Welcome, Mary Balogh!

Today we have as our guest, New York Times best-selling author, Mary Balogh. Author of more than sixty novels and thirty novellas set predominantly in the Regency and Georgian era, she is the recipient of numerous awards, including the 1993 Romantic Times Career Achievement award for Regency short stories.

Welcome, Mary and thank you for being with us and sharing a bit about yourself, today!  

NOTE: Visit Mary Balogh's Author Page at: http://www.romancebooks4us.com!      

Q: What are your fondest memories of growing up in Wales?

A: I grew up in post-WWII Wales, in the heavily bombed city of Swansea. Although we were surrounded by rubble, it didn't seem strange to us children. We used to talk about going to play on the bomb-buildings as if they were playgrounds. We had very little. Everything was rationed and had to be bought with precious coupons. We had few clothes, few toys, few books. But—before anyone rushes into pitying such a deprived childhood—let me say what a rich, happy childhood it was. What we had we treasured. When we were taken to a park or the beach or on a train ride, we thought we were going to heaven. Our imaginations became our best friend. We created a world out of next to nothing, and what a magical world it was. I could write a book about growing up in Wales, but these were the memories that rushed to mind when I read the question.

Q: I’ve always lived in the same state, so the idea of packing up everything at twenty-three to accept a teaching position in another country, seems glamorous. How glamorous was it?

A: It was a bit scary. I knew I was going to have to leave home to teach. Teaching positions were scarce in Britain at that time, but, strangely enough, there seemed to be a huge shortage almost everywhere else in the world. I thought that if I wanted some adventure in my life, here was my chance. I would travel around the world for a few years, teaching. The first interview I had was for Saskatchewan, Canada, and the interview basically consisted of a contract being slid across the desk for my signature. I signed for two years and set off on my adventure before moving on. I arrived in a small, prairie farming town of 1,000 people. Glamorous it was not! But there I met the man who became my husband, and I am still in Saskatchewan more than 40 years later.

 

Q: In 1985, after the publication of your first novel, MASKED DECEPTION, you received the Romantic Times award for Best New Regency Writer. I know there’s an interesting story behind your journey to become a romance novelist. Would you mind sharing how the manuscript for your first novel ended up with Signet?

A: I wrote my first Regency romance longhand at the kitchen table and then typed it into an old typewriter. I didn't have a clue what to do with it at that point. There was no internet in those days, and I didn't know of any other writers or writers' organizations. I looked inside the front cover of a Signet Regency romance for an address and found a Canadian one. I sent off the whole manuscript with a very brief covering letter (more or less saying—I have written this and wonder if you would like to publish it). Two weeks later I had a letter back informing me that I had sent it to a distribution center—a big warehouse, in other words. But someone there had read the manuscript and liked it and had sent it on to New York. A couple of weeks after that I had a call from an editor, offering me a two-book contract. It really doesn't seem fair, does it? I did everything wrong, yet it turned out marvelously right! 

Q: You’ve managed to produce an impressive body of work during your writing career. What would you consider your most satisfying achievement?

A: As a writer? That's a difficult one. I suppose the most satisfying thing at the moment is just to have produced that large body of work. It's a bit mind-boggling sometimes to look at the shelves of my books and know that I wrote them all. If I had to pick out one book or one series of books that has been most satisfying, I would probably pick the Bedwyn series, the SLIGHTLY books, and all the other books that connect with them—the SIMPLY quartet, ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE, A SUMMER TO REMEMBER. It was lovely to be able to create a whole world in those books.

Q: What is the best career advice you have ever received? Have you ever received advice that you wished later that you hadn’t taken?

A: After I had fifteen books in print, I told an agent who spoke to me at a convention that I really did not need an agent. She phoned me when I was back home and advised me to reconsider and asked if she could send me some of her own promotional information. She convinced me and she has been my agent ever since. And what a difference she has made to my career! I can't think of any advice I have regretted taking, for the simple reason that as a writer I don't look for advice. I am my own person.

Q: If you were to offer any advice to a romance novelist at the beginning of their career, what would you want them to realize?

A: My advice to any writer just starting out is always the same—don't listen to advice! All people are unique, and all writers are unique. It's a delicate thing, though, uniqueness. All of our lives we are bombarded with inducements to give up some of our individuality in order to be more like the crowd. This can be quite detrimental to a writer. Every writer has a distinctive voice and it is her/his most precious asset. Every writer has a unique vision. Yes so many feel they have to seek out all sorts of help-me books and/or conference workshops so that they can write like everyone else. Don't do it! It's harder these days, I know, when there is so much access to the world out there. But somehow shut yourself away and write your book. And there!—I have just broken my own rule. Here I am giving advice.

Q: In regard to the writing profession, what would you say has changed the most since you were first published? Stayed the same?

A: Oh, goodness, everything has changed! I think the only thing that has remained the same is the necessity of sitting down and writing the best book that has ever been written. And that is far harder to do than it used to be. Now one is expected to have an active web site and to be involved in social media, constantly relating to readers and advertising one's books and oneself as a person. I can remember asking my first editor if I should take out a print ad for one of my books. She asked me why I would want to do that—you write the book, we sell it, she told me. It's hard to imagine now, isn't it? I enjoy all the extras, but they certainly take away from writing time. And of course, the advent of the e-book and the ability to self-publish, whether it be new books or one's backlist, have complicated the whole publishing scene.

Q: If you had to choose among all of your books, could you pick a favorite?

A: It's difficult. I love all my books when I send them in. I suppose a few stand out in my mind—THE NOTORIOUS RAKE, A PRECIOUS JEWEL, LONGING, A SUMMER TO REMEMBER, SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS, SIMPLY LOVE, SIMPLY PERFECT, A SECRET AFFAIR, THE PROPOSAL. And I will keep on thinking of others I could have added to the list.

Q: What prompted you to start writing longer books?

A: I loved writing the 75,000 word Signet Regency romances. They fit me like a glove. However, though they had a very loyal readership, it was a comparatively small one. And there were rumblings of rumors about the Regency romance as a separate entity dying. I was asked to write a few longer Regencies (125,000 words) and found I could do it. I finally decided that it was in the best interests of my career to switch entirely to writing historicals (100,000 words). At first I struggled a bit as I thought they had to be a different type of book, more "historical." But I had one editor who rejected a synopsis I had labored over for a long time (I just don't DO synopses) before telling me that she had been reading some of my old Signets and loved them and wanted me to write THAT type of book for her. The next morning I sent her a brief outline of MORE THAN A MISTRESS and I have happily written my old style of book ever since, though a bit longer.

Q: I’ve always been drawn to a wounded hero and was excited to find out about your newest series “The Survivors' Club”.  The first book, “The Proposal” has garnered some stunning reviews and has recently been released in paperback. Could you tell us a bit about the series and if you have any upcoming release dates?

A: The Survivors' Club consists of six men and one woman, all of them variously involved and variously wounded in the Napoleonic Wars. The Duke of Stanbrook, one of their number, turned his home in Cornwall into a sort of hospital/rehabilitation center, and the group once spent three years there together. Now they meet there for a few weeks each spring to renew their friendship and discuss their progress and any problems that have resurfaced. The duke is a member by the fact that he lost his only son in the wars and his duchess committed suicide a short while later by leaping over the cliffs on their property. The Proposal, out this month in paperback is Hugo, Lord Trentham's story. He was rewarded with his title after showing extraordinary bravery while leading a Forlorn Hope on a seemingly impregnable fortress in Spain. He emerged without a scratch but then went out of his mind with guilt over surviving when almost all his men had died. He had to be brought back to England in a straitjacket. The Arrangement is due out at the end of August. It is Vincent, Viscount Darleigh's story. In his very first battle at the age of 17, Vincent was blinded and deafened by a cannon blast. His hearing came back, but his sight never will. The Escape is due out some time after Christmas. March has been mentioned though I don't think the date is quite set yet. It is Sir Benedict Harper's story. He was very badly wounded in a cavalry charge, and now he can walk only with the aid of two canes. Yet he cannot think of another life than that of a cavalry officer. I am currently writing Book 4, Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby's story. Flavian suffered a bad head wound, which left him unable to understand what was said to him and unable to speak coherently. It left him with headaches and towering rages. Now it seems the only lingering problem is a slight stammer as he talks. There is an e-novella coming out at the end of July, The Suitor, which is linked to the Survivors' books. The heroine is a young lady rejected as a bride by Vincent in The Arrangement, and the hero is the nephew and heir presumptive (heir unless the duke produces another son before his death) of the Duke of Stanbrook. 

 

Q: You mentioned on your website that you were considering electronically publishing some of your backlist. Have you decided which titles to make available?

A: All of them, I hope! But I am tied up with contract talks at the moment re. both frontlist and backlist books and will have to wait a few months for the dust to settle before I can make any definite decisions and announcements. I would like to see the longer historicals in both print and e-book format, but I will have to wait and see. I have been doing a poll at my web site and on my FB page about what titles readers would particularly like to see available again and have made an interesting list of the responses.

Q: On a more personal note, how do you like to spend your time when you aren’t writing?

A: Well, there is always housework and shopping and cooking—all the fun stuff. Mostly I read—and I read anything that takes my fancy, though I suppose I have a slight preference for mystery. I like doing puzzles like Sudoku (but only the beastly hard ones—I get bored with the easy ones) and Cryptograms. And sometimes I have knitting binges.

Q: Where can we find current information about new releases and upcoming books?

A: You can find information about all my books as well as excerpts and buy links at my web site—  www.marybalogh.com . I have a weekly blog there too and usually give away a book to one person who leaves a comment. I have an active Facebook page at www.facebook.com/AuthorMaryBalogh .

GIVEWAWAY ALERT!
Q: I’m really enjoying reading the first book in your new series, THE PROPOSAL. Could I entice you to leave us with a peek at the next book, your August release, THE ARRANGEMENT?

A: Yes, and I will be happy to send an autographed copy of the advance reading edition of The Arrangement to someone who leaves a comment.

BLURB:
Although Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, is only twenty-three years old, his female relatives are pressing him to marry. He is blind and he has recently inherited his title and vast estate. When they produce a potential bride for him, he feels trapped and flees with his batman-turned-valet. He ends up six weeks later at his old home and almost gets trapped into another unwanted marriage. A young woman rescues him, however, and then faces destitution as a result. When Vincent finds out about what has happened to her, he has to decide what he is going to do to help. Sophia Fry grew up with a rakish adventurer for a father, her mother having abandoned them when Sophia was still very young. Then, when she was fifteen, her father was killed in a duel. She was taken in by first one aunt and then another, but neither of them wanted her or gave her anything but the most basic of care. By the time she steps in to rescue Viscount Darleigh from the matrimonial schemes of the second aunt and her uncle and cousin, she looks like an unkempt scarecrow dressed in ill-fitting hand-me-downs. Her relatives turn her out of the house in the middle of the night with nothing but a small bag of her meager belongings and the exact fare for a stagecoach ride to London. She is offered temporary refuge in the vicarage near her uncle's home before boarding the coach, and it is there that Viscount Darleigh finds her…

EXCERPT

Vincent has just arrived at Covington House, his old home in the village of Barton Coombs in Somerset. It is very early in the morning, and he hopes to stay there without anyone in the village knowing of his return. He does not want to be fussed over by people who knew him before he was blinded in battle and before he came into his inheritance. He wants some peace and quiet before going back to his new home at Middlebury Park and explaining to his mother and sisters that he is quite capable of living his own life his own way. His hopes to remain undiscovered are doomed from the beginning, however.

Vincent's arrival had not gone unobserved.

Covington House was the last building at one end of the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among those trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside surrounding Barton Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March, though it was not often she was out quite this early. But this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and climb back into bed, she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early morning air was, because there was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they always sang most earnestly when they were heralding in a new day.

She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had already sprung a leak. She drank in the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the cold, which penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it was not even there, and set her fingers to tingling.

She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also deserted and had been since before she came here to live two years ago. It was still owned by the Hunt family, about whom she had heard many stories, perhaps because Vincent Hunt, the only son, had unexpectedly inherited a title and fortune a few years ago. It was the stuff of fairytales, except that it had a sad component too.

She liked to look at the house and imagine it as it might have been when the Hunts lived there—the absent-minded but much-loved schoolmaster, his busy wife and three pretty daughters, and his exuberant, athletic, mischievous son, who was always the best at whatever sport was being played and was always at the forefront of any mischief that was brewing and was always adored by old and young alike—except by the Marches, against whom his pranks were most often directed. She liked to think that if she had lived here then, she would have been friends with the girls and perhaps even with their brother. She liked to picture herself running in an out of Covington House without even knocking at the door, almost as if she belonged there. She liked to imagine that she would have attended the village school with all the other children, except Henrietta March, her cousin, who had been educated at home by a French governess.

She was Sophia Fry, though her name was rarely used. She was known by her relatives, when she was known as anything at all, and perhaps by their servants too, as the mouse. She lived at Barton Hall on sufferance because there was nowhere else for her to go. Her father was dead, her mother had left them long ago and since died, her uncle, Sir Terrence Fry, had never had anything to do with either her father or her, and the elder of her paternal aunts, to whom she had been sent first after her father's passing, had died two years ago.

She felt sometimes that she inhabited a no man's land between the family at Barton Hall and the servants, that she belonged with neither group and was noticed and cared about by neither. She consoled herself with the fact that her invisibility gave her some freedom at least. Henrietta was always hedged about with maids and chaperons and a vigilant mother and father, whose sole ambition for her was that she marry a titled gentleman, preferably a wealthy one, though that was not an essential qualification as Sir Clarence was himself a rich man. Henrietta shared her parents' ambitions, with one notable exception.

Sophia's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses approaching from beyond the village, and it was soon obvious that they were drawing some sort of carriage. It was very early in the day for travel. It was a stagecoach, perhaps? She stepped around the trunk of the tree and half hid behind it, though it was unlikely she would be seen from below. Her cloak was gray, her cotton bonnet nondescript in both style and color, and it was still not full daylight.

It was a private carriage, she saw—a very smart one. But before she could weave some story about it as it passed along the village street and out of sight, it slowed and turned onto the short driveway to Covington House. It stopped before the front doors.

Ah. Her eyes widened. Could it be…?

The coachman jumped down from his perch and opened the carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked around and said something to the coachman—Sophia could hear the rumble of his voice but not what he said. And then they both turned to watch another man.

He descended without assistance. He moved sure-footed and without hesitation. But it was instantly obvious to Sophia that his cane was not a mere fashion accessory but something he used to help him find his way.

She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly, that it was inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her. He had come, then, as everyone had said he would.

The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt, had come home.

Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and when he came, Henrietta would marry him.

Henrietta, on the other hand, would not be gratified. For once in her life she was opposed to her parents' dearest wish. She had declared more than once in Sophia's hearing that she would rather die a spinster at the age of eighty than marry a blind man with a ruined face even if he was a viscount and even if he was even more wealthy than her papa.

Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the new arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was not particularly tall and he had a slight, graceful build. He carried himself well. He did not hunch over his cane or paw the air with his free hand. He was neatly, elegantly clad. Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She wondered how much of the old Vincent Hunt was still present in the blind Viscount Darleigh. But he had descended from his carriage without assistance. That fact pleased her.

She could not see his face. His tall hat hid it from her view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.

He and the burly man stood on the driveway for a few minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of the house and returned with what must be the key, for he bent to the lock of the front door, and within moments it swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended the steps before the door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside with the larger man behind him.

Sophia stood watching for another few minutes, but there was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse and carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away and made her way back in the direction of Barton Hall. Standing still had thoroughly chilled her.

She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she decided. No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer any information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know soon enough, anyway.

* * * * *

Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a quiet stay at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who observed his arrival.

A farm laborer, on his way to milk the cows, had the distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his colleagues for days to come—of witnessing the arrival of Viscount Darleigh's carriage in Barton Coombs and its subsequent turn onto the short driveway to Covington House. He had stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch Vincent-Hunt-that-was descend after the steps had been set down by Martin Fisk, the blacksmith's son. By seven o'clock in the morning he had told his wife, having dashed back home for that sole purpose, his baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in the momentous news, his fellow laborers, the blacksmith, the blacksmith's wife, and Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had cast a shoe late the evening before.

By eight o'clock, the farm laborers—and the original farm laborer's wife—had told everyone they knew, or at least those of that category who came within hailing distance; Mr. Kerry had told the butcher and the vicar and his aged mother; the blacksmith's wife, ecstatic that her son was back home in the capacity of valet to Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had dashed off to the baker's to replenish her supply of flour and had told the baker and his two assistants and three other early customers; and the blacksmith, also bursting with pride even though he spoke with head-shaking disparagement of his son, the valett, told his apprentice when that lad arrived late for work and for once did not have to recite a litany of excuses, and Sir Clarence March's groom, and the vicar, who heard the news for the second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared equally ecstatic both times.

By nine o'clock it would have been difficult to discover a single person within Barton Coombs or a three-mile radius surrounding it, who did not know that Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had arrived at Covington House when dawn had barely cracked its knuckles and had not left it since.

Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly-named vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him too early. Perhaps Mrs. Parsons would inform the reception committee? 

Or should she? Actually, she would since she was in need of some exercise. Poor dear gentleman.

The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been just the sunny-natured, mischievous son of the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war hero, who had made a great sacrifice for his country, even if not the ultimate one. And he did now have that very impressive title. Best to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing over-familiar.

Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had been planning in her head for weeks. Her son, her beloved only child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.

At ten o'clock Miss Pamela Granger, aged eighteen, and her younger sister, Julia, sixteen, walked the length of the village street to call upon their bosom friend, Miss Pauline Hamilton, aged seventeen since last Thursday week, to discover what she planned to wear to the assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had come. Was Pauline as excited as they were? Squeals and hugs were as eloquent as any verbal answer might have been. And the three of them proceeded to put their heads together and draw out memories of Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the races at the annual village fête by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and looking so very handsome with his always over-long fair curls and his blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile, even at them, though they had been just little girls at the time. He had always smiled at everyone.

Ah, it was such a shame, they agreed, that… The trio of young ladies shed a few tears apiece. For Viscount Darleigh would never now win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.

Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was too strong a word, then at least it had been looked for with eager hope and cautious anticipation.

For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those friends when they moved away. They might not be able to visit them daily, as they had been used to do, but they could and did write to them.

His mother had not been reassured by the two notes that had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk. She had not sat back and waited for her son to come home. Rather she had done all in her power to discover where he was. Most of her guesses were quite wide of the mark. But one was that Vincent might retreat to Barton Coombs, where he had spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so many friends and so many friendly acquaintances, where he would be comfortable and would be made much of. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that if he was not already there, he would end up there sooner or later.

So she wrote letters. She always wrote letters anyway. It came naturally to her.

And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too, though they did not share their mother's conviction that Vincent would go to Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had gone back to Cornwall, where he always seemed to be so happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the Lake District, where he could escape their matchmaking clutches. All three of Vincent's sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in which they had pressed Miss Dean upon him. She was a sweet and biddable girl, it was true, but it had been crystal clear that she was not as eager as she might have been to marry their dear, precious brother. Well-bred though she was, she had been unable quite to hide her relief when it was discovered that he had left Middlebury Park in the middle of the night and taken his valet and his carriage with him.

Long before Vincent actually did arrive in Barton Coombs, then, there was scarcely a person there who did not know for a near certainty that he would come. The only question that had caused any real anxiety was when. Everyone, almost without exception, was enraptured as the news spread through the village and beyond that the wait was at an end. He was here.

I’m certainly intrigued! Thanks so much for leaving the wonderful excerpt and giving us a glimpse of what’s in store for another member of the Survivors’ Club. 

*Don’t forget to leave your contact information when you comment so that Mary will be able to inform some lucky person that their autographed ARC of THE ARRANGEMENT is on its way!

Busy working on a new NA hero...

Rick Mora/Actor/Model

And I always have a face in mind when I do...

And there are sooo many hot-looking Native American guys out there...sigh.  Mostly I write about Lakota men.  But this time my hero is Apache.  And my heroine is Sioux/Cheyenne.  And this one has a bit of paranormal tossed in...oh, wait!  Most of them have that, don't they? LOL!

I am using Rick Mora as a prime example of NA hotness because he is one of our VIP members over on the RB4US website.  When I need a bit of a libido boost, I pop over there to stare and drool.  And writing this kind of romance requires a large dose of libido boosting.

So I hope you don't mind, Rick...all of us romance authors need some inspiration from time to time.

Anyway, my new wip isn't really new.  It's been sneaking around in my mind for over three years.  But then, most of my books were written in the mid to late 80's...and left to molder under the bed for years.  So, relatively...this is a new wip.  And hopefully I will  get enough libido boosting to get the darn thing finished.

I've been busy with a moldy-oldy 50th high school reunion for months now...but that's over and out of the way now, so that leaves me time to write.  I figure another month should do it to get this baby out and to my editor.  And if she doesn't scream and run for high ground, maybe another couple of months to get it finished.

So cross your fingers for me, loves...wish me luck.

Fran Lee

Do You Like Writing/Reading Books Written in First Person?

I've written books both ways, and never heard any negative feedback about using either approach. Here's what I've been pondering.

Writing from my heroine's POV for the entire book really gave me a great perspective on her views. I loved being in her head the whole time. I could watch the story unfold, and share her assessments of others, including the hero. I felt every reaction she had and commiserated with her when heartache hit.

However, there are some publishers who won't accept first-person manuscripts. Years ago, I ghostwrote a nonfiction memoir in third person. An agent was intrigued, but asked that I rewrite it in first-person. Doing such a rewrite isn't just changing every "Jane" to "I" or "her" to "my". I had to carefully edit each sentence to only reflect "Jane's" POV.

It was a major undertaking, but in the end, I thought the book "read" better in first-person and sent it to the agent. She, however, rejected it and returned it to me within days. I somehow feel that she never checked it! Anyway, I published it as an ebook in 1999. Then, in 2012, I published another nonfiction book...in first person. This was a more difficult book to write, as getting into the main character's head proved to be a challenge.

 I understand when people comment about wanting to "get a feel" for both the hero and heroine...and maybe a first-person POV doesn't give enough for the reader to "bond" with the hero. Something to think about when making a decision to write in first person.

My book, "Gone to the Dogs" , was the fastest one I wrote...and I think it was because I was in Katie's head and wrote it in first-person. The words and actions just flowed, and I really connected with her. Here's a sample from the book:

"In mere seconds we climaxed as we passionately clung to each other while soothing drops of water flowed down our bodies. This was sheer heaven. We’d both enjoyed our rendezvous once we crossed that line from arguing with each other to channeling our energy in a more passionate direction.

As my breathing tried to return to normal I knew in my heart that one encounter with sexy Mike wouldn’t be enough. Like eating potato chips I wouldn’t be able to stop at one. No chance I’d be able to dry off, thank him for a lovely evening and be on my merry way. No. Mike had taken up residence under my skin and I’d need much more of him to satisfy my craving for additional intimate contact.

I moved my head closer to his ear and whispered, “Round two in bed?” Subtleness with my new sex partner would take a hike. A woman with a mission and eagerness to lead the way transformed me into a she-cat.

Katie-cat was on the prowl."

 I can feel her every emotion, reaction, and desire...and urge to never let those sensations end.

 Do you enjoy reading/writing in first-person?

Changes

One thing about life is that it never goes quite the way you expect it. Having turned 50 this year, my husband and I were under the impression that the bulk of our child-rearing work was done. We're at a more comfortable income place than we've been before, and we were looking forward to a summer full of weekends at Renaissance festivals, pirate invasions, and steampunk parties. The adult boys could come along or not as they pleased, and as their jobs would allow.

Oops. Suddenly ending up with custody of our 10-month old granddaughter put an end to that, right quick. We adore her, but... Yeah. Having an infant in the house again is a lot of work. Since I'm the one who works at home, guess who's the default caregiver most days? You got it. Any wonder I missed my last deadline?

Whenever people are struggling with changes to their lives--struggling to adapt, because good or bad, changes always require adaptations--caring others always as, "How are you doing?"

I honestly don't know sometimes how to answer that question. Today for instance. I've got a cold. So does everyone else in the house, including the baby. Do you mean how am I feeling? The answer to that is "Meh." It's a cold, not anything serious or debilitating. I'm not at my best, but I'm not in any imminent danger of collapse. So that's one part of how I'm doing.

I'm also behind a deadline, and having trouble finding time or energy to write. So how I'm doing in that respect is not so great. Do I resent that a little? Of course. I'm human. On the other hand, I suspect once we're fully adapted, that will sort itself out. That's what you do with changes. Sort them out. So in that respect, I'd have to say "I'm getting there, but not as quickly as I like."

How I'm doing as a caregiver? Well, to be honest, it's not ideal. It was a whole lot easier when I was thirty. I'm fine for an hour or two, but then everything starts to hurt. These all-day days are really wearing me down. Would I trade this for NOT having custody? Hell no! So again, it's a mixed bag. I'm tired, but it's worth it. Finally, how am I coping with the whole situation? Fair to middling. I want it over--the lawyers and court and bickering part. When will it be? I have no idea, other than in 17 years. Is it worth it? Hell, yes! every time I hear my granddaughter laugh.

Changes, good, bad and ugly, are what define our lives. And our responses to them help define who we are. Here's one adaptation from this weekend. Since my husband and I had to babysit Sunday, we did it our way. Here's the little one, holding onto Grandma's arm, at her first Renaissance fair. :)

There Is No Such Thing...

EDITORIAL NOTE: what follows is MY OPINION about trends in behavior amongst authors and their various audiences including reviewers and other authors. It is in no way meant to be taken as a treatise on what you should read or enjoy. Please do not take it that way. 
Liz

I've been following a few recent internecine public spats in the author world.

It's not a new thing, this concept of authors behaving badly, especially towards each other.

 I was recently dismayed to find out that one of my favorite authors (although I surely don't agree with all his politics) Jonathan Franzen has his very own hater group in the form of none other than successful  authors Jody Picoult and some other one I have never heard of but who is a NYT Best seller apparently. They got themselves in a snit over the fact that Franzen's most recent (amazing yet difficult) novel "Freedom" got such great press and he got the cover of time Magazine (this was a couple of years ago but people are still "belly aching" about it apparently). Wonder how Ms. Picoult feels about all the covers her best selling compatriot E.L. James has gotten since?

I can surmise from this that making a zillion dollars telling stories about teenagers dying and selling them to Hollywood is not enough for some authors to just...enjoy? Comparing "My Sister's Keeper" with books like "Freedom" is to my English Lit Degree Holding Mind sort of like comparing "East of Eden" with "War and Peace." Two good and famous authors writing two very different books for two very different reading audiences. Both well executed in their own right, and, given the opportunity, books that are worth reading. But comparing them is an exercise in total futility.

But my point is more along the lines of ... how much harm do you do yourself as an author when you react to such attacks? Having been the victim of a pretty nasty twitter flaming campaign last year, when a few bloggers/reviewers/readers felt that my book Paradise Hops was, um, let's say, "unsatisfactory to their needs as readers" and felt a need to attack pretty much everything I have written and claim that I was "an author worth avoiding at all costs." And having been talked down off the ledge after engaging with them in direct messages asking that they are welcome to talk with me about what they didn't like about any of my 20 or so books--because one of them said "this is my 7th book by this author and I can tell you she sucks"I come at this sort of thing with a bit of knowledge at least on my own, small, scale.

There are all sorts of examples of authors coming to the defense of their work in inadvisable ways. From sending your husband out to engage with a bad reviewer, reporting bad reviews to the FBI, to having a public snit on your blog about being witch hunted (when your book is being optioned by Warner Brothers), to big-timers dissing dead famous authors, and video Best Selling Author author-on-Best Selling author rants all the way up to our new favorite "OMG did you see what E.L. James did at RT?" (I didn't attend, nor do I ever plan to but this "recap" of the craziness is just a perfect example of why we should all ... grow the hell up and find something worthwhile to care about).

Authors love to hear themselves talk, or read their own words repeated. But as tempting as it may be, when my Stewart Realty series REALLY hits it big and I am in the HBO Green Room watching it be filmed with a cast of my choosing, I won't take the time to slam anyone else, no matter how much I think my hero is hotter, my plots stronger or my cable deal better. Promise. It's what grown ups do, the non-back stabbing thing. It's easy to diss those who are way up on top of the mountain  where we wish we could get a toehold. Just google "Fifty Shades of Crap" and see what you get. But honestly, no matter how much you cringe when you hear the phrase "holy crap," or read the word "Laters" (that one gets me every time) you gotta get your head around the fact that the dang book touched some kind of nerve that we are all coat tailing on to some extent.  And there will always be "that book" that is loved, hated, blessed as life changing and excoriated as the reason why our youth are culturally illiterate. It's "erotic romance" this year, next year it will be something else.

...this is funny...

I don't care for 95% of what's being touted as "best selling" and I really don't like all the copy catting that's going on which, in typical pop culture fashion, is being snapped up by publishing houses and movie studios alike.  But it will run its course, just like everything else, including gut wrenching stories about kids with cancer (Hey! Jodi Picoult, you did that first. Maybe you should pick a fight with John Greene instead?). But reading about all this nonsense behavior between authors who should know better or at least be too busy enough counting their money and thanking their fans to care? I really, really don't like that.

 I'll give you a real estate comparison: we all once thought the "all white kitchen" was the bomb. Then, everybody got a white kitchen. Now, we hate them and they are a reason to bid a house down because the kitchen "needs work." I think we will get to the point in the next year or two when the thought of a sexual Dom and his innocent new girlfriend makes us all want to stick our fingers down our collective throats. But for now, it's what's hot. I've written a version or two of myself, sans the "innocent" part. And my advice to authors tempted to behave badly in public when their version of it falls flat while others are flying high? Don't. Because you lose credibility. Because there IS such a thing as bad publicity.

I'm not saying don't have an opinion about books you read.  Just resist the urge to turn your green eyed monster into a personal rant, on line. It's bad form.

But, just so you know, this sort of thing has gone on for a long time. I give you, the top ten harshest "author on author" insults (there are more):

10. Henry James on Edgar Allan Poe (1876)

“An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection.”

9. Truman Capote on Jack Kerouac

“That’s not writing, that’s typing.”

8. Elizabeth Bishop on J.D. Salinger

“I HATED [Catcher in the Rye]. It took me days to go through it, gingerly, a page at a time, and blushing with embarrassment for him every ridiculous sentence of the way. How can they let him do it?”

7. D.H. Lawrence on Herman Melville (1923)

“Nobody can be more clownish, more clumsy and sententiously in bad taste, than Herman Melville, even in a great book like ‘Moby Dick’….One wearies of the grand serieux. There’s something false about it. And that’s Melville. Oh dear, when the solemn ass brays! brays! brays!”

6. W. H. Auden on Robert Browning

“I don’t think Robert Browning was very good in bed. His wife probably didn’t care for him very much. He snored and had fantasies about twelve-year-old girls.”

5. Evelyn Waugh on Marcel Proust (1948)

“I am reading Proust for the first time. Very poor stuff. I think he was mentally defective.”

4. Mark Twain on Jane Austen (1898)

“I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.” THIS ONE IS MY FAVORITE.

3. Virginia Woolf on James Joyce

“[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.”

2. William Faulkner on Mark Twain (1922)

“A hack writer who would not have been considered fourth rate in Europe, who tricked out a few of the old proven sure fire literary skeletons with sufficient local color to intrigue the superficial and the lazy.”

1. D.H. Lawrence on James Joyce (1928)

“My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness.”

Yeah, those guys knew how to toss an INSULT.

*egregious promotional moment because I don't have a Jamie Mcguire/E.L. James/Sylvia Day karma fairy on my shoulder*
Three of my personal favorite Liz Crowe books:

Essence of Time

Paradise Hops

Vegas Miracle







are all on sale right now! Just $1.99 for each of these three novels. I've made the titles live to link to Amazon but they are on sale at B&N and ARe as well. Click here for excerpts and blurbs.

Behave yourselves. It's a jungle out here...

cheers
Liz
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Interview of Author Jamie Salisbury

Today I'd like to present an interview of romance author Jamie Salisbury.

Latest Book: Rockin' the Boss
Buy Links:
Secret Cravings Publishing
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
All Romance Ebooks

Bookstrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/rockin-the-boss

BIO:
In the two short years since Jamie Salisbury began publishing her Romance stories, she has seen her historical-romance westerns soar to #1 on Amazon, has been nominated for a 2012 RONE award for her novella Tudor Rubato and has expanded her audience to include those published by Secret Cravings Publishing.

Currently Jamie lives in the American south. When she's not writing or plotting out her next story, she can be found with her camera, traveling or just chillin' reading a good book.

Q: Who is your favorite character in the book and why?
A: Ashleigh Thomas would have to be my favorite character in the book. In the face of all she's been through and goes through she does not allow anyone to walk over her. She's very much her own woman. She is also willing to try new things, even if she doesn't like them.

Q: Do all your heroes and all heroines look the same in your mind s you "head write"?
A: Oh no!! I have quite a vivid imagination and each of my characters is an individual and look the same in my mind as I "head write" as what comes out on paper.

Q: What genre would you like to try writing in but haven't done yet? Why?
A: Fantasy. I think you have to have an over the top imagination to be able to put together and write something (a time, place, etc.) that does not truly exist.

Q: Facebook, MySpace Blogs, Chats, or Twitter. White do you like the best and why?
A: Facebook. It's more interactive. I've got a MySpace account, but it doesn't seem like anyone uses it. Twitter I'm still figuring out. And as far as my blog, I'm still trying to figure out what works best. It's been trial and error with that.

Q: What part of the book is the easiest for you to write. Why?
A: In Rockin' the Boss, the first section was the easiest to write because I was in my comfort zone, so to speak.

Q: What part of the book is the hardest for you to write. Why?
A: The ending! Rockin' the Boss has an unusual ending. It is the first of two books, and that was not conveyed. The second (Life and Lies) will pick up where this one leaves off. It's a full length novel too.

LINKS:
Blog: http://www.jamiesalisburyauthor.blogspot.com
Website: http://www.jamiesalisbury.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jamie-Salisbury-Womans-Fiction-Author/202978499741542
Romance Novel Center: http://www.romancenovelcenter.com/jamiesalisbury
Twitter: @JamieRSalisbury

BLURB:
The adventure begins…

Max Frazier may be a stunningly handsome international rock star, but he has other hidden talents from his past. Talents the authorities want him to use. Talents Max thought of as one hit wonders and wanted to keep in his past.

His smokin' hot employer, Ashleigh Thomas, is unaware of his past with the S.A.S. Recently widowed, she yearns to bring the entertainment agency she and her late husband owned out of ruins, with Max's help. Together they embark on a once in a lifetime deal for Max. Will their mutual attraction for the other turn to fire, or will it burn to ashes once Ashleigh learns the truth? As she and Max find themselves helping the authorities bring in a figure from Ashleigh's past…will love trump evil?

EXCERPT:
Inside the apartment, Max poured us both a brandy as we sat next to each other on the overstuffed sofa.

“Ashleigh, I need to tell you something.”

Suddenly, I could feel something in the air. I know what’s coming. Perhaps not the words, but the context of what he was about to say.

He leaned closer and took my hand. “I know at this phase of our lives, we’re both beyond the game playing we did when we were in our twenties. I’m attracted to you, Ashleigh…a lot. I want to make love to you. Very much so.”

He kept his focus on my face and squeezed my hand. I stared into his eyes. I felt a modest smile form as it crossed my lips, and I squeezed back.

Placing his snifter on the table beside me, Max leaned over and softly kissed my lips before possessing them with his. His tongue probed and licked before he parted them, searching and exploring my mouth. When our tongues met, it was like sparks ignited and a fire ensued. The endless tangle left us both breathless.

When we broke apart, he took the glass still in my hand and placed it next to his. He stood, guided me to my feet, and without another word, led me down the hall to the bedroom.

My Name Sounds Like Green

So there I was, minding my own business and watching Jeopardy on TV. Alex Trebek was talking to a perfectly normal looking young contestant, when the woman says…she's a Synesthete.

OMG!

No, wait! Half the audience and I ask (mentally), "What's a Synesthete?" And while she's explaining that she hears colors…wham! A story idea is born.

Writers are always on the alert for different situations, and this one has plenty of potential as an intriguing setup for a novel. Author Judy Reeves says that the job of the writer is to observe the details of everyday life and record them for the world, and a big part of that is paying attention to how these details are perceived. But what if…?

So, What Is Synesthesia?

Synesthesia or synaesthesia, which comes from ancient Greek words meaning "together" and "sensation", is a neurological condition in which stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. It occurs because of increased communication between sensory regions of the brain and is involuntary, automatic, and stable over time.

In other words, synesthetes are people who's brains link two or more of the five senses i.e. see a sound or smell, hear or taste a color, and so on. It is a consistent perception of reality to that person.

And while it may be called a neurological condition, the term "neurological" only refers to the brain as the basis of the perceptual difference. It's not a medical condition and rarely interferes with normal daily functioning. It is what it is -- like being color blind. That's just the way those individuals perceive things, and it takes synesthetes a while to learn that not everyone perceives the world in the same manner.

Although most synesthetes discover as children that they perceive things differently, it is generally reported to be a neutral or pleasant experience. Most don't consider it a handicap, but a gift or "sixth sense." However, some fear ridicule for their unusual perception, and may end up living in isolation and alone in their experiences. Two or more of any of the five senses can be linked, but several types are more common.

 Grapheme →Color Synesthesia  

In this most common form of synesthesia, individual letters, numbers, or days of the week are perceived as having colors. While not all individuals see the same color for the same letter or number, there are some commonalities. Several sources indicated that the letter A is mostly likely to been seen as red; the letter O, white or black; S is usually yellow.

Spatial Sequence Synesthesia

People with this form of synesthesia see numerical sequences as points in space. For example, the number 1 may appear as further away and the number 2 closer. Synesthetes with SSS tend to have extraordinary memories and are able to recall past events and memories in greater detail and more accurately.

Sound→Color Synesthesia  

Sometimes called chromesthesia, this is the form where voices, background sounds, music and other auditory stimulