Do leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Divided Hearts.

 About Susan Hughes

I’ve been writing fiction since I was a young girl, but only in the last 10 years have I discovered my calling for romance. Nothing gets my heart pumping like a good love story with absorbing emotion, plenty of
passion, and an old-fashioned happy ending.

Set mainly in Canada, my contemporary romance novels explore the extraordinary thrill of finding that special someone and falling head over heels in love. I live in
Ottawa, Ontario, with my husband and three daughters.

Where I Get My Ideas

When people ask me where I come up with ideas for my novels, I tell them, “It depends.” The process is always different. Generally, though, I first come up with a conflict—an obstacle for the couple to overcome in order to be together—then create the characters and choose a setting, and the story seems to build naturally from there.

When writing my first novel, Divided Hearts, I began with the conflict of a couple having to choose between their desire for one another and their responsibility to their loved ones. Faye and Simon want to do what’s best for the little girl they both cherish—the daughter he didn’t know he had—even it if means sacrificing any chance of being together.

My goal is always to create characters that are vibrant, warm and sympathetic, so that their predicament draws the reader in from the first page, and keeps the reader rooting for them throughout the journey of conquering the obstacles in their path. I added factors to Faye and Simon’s personalities that would compound their inner conflict; they both had difficult childhoods, making them determined to avoid hurting baby Hannah the way they were hurt by their parents.

Now for a setting. I chose the coast of British Columbia for its rugged, unspoiled beauty. What better place to fall in love than on a sailboat with a pair of killer whales leaping from the water nearby, and a view of the Rocky Mountains in the distance? I’ve been to B.C. many times and it always serves as an excellent muse.

In the end, I hope the reader gets as caught up in the story as I did while writing it; I’ve done my job if the reader engages with the characters and feels the pull of attraction between them, and feels satisfied with the ending.

Description of Divided Hearts

Amazon: http://amzn.com/B0064F5QZ4
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/135992

When Faye’s best friend, Jenna, is injured in a car accident, Faye is left to care for her friend’s young child – expecting no help from baby Hannah’s father, Simon, who has never been a part of the little girl’s life. But when Jenna’s former lover unexpectedly reappears, Faye learns that Jenna never told him about their child; and now that he knows of his daughter’s existence, he wants nothing more than to bond with her.

As the relationship between father and daughter grows, so does the attraction between Simon and Faye. But once Jenna recovers, they find themselves faced with a heartbreaking choice between their desire for each other and the best interests of the little girl whose future lies in their hands.

Set in Vancouver, BC, and on the picturesque Sunshine Coast, Divided Hearts takes you on an exhilarating journey through the passion, sacrifice, forgiveness and sweet surprises of discovering a love that’s meant to be.

Excerpt:

Amazon: http://amzn.com/B0064F5QZ4
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/135992

Faye turned to return to her room when Simon’s voice stopped her.

“We didn’t finish our conversation last night.”

She turned her head to look at him, catching her lip between her teeth briefly before replying. “I think more than enough was said.”

He took a step closer, one of his brows lifting skeptically. “You never really answered my question.”

Faye let out a slow breath. “You must know how I feel. But what I want and what I should do are two different things. I think Hannah saved us from making a mistake. Not that it wouldn’t have been … nice.” Fantastic, you mean. “But sometimes a little self-control is required. Look what happened with Jenna.”

Simon’s hands went to his hips, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard this lecture already from my mother and sister,” he said bitingly. “I didn’t expect it from you. Especially after all I’ve done to take responsibility for my daughter, once I was told of her existence.”

“I’m sorry,” Faye added quickly, regretting her words. “I don’t mean to lecture you. You’ve been wonderful. You are … wonderful.”

As the last word left her lips she turned again to head to her room. She made it to the doorway before he spoke again.

“Where are you going?”

“To get dressed.”

“Why the hurry?” In two paces he was beside her. She faced him to reply, but before she could his hands slid around her, snaking under her robe to encircle her waist.

Faye gasped in surprise. “Simon, please. I told you it doesn’t feel right.”

Despite her protest he held fast, his eyes ablaze. “Tell me this doesn’t feel right.”

Drawing her closer, he bent to cover her mouth with his, his lips claiming hers with unrestrained hunger. He tasted of coffee and syrup, warm and sweetly intoxicating. Surrendering, Faye melted against him, parting her lips to invite his deepening kisses. Not only did it feel right, it felt amazing. Letting her eyes fall closed, she succumbed to the urgent desire that electrified her body.

She had no idea how much time had passed when Simon broke the kiss, speaking in a voice ragged with longing. “I told you I’m used to having control over my life. But you have a power over me, Faye. I’m helpless in your arms.”

Far from helpless, he felt strong and vital against her, his luxuriant kisses having reduced her own limbs to rubber, while fuelling the insistent heat coiling in the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t go back today. I want you and Hannah to stay,” he murmured against her lips. “My world feels so complete with you here. Both of you.”

Divided Hearts

Amazon: http://amzn.com/B0064F5QZ4
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/135992

Please leave a comment for Susan. One lucky commenter will win a free copy of Divided Hearts.

If you enter a comment answering the question correctly, you will be entered to win a copy of the ebook FUR BALL FEVER. This contest will run one week, and the winner will be notified by email.

