Choosing the right words

As I go through and self-edit my latest book, I am at the stage where I'm nitpicking my word choices. Words do matter. This manuscript has been edited by others, but sometimes you need to take the time and really comb through your story. I found some verbs that didn't seem strong enough. I use "fill" a lot in my writing. For example: Smoke filled the room. There are better word choices for this sentence like "Smoke permeated the room." It's much stronger and describes the scene better. "Fill" works most of the time, but if a stronger verb can be used, that's the wiser choice. Your readers will appreciate you doing your best to make their experience more enjoyable.

So take the time to self-edit your story before hitting that publishing button.

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Only a woman with Fae blood can stop the Roman Ninth legion from occupying her homeland, but the cost is high.

Genre: Historical fiction fantasy romance

Tropes: Opposites Attract, Love Triangle, Secrets, Magic, Fated, Different Worlds

Available in Kindle, Print, and Kindle Unlimited

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BYB1FGL8

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What Happens When a Vampire Hooks Up with a Panther Shifter? - Desiree All Night - FREE Erotic Paranormal Romance - Tina Donahue News Magazine #FREERomance #Giveaways #FREEChapters #EyeCandy

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Who doesn’t want to be Teacher’s Pet?

This is the third book in my Unlikely Bedfellows series and takes place right after the Vietnam War ended and feminism had blazed to a societal force. Women ruled and military guys were at the bottom of the ladder. So who should feature in this book but a staunch feminist and two men in the Marine Corps? Unlikely bedfellows indeed.

Blurb:
In 1975, a professional woman is probably a feminist and often was an anti-war protestor. Professor Leah Morris was both. Now, however, feminism is settling in comfortably and Vietnam is over. When Leah seeks early tenure, she fails on two fronts. She's desperate to prove to her family that she has the same talent for success that they do, and from desperation comes sometimes brilliant ideas. With the concept of a unique, new book, her dream of proving herself to her family may finally come true. She carefully selects two men to help fulfill her plan, only discovering too late that she swore ten years earlier she'd never again speak to one of them, and that both are out of the war, but still in the Corps. Are the teacher's pets carrying too much baggage for Leah, or is that "baggage" really a comfy sleeping bag, large enough for three?

 

Buy link:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Teachers-Unlikely-Bedfellows-Publishing-Everlasting-ebook/dp/B00A796SGY/

 B&N https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/teachers-pets-unlikely-bedfellows-3-jenna-stewart/1113908543?ean=9781622419043

 Excerpt:
The radio switched from Simon and Garfunkel’s old hit, “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” to Glen Campbell’s, newest, “Rhinestone Cowboy,” but Dr. Leah Morris hardly noticed. Sitting back in her office chair, puzzled, she picked up the sheet of paper filled with even, legible script and examined it once more, just to confirm what she already knew. This man—she checked the name at the top—this Beau Johnson, had scored an A. And not just an A but a perfect one hundred percent. And this was the third time this week he’d done it.

No need to consult the seating chart. She knew exactly who he was—the intriguing man whose gaze had held hers a split second too long earlier in the day. His gaze had heated her, and she’d had the satisfying impression that hers had done the same to him. She placed his paper on top of the others and tapped the edges on the table until the stack was aligned before tucking them inside her notebook. Picking up her wineglass, she drained it.

She poured chardonnay from a local vineyard, filling the glass again before pulling from her briefcase the two letters that had her mind churning. Both had arrived the week before classes started. One was from the chancellor’s office. It stated that though she had taught at Herrisville College for three years, she had not distinguished herself enough to be considered for early tenure. She would be considered again in five years.

Five years! She would show him how she could distinguish herself from every other female teacher in the school. Colleges all over were fast-tracking women to prove nondiscrimination in the face of women’s lib. Leah had chosen Herrisville College—a medium-sized school in the Virginia Blue Ridge—because she thought achieving tenure would be easier there than in a larger school. “So much for that idea,” she muttered.

