need something from you the minute you sit down and put your feet up?

5.Why do teenagers leave empty milk cartons in the fridge?

6.Why do teenagers leave empty Oreo containers in the pantry?

7.Why do teenagers think the words, “I’m writing now,” really means, “Please keep knocking on my office door and asking me to make you a sandwich, where the tape is, what’s for dinner, can you take me to Allie’s house, can you braid my hair, did you buy deodorant….

8.Why do teenagers think that, “Can you mow the lawn, please?” actually means, “Please make sure to miss large patches of grass here and there because I like for the lawn to look like it was cut by Mr. Magoo.”

9.Why can’t teenagers brush their teeth without getting fifteen gallons of water and toothpaste foam on the mirror?

10.Why do teenagers have to text me a question instead of just walking downstairs and asking me in person?

So there is my list. I love my kids, but grr, arggg they get on my nerves sometimes.

Any crazy teen or kid pet peeves that grr, argg you? Let me know. I’d love to hear them.

Have a great day all,

Tamara

Happily married I might add. He’s a great guy. His laid back attitude and eternal good cheer are in direct contrast with my surly nature and fiery personality. We’re opposites in every way…right down to our food choices.

When I ask him what he loves about me, he says, “I like that you’re passionate about things.” You see, to him, my short fuse is nothing more than passion.

Go figure.

To my parents, my so-called passionate nature is nothing less than eternal spoiled rotteness.

When my husband asks me what I love about him, well, the list is endless.

I think he’s a saint…he puts up with me. He’s an amazing father, patient and understanding. And, well, he’s no shlump in the sack either.

But I also love his tenacity.

My husband played football in college, special teams and running back. He’s always been an incredible athlete. In fact, I met him in college. He was a nationally ranked power lifter at the time and I fell head over heels for him the minute I saw him in the gym.

But, back to football.

He hasn’t played the game he loves in over twenty years. I know he missed the old pig-skin, but he’s not only a great person, but a responsible, working adult. He has a family to provide for and he’s spent the years taking care of me and our two kids.

Time for football just wasn’t in the cards.

Plus, he’s going to be 43 years old this July. Not ancient by any means of the word, but for a football player, a little over the hill. 

But six months ago, with more time on his hands (thank you promotion) he began working toward a goal. Football. He’s been training hard, eating right and hitting the gym. And about a month ago, my 43 year old husband tried out and made Atlanta’s own Jetts semi-pro football team.

He told me about his accomplishment after the fact.

Was I angry? Not at all. I was thrilled. He set a goal, worked toward that goal and achieved the goal.

He’s my hero.

Watching him alter his physique (umm, Dusty was a hottie to begin with, but adding inches to his biceps and breadth to his already wide shoulders was just icing on the cake!) and don his practice jersey every weekend in anticipation of training makes me want to achieve my own goals even more.

You’re never too old…to do what you love, whether it’s football, skydiving (I read an article on an 80 year old woman parachuting out of a plane, no kidding) or even writing the novel of your heart.

All it takes is a dream and the will and like my darling husband, even your goals can be achieved!

Have a happy day!

Tamara

Oh, and P.S., have you ever done anything other people might consider you “too old” for? 

I’d love to hear from you!

So this month we’re focusing on inspiration. We’ve even been given a nice sentence to help illustrate the theme.

“I was just____ and it hit me____!”

 “I was just in a rabbit costume, and it hit me…heat stroke!”

 The sentence might sound crazy, but… Fifteen years ago I agreed to dress as a white rabbit for an Easter parade in a local neighborhood. Little did I know I’d be walking two and a half miles in oversized bunny feet, covered in thick wool fur and suffocating in a ten pound plastic head that smelled like car tires and sweat.

Did I mention it was over 90 outside and I worked for four hours without a break?

So, yes, heat stroke was imminent, but the least of my problems.

I was attacked by a seven year old Mike Tyson impersonator who thought it’d be funny to punch Peter Cottontail in the stomach. Children yanked my tail, poked my mesh eyes, pulled my ears and one even tripped me.

I also held screaming babies and fidgeting toddlers on my lap while I waved to a photographer who moved slower than a turtle with arthritis.

After hours in the costume, a jab in the gut, no water and the odd stink of deodorant, rubber and BO swirling around in the mask I’d had enough.

I fainted.

In front of everyone.

Of course to a child, a six foot rabbit losing consciousness looks exactly like a six foot rabbit dying. I was told later (after being placed on a gurney…headless but still in costume, loaded in the ambulance, and rushed to the hospital) that most every kid at the festival under 6 years old was sure the Easter Bunny had died of a heart attack and then was quickly beheaded.

How’d you like to explain that one to your toddler?

I’m thinking there’s not enough Cadburry Eggs in the world to help them forget that horrifying image.

Anyway, though I wouldn’t volunteer to be a holiday mascot ever again, the experience wasn’t all bad.

In fact, it became my inspiration for my contemporary novel, Blessing in Disguise.

My heroine wears a costume at a holiday parade, suffers from heatstroke and faints right into the arms of the hero.

Right now the story is under publisher consideration. I’m crossing my fingers!

So the moral of this totally true tale is – inspiration can come from just about anywhere. You just have to know where to look.  

Keep dreaming, keep writing, keep submitting!

Have a great day,

Tamara DeStefano

For many of us it just might be.

But there are those of us who see the word in a different light.

We writers are a creative bunch.  An obvious observation, yes, but some of us tend to forget that creativity springs from deep in our subconscious.  The same place dreams inhabit.  Our writer’s brains are hard wired to accept visionary creations and a release from reality.  That’s why so many of us can say, “My characters speak to me.”  And still other’s of us can write about wizards, vampires or even shapeshifting she-tigers.  Because we dream.

Dreams aren’t reserved for sleep alone.  They can spring up any time of the day.  In any place.  At any time.  They help us create rich characters and complex plots, dazzling worlds and surreal realms.  

A writer who doesn’t dream, isn’t doing her job.  She has a debt to pay.  That debt is escape.  Readers buy our books, devour our novels and in thanks we owe them a release from reality.  We must become their time machine, their white wale, their Elizabeth Bennet, their haunting teen vampire.  We must dream up the stories that inspire, arouse, and stimulate the soul.

To me, my dreams aren’t simply clusters of unrelated images banging around my brain during a rapid REM cycle.

To me, my dreams are a purpose, a goal.  My dreams are stories.

And I feel lucky to be someone who can tell them.

I’m assuming Albert Einstein isn’t the first person you picture when the subject of romance writing is brought up.

Don’t get me wrong, the wild haired, sockless physicist was awfully cute, but let’s be honest, he was no Fabio.

However, watching a documentary on the brilliant man got me thinking. The ups and downs punctuating his monumental career, mirrors in many ways the successes and failures of the struggling romance author.

Did you know that as a young man in 1904, Einstein thought about leaving the science world and selling insurance? He nearly threw in the towel because the article he had written on special relativity wasn’t immediately accepted. No one understood the darn thing, they couldn’t grasp the concept so it was in a sense, rejected.

As romance authors many of us have thought of quitting too. Especially after mailing our life’s blood out in a Tyvec envelope, waiting months or even years for a reply and praying in that time that our words will be understood. We cross our fingers that the editor or agent who requested our novel will embrace the plot, root for the characters and grasp the concept of our story. But sadly, more often than not they don’t.

And when we are rejected, many of us, me included, sometimes wonder if we were even meant to be authors in the first place.

Now, though his theories have shaped our world today, Einstein wasn’t what you call an overnight sensation. He labored over the perfect mathematical equation for years with little support. He even worried that someone might scoop his earth shattering idea.

But thankfully the cooky scientist didn’t quit.

And in 1915 after 10 years of rejection Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity concerning space time was finally unveiled. His idea, thoughts, inspiration and dreams were accepted…because he didn’t give up.

Einstein once said, “You don’t have to be born rich, handsome or strong. To achieve greatness you must merely persevere.”

What a waste it would have been if he had taken that insurance job and kissed the science community goodbye.

And in the same regard it would be a waste if you gave up on publication because of rejection.

Keep at it. Keep writing. Keep persevering and one day, like that wild haired scientist, you will be accepted too.

Thank you for stopping by PFHT.

Have a lovely day,

Tamara

The end of the year.

It’s been a good one for me.

My sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, her third child, second son.

My other sister, ten years my junior is pregnant with her second child. She wants a girl (cross your fingers)

My own children are healthy, thank God for that and I’ve been blessed, so far because they are also good kids. The pesemist in me says, so far. They’re teenagers, 16 and 13 and I’m always wondering when they might start acting out, dye their hair green, peirce something, open a Meth lab in the basement.

But…So far, so good. No green hair, no nose, navel or tongue peircings, and thankfully, no Meth.

I have a wonderful family, sweet, funny, children, a devoted, loving husband and for that I am truly thankful.

To me, The End also means this…

I FINISHED MY SECOND NOVEL!!

Five years ago I came up with the idea for this novel. I started it like I do all of my books, with eagerness and excitement. But then in true Tamara form, the story fell by the wayside after another idea popped into my mind. So after only a few months of writing, I set aside my novel and started another.

A few times over the five years I revisited Sophie White (my heroine). I’d write a page or two, maybe a chapter and much to my critique partner’s chagrin, I’d go weeks without handing anything in for them to read. I’d bounce back and forth, working on two or three novels at a time, not really putting much effort into finishing any of them.

For those of you who know me, I’ve mentioned this many times. 9 partially finished manuscripts languish in the darkest corners of my laptop’s electronic brain.

So in September I decided that was enough. I’m going to finish Sophie White and enter her in the Golden Heart.

Half done, I was sure I could make the deadline.

But…

I didn’t.

I missed the date without really having tried hard to make it.