Writing COLD FEET FEVER, sequel to FUR BALL FEVER, has proved to be harder than I anticipated. Much harder. Turns out one of my problems was that I didn’t know my new heroine well enough to make her spring to life on the page. In a desperate bid to save my sanity, I decided Gina Deluca and I needed to sit down over a bottle of Pino Grigio (well, at least one of us needed the wine) to get better acquainted. Here’s what she told me about her background, and I quote:

My full name is Gina Maria Francesca Deluca. I was born on a beige sofa in the Tranquility Slumber Room of the family business, Paradise Gate Funeral Haven & Crematorium. It all happened too fast for Pop to haul Mamma to the hospital in the hearse, which was occupied with a different type of delivery. I popped out, no fuss, and only a little muss. My efficient arrival so impressed our neighbor, Signor Antonio Guglione (even then, a powerful man in the Italian community), he begged to be my godfather. Unknown to my parents, Zio Antonio as I called him, was a mob associate. We only learned this unfortunate fact several years later, and by then it was too late because Zio Antonio had progressed up the organized crime ladder to become the Boss. Nobody ever un-godfathered a Mafia crime lord and lived to tell the tale. Whether I liked it or not, I was stuck with Zio Antonio.

Death pretty much defined the Deluca family for three generations. It’s a matter of pride. Delucas inhale death, clean up after death, pretty up death, conduct death rituals, and profit from death. We even live in an annex attached to the mortuary. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, heavy footsteps and hurried conversations in Italian would jolt me awake. Our funeral parlor was favored by families of Italian descent. Some weren’t even members of the Jersey Mafioso. Most were.

My parents assumed that, like my brothers, I would join the family business. It never occurred to me to refuse. Kids in elementary school teased me, calling me ‘Morticia’ or ‘Godmother’, and begged for an invitation to play in the embalming room. Boys only dated me because I had access to endless scary things, like dead bodies. At university, I threw myself into my Mortuary Science studies and avoided the social scene as much as possible.

During the summers, I worked my tail off at Paradise Gate. I welcomed the responsibility with open arms, and made myself indispensable with my efficiency. Soon I was bossing people around to my heart’s content while counseling the bereaved, embalming like crazy, and organizing elaborate funerals. I absorbed the finer details of the mortuary business—like how critical it was to match a corpse with the correct family; or how to tone down an elderly woman’s makeup so she didn’t look like a two-bit hooker on crack; or the importance of reinserting a client’s dentures prior to the viewing; or ensuring any severed body parts were discretely included with the rest of the mortal remains. Please don’t ask me to continue because I could fill a novel with incidents best forgotten.

In my last year of university, I snagged a date with a nice, respectable Italian boy. This happy time barely lasted a month, but was enough time for me to get knocked up. The poor guy got whacked in a back alley behind a bar where he’d gone to puke up the two pitchers of beer he’d consumed. The gossip was that my boyfriend was the victim of a mob hit ordered by my godfather. Every up-and-coming hood and gang member in town decided to protect my honor in the hopes of currying my godfather’s favor. Word that it wasn’t safe to date me spread like wildfire to the ordinary community. After that, even ‘normal’ men refused to date me for fear of getting whacked. By then, I was convinced I was unattractive to men, seeing as how they avoided me like the plague. Deciding abstinence was the best solution, I immersed myself in motherhood and work.

By the time Zio Antonio had the good grace to croak (taken out by one of his own bullets, which ricocheted off a cement truck), my son was eight years old. I’d spent the intervening years in a fantasy world, dreaming of meeting that special man, a hero, a fantasy man who was kind to old people and loved children, someone who would look after me and treasure me. I wanted hearts and flowers and white picket fences.

Too bad slick playboy Sam Jackson, the smooth-talking nightclub owner and hero of COLD FEET FEVER, has a granddaddy who drives him nuts, is so terrified by the mere thought of fathering children that he wears two condoms and disposes of them himself so there will be no slip-ups, and has no intention of giving up the good life of drinking, gambling, and womanizing to settle down.

So can a bossy undertaker-turned-party-planner find true love and happiness with a slick playboy nightclub owner? If you enter a comment answering the skill-testing question correctly, you will be entered to win a copy of the ebook FUR BALL FEVER. This contest will run one week, and the winner will be notified by email.

I’m a big fan of all animals, be they furry, feathery, scaly, or leathery. Okay, so I draw the line at mosquitoes, but I find dogs, ferrets, moose, aardvarks, turkeys, even the so-called ickier creatures like snakes and toads fascinating. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it. When my youngest son was 10, I let him have a pet rat. That’s right. A white-and-tan ultra-friendly hooded rat called Ben. Ben was an extrovert who loved people. In spite of gnawing gaping holes in my sofa cushions, he won my heart. Hey, it was an old sofa. And after my son discovered girls and lost interest in all things ratty, Ben spent many an hour snuggled up on my lap or shoulder, keeping me company while we watched our favorite TV shows or read romance novels.

It’s a ton of fun to incorporate animals in my books. I try not to let the beasties steal the scene, but it’s an uphill battle. When asked recently why I write about animals, I came up with several reasons (other than the fact that I love them). I use animals in my books to reveal character and move the plot forward. They’re also great to inject humor. But mainly, I try to give readers what they crave, and it seems that the majority of romance readers love animals as much as I do. In my opinion, a tough alpha-male protagonist is ultra-sympathetic if he has a soft spot for animals.

The excerpt from FUR BALL FEVER I’m about to give you is loosely based on a real-life event involving my dog Sheena (a mostly border collie/terrier mix) from my teenaged years. Sheena, may she rest in peace, was a canine glutton. That dog ate anything that wasn’t nailed down. One Saturday, my lovely mother, a woman who could destroy a perfectly good cut of meat in the space of a few hours, decided to incinerate, ahem, I mean cook, a rolled rib roast. She succeeded in shrinking the meat down to half its size (an ancient Scottish tradition), and left it on the counter to rest while she got ready for guests, who were arriving in half an hour.

Twenty minutes later, a shriek alerted me to the fact that all was not right in the kitchen. My father and I ran toward the sound. All that was left of a 6-pound roast (make that a 3-pound roast after my mother had cremated it) was a length of butcher’s twine, a chunk of gristle, and a smear of grease. We found Sheena zonked out on the living room sofa, her stomach rock-hard and distended. I thought she looked slightly green under her fur, but it might have been my imagination.