The second letter was from Whitestone Publishing Company telling her that her book proposal was not intriguing enough to pick up. Her proposal had been to document two college men in different frat houses to show how their behavior was different based on their living arrangements. The editor said her idea was “clichéd.” He explained that if she decided on something more provocative, they would entertain another proposal. In that one day she had been described as unaccomplished and boring. She took a healthy gulp of wine. Damn it! She had counted on that book to push her over the edge into tenure if she needed it.

More provocative is what they want? “Well, I have provocative down to a T.” She took another gulp of wine, letting the bite stimulate her senses before swallowing. She’d written articles for scholarly magazines but never a book. The time had come. Publish or perish might pertain to magazine articles, but books were the way to make a name outside the academic world as well as in, and she had the idea of the century. If this didn’t get her tenure, nothing would.

Taking out a clean sheet of paper and firmly taking up her pen, she first wrote provocative. The word could mean interesting, but she wanted to take it a step further, to sensual or even sexy. She could handle either one.

Next, she listed intriguing. If two frat boys didn’t interest the publisher, perhaps two rivals would. And nothing made rivals of men like a woman. A woman who brought out their primal instincts. She would be the woman. For men, she needed two who wouldn’t mind the idea of sharing—at first. She had faith that any two men, forced to face the fact that they both screwed the same woman, would eventually turn on each other. The territorial male would be her premise. “That should be intriguing enough for Whitestone-fucking-Publishers.”

The trouble was finding two men who were emotionally disengaged enough to agree to participate. She wanted a “family unit” of sorts to study but not clinging males who insisted she continue the experiment long after the thrill was gone. Which, based on the attitudes of most men when faced with a strong, independent woman, wouldn’t take too long.

She wouldn’t hint that the men would be part of a book because that would affect their behavior. They would try to fit into what she wanted instead of acting naturally. Her thesis was that men couldn’t remain friends if a woman stood between them. When she proved it and put it in writing, the book would be a best-seller and the college would be sure to pick her up for fast-track tenure.

The phone rang and she went into the kitchen to pick up, her mind on organizing the book.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Leah.”

Oh, no. Her self-confidence shriveled to the size of an acorn. “Mother. How nice to talk with you.”

 A little about me:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.

 After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website. And all three offer some of the best romance you can find! Also, once a month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for my newsletter and have access to free reads.

 Author links:

Website: https://nomadauthors.com

Blog: http://nomadauthors.com/blog

Twitter: http://twitter.com/DeeSKnight

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN

Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/h8t2y6

LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

Sweet ‘n Sassy Divas: http://bit.ly/1ChWN3K

 

Taken by The Siren by @meganslayer #romance #paranormal #eroticromance #siren @changelingpress

 

Taken by the Siren (Taken 3)
A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel by Megan Slayer
$4.99 /Sale Price: $4.24

 

Michael came home to heal his broken heart. He had no idea he'd find the love of his life in a siren....

 

Michael Blessing thought he had everything he ever wanted when he met his wife. Then he found out the truth, and his world was shattered by a car accident. Coming home to Eerie was supposed to be his time to heal his broken heart.

The siren had other ideas.

Lia Darling never forgot the shy, handsome young man she’d known when they were children. Seeing Michael again awakens a need within her she can’t explain or deny, but she’s been hurt before. She doesn’t want another dead end, and when she looks into his eyes, she sees forever.

Maybe this second chance is just what they need to heal, move forward and find love… together.

 

Buy it Today
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EXCERPT:

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2023 Megan Slayer

“Home,” Michael Blessing murmured as he drove past the city limit line into Eerie. He hadn’t been back in so long. Seemed like the day he left was the last day he thought about his hometown. Silly, really. Eerie wasn’t a bad place. It was quaint. Like a storybook town. The buildings were whimsical, full of gingerbread and swirls, plus glitter and bright paint. The streets were clean and the sidewalks wide. The flowers blossomed brighter, and the people seemed to welcome everyone back.

There wasn’t a stranger in Eerie -- except humans. They were all strangers, but he wasn’t a human. His Fae father had married a woman who knew witchcraft. They’d been a good pairing, and Michael had the best childhood. Everyone thought his mother was human, but he hadn’t cared. He was loved.

His parents were still alive and still cared about him. He was their son, and they’d always love him, but they had no idea the depths of loneliness he felt. They didn’t understand the grief he dealt with on a daily basis.

The woman he loved was dead. The moment he’d seen Chloe, he knew he wanted her for the rest of his life. She’d be the best partner and eventually would make him a father.

Then she had, but she died.

He hadn’t been able to manage the grief, not even a year and a half later. He needed somewhere to hide. Eerie wasn’t the place to hide. Most everyone in town stood out. Witches, Elves, Faeries, gargoyles, shifters and every other kind of paranormal creature was there.

But he had a cabin in the woods on the other side of town, with a pier on the lake and plenty of space to be quiet, to hide and regroup. No one would bother him. He could write and be alone with no one bugging him, making him come out of himself or pleading with him to be social.

He didn’t have any social in him.

Not today. Not this week. Maybe not ever.

His magic had dried up, too.

Did he care? A little, but not as much as he should. He drove through town, then onto the side road leading to the woods. The beauty of Eerie was that everyone had a space. The lake, the village, the little cottages, the woods… If a paranormal creature wanted a space, there was one. If he wanted to hide at his cabin and write, then practice his magic, then he could.

No one would annoy him.

He pulled into the dirt path that led to his cabin. The second he wound through the trees to his little house, he felt better. Like he belonged.

But that was always the way he felt when he came here. His heart was in the woods, among the trees and peace. Maybe he was always meant to be alone. Chloe had seen the most in him -- more than anyone -- but she was gone, and he had to pick up the pieces.

He pulled into the dirt patch next to the cabin and parked. As the engine cooled, he debated what to do. He needed to put up the carport to protect the Jeep -- not from the falling branches, but the leaves, rain and debris. He supposed he could use his magic to protect the vehicle, too. Probably should do that. It’d be a reason to practice his magic and prevent too much damage to his Jeep.

Despite needing to put the carport together, he left his vehicle and headed into the cabin. The place would need a lot of cleaning up, but he could use those tasks to procrastinate instead of writing.

He carried his bag into the cabin, then set about to put the tarp, PVC and canvas carport up. If nothing else, the carport would hide his vehicle, and maybe if anyone saw the lights on, they’d leave him alone.

He hated being so despondent and crabby, but he’d been hurt and had no idea how to get over his loss.

An hour later, he managed to secure the Jeep in the carport and even cleaned up the living room enough for living. He added a bit of magic to the carport, adding extra strength to the canvas to protect his vehicle. He’d murmured the words and checked to ensure the spell had gone correctly. Sure enough, it had, and he grinned.

At least one thing had gone his way.

He headed back into the house, and his stomach grumbled. He should eat, but there wasn’t anything in the fridge. Hell, the fridge hadn’t even been turned on. He needed to make a run to the store, but also should set up the Internet, too.

He cleaned the dust from the living room, then set about getting the kitchen in order. He removed the sheets around the house to reveal the furniture and, as he worked, he swore he heard music.

A familiar song. Sweet, too.

He paused, and his thoughts turned to a song he remembered from his childhood. A girl he’d known had sung the song, but probably never where she thought anyone could hear her.

He chuckled to himself. He hadn’t thought about that girl or the song in ages. What was her name? She’d been a sweet young woman, with flame-red hair and fiery eyes. She rarely spoke, but she’d filled out quickly and wore revealing clothes. She grabbed attention wherever she went, but no one really got to know her.

He knew her name. He’d lusted after her the entire time they were in school.

Lia.

