Writing Romance Is Like...

Welcome back to my home blog! (well, one of my homes… I spend a lot of time at the Nine Naughty Novelists too! *g*)

So this is stop #9 (out of 10 in case you’re wondering) for my blog tour!

You probably know the details by now, but just in case:

Since November is the anniversary month of my first published book, I decided to go on a tour and chat and give stuff away!

The “theme” (I use the term loosely) is Writing Romance Is Like…
And every blog stop has a difference comparison that will give you some insight into who I am, how I write and my slightly weird sense of humor. Oh, and you can win stuff! Every commenter gets entered for a chance at a book from my backlist. And if you really want to have some fun: follow me around to all the stops on the schedule (on my website) get the answers to the questions (on the form on my site) and then e-mail them to me by December 15th to get entered into a drawing for a $50 gift certificate to Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com or MyBookstoreandMore.com. Come join the fun!!

And now…
Writing Romance Is Like… Being a Knocked Up Homecoming Queen: the spotlight is on you, you get to wear a sparkly crown… and now everyone can see your big mistake.

I was not the Homecoming Queen. I’m not really the type. I wasn’t unpopular but I wasn’t HCQ popular. I never was very good at kissing up and trying to make everyone happy. But one of my good friends was the Queen and I remember how nervous she was. She was so concerned about having the right shoes, getting her hair done, picking the right dress. Because she would be on stage, in the spotlight, for everyone to see. And, as typical teenage girls do, someone (or more than one someone) would be looking for even the tiniest flaw.

Which reminds me a little of being a published author. Before I published I figured the only person I needed to worry about liking my characters, enjoying my story and admiring my word choice would be the acquiring editor.

But a published book is kind of up on stage in a spotlight. Once it’s published and available, anyone with a five-dollar bill can get a hold of it and then… well, they don’t have to like it. And if they have a Twitter account, a blog, a Facebook page, or even an e-mail account (or a break room at work) they can let a whole bunch of people know what it’s flaws are. You can bet if you end up a pregnant homecoming queen—everyone’s gonna know and everyone’s going to have an opinion.

So, it definitely feels great to be published, to see your book for sale, to have a kick-butt cover, to have great reviews. But for every person who likes my book there will likely be someone who won’t. I’m okay with that and trust that many people who won’t like it won’t even pick it up because of the blurb or excerpt or whatever. But there will always be a few who will think they might like it and end up being less than impressed.

It still feels uncomfortable. Like standing up there with a tiara and maternity underwear at the same time. Somebody liked me enough to put me in the spotlight, but by walking up there I accept the risk that somebody else might find a run in my hose, a hair out of place or feel my lipstick choice was wrong.


The good news is that I really like tiaras. I love having people like my books, read my books, talk about my books... enough to not worry too much about lipstick shades! *G*



Join me at my next (and final) stop! November 29th at the Nine Naughty Novelists blog: ninenaughtynovelists.blogspot.com


Excerpt, Just Right (which got five star ratings and two star ratings… go figure)
Erin Nicholas


He’d wanted her for a long time. Before tonight, he’d liked what he knew about her and wanted to know more, but he couldn’t do anything about what he wanted to do to her. When he was at work he wasn’t filing tax claims, or harvesting corn, or teaching algebra or asking if people wanted to Super Size things. He was saving lives. He simply couldn’t—wouldn’t—be distracted by a nice body and some sexy underwear when he was supposed to be putting people back together.


Of course, that was before he quit putting people back together a few hours ago.


Now he could pretty much do whatever the hell he wanted.


He came off his stool and rounded the table. He grasped the edges of Jessica’s seat in both hands and turned her to face him, then moved in until his belt buckle touched her knee. “So, what do you want in exchange for this huge favor you’re doing for me?”


She didn’t pull back or even stiffen in response to his sudden nearness, and he was inordinately pleased, but she did look mildly surprised. He could see her lips fall open slightly as she pulled in a long breath.


He’d never dared test if the chemistry he felt was reciprocal. He and Jessica were colleagues in a stressful environment that required concentration, quick thinking and skills that were practically reflexes. The last thing he needed was the distraction of trying to get a bullet away from a spinal cord or patching a bleed in a major artery while his girlfriend stood across the table from him fuming about their latest argument.


“I get the satisfaction of knowing that you’re safely home,” Jessica finally said.


They needed to be very clear on a few important points. “Is Sam paying you?”


She looked offended by the suggestion. “Of course not.”


“Do you feel sorry for me, Jessica?”


She snorted. Actually snorted. “No, Ben. I do not feel sorry for you.”


He moved closer, a centimeter at best, but enough to fill more of the air around him with her scent and body heat. Her eyes widened a fraction and if he hadn’t been watching for it—or for any reaction at all—he would have missed it.


“Are you worried about me?”


She wet her lips before answering and Ben thought about just kissing her and finding out if her

response to him that morning had been a product of shock or true attraction.


“Sam’s worried about you,” she said.


Her voice sounded breathy, if he wasn’t mistaken. He grinned and crowded closer, propping an elbow on the table beside her hand. Still she didn’t move. But her breathing got faster.


“I don’t give a damn how Sam feels.” He finally gave in to the desire and opportunity to touch her. He lifted his hand and drew the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. “But I’d love to know how you feel.”


Up against him. Naked. On a bed.


Or a pool table, he thought, aware of the closest horizontal surface.


Jessica’s lips fell open under his touch and Ben felt the jolt of satisfaction go through him. He thought it was noteworthy that the conservative, always-in-charge, always-knew-what-she-was-doing ER nurse—who always smelled like cotton candy—was suddenly looking flustered. He wondered if it was her response to him that surprised her or his response to her.