That night, the guests ate barbecued burgers instead of roast beef. Sheena, on the other hand, didn’t eat a bite for three days. She spent a ton of time in the back yard. In the end, the dog experienced no lasting ill effects. Wish I could say the same about the lawn.

Later, we pieced together what must have happened.

• Sheena saw her opportunity and formulated a plan (mutts are smart dogs).
• When the coast was clear, she hopped up onto a chair, which was pulled away from the kitchen table.
• Once on the chair, it was a piece of cake to boost herself up onto the table.
• One four-foot leap from table to countertop, and Sheena was beside the meat.
• Gorging happened.
• The getaway was the easy part, what with gravity and all.

There was no other way it could have gone down.

The following is an excerpt from the conclusion of FUR BALL FEVER. The protagonists, including Murphy the dog, are in costume for the Pet ’n’ Owner Grand Parade, always the high point of the Annual Jersey Shore Fur Ball.

Excerpt

Murphy darted through the kitchen door, a strip of grease-soaked paper dangling from his mouth. His doggy-sized Confederate jacket had a food smear down the front. The cap hung askew, still anchored by wide elastic tucked underneath his sweet furry chin. Decked out in latex and feathers, Auntie Beth puffed behind the dog as he skidded into a U-turn upon sighting Nick.

“Down,” Nick said in a firm tone.

To Grace’s surprise, Murphy flopped down and displayed his belly.

“Easy, boy.” Nick crouched to rub a rounded tummy. Murphy wriggled, and made little whimpers of adoration.

Grace empathized.

Nick gave her a look of astonishment. “I guess the training worked.” He pried the paper from Murphy’s mouth and straightened. “What’s he been into?”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Auntie Beth’s expression dared criticism.

Grace started getting a bad feeling. “What wasn’t your fault?”

“I needed a snack or I’d never make it to the supper buffet. I skipped breakfast, seeing as how I don’t want to explode this here new dress.”

Gah! This was like pulling teeth. “I get it. You were hungry. What happened, Auntie Beth?”

“There was this leftover pizza, you know, the kind I love with hot banana peppers, spicy Italian sausage, olives, and high-fiber crust.”

Grace stalked toward her aunt. “Please don’t tell me you let Murphy—”

Auntie Beth eyed Grace cautiously. “I go to the fridge for the pizza, and there’s the extra cheese steak from last night and a bunch of Krispy Kremes too. So I pile everything on the table. I was only going to have one teeny-tiny taste.”

Grace tensed, held in place only by Nick’s warning arm squeeze.

“Go on, Beth,” he said in an encouraging tone.

Auntie Beth licked her lips. “I’m unwrapping stuff, then the phone rings, and it’s Milt. I go outside so’s I can have some privacy in case he wants phone sex.”

Nick made a muffled snort that sounded like a laugh. Grace shot him a quelling glance, and turned to Auntie Beth. “Are you telling us that while you and Milt had telephone sex, Murphy chowed down on the pizza?” she asked, her voice all breathy due to corset compression.

“There were only six slices left,” Auntie Beth said.

Grace eyed Murphy. His furry tummy bulged as if he’d swallowed a basketball. “Please, please tell me he didn’t eat anything else.”

Murphy released a low moan followed by a quiet burp.

Auntie Beth gnawed her lower lip. “As God is my witness, I was on the phone for less than five minutes. Milt’s pretty speedy for a man his age.”

Grace tapped her toe, knowing guilt would loosen her aunt’s tongue. Sure enough, after turning as pink as her dress, Auntie Beth admitted, “Okay, so maybe a couple of donuts too.”

She glanced at Grace, who glared back.

At last, Auntie Beth said, “Make that five donuts.”

When Grace grabbed the strip of greasy paper and waved it, Auntie Beth heaved a sigh. “And a twelve-inch cheese steak plus most of the wrapping.”

“What goes in must come out,” Nick muttered. “Heaven help us all.”

*****

 I’m always on the hunt for funny animal stories I can incorporate into my books. Do you have any animal anecdotes you would like to share? I would love to hear them. One commenter will win a free copy of FUR BALL FEVER.

“Goodness, how you love to exaggerate. We’re talking about our neighbors. Suburbia. The American dream. Nothing will happen to me.” While marching, she managed to rummage in her purse with one hand and dig out a canister. “But on the off chance anything goes wrong, my pepper spray goes everywhere I go.” She waved it at him.

His patience snapped. “Put that damned thing away before you blast me in the face.”

Her scowl warned of an imminent explosion. “Stop treating me like a moron. I’m not one of your usual Twinkies.”

Big tactical error. He had to redeem himself. In the past, a touch of humor had always helped bring women around, so he smiled and said, “I know what the problem is, darlin’. You don’t trust yourself around me. Sometimes I don’t even trust myself around me.”

She sped up. “In your dreams, Nick.”

Right. Gracie wasn’t like other women. Keeping pace, he tried a less humiliating approach. “You’ll never get a foot inside the Lombardis’ door. Krissi hates you for clobbering her with your purse. And even if you manage the impossible, you can’t go and confront her with dog theft. If she’s guilty, who knows how she’ll react?”

She hit him with a glare. “I’ve given this plenty of thought. I’m going to tell Krissi I’m making amends to everyone I’ve harmed as part of my new 12-step program.”

“I had no idea you had an addiction problem.”

She huffed out a sigh. “I don’t. It’s only a cover story. I’ll apologize then suggest a nice girls’ night out at a casino.”

He frowned as he studied her earnest expression. She was dead serious. Truth be told, if she managed to hold onto her temper, it was a brilliant strategy for getting inside without any fuss. There was only one tiny problem. “A casino, huh?” he said. “In that case, I assume your new 12-step program has nothing to do with drinking or gambling.”

She gave him a superior smile. “Overeaters Anonymous. Krissi always calls me fat, so she’ll believe it’s true.”

“You’re not fat,” he interjected with conviction.

“Nice save,” she said. “To sweeten the deal I’ll give Krissi this twenty dollar gift certificate for Harrah’s Casino.” Gracie dug into her purse again and pulled out an envelope. “ Do you believe they sell these things online?” She stuffed the envelope back.

Her forethought was impressive, but Nick wasn’t ready to give up. There was another flaw with her plan, and he felt compelled to point it out. “Even if you pull this off, how will you know if Miss Coco is there?”

“I have my sniffer dog.”

Murphy chose that moment to strain toward a fire hydrant. She stopped to let him sniff.

Nick watched the dog stake his claim. “Yeah. I can see how he’ll be invaluable.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Murphy hates Miss Coco’s guts. If she’s on the Lombardis’ property, he’ll let me know.”

Nick thought longingly of the caveman approach. He wanted to drag her home by the hair and lock her safely inside. To hide his frustration, he bent over and scratched Murphy behind the ears. Once he’d arranged his face into a neutral expression, he straightened and said, “Heaven help you if you fly off the handle the way you did with Oliver.”

“I most certainly did not fly off the handle with Oliver. I took a calculated risk.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t let you do this alone.”

She looked as if she wanted to stomp her foot but managed to pull herself together. “You’ve conducted one too many security gigs,” she said with remarkable calm. “Nothing bad will happen to me. I have my cover story, I have my pepper spray, and I have ten times more brainpower than you credit me with. It’s not like I’m going in, guns blazing, to accuse the Lombardis of stealing dogs. I merely want to assess them as potential candidates.”

Damn, but she was serious. Didn’t she realize that if the Lombardis had stolen the dogs, she might be in real danger? A sliver of alarm scraped over his nerves, and then he relaxed as he hit on the perfect solution, indeed, the only possible solution. Manipulation and trickery.

With a supercilious grin fixed firmly in place, Nick employed his most reasonable tone. “Look at you. You’re flying off the handle already.”

She made a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

He shook his head in mock resignation. “See what I mean?”

Through clenched teeth, she said, “I can be non-confrontational with the best of them. In fact, I can be the soul of discretion and charm.”

“I bet you can’t hold it together for more than thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds?” Her voice tightened. “Why, you condescending, chauvinistic—”

“You’re proving my point.”

He watched how her jaw tightened and those kissable lips thinned to a fine, white line. Finally she blew out a long breath. “I can do better than thirty seconds. I’ll hold it together the whole time we question the Lombardis.”

Her use of the word “we” didn’t escape him. He pretended to ponder her claim before making a sly offer, one he hoped would ensure his presence. In his most officious manner, he drawled, “Listen up, darlin’. Let me explain how it’ll go down. As long as you stay calm I’ll pretend I’m invisible. But when you lose your cool, and I guarantee you will, I’ll step in and do damage control.”

She started to sputter.

Nick interjected, “Of course if you feel you can’t control yourself, you can chicken out. I’ll understand.” He held his breath.

There was anger in her eyes, and determination. “I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”

Nick breathed out a sigh of relief.

The creature lowered its head and lapped with delicate precision.

The cry ripped through Charley’s senses and dragged her back to semi-consciousness. A sharp, metallic taste lingered in her mouth and her pillow felt damp.

Disoriented, she stared around. The distinctive scent of sun-warmed canvas filled her nostrils. Outside, birds and insects continued their afternoon serenade. Her memory returned in a hurry. After lunch she’d headed to her tent for a nap.

For less than a moment, fragments of the dream flickered across her memory. Recognition hovered at the edge of consciousness before fading. Too exhausted to puzzle over a dream, she flopped back and curled into a protective ball.

Sleep returned in an instant.

She dozed until an inhuman outcry tore apart the breathless afternoon stillness.

Heart thundering in her ears she bolted upright in her cot. She felt the blood leave her face. “Dear God,” she whispered.

Trembling under the thin sheet, she listened to the whirring of wings as a flock of birds took to the air screeching their alarm. The brief flurry of activity culminated in an ominous silence. Another piercing yowl rang out. It was followed by a prolonged shriek that faded away in a series of agonized squeals, squeaks, and bleats.

She sprang up and darted from her tent in time to see a pair of toucans burst from the jungle canopy to flap their way to safety. A passing student narrowly averted their head-on collision by grabbing her arm.

It occurred to her she might still be in the throes of a nightmare. She made an effort to get a grip on herself. “What is that God-awful racket?” She heard the slight quaver in her voice.

A broad grin split the student’s bearded face. “Chill, babe,” he reassured her. “This is my second year of suffering. You never really get used to the boss’ bagpipes, but the shock fades.”

Her brain whirled as she tried to make sense of the words. “Say what?”

“Kincaid is letting off some steam. He claims it helps him find clarity to solve a problem.”

She felt her lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Ten-to-one, her presence in camp formed a huge portion of the problem. “It sounds like a slaughterhouse.”

Louder and more discordant, the mournful howls and shrill shrieks coalesced into a continuous, wailing drone.

“Look over there.” The student pointed to a lone, colorful figure disappearing down the path surrounding the camp. The red and green tartan of the bag clutched under his arm warred with the fuchsia print of the aloha shirt draping a lean torso.

The plaintive racket drilled into Charley’s brain like a jackhammer. Slowly her heart resumed a normal rhythm. “I’ve never heard anything quite like it,” she admitted. “His playing is an insult to music lovers everywhere.”