 

My Favorite Poem by Kaye Spencer #poetry

American poet Theodore Roethke (1908-1963) was born May 25, 1908.

Although he isn’t my favorite poet, he did write my favorite poem, My Papa’s Waltz, which was originally published in ‘Hearst Magazine’ in 1942.

My Papa’s Waltz has been taken apart, turned upside down and inside out, and analyzed under literary and scholarly microscopes to find the deeper meaning—the true meaning (rolling my eyes)—that Roethke intended beneath the surface.

What pleasure do we get from poetry if we rely upon someone else’s opinion and interpretation to tell us what the poem really means to us? Why do we have to read for symbolism in order to have a poem touch our heart, speak to us in a uniquely personal way, or have a special meaning that is ours alone ?

I think literary critics would do well to employ a little less Freud and a little more heart in their literary evaluations.

Poetry is personal. Poetry must be savored, thought about, read and read again, spoken aloud. What shouldn’t happen is poetry analyzed to the point of it being an impersonal list of institutionally scrubbed and disinfected words strung together.

My Papa’s Waltz takes me back to my happy childhood with loving, attentive parents.

For me it is a straight forward, captured-moment-in-time of a playful and loving dance between child and father (or grandfather in my case). I stood on my grandpa’s feet and danced like this many, many times, and my ears did occasionally scrape his belt buckle.

When I read this poem, I still smell his whiskey, beer, cigarette smoke, chewing tobacco, garden dirt, and wood working that make up my olfactory memories of him. He was my maternal grandpa who lived just across the pasture and around the pond from me.

Above Picture: Spring 1958 – Me with Grandpa George on his roof. The back side of his house was built into a dirt bank, so it was easy to crawl up and sit on the roof.

Above Picture: Christmas 1956 – I was almost two years old.

Above Picture: This was my 5^th birthday.

Some interpretations of this poem insist that Roethke was frightened of his father, because of his father’s drinking and violent behavior, which is apparently evident in the poem. I don’t read this into the poem. The lenses in my world-view glasses have a rosy, happy color about this poem.

My grandpa was a carpenter, a gardener, an outdoorsman, a musician, a self-taught scholar, and a teacher of life skills to an attentive granddaughter. He taught me to play the harmonica by ear. He raised pigs and chickens. His hands were often dirty and his knuckles often battered. He was of the blue collar working class.

We sometimes danced around the kitchen and knocked things off shelves, but we had a darn good time. By today’s standards, I suppose he was an alcoholic, but he did a day’s work every day, because there was work to be done. He was an awful housekeeper (widower), but I didn’t realize that or care. When I was 12, he finally got indoor plumbing. He cooked on an old fashioned wood stove that also heated his house. He was born in 1898.

My Papa’s Waltz is, and will remain, a cherished poem that takes me back to my happy childhood with parents and a grandpa who was a good and decent man, despite the whiskey on his breath…

Here is Theodore Roethke reading his poem, My Papa’s Waltz.

See you next time...

www.kayespencer.com

Sometimes It’s Okay to Be Comfortable

 There is a thought in modern self-help that you always need to force yourself out of your comfort zone in order to achieve your dreams. That no truly amazing feat can be accomplished without getting uncomfortable. And I have always prescribed to this idea. Especially when it comes to my writing. 

For the last few years, I have been trying to push myself to write the stories I want to write. To not limit my ideas by what I think I can write, or to stay within the safe borders of what has always been the romance genre. The self-publishing landscape has opened up so many different stories I would have never guessed would be so popular or amazing, and I see no reason the same couldn’t be true for the stories I want to tell.

And I think actively trying to ignore the negative voices in my head has been very good for me. And my writing. I have grown as an author. I’ve developed my voice even more acutely. And I have created some stories and characters I lover, that I never would have without pushing myself in this way. 

But there are some negatives to pushing yourself out of your comfort zone as well. The biggest being it takes work—hard work—to be so uncomfortable and stay determined. It can be downright grueling and very time consuming to keep going even when things are uncomfortable. And while I am getting close to completing some of these new stories, it is often hard to put in the time and dedication it takes to push yourself in these ways.

When Nanowrimo started this last year, I intended to continue pushing myself and my writing throughout the contest. To keep going with these harder stories, and maybe even get one a little closer to completion. But the words just would not come. I was having a really difficult time connecting to the stories and characters in such a pressurized timeframe.

Out of desperation towards the end of the month, I decided to take a stab at an older story I haven’t played with in years (one of my goals for Nanowrimo this year was to only work on stories I had already started, instead of adding even more started but not completed projects to my huge backlog). This story was light, fun, sexy, and very much like the stories I wrote at the beginning of my career. And surprisingly, the second I settled back in this world, the words just flew from my fingers. It was almost like magic. Before I knew it, I’d written over twenty thousand words in less than a week (numbers far bigger than I had done in years).

Maybe the speed at which I could write this story was because of all the work I’ve been doing over the last few years. Maybe it is because this story had been brewing in the back of my mind of so long, it was already formed and ready to come out. But whatever the reason, it felt great. Fun, and freeing and a little like coming home. It was a wonderful reminder that sometimes it’s okay to be comfortable. It’s okay to not push yourself all the time. Sometimes it’s okay to take that break, spend that day on the couch, reread that book you love and have read a dozen times instead of starting a new one, or working on that project that is comfortable and enjoyable.

And while I will be going back to my other stories, and continuing to push myself to try things with my writing I haven’t done before, it was nice to have a break. And remember the fun and the joy that my old comforts gave me. After all, writing might not always be easy, there is always enjoyment and excitement to be had in all stages of the process.

So if you are looking for permission to embrace the comfortable today, to relax a bit and not spend every moment pushing yourself to achieve that next lofty goal, you’ve got it. Those lofty ambitions will be there tomorrow. Take today for you.

Love and Writing - imperfect characters and happily ever afters #PNR #Writing #EnemiesToLovers #shapeshifters

 It’s hard to find chunks of uninterrupted time to really, truly write. This evening, my house is unexpectedly quiet. Nobody needs my attention or a ride somewhere or help with homework so I can actually sit down at my desk/kitchen table and get some work done. I have so many different stories I’ve begun that need my attention. Often, when I sit down, I don’t know where to begin, and this particular evening is no exception. Getting to that calm place of inspiration always takes a moment.

My dog and cats are mad about the thunderstorm that’s been raging for the last hour, so they’re sticking close by my side. I always keep my composition notebooks on standby while I work on various files on my computer. Sometimes writing something by hand helps me figure out a way forward when I’m stuck. I’ve pulled up a playlist full of songs by Rush, Tom Petty, Elton John, Greta Van Fleet, Peter Gabriel, and Alice in Chains on my phone because I like background noise. Total silence is annoying. Also annoying is the sinus headache currently pounding at the base of my skull.

The headache is my near constant companion these days and the pain makes me feel like I’m existing in slow motion, but I can still move, and so I’m moving along, doing what I can. Sometimes, I can focus in on writing or reading a good book and forget that the obnoxious pain exists. Other times, I’m not so lucky. I don’t wait to feel better, anymore, instead, I sit down at the computer and see what I can get done anyway. Nothing stops moving— not the world, not the greed that powers misery, not even hard times that come for people who don’t deserve to suffer— nothing stops, so I try to keep going, too.

People have asked me why I like writing in the romance genre. There’s not enough love, not enough hope or happy endings, so writing romance gives me a chance to create worlds where love is valued and kindness is a strength. I write imperfect characters that have to dig deep to find the courage to find for their happy ending. I like to add shapeshifters, plenty of steamy tension and spice, and lots of suspense to my stories.

Coyote’s Vow, the latest story in my Stranger Creatures series, features a gruff coyote shifter and a sweet, smart ass, telekinetic psy.