I was so close though, more than half finished. So I decided to keep plugging along and complete the novel for GRW’s finish the book contest.

I wrote everyday for 2 weeks. I even turned off the TV for hours and hours. (I have the TV on in the house even when I’m not watching. I’m a shameless boob tube lover)

The final week before the Georgia Romance Writer’s annual Christmas party I shifted into high gear and wrote 115 pages in 4 days.
And then I actually did it. I finished Sophie White, a book I truly love, with characters I truly adore.
2009 is coming to an end, but I’m excited. 2010 will be a brand new year. Full of goals and hopes and dreams that I plan on fulfilling. In those last four days before the GRW party I showed myself, proved to myself, that I can do it. I can finish something.
Sure I finished one novel before, but I’d always thought of it as just a fluke. But it wasn’t. This second completed manuscript is next in line, number 2. One of many to come.

The words, The End don’t have to be negative.
They can be positive too.
Like with the end of 2009. January first will brings with it the birth of a new year and the bright future it holds for each one of us.
And of course the end of a novel brings closure, accomplishment and true joy.

Meet 2010 with open arms. Look at this new year as the beginning of something amazing so that you too will be able to write…The End.

Thank you so much for stopping by.
Keep writing, keep dreaming and keep doing your very best.
Have a brilliant, productive day,
Tamara

 
Recognize these two?

Anyone out there a Supernatural fan? If you’re not, you’re missing out.

My daughter and I are Jared and Jensen groupies. She’s team Jared, I’m team Jensen.

(Jenson’s in the foreground by the way. Sizzlin, huh?)

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, Supernatural is a series on the CW. Jared Padalecki plays Sam Winchester, boy wonder, computer genius, sensitive, demon blooded, younger brother whom my daughter refers to as The Spice of her Life. Jensen Ackles plays Dean Winchester, flawed, classic rock, classic car, fast women, trans fat, pie loving older brother. I simply refer to him , with a twinkle in my cougar eye, as Hottie Mc-hotstein.

In a nutshell, the brothers are demon hunters, bent on saving the world from Lucifer and his minions.

It’s a friggin awesome show if you’re into hot guys, paranormal worlds and a cherry, 67, black, Chevy Impala…hey, who isn’t into that?

 

The series has an official cast of two. The only regulars are the “Spicy” brothers Winchester. Every week, the Winchester boys find themselves in a new city or town facing a new supernatural threat, encountering new characters along the way, most never to be seen again. And that’s just fine by me.

Two brothers, battling evil with a shirtless scene every so often is all I need to be supremely happy.

And given the nature of the show, it just wouldn’t work if the brothers’ lacked chemistry. Luckily, Ackles and Padalecki instantly created beautiful music together from show one. You can actually feel their chemistry when you watch. You share their sadness (these butt kicking guys actually cry. It’s heartbreaking when they tear up), their frustrations and their few moments of happiness. You laugh at their pranks and jokes and in general, you believe these guys could be brothers. The actors do such a good job my daughter and I actually feel like they really are related and we hate when they fight.

From a production standpoint, this show is one of the best on the air today in my opinion. There are basically four directors that call the shots on a rotating schedule and all of them are good. They’re each on the same plane, and because of this, the show is tight, well written and boasts a deep sense of continuity. Plus, the writers have done their homework. The lore and mythology of the show are based on real legends in history. This gives the series a very realistic feel. On top of that, the effects, both practical and CGI are top notch for TV. It’s often bloody, scary and totally freaky, but the tendency for gore is perfectly offset by a rockin sound track, a hot car, the believable emotional struggle between the brothers and the overall story arch that continues through each season.

October is the month of ghouls, goblins, vampires and spooks. What better way to embrace the spirit of Halloween than to curl up on the couch with a warm cup of cocoa, slippers on, phone off, TV tuned, and watch this show? Plus, you might even end up bonding with your teen son or daughter while taking it all in. It’s a win win.

The show is in its fifth season right now, Thursdays, 9:00 on the CW. If you’re like me and can’t abide starting a series from the middle, never fear, the first four seasons are on DVD and I promise, they are worth every penny. The GMC you pick up from the show alone is worth it’s weight in gold if you’re a writer. I’d buy it as a learning tool…well, for that and the opportunity to see Sam Winchester’s abbs on screen. You can also rent the series from Blockbuster or Netflix…pick your poison.

 

I highly recommend you try it out. Whether you’re a die hard paranormal fan or not, I believe the story of these brother’s, their tragic history, their present struggle and the future battles they’ll face together will keep you coming back for more.

So, all you paranormal TV fans out there, let me know if you’re a Supernatural fan – what do you like about the show and are you team Jared or Jensen?

 

If you’re not a SN fan, what shows do or did you like? Buffy? Angel? Heroes? Lost? Smallville? Fringe? Just to name a few.

Love to hear from you!

Have a great day, a happy Halloween and make time to write, write, write!

Tamara