But somehow the dreadful off-key playing made Kincaid more human. Anyone who played that badly in public couldn’t possibly take himself too seriously.

The young man grimaced. “This year he graduated from the practice chanter to the full set of pipes. Much louder. Much more difficult. Much worse for the listeners.”

She privately thought Kincaid should consider it a miracle someone hadn’t destroyed the instrument of torture before now. She concentrated on finding the melody. Sure enough a mournful bass-line moan underlined the distorted strains of Amazing Grace.

She turned her eyes heavenward and muttered a fervent prayer that Kincaid would find the clarity he sought in record time.

After the fuss had subsided and the cops had zoomed away, Grace permitted Nick to drive her home and escort her to the front door, mainly because her legs kept folding. Flashing a bright smile, intended to reassure him she had no intention of sneaking over to the security kiosk as soon as his back was turned, she slipped inside. With a jaunty wave and a nod, she closed the door, silencing his orders to stay safely inside. One way or another she intended to watch the video while Nick was at his meeting.

With the abrupt release of tension, adrenaline after burn struck with a vengeance. She remembered the symptoms from the last time she was shot at—clattering teeth, trembling that wouldn’t quit, legs that refused to obey her brain’s commands. This time, she knew enough to sink into a chair before collapsing. Murphy must have sensed her mood because he scooted straight upstairs, probably to burrow into the off-limit territory of her bed.

While she waited for the weakness to subside, she congratulated herself for holding it together throughout the shooting and its aftermath—the initial shock of realizing she could have died, then the 9-1-1 call, followed by the hunt for the bullet, which Nick had found embedded in the wall. During the police debriefing, she’d kept her cool while Nick denied having enemies who might want to take him out, a little too strenuously, in her opinion. Then again, who’d be dumb enough to shoot out a window in broad daylight? Consensus was that the shooter must be a kid messing with daddy’s gun.

She wasn’t one hundred percent convinced but hey, what did she know? Men in blue were on top of things. Nick, apparently unconcerned, had hustled off to prepare for his meeting, and here she was, wasting her narrow window of opportunity by having a delayed stress reaction.

She needed to pick Auntie Beth’s devious brain for ideas.

Once her nerves settled down, Grace tottered into the kitchen on rubbery legs. At the sight of a well-padded figure draped in psychedelic polyester, an involuntary smile curled her lips. Auntie Beth was bellied up to the counter, stirring vigorously.

Her aunt’s fluffy white curls scraped into a pony tail, angelic expression, and bright green eyes surrounded by a network of fine lines hoodwinked most people into believing the aging hippie was the guileless, grandmotherly type who thrived on baking pies, packaging potpourri, and reading fairy tales to small children.

Grace knew better. In her opinion it was reasonable to ask her more-or-less permanent house guest to lock the back door at bedtime, quit smoking illicit substances, and walk Murphy every day, preferably accompanied by a pooper-scooper.

So far, she was batting zero on all counts.

Auntie Beth scraped out a mass of brownish glop onto a pan of what appeared to be brownies. Grace’s mouth watered. Chocolate would finish off her recovery nicely. She moved forward.

Auntie Beth’s radar must have been working overtime because she whipped her head around and studied her niece. “Why are you walking all funny like that?”

“Am not,” Grace said. She would not reveal that she’d been shot at.

“Yes you are.” Auntie Beth’s eyes narrowed. “You let Nick jump you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t blame you in the least, dear. Any woman in her right mind would kill for a chance to jump a stud muffin like Nick. No wonder your legs are rubbery.”

Grace wondered how Nick would enjoy being called a stud muffin. “Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you doing the post-nookie shuffle?” Auntie Beth’s eyes gleamed. “Here’s a little tip, dear. After a long dry spell, you need to ease gently into the horizontal boogie.”

Grace swallowed a moan. “Nothing remotely resembling a boogie happened, either horizontal, vertical, or upside down.” She changed the subject. “What are you doing?”

Auntie Beth stirred hard, avoiding eye contact. “Making brownies.” She gave Grace the full impact of a round-eyed gaze. “Tomorrow’s my turn to host the Canasta Crones. My goodness, those women are power eaters.”

Another adrenaline rush at the thought of the Crones restored strength to Grace’s legs. “Food consumption would drop if your buddies smoked less weed and played more cards.”

Sunlight turned Auntie Beth’s white hair into a halo of deceptive innocence. Guilt stained her cheeks brilliant pink. “I have no idea what you mean.” Her gaze slid to the back door as if contemplating a quick breakaway.

Grace glanced at her watch and sighed.  Although time was zipping along, keeping her favorite relative on the straight and narrow was more urgent. She stepped between Auntie Beth and freedom. “I know what happens at your so-called card nights.”

Auntie Beth moistened her lips. “Are you talking about old Trudy’s medicinal marijuana? It’s the only thing short of surgery that’ll ease the pain of her arthritic knee.”

“Hmmmm. And I don’t suppose you smoke any yourself.” To speed things along, Grace ejected the beaters from the hand-mixer into the sink. A splash of foamy backwash dripped off the counter and onto the floor.

Auntie Beth sidestepped the puddle. “You seem a tad tense, dear. Hot sex should have mellowed you out.”

Grace wiped her hands on a dishtowel as she issued an ultimatum. “No more marijuana, or the Crones will have to find another place to play cards.”

“A toke or two would loosen you up.”

Blood rushed to Grace’s head, blurring her vision. No wonder Dad had asked his sister to pack her bags and leave his house. Maybe it had been a mistake opening her home and her heart to her free-spirited aunt. Since Grace didn’t trust herself to speak, she stuck two fingers into the frosting, scooping up as much as possible, and popped the mass of goop into her mouth.

Molars tingled, taste buds quivered. When her jaws unlocked, the chocolaty mass melted on her tongue. She closed her eyes to savor the bliss. Somewhere nearby, a choir of angels sang a rhapsody. Ragged nerve endings stretched, unsnarled, relaxed. Endorphins pulsed through her system bringing tidings of goodwill. The urge to throttle her aunt faded.

Chalk up another life saved to the velvety magic of chocolate.

She opened her eyes in time to hear Auntie Beth say, “Is anything wrong, dear?”

Her aunt’s voice coupled with the sugar hit jolted Grace back to reality. She didn’t know how much time she had before Nick’s meeting ended, so she shelved the lecture in favor of describing the salient points of her morning. She skipped the shooting part and wrapped up with Nick’s promise to find the dogs and his refusal to let her watch the video.

When she stopped talking Auntie Beth gave her a searching stare. “What will you do?”

Grace shrugged. “I need to see that video. Ruby-Pearl might return early. I can’t twiddle my thumbs waiting for Nick.” Since she was running out of sensible options, she said, “I want you to create a diversion while I sneak in and watch the footage while Nick’s at his meeting.”

Auntie Beth’s eyes crinkled. “Bitchin’.” She plunked a handful of cutlery in the sink, and faced Grace, her eyes alight. “I was born to create diversions. Donnelly women are known worldwide as women of action.”

“There’s one minor issue.” Grace wiped the counter as she spoke. “By now, Nick’s already phoned Milt—that’s the day guard—to warn him not to let me in.”

Auntie Beth raised her head, looking remarkably like a setter on point. “Are you talking about the new guy Nick hired a couple of months ago? Milt Brozowsky? Can’t be a day over sixty-seven, white wavy hair, great pecs?”

“Sounds about right, but I can’t vouch for the pecs.”

Auntie Beth bared small white teeth in a vindictive smile. “I can.” She slammed a drawer shut. “I dated the rat-fink five times, even let him score a home run. Dumped him last week when I learned he was two-timing me with a slutty widow, Leona Finkelstein, from Sea Isle City. Trudy saw them having dinner together.”

“You’re upset.”

“More like totally pissed off.” Auntie Beth reached for a small bowl containing candy-coated nuggets and scattered them over the frosting. She cracked one with her teeth and crunched. Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I’d like to squash him like a bug.”

“Poor Milt.”

Auntie Beth gave a wide, toothy smile. “This calls for ultra-devious diversionary tactics.”

A trickle of worry fluttered down Grace’s spine. “What do you mean?”

Auntie Beth’s grin widened. “Let’s call it a surprise. Meet me at the security kiosk in, say, one hour.”

“Thirty minutes.”

Auntie Beth gave it some thought. “Okay. I’m a real fast worker when motivated.”

It was a frigid weekend during January of 2007. Fresh snow blanketed the hills where four couples had gathered for a  leisurely weekend of power eating, drinking, and relaxation at a friend’s country retreat hidden deep in wilderness of eastern Ontario. Okay, so if anyone believes there is any serious wilderness left in eastern Ontario, all I can say is, “Bazinga.” But it was snowy and freakin’ cold, eh?

Saturday dawned bright, crisp, and so cold, only people with names like Al or Ed had time to write their names in the snow. After pigging out over brunch and procrastinating in front of a cozy fire as long as humanly possible, we all waddled into the foyer to suit up in parkas, down-filled warm-up pants, hats, scarves, gloves, and even balaclavas.

Our hostess, Linda, pulled out a dark brown, curly-looking object, which she jammed onto her head. The fuzzy thing resembled either a matted rat pelt or, if you squinted hard enough, conveyed the optical illusion of a really, really bad haircut.

She must have noticed our exclamations of disgust (e.g. “Why are you wearing a dead rodent on your head?) because she shrugged and said, “It’s a hat, not a dead rodent. My daughter knitted it for me, and I love it.”

Ever supportive, we said in unison, “That thing’s a hat? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Bob said, “It looks like a merkin.”

Being a writer, I nodded wisely, hoping I looked as if I knew what a merkin was.

At last, Donna asked, “What’s a merkin?”

“A pubic wig,” Bob replied. He injected a note of authority by adding, “Someone at work told me about them.”

“You must work with some really strange people,” Linda muttered, patting her hat to make sure it was positioned properly.

“Okay, that explains the curls,” I snickered.

For the next five minutes, the woods rang with mirth. Feral squirrels took cover in bird feeders. Everyone (except Linda who was wearing the garment in question) rolled on the ground while roaring with laughter, taking care to avoid the fresh piles of moose poop (Bazinga). Some of us also tried not to pee into our down-filled warm-up pants (oh, if only that one was a Bazinga).

At last, we all staggered to our feet. Dusting snow off his butt, Bob said, “I’ve always wanted to work the word merkin into a conversation. You’d be surprised how difficult that is.”

The reason for Bob’s strange urge to talk about merkins probably doesn’t bear discussion in a public blog.

After we finished our walk, during which we speculated about the origin, not to mention strange requirement, for an item called a merkin, we all trooped back to the cottage to crack open a bottle of wine, eat hot appetizer munchies, and check out some Internet definitions. Here’s what we found.

According to Wikipedia: A merkin (first used, according to the OED, 1617) is a pubic wig, worn by prostitutes after shaving their genitalia to eeliminate lice or to disguise the marks of syphilis. One of the Oxford English Dictionary definitions says a merkin is: counterfeit hair for women’s privy parts, and another dictionary calls it: a pubic hair wig.

My imagination went wild. Bring to mind, if you will, the following scene:

Setting: Brothel on the outskirts of London, Eng. circa 1620.

Anonymous John: I love what you’ve done with your merkin, dearie. It looks so natural.

Prostitute (Turns pink with pleasure): Why, thanks for noticing, luvvie. It’s a perfect match for my underarm hair, don’t you think?

I think Bob deserves bonus points for ever having heard of the word merkin, never mind using it in a sentence. And five years later, we’re still laughing about Linda’s choice of headgear. That’s what great memories are made of.

Please feel free to add a comment about your own experience with merkins or any other unusual fashion accessories you may have encountered. Or simply tell me about silly laughter you’ve shared with your best friends.

About Cynthia Woolf

Cynthia Woolf was born in Denver, Colorado and raised in the mountains west of Golden.  She spent her early years running wild around the mountain side with her friends. Their closest neighbor was one quarter of a mile away, so her little brother was her playmate and her best friend.  That fierce friendship lasted until his death in 2006.

Cynthia was and is an avid reader.  Her mother was a librarian and brought new books home each week.  This is where young Cynthia first got the storytelling bug.  She wrote her first story at the age of ten.  A romance about a little boy she liked at the time.

She worked her way through college and went to work full time straight after graduation and there was little time to write.  Then in 1990 she and two friends started a round robin writing a story about pirates.  She found that she missed the writing and kept on with other stories.  In 1992 she joined Colorado Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America.  Unfortunately, the loss of her job demanded the she not renew her memberships and her writing stagnated for many years.

In 2000, she saw an ad in the paper for a writers conference being put on by CRW and decided she’d attend.  One of her favorite authors, Catherine Coulter, was the keynote speaker.  Cynthia was lucky enough to have a seat at Ms. Coulter’s table at the luncheon and after talking with her, decided she needed to get back to her writing.  She rejoined both CRW and RWA that day and hasn’t looked back.

Cynthia credits her wonderfully supportive husband Jim and the great friends she’s made at CRW for saving her sanity and allowing her to explore her creativity.

Interview with Cynthia Woolf

How did you get started writing?  I wrote my first story when I was about ten.  It was a romance about me and a little boy I liked.  I also wrote some very depressing poetry.  I decided that poetry was not for me and stuck to romance.

What genre(s) do you write in and why?  I have a historical western romance and a sci-fi romance out now.  The sci-fi is the first in a series.  I write in these genre’s because they are the ones whose stories reached out to me.  The western was the first book I wrote and was inspired by my parents love story.  It’s set on the same ranch that they met on in 1941.  My book is set in 1885, so it’s not their love story.  My dad was a cowboy and trapper but to the best of my knowledge was never a bounty hunter.

The sci-fi series was done because of dreams I had when I was a teenager.  I knew I was a princess from Alpha Centauri.  There was no way I could belong to the crazy family I had.  Of course, I adore that crazy family now.

What inspired your latest book?  Centauri Midnight is the third book in the Centauri Series.

I used to dream that I was a princess from Alpha Centauri, that was the basis for Centauri Dawn, book 1 in the series.

Book 2 is much darker.  Lara is the twin sister of Audra in book 1.  Lara has been a sex slave since she was a child.  Having escaped, she’s now an outlaw and working to free the rest of the slaves who are now her people.

Book 3 Centauri Midnight is about two people from Book 1.  Kitari Dolana and Garrick Marcus.  They are chasing the person responsible for the death of her brother and the capture and torture of Anton in the first book.  The person who gave Slavarien, the villain, the  information that allowed the ambush.

What is your favorite part of writing?  My favorite part is what I call the ‘puking’ phase.  Just getting it all down on paper for the first time.  You just let if flow out of you, not caring, for the moment, if it is good or bad.

What is your least favorite part of writing?  Editing is my least favorite.  I’m constantly questioning myself and my work.  Changing it, correcting it, putting it back to what it was and starting it all again.  It’s never good enough for me.

How has your experience with self-publishing been?  My experience has been wonderful.  I highly recommend it for everyone out there who doesn’t want to be constrained by the “big” traditional publisher.  For everyone who wants to write from their heart and not according to the industry rules and constraints, self publishing is the only way to go.

What advice do you have for other authors wanting to self-publish?  Go for it.  It’s a wild ride but totally worth it.

Tell us about your current series.  The Centauri series consists of my three space opera/sci-fi romance books, Centauri Dawn, Centauri Twilight and Centauri Midnight.  The next series for the sci-fi line is The Swords of Gregara.

How likely are people you meet to end up in your next book?  As a duplicate of the person, not likely at all.  However, characteristics of people I meet may go into a character or characters.  It could be a physical characteristic such as amazing light blue eyes rimmed with a black circle like my niece has or it could be a character trait like an mean streak.

What is most difficult for you to write?  Characters, conflict or emotions?  Why?  The hardest for me to write is conflict.  I avoid conflict in my real like as though it was the plague.  So I tend to try and do that with my characters as well.  Thank goodness for my critique group who are like an enforcer and make me put in the conflict the story needs.

What is your next project and when will it be released?  Now I’m working on the second sci-fi series called the Swords of Gregara and the second western, called Tame the Wild Wind.

Give us an elevator pitch for your work.  I’m really, really bad at this.  Luckily I have a good friend who does this for me.  For instance the pitch for Tame A Wild Heart is  “She’s a beautiful ranch owner at a time when women aren’t supposed to run ranches. He’s a bounty hunter set to capture her heart.”

Cynthia will be giving away a copy of the ebook for Centauri Midnight to two lucky commenters.  So be sure and leave a comment.

Creativity has been attributed variously to divine intervention, cognitive processes, the social environment, personality traits, and chance (“accident,” “serendipity”). It has been associated with genius, mental illness and humor. Some say it is a trait we are born with; others say it can be taught with the application of simple techniques. Although popularly associated with art and literature, creativity is also an essential part of innovation and invention, and is important in professions such as business, economics, architecture, industrial design, science, and engineering. Unlike many phenomena in science, there is no single, authoritative perspective or definition of creativity. Unlike many phenomena in psychology, there is no standardized measurement technique.

Julia Cameron, author of “The Artist’s Way, A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity,” postulates that “Creativity is the natural order of life. Life is energy: pure creative energy. There is an underlying, in-dwelling creative force infusing all of life—including ourselves. When we open ourselves to our creativity, we open ourselves to the Creator’s creativity within us and our lives.”

As writers, we struggle with the creative process on a daily basis. We create unique and sympathetic characters; characters that jump off the page; characters with credible strengths, flaws, and fears; characters with real goals and compelling motives; in short, characters the readers can relate to. At the same time, we also need to create a plot line that hangs together, a plot line with twists, turns, and surprises, a plot line to spotlight our wonderful characters. And finally, writers need to use creative prose as the cement to bring both characters and plot to life, coaxing users to keep turning the page from the sheer joy of reading.

For those of you who have hung in with me to this point, you will no doubt be pleased to know that I have decided to take a proactive approach to this creative problem solving thing with my next book:

a) Cut myself some slack: stop beating myself up when ideas do not magically appear on demand, tell myself it is okay to take the time I need.

b) Silence the little negative voice in my head with positive affirmations, for example, “I am taking the time to formulate brilliant ideas,” or “I know the perfect solution,” or, “I am a creative and talented writer, brimming with countless ideas.”

c) Go for a walk or do something else. A change of atmosphere is beneficial. Gentle exercise helps shake up the brain cells. A change in activity stimulates other parts of the brain. For instance, when Einstein got stuck on a difficult concept, he would go into another room to play his violin. Upon returning to the problem, he discovered he’d found a solution. Exercising his mind in a different way boosted his creativity for the work he was doing.

d) Meditate. Sometimes the best way to improve performance is to do nothing at all. Meditation provides creative benefits of calming my mental chatter.

e) When I’m stuck for an idea, open a dictionary, randomly select a word and then try to formulate ideas incorporating this word. Or flip through Tarot cards and use the pictures as inspiration. You’d be surprised how well this works. The concept is based on a simple but little known truth: freedom inhibits creativity. There are nothing like restrictions to get you thinking.

f) Define the problem in detail. During the process, I find that ideas generally spill onto the page. Hey, so I’m an analytic thinker. What can I say?

g) Brainstorm. Talk the problem through with someone. Anyone. Husband. Critique group. A friend. Sometimes, I just need to hear myself talk to discover the answer. Also, brainstorming helps identify sacks full of new ideas.

h) Always carry a small notebook and a pen or pencil around with me. That way, if I am struck by an idea, I can quickly note it down. Upon rereading my notes, I may discover about 90% of your ideas are useless. That’s normal. What’s important are the 10% that are brilliant.

i) Take a shower. That’s because moving water releases negative ions, thus boosting the brain, increasing intuition, and promoting positive thoughts.

j) Listen to inspirational music.

k) Eat chocolate!

l) Keep writing until I reach the solution. My creativity process is iterative. It employs tedious, often painful, trial and error. I wish it didn’t, but it’s my process.

I would love to hear about the techniques you use for improving your creativity.

There were over ten thousand attendees. It felt like more. Who knew so many horny people could squeeze under one roof–and in staid, conservative Ottawa of all places?

“Sex is in the air,” I said, nudging a fellow romance writer and pointing toward the ceiling. Together, we stared in wonder at the giant pink penis cleverly suspended above our booth. After half an hour or so of gawking, we resumed spreading out our romance novels on the table directly beneath the business end of Mr. Happy.

Business was brisk. We sold some books too.

After a while, curiosity got the better of me. It’s important to embrace new experiences, I told myself as I elbowed my way through the excited crowd to check out other booths. The air positively hummed with folks of all ages discussing alternative lifestyles—the etiquette of juggling multiple partners, the nuances of bisexuality, the joys of bondage, domination, sado-masochism (BDSM), and the like. Booths overflowed with sex toys, scented oils and candles, fet-wear and boots, leather whips and restraints, lingerie, and, in my case, romance novels.

A dungeon provided a taste of BDSM for those so inclined. I’m not (in case you were wondering), but I wanted to learn more, all in the name of research. Hey, a writer’s job is never done. In front of a crowd of fifty interested onlookers, a lycra-clad dominatrix lashed a submissive who was stretched out, arms shackled above his head, on a St. Andrew’s cross. This was a real lashing. I could tell because the whip raised red welts on the poor sucker’s naked back. But not to worry. He was hugely, and I mean HUGELY, turned on. In another corner, a metal cage confined a masked woman, who was fending off another joker’s prodding with a few well-placed blows from her heavy leather boots.

During the proceedings, I conducted a quick interview with the owner of a local adult emporium about some of the activities. She was kind enough to explain the purpose of the various pieces of bondage equipment and to reassure me that the submissive undergoing the lash was enjoying himself as much as the dominatrix. She explained that if the torment starts gently, the brain releases enough endorphins to protect the body from pain. A skilled dominatrix increases the whipping in tiny increments, and before long, the submissive will hit the pinnacle of ecstasy. Please note I beat a hasty retreat before the big moment occurred.

I missed the topless young lady, who, rumor had it, galloped through the hall, clad in bridle, bit, mask, boots, G-string, and not much else. I did, however, catch a live demo of the bondage bed in action.

As you can well imagine, these ideas stimulated my imagination and other things. If any of you are a tiny bit curious (and even if you’re not), please download FUR BALL FEVER to learn how Sexapalooza inspired my writing. Hint: The chase for the bad guys leads my intrepid heroine, followed by my long-suffering hero and an aging hippie aunt with a hankering for excitement, to a Jersey Shore fetish club. Stuff happens. Much of it entertaining. I hope.