Coyote’s Vow - Blurb:

Kylie was the victim of a brutal experiment that gave her telekinetic abilities. Coyote shifter Trevor doesn’t trust the psy but when his feelings for Kylie grow out of control, will he risk everything to be with her? When a deranged doctor has disturbing plans for shifters and psy, can Trevor and Kylie stop him, or will they be silenced forever?

Excerpt:

Who is she? Trevor tried not to stare at the woman sitting across from Shifters United President Matt Blackwell but damn, she was beautiful. Her long, black hair had a purple, glossy tint. Intricate tattoos wound around her arms and lower legs. He wanted to run his fingers along the ink lines of every single tattoo. Her skin looked so smooth and touchable. Bitable too. Nope. Not appropriate. Not at all. He forced his descending coyote fangs to recede.

Blackwell didn’t introduce Trevor to the mystery woman, though, and that sent his curiosity into caution mode. The purple-haired beauty gave him a wary look before glancing back down at the computer tablet in her hand. Right. Business. Trevor had obviously interrupted a meeting. He’d stopped by Matt Blackwell’s hotel room to drop off a folder full of intel and surveillance photos. He needed to find an excuse to stay and talk to the woman with lovely dark brown eyes.

“Thanks for taking care of the research,” Blackwell gave him a nod. “Set the info on my desk and I’ll take a look before the meeting tonight.”

Trevor walked past the mystery woman and set the folder full of information on the small desk beside the coffee table. He stole another, longer glance at the woman. Her nails were painted indigo blue. His favorite color. The tattoos winding around her arms seemed to be in motion, encircling her in their safety. Weird trick of the light. Had to be. He rubbed his eyes. Blinked. The tattoos went still. The woman smelled amazing, like wildflowers after the rain, but she didn’t smell like a shifter. Didn’t mean she wasn’t one.

Scent blockers made it easy for shifters to mask their unique scent, to a degree. The blockers also did a fairly good job at hiding other smells shifters could detect, like fear, desire, and rage. Even so, Trevor could almost always detect hints of the slightly rancid, faint garbage aroma of the blockers, no matter what brand or what home recipe a person used. Coyote shifters could pick up on smells most other shifters couldn’t.

What is the woman with the willowy tattoos? Was she a threat to Blackwell? Maybe a rabbit shifter? Rabbit shifters were the only animal shifters who carried no animal scent, but their eyes.... Not a specific color, just a look. Plus, they usually liked to flash their double rows of horrifying sharp teeth upon meeting other shifters. Just for a flex. The rabbits could be mean when bothered unnecessarily, but mostly, they were pretty decent. The woman caught him looking again and gave him a little half smile. Her pretty eyes with long, thick lashes were definitely not the strange eyes of a rabbit shifter.

“I’ll see you later, Trevor.” Blackwell gave him a pointed stare.

“You’re alright here?”

“I’m fine. I have Nathan,” Blackwell gestured to his giant assistant and body guard who was seated in a chair in the kitchenette, reading a book.

No code phrases were used, and Trevor didn’t detect any signs of distress from the mountain lion shifter or his bear shifter assistant. Trevor nodded. Apparently, Blackwell had no intention of introducing him to the woman sitting with him. Nathan, grinned at Trevor, like he knew something. Fine, Nathan could keep his secret. But Trevor would get information, one way or another.

Purchase Links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BZT58GXZ

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/coyotes-vow-christina-lynn-lambert/1143274092?ean=2940185830819

Apple iBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/coyotes-vow/id6447381379?ign-itscg=30200&ign-itsct=books_box_link

Kobo Books: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/coyote-s-vow

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1370196

Google Books: Coyote's Vow by Christina Lynn Lambert - Books on Google Play

 

If you’d like to follow me on social media for my latest book information and excerpts, poems, contest info, book recommendations, and other fun stuff, you can find me at:

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