Okay, I made it home from RWA in Atlanta without melting. I’d
been warned about the humidity, but it wasn’t so bad. Honest. And I even
managed a bit of sightseeing. I mean, any self-respecting romance writer simply must visit the Margaret Mitchell House.
Actually it was in a small, first floor apartment inside this house where Margaret decided to “try writing a book” while healing up from a foot injury
that kept her from her newspaper reporter job.
Hmmm. Try writing a
book? The book of all fiction books? The first book I tried writing is,
well, I think it’s stuffed in the attic somewhere. Those were the days when that
dinosaur called “the typewriter” didn’t save or print anything. No matter, the
tale is garbage. But Margaret’s typewriter can be worshipped today in the apartment.
It might be a reasonable facsimile thereof, though. Nonetheless, the miracle machine produced
her One and Only Book. Sheesh.
She wrote the last chapter first. When a publisher visited,
wanting to see her work, she first refused. Then gathered up the manilla envelopes
stuffed throughout the place, each one holding a chapter.
Talk about a pantser. Oh, a pantser who never got rejected.
Sheesh some more.
Supposedly some parts of the book are autobiographical. A suitor
with the initials C.H. did die in the war. (WWI) She married one man while in
love with another, hubby’s best friend. (No matter, it all worked out.) She
didn’t have kids because, well, Scarlett didn’t think much of motherhood
either. Remember her little unwanted Wade and Ella? I always thought SO MUCH of
Rhett for liking those kids.
Of course I was unable to resist purchasing the massive hardback copy as a souvenir. I think it added six pounds
to my luggage weight, but the airport didn’t say a thing.
Oh, the day I visited was a first-rate, hot Atlanta day.
Therefore, I also purchased a MM bottle of water proudly wearing
the taglline “I’ll Never be Thirsty Again.”
Good times.
All right, today you must answer this gut-wrenching question
in order to get in a name draw for a PDF or Kindle copy of my latest release,
Midnight Bride. Who’s your LEAST favorite character in GWTW? (If I’d said
favorite, y’all would pick Melanie. I decided to kick things up a notch.) And
please tell me why.
Now, about Midnight Bride. This is a couple who does give a
damn about each other. Forced to marry or else lose the ranch they both think
they own, Jed and Carrie fight off falling in love while she searches for her
late granddaddy’s will. Hoping to prove her bridegroom is an imposter. And of course
deep down, she doesn’t want any such thing...
Sigh.
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Excerpt
He stood in the doorway, hatless just like
he’d been in the mercantile. And just as breathtaking. In one hand he held a bunch of Miss Mattie
Price’s iceberg roses tied with a lavender bow.
From the other hand hung a hatbox from
Gosling’s Mercantile. The lilac shawl she had admired was draped over his
forearm.
Without a word, he walked over to her and laid the shawl gently across
her shoulders. She had stopped breathing. His eyes locked with hers, and while
she couldn’t read the message in his gaze, she found she couldn’t turn her own
away. When he held the flowers to her determinedly, she had no choice but to
take them.
“Take off that mourning bonnet,” he told
her in such a way that it didn’t seem like an order. While she did so, he
opened the hatbox.
Within a half minute, the beautiful purple
chapeau she had fingered lovingly not fifteen minutes ago rested on her head.
He tied the bow jauntily under her chin, then all but snapped his heels
together as he stood in front of her.
“I’m Jed Jones,” he announced. “Your
bridegroom.”
Carrie’s lips opened but no words came
out. Not knowing what to say or what else to do, she untied the bonnet’s
bow. He never stopped looking at her.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the older men in half-standing postures
like they hoped to escape any second. However, she knew them well, knew they
wouldn’t leave her all alone.
Suddenly she found her voice, willing it
not to tremble.
“My bridegroom? I beg your pardon. What on
earth are you saying?” She turned toward the judge. “Is this about that
‘notorious’ authentic document?
Judge Jacobson was nodding, somewhat
defeated, while the sheriff pulled at his scrawny beard.
When neither spoke, her supposed
bridegroom took up the call.
“It’s true, Miss Zacaria Smith. If you
don’t marry me by midnight tonight, the Lazy J-Z will be deeded to the Mother
of Mercy Orphanage outside San Antone.”
Then he took her hand, placing his lips
against the inside of her wrist.
http://tinyurl.com/m9p63sj Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/k8knsw5 The Wild Rose Press
