A Peek at The Heat

Excerpt from my novel, The Heat

Damn stupid cat.

“Here Waffles.  Here, boy.  Kitty, kitty.  Come on, Waffles.”

I looked everywhere for that cat.  I had been calling it for ten minutes, no results.  I thought about the fact I could still be snuggled in Max’s arms—comfortable in his bed, but no.  I had to drive home in the middle of the night to feed the cat.

It was probably under the porch.  Looking out.  Mocking me.

I admitted defeat.  I filled the cat’s bowl with dried cat food and changed his drinking water.  He would come home and eat in his own time. 

I locked the front door and went to the kitchen.  The note Angie had scribbled out for me lay by my purse.  James Wilson.  I didn’t have to guess what he wanted.  Ever since he got wind of the fact finances were tight, he’d been trying to negotiate a deal with me.  He wanted to buy The Heat.  His last offer was decent.  It could have been a million dollars though, and it wouldn’t have mattered.  The thought of James Wilson owning Lila’s Café, the thought of a stranger running The Heat…unacceptable.  That little café encompassed more than my livelihood.  It was my past, my present, and as far as I could tell, my future.  The Heat was family.  You didn’t bail on family.

Family--something I didn’t have much of.  Didn’t have any to be exact.  Gran was gone.  My sweet Kam was gone.  And, even though she was still very much alive (as far as I knew, anyway), my momma was gone too.  She left the day Kam died.  Oh, she didn’t physically walk away until later, but the day Kam died momma drifted away.  I saw the light fade from her eyes.  I had killed Kam and knowing that had killed my momma. 

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Seven

Your Own Ego

I saved the best (or possibly the worst) for last.  What can sometimes be the biggest hurdle for a new writer?  E G O.

Think about it.  Most writers have been enamored with reading and writing their entire lives.  Storytelling is woven into our beings.  I was creating stories before I learned the alphabet.  I was literally writing before I knew how to write.  Creating is in our nature.

BUT…just because it is instinctive doesn’t mean it is refined.  Becoming a writer is similar to playing a sport.  Think of the kid who can run faster or hit the ball harder than any of his friends.  He has played backyard sports for years.  Then he tries out for the team. 

That cocky kid made the team assuming he is the greatest athletic talent the world has ever seen.  Then comes practice.  And rules.  And workouts.  And more rules.  He soon discovers there are tons of kids out there with his same level of raw talent.  (And he probably learns the joys of spending some time on the bench.)  What will set that kid apart from all the other talent out there just like him?  Hard work.  Determination.  Never giving up.

The smart athlete works hard, listens to his coach, and learns from his mistakes.  A smart writer does the same thing.

If you assume you know it all because you’ve been delighting your family and friends for years with your writing and storytelling skills, well, you are in for a shock.  There are rules to learn, skills to practice, and coaches from whom to glean information.  If you practice your writing skills and are receptive to the information out there (thank you World Wide Web) you will be headed in the right direction.

It is easy to get overwhelmed, though.  Don’t become discouraged with the enormity of the industry and the vast numbers of good writers who are still undiscovered/unpublished.  Be willing to work hard and make your mark.

After all the reading and learning, writing and rewriting, querying and waiting, you have to be proud of your work.  Your satisfaction is more important than that of any agent, publisher, or reviewer because at the end of the day, you are writing for you.

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Six

Understanding the Industry

When I was a little girl and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up my answer was always the same, “A writer, a teacher, a candy-striper and a mommy.”  Since that time, I have volunteered as a teacher for church and civic groups, worked in a local hospital, and am an extremely proud mother.  So when I started working on my first novel a few years back, I thought to myself, “Easy peasy!  I’ll type this up, send it to a big Publishing House and await their phone calls begging to print my manuscript.  Then I can just bask in the awesome wonderfulness that is me.”

Sounds like a great plan, eh?  Only one problem.  I was living in FANTASYLAND.

Publishers are not sitting around waiting to hear from you.  You can’t slap sixty-thousand of your brilliant words into Microsoft and then relax until the big, fat royalty checks start pouring in.  It just doesn’t work that way.  How does it work?  Gee, I’m glad you asked.

1.  Produce a quality manuscript.

Make your outline, write your rough draft.  Edit your manuscript.  Edit it again.  Ask your best friend to edit it.  Ask your high school English teacher to edit it.  Ask the freaky-looking dude in your kid’s carpool line to edit it.  Then, if you can afford it, hire a pro and let them beat the crap out of it with a red pen.  Trust me.  Just do it.

2.  Do your research.

What genre is your novel?  What agents rep in that category?  What are their submission guidelines?  What is the best method for contacting them? 

3.  Send out query letters.

Literary agents accept letters (called query letters) in which you give a brief description of your manuscript, identify the genre, offer any pertinent education or experience you have under your belt, and ask if they will consider reviewing your manuscript.  (Do NOT send them a copy of your manuscript thinking once they see it in all its glorious wonderfulness they will read it and offer to represent you on the spot.  Trust me, they won’t.  Into the great wastebasket abyss it will go.)

4.  Get a request for a manuscript.

Keep sending out those queries and hopefully (maybe, surely, possibly) one day you will hook an agent’s attention and he/she will pull your manuscript from the gloomy depths of the slush pile.  So, when an agent requests a partial or full manuscript, send it in and hope for the best.

5.  Secure an agent.

When an agent agrees to represent you, it is time to celebrate.  Enjoy.  (But remember you haven’t “arrived” yet.  There is still a long way to go.)  And just a note for newbies about agents.  No reputable literary agent will EVER demand money or charge fees for reading your manuscript or agreeing to rep you.  They get their cut later—when they sell your manuscript to a publisher.

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Five

It’s All in the Voice

“Looking for an author with a unique voice.” 

“Interested in clients with a strong, fresh voice.”

Statements like these tormented the snot out of me when I first started writing.  Agents and just about everyone who is anyone in the industry speaks of the “writer’s voice” like it is some sacred, special, magical, individualized thing.  You know what I discovered?  It is.

What is the writer’s voice?

Your voice is more than just your style of writing.  It is present in your sentence structure, your diction—in the flow of your writing.  Voice is evident in your choice of words, in character development, in your use of punctuation, and in how you write dialogue.  A strong, original writer’s voice is as unique as your thumbprint. 

Identifying a writer’s voice.

The best way I can explain identifying a writer’s voice is to offer you examples of a few of my favorite authors' voices.  Of course, I have to mention Twain, Austen and Hemingway.  Read any of their works and you will hear the distinct voice in each of their writings.

In addition, listed below are a few of my favorite authors.  Each has a really solid, unique writing voices.

FAULKNER, As I Lay Dying

"I realized that I had been tricked by words older than Anse or love, and that the same word had tricked Anse too, and that my revenge would be that he would never know I was taking revenge. And when Darl was born I asked Anse to promise to take me back to Jefferson when I died, because I knew that father had been right, even when he couldn't have known he was right anymore than I could have known I was wrong."

CHARLAINE HARRIS, Definitely Dead

I was draped over the arm of one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen, and he was staring into my eyes. "Think ... Brad Pitt," I whispered. The dark brown eyes still regarded me with remote interest. 

Okay, I was on the wrong track. 

I pictured Claude's last lover, a bouncer at a strip joint. 

"Think about Charles Bronson," I suggested. "Or, um, Edward James Olmos." I was rewarded by the beginnings of a hot glow in those long-lashed eyes.

In a jiffy, you would've thought Claude was going to hike up my long rustling skirt and yank down my low-cut push-up bodice and ravish me until I begged for mercy. Unfortunately for me - and all the other women of Louisiana - Claude batted for another team. Bosomy and blond was not Claude's ideal; tough, rough, and brooding, with maybe a little whisker stubble, was what lit his fire.

JOHN GREEN, Paper Towns

The way I figure it, everyone gets a miracle.  Like, I will probably never be struck by lightning, or win a Nobel Prize, or become the dictator of a small nation in the Pacific Islands, or contract terminal ear cancer, or spontaneously combust.  Bit if you consider all the unlikely things together, at least one of them will probably happen to each of us.  I could have seen it in rain frogs.  I could have stepped foot on Mars.  I could have been eaten by a whale.  I could have married the queen of England or survived months at sea.  But my miracle was different.  My miracle was this:  out of all the houses in all the subdivisions in all of Florida, I ended up living next door to Margo Roth Spiegelman.

SUZANNE COLLINS, The Hunger Games

Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. 

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

Can you hear it?  More than just a cadence or a technique or some dialogue.  It is in the flow of the writing.  It beckons you.  Pulls you in.  Lets you feel the writer’s personality through his or her words.  It is more than just a style.  The writer’s voice is the soul of their novel.  It is an extension of themselves.

Finding your voice.

There is no easy fix-all answer to the question of finding your voice.  Obviously, the more you write, the more confidence you develop and the more likely you are to recognize your own writer’s voice. 

I think developing your own distinct voice hinges on allowing your personality and your point of view about life to seep into your writing.  Let it color it.  Flavor it.  Let it make your writing stand out from the crowd.  Let it be as unique as you are.  When you do, then you will find your voice.

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Four

The Curse of Unnecessary Words

Be Direct

Wandering through the wilderness of words is a no no.  It is easy to do, but DON’T do it.  As a writer, your goal is to communicate your story in a clear, clean, concise, and entertaining manner. 

  

NO:   He was beginning to get angry with his irresponsible sister.

YES: He was angry with his irresponsible sister.

NO:   “I’m fixin’ to start thinkin’ about buttering your cornbread!”

YES:  “I’m gonna butter yo’ cornbread!”

Avoid Useless, Repetitive Words

My two most abused useless words are “that” and “just.”

NO:   “I hope you don’t think that I’m intimidated by you.”

YES:  “I hope you don’t think I’m intimidated by you.”

NO:   Jeff gave himself just enough time to get ready before the concert started.  Shelby was nervous.  Jeff knew just how she felt.  If he could just get to the concert hall before her opening number, he just knew he could convince her to relax.

YES:  Jeff gave himself just enough time to get ready before the concert.  Shelby was nervous.  He understood how she felt, and if he arrived at the concert hall before her opening number Jeff knew he could convince her to relax.

Banish Adverb Vomit

Ah, adverb vomit--my phrase for the pointless peppering of adverbs throughout your manuscript.

When it comes to adverbs, just say no.  Seriously, say no.  Less is more.  Go team.  Goodnight, John-boy, and all that jazz.

Adverbs disrupt the flow of most sentences and they encourage you as the writer to “tell” instead of “show.”  Please use them with caution.  (Sparingly, even.  Lol)

GAG:         Leslie looked to him nervously.

BETTER:   Leslie stared at him, eyes wide and hands trembling.

As far as adverbs are concerned, when in doubt, leave it out.  Go through your manuscript with a red pen and unmercifully *grin* mark out every little word ending in “ly” you find.  Root them out.  Annihilate them.  Then go back and see how much smoother your text reads.  Trust me; you will be glad you did it.

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Three

Dialogue Tags to Die for

God bless Nathan Bransford.  When I started writing, his blog provided information about dialogue tags and their proper use.  (If you are a newbie writer and you do not know who Nathan is, I suggest you Google, “Nathan Bransford blog” right now.  His site is a wealth of information.)

Dialogue tags are these little descriptive bits that help readers determine who is talking.  If my fuzzy memories of high school English are accurate, they are linking verbs.

     Example of a dialogue tag:

 “Bernadette is such a liar,” Jenny said. 

(See how Jenny is the subject, said is the verb, and your dialogue is essentially the direct object?  Dang!  I do remember a thing or two from high school.)

So, what is the deal with dialogue tags?  Simply put, get them right and your dialogue flows smooth and clear.  Get them wrong, and you stinketh up your manuscript.

Grammar and punctuation aside, let me offer the two most basic principles about dialogue tags:

1.  Verb after subject works best.  (This one is a bit subjective since I have seen some very successful writers ignore this rule.)  As a reader though, having the subject/verb placement backwards in a dialogue tag really bugs me.

     Example:

“Bernadette is such a liar,” said Jenny.  (“Said” is the verb; “Jenny” is the subject.)

To me, flipping the subject/verb order makes the sentence sound kinda robotic or snooty.  Take it for what it is worth.  *grin*

2.  Keep it simple.  (I think this is the number one rule for dialogue tags.)

     Example:

“You make me laugh,” Tammy said.

See how the dialogue tag in this sentence is simple and straightforward?  It almost blends into the background—becomes invisible.  That is the goal.  Get the reader to focus on the dialogue and use the tag only when needed to help the reader understand who is speaking.  The less noticeable the tag, the better.

     Examples of sucky dialogue tags:

“You make me so mad,” she said angrily.

“Why,” he inquired.

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” she informed him with a shout.

“Well, you’re the one acting like a two year old,” he replied.

“Yet you’re the one sleeping on the couch tonight,” she ranted.

See how all those dialogue tags drain the life out that brief conversation?  They make it stilted and unrealistic.  Watch what happens to the same dialogue when we follow the “simple” rule about tags.

     Revised dialogue:

“You make me so mad,” she said.

“Why?”

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met!”

“Well, you’re the one acting like a two year old,” he said.

“Yet you’re the one sleeping on the couch tonight.”

 

The best rule of thumb regarding dialogue tags is to use them sparingly and to make them as invisible as possible.  Let the reader focus on your characters and their conversation, not on your dialogue tags.

Seven Hurdles For New Writers: Number Two

Number Two:  Make it Read Well

Newbies make mistakes.  Everyone does it.  How stuff sounds matters.  People have to think.  Sentences matter.  Length is important.  Vary for effect.  The same thing gets old.

Whew!  That made me tired.  Hopefully, you noticed how monotonous the above paragraph sounded.  Rule number two for more effective writing?  Readability.  Varying sentence length is essential to good writing because it improves the flow of your story.  It can be taxing for your reader if every sentence has the same or similar amount of syllables.  Varying sentence length helps keep things moving.  Seems like such a simple suggestion.  It works.

The best way to check the flow of your story is to read it aloud.  Trust your ear.  If it doesn't read easily--if there is no natural rhythm, considering revising.

Remember:  If there is no flow, it has gotta go.  (Cheesy, but true...)

Seven Hurdles For New Writers

Hurdle Number One:  SHOW, don't tell.

When I started practicing the craft of writing, this was the first piece of advice I heard from more seasoned writers.  Amateurs tell.  Authors show.

But telling is so easy.  Let's face facts.  Telling is easier, but is it better?  You be the judge:

TELLING:
Jenny became nervous.

SHOWING:
Jenny's hands trembled and a cold sweat dampened the back of her neck.

Which example would you rather read?  Which gives the clearer, more interesting picture?

This rule kicked my butt when I started writing.  I told everything.  I still find myself desiring the lazy way out of telling instead of showing.  I fight the "tell hurdle" every time I write.  Now, unless it slips past me, the only slack I give myself concerning this rule is if my story is in first person and it fits the personality of my main character, who is talking to the reader.  Otherwise, I try to catch those sloppy "tells" and rewrite them.  It takes time, but it is worth it.

I Love Your Ghost Stories

While browsing signatures in an old elementary school yearbook, I came across something interesting.  More than wishing me well, or saying they would never forget me, or exclaiming their joy at being the first one to sign my crack (yep, that one still makes me giggle), my classmates inevitably repeated one wish for me—one sixth-grade mantra:  “Keep making up stuff.  I love your ghost stories!”

By late elementary school some girls were known as brainiacs or cheerleaders, others as athletes, some as beauty queens.  Me?  I was the class storyteller.  My forte?  Ghost stories.  Yep.  Sixth-grade girl-version of Stephen King. 

I told the classics—headless specters and haunted farmhouses, black velvet ribbon, the bloody hook.  Kathryn Tucker Windham didn’t have jack on me.  (Take that, Jeffrey!) And when I ran out of stories to tell, I made up new ones.  I told stories on the bus, stories on the playground, and stories at the top of the gym bleachers.  I told stories anytime my sixth-grade teacher let me stand up in front of the class.  (God bless you, Mrs. P.)

Turns out, some people are inherently born storytellers.  I am one of them.  The question I pose to you is, “Are the terms storyteller and writer interchangeable?”  If so, why?  If not, in your opinion which aspect is more important, storytelling or writing?

Personally, I think storytellers are born and writers are made.  Every storyteller has a story and if you are around them for more than five minutes, you are going to hear it.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their nature.  It is who they are.  Writers, on the other hand often take years to learn, practice, and master their craft.  Solid writing takes natural talent, but I believe it is an acquired skill.

So, is MacLaney Blue a storyteller or a writer?  I’d like to think I’m a little of both.  What do you think?  Check out my new book, The Heat, and give me your opinion.  (Dang, how was that for a smooth transition into shameless-plug mode?)

ttyl guys,

Laney

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The Heat available NOW for kindle at Amazon.com

Drum roll, please...

My new novel, The Heat, is officially available for kindle at Amazon.com  (If you could see me right now, you would know I'm doing a SERIOUS happy dance!)  *big grin*

To purchase, go to the kindle store and search:  maclaney blue

If you don't have a kindle or a compatible ereader, you can download a free kindle viewer for your computer at Amazon.com so you can read ebooks.

And my sweet, wonderful, lovely readers--I would love to hear your feedback.  If you snag a copy of The Heat, would you be so kind as to write a quick review at Amazon.com to let future readers know what you thought of my book?

Whew.  I spun around so much, me thinks I'm a bit woozy.  Fat chicks really ought not do the happy dance at 2 a.m.  Bleh.

The Skeleton That Holds It All Together

People sometimes ask me how I write a story.  In particular, they want to know how to take on something as huge as completing a novel.  My answer?  Think of it in sections or increments, instead of one huge task.

The starting point of every story for me is to outline three main aspects:

1.  MAIN CHARACTER

Who is the protagonist (main character)?

Write out everything you can conceive about them. 

(I do this for all essential characters to my story)

Physical, emotional, and spiritual traits. 

Habits.  Quirks.  Allergies.  Hopes.  Dreams.  Environment.

Are they allergic to shellfish?

Perhaps they collected bottle caps as a child.

Do they twist their pinkie ring when they are nervous?

The more you define every aspect of your protagonist, the more you know them.  Even if  all the things you write don’t make it into your story, just knowing the details of your character’s life will help you write them more convincingly.  In my new novel, The Heat, my main character Maggie Sheldon is crazy about dessert.  In particular, she is addicted to strawberry cream-filled donuts.

2.  PRIMARY CONFLICT

What challenge(s) does this character face?

This is the meat of your story.

Without an obstacle or foe to overcome, the story line is flat. 

A complex plot will contain one primary conflict and a few other smaller obstacles for your character to attempt to overcome.  (And remember, they don't always HAVE to overcome every obstacle.  Sometimes loosing the battle is what shapes the growth/outcome of your main character.  Keep it realistic.)

3.  RESOLUTION

How does your protagonist deal with the issue(s) he/she faces?

Will there be a happily ever after? 

Do they defeat the bad guy? 

Overcome the obstacle? 

Or do they get their butt kicked but have the inner strength to accept the defeat and keep pressing forward?  In essence, how does the conflict change the character's life?

These three items are the essential elements to your plot.  They are the framework to build your story upon.  Start with a well-defined main character, a strong conflict and a creative resolution.  The rest will fall into place as you write.

Edit, Schmedit!

Nonwriters often assume creating the initial draft of a novel is the most difficult part.  After all, you need a unique writing voice, an interesting protagonist, and a heckofa plot.  For most writers, however, drafting the story is a piece of cake--like, a gigantic piece of red velvet or a slice of homemade yellow cake with fudge icing.  Yum.  For a writer the story almost always flows with ease.  The part that kicks us in the teeth?  *cringe* Rewriting and editing.

When I was a kid I assumed my favorite authors just sat down in front of a typewriter (yes, I said typewriter--heavens to Betsy, I'm old, as evidenced by the fact I just said "heavens to Betsy")--anyway, I assumed they sat down in front of a typewriter and typed out the story and voila, they were finished.  (Yeah, right--in fantasy-land perhaps.  Cut me a break.  I was only ten years old.)

Truth is, your favorite novel was probably written and rewritten dozens of times and then edited, and edited, and edited, and edited some more before it ever made it to that beautiful book or awesome kindle copy you now enjoy.  And my friends, I am now climbing out of editing purgatory with my new novel, The Heat.  It isn't the most fun part of the process, but it is necessary.  So, if you are still out there, cheer me on and wish me well.  This is one of the final hurdles before getting the novel to you, the reader.  In the mean time, enjoy a sample of my new novel, The Heat, which should be available in paperback and on kindle soon.

-------------------------------------
SAMPLE:  CHAPTER 1
MACLANEY BLUE, THE HEAT

1  MAX AND THE HEAT

Wonder how many chickens I’d violated in my lifetime?

The knife sliced into a pile of cooked chicken breasts.  My free hand tucked a loose tendril of hair behind my ear.  Hm…a ponytail usually sufficed.  I guess I should have worn a hairnet, but the high school lunch lady look didn’t do much for me.  I snorted.  Magnolia Sheldon, glorified lunch lady.  Damn.  Some days I it seemed I had the greatest job in the world, but today wasn’t one of those days.  I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and pretty much stuck--a nobody in a job headed nowhere.

Neighbors in Addie’s Ridge thought of me as a somebody though, ever since Gran died and passed on her hometown restaurant to me.  On the outside, I looked capable and confident but as perspiration crept down my cleavage and the back of my arm swiped my damp brow, I knew the truth.  Lunch lady.  Yep.  Freakin’ lunch lady.

I dropped the knife onto the cutting board, washed my hands, and pulled the front hem of my white tee shirt through the neckline and back down creating a makeshift halter top.  My lips curled into a smirk.  Sexy lunch lady.  Yeah, now that was more like it.

The swinging door opened and Tara peeked inside.  “Oh, look at you rockin’ that plain white tee.  Uh huh, I think Maggie Sheldon’s got her sexy on.” 

I piled chicken onto a toasted bun and ladled barbeque sauce over the top before handing her the plate.  “Shut up you goofball or I’ll think you’re hitting on me.  Don’t want me to cry sexual harassment, do you?”

She winked at me.  “Sexual harassment?  Ewww, gross.  What are you, like a hundred years old or somethin’?”

I swatted her perky nineteen-year-old ass with a dishtowel.

“Oh yeah, everybody knows who does the harassing around here,” Tara said.

Tara was a hoot.  She sported blonde hair, blue eyes, and a body like a brick house.  Since I hired her last summer, seventeen to twenty-five year old guys now hung around the café and ordered the blue plate special in surprising numbers.  Yeah.  They weren’t after the country-fried steak. 

With the mouth she had on her, it was no surprise some people pegged Tara a wild child.  Truth of the matter, she was as straight-laced as they came.  Volunteered at the nursing home.  Sang in the church choir.  Had a reputation for being the good girl every momma wanted her little boy to date.  Good employee too—hard worker.  Her only shortcoming?  Sometimes she lacked in the public relations department.  Yeah, that mouth got her into trouble.

I plated two orders of chicken dumplings and one order of beans n’ greens.  “Tara, order’s up.”  I lifted fried chicken from the hot oil and then turned toward the swinging doors when I heard the commotion outside the kitchen.

“Mister, you can’t go in there.  Hey!”

The kitchen door pushed open and a tall man strode inside, hands on hips and stern expression.  I bit the fleshy inside of my jaw.  “Can I help you?”

“Are you the cook?”

“I’m the owner.  What seems to be the problem?”

Tara burst in.  “Maggie, I told him he couldn’t come in here.”

I held up a hand.  “I’ve got this, Tara.  Why don’t you grab those orders and take them out front.”  I turned to the gentleman.  “Now, I’m sorry.  What can I do for you?”

“For starters, you can tell me what the hold up is on my order.  I’ve been waiting so long my ass has atrophied to the chair.”

 “Your ass, huh?  Well, you must have gotten it unstuck because it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of showing it right now.”

His mouth dropped open.  “Okay, seriously.  Is this how you treat all your customers?”

“No, just the really annoying ones.”

He cocked his head to the side.  “I see where your waitress gets her mouth.”

I doled out mashed potatoes with gravy and fried chicken on a couple of plates.  My teeth grit together and I forced a happy-face suck-up smile.  “Look, I’m sorry about the wait, but it’s the lunch rush and sometimes things get a little crazy.  What was your order?” 

“It isn’t like I ordered Beef Wellington or something.  I just asked for a BLT.  How hard could that be?” 

          “Like I said, I’m sorry.  It has been busy today and I’m the only cook.”

“No excuse.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “Okay, I’m trying to be nice, but truth is you haven’t waited long.  Perhaps the problem isn’t the service.  It might be your lack of patience.”

“It’s a wonder you have any business considering the way you…”

“Hey, look.  If you think you can do better, there’s the stove.  Have at it.”  I spun around and plopped green beans onto each fried chicken dinner platter.  “Tara, order’s up.” 

I turned around in time to see him finish rolling up his sleeves.  “What are you doing?  You know, technically you aren’t supposed to be in my kitchen.”

“You told me if I thought I could do any better to have at it.  Well, I can and I am.  Now where’s the bacon?” 

          My mouth fell open.  “What?  I’m not kidding.  You can’t be back here.”

He washed his hands and rummaged through the industrial fridge. “Ah ha!”  He held up a pre-cut slab of bacon.  “Nice.  Not the cheap stuff, either.”

I raised my voice.  “Hey, stop that.  You’re a walking health code violation.”

“You’re the one who started all this.  If you could do your job in a timely manner, I wouldn’t be back here.” 

          Hell.  Was he kidding me? 

“I’m not joking.  I can’t have customers in my kitchen.  What happens if you get burned or cut yourself or something?  My insurance company would kill me.  You need to get out of here.”

He laughed and kept gathering ingredients.

I grabbed his hand.  “Look, I’m serious.”

He dropped the bacon, mayonnaise, and lettuce onto my worktable and spun around, taking both of my wrists into his large hands.  When I tried to pull free, he pressed my arms to the door of the big silver refrigerator.  My center of gravity shifted and I fell against the refrigerator door.  It knocked the breath out of me.  His grip held steady, the warmth from his hands scorching my wrists.  He leaned in.

“And you think I’m not serious?  You told me to cook my own lunch if I thought I could do better, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”  His face pressed so close I could feel his breath on my cheek.  “Don’t make an offer little girl if you’re not prepared to accept the consequences.” 

He held my wrists tight and stared down at my mouth. 

I exhaled in a loud huff and my tongue flicked across my lower lip.  Damn but he was pretty.  Tousled dark hair with tiny flecks of silver at the temples.  Chocolate brown eyes and a chiseled jaw.  Broad shoulders filled out his blue long-sleeved shirt.  And his lips--Umm.  His lips made you wanna say things that’d make your momma blush.

What was wrong with me?  I should be afraid of him, not checking him out. 

Tara stuck her head through the doorway.  “Hey, Maggie.  I need two more blue plates and a cheeseburger combo.”  She glanced in our direction.  “What the?”

He dropped my wrists and stepped away, running his fingers through his thick hair.

I shook my head and stared at Tara.  “It’s okay.  You need two blues and a CBC.  Got it.”  I turned my attention back to Mr. Iron Chef Wannabe.  “Let’s get something straight.  You keep your damned hands to yourself.  No one puts their paws on me unless I say I want to be touched.”

His lips lifted a bit at the corners and his eyebrows raised a notch.  “I’m sorry.  Won’t happen again.”  He leaned toward me.  “Unless you want to be touched, that is.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Smart ass.”

He chuckled.

“Look, we need to back up and start over.  I was just joking earlier, um, Mr. uh…”

“Max.  Max Walker.”  He tore into the bacon and strode to the stove.  As the griddle heated, he spread several slices of bacon onto it, and started slicing tomatoes.  Every few slices he tapped the cutting board with the base of the knife.  I stared at him.

“Right.  Okay, Mr. Walker.  Really.  If you will wait outside, I’ll fix your BLT and get anything else you’d like.  On the house.”

“Maggie, is it?”

I nodded.

“Well, Maggie, unless you want three more customers crowding around your stove, I suggest you let me take care of the BLT and you get back to the other orders.”  He flipped the bacon and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

I shook my head and started preparing the other plates.  “I don’t need some K.V. trying to play chef in my kitchen.”

“K.V. as in Kitchen Virgin.  Hmph,” he said.  His gaze started at my ankles and traced a slow path up my body, resting at the knotted tee shirt between my breasts.  “I can assure you, Maggie, I’m no virgin.  Your equipment is in capable hands.” 

Well, hell.  I just spontaneously combusted.

The decision to self-publish

Ask any writer about self-publishing and after the initial shriek of horror and glazed-over look like a sedated dachshund listening to a Barry Manilow CD, you are sure to hear that it is the kiss of death.  So why are so many writers trying their hand at self-publishing? 

Some writers are impatient.  They are tired of the search for an agent.  Tired of their "baby" dying a cold, hard death at the bottom of endless slush piles.  Tired of rejection letters.  Just. Plain. Old. Tired.  Others are sucked in by the thought of seeing their novel in print.  (yeah, yeah I understand the concept of Vanity Publishing.)  Add to this the simplicity with which one can now self-publish (I swear a trained monkey--or even my grandmother could do it), and you've got yourself a booming business for folks like Amazon, Lulu, and the other big names out there.

So, snogging with the crypt keeper aside (okay, I think that was a flippin' hilarious reference to "kiss of death" but if I had to explain it for you, then it probably wasn't as brilliant as I thought)--ANYHOO, snogging with the crypt keeper aside, this writer has decided to bite the bullet and self-publish my novel, The Heat.*  And if no one except my mom and my best friend buys the book, well, my ego will survive.  Probably.  Maybe.  Sorta.  After all, I'm not Tolstoy or Austen or Stephenie Meyer (tongue in cheek) or anything.  I write chick books.  And not the kind about heaving bosoms and throbbing manhoods.  I write easy reads about real women dealing with the same kind of everyday crap you and I face. 

And if you've read my entire blog post up to this point, then my writing can't suck too bad, eh?  So stay on the lookout for info about my book's release date (in the next week or two through Amazon) and check it out.  My mom will thank you.  She really doesn't want to be the only person posting comments on my blogs.

THE HEAT
Release date:  June 2011

*The Heat
Magnolia Sheldon owns a small Southern cafe.  She has no idea how much her life is about to change when she hires the uber-sexy Max Walker as a part-time cook.  Will Maggie overcome her past and find happiness?  Most of all, when she and Max really start cooking, will she be able to handle the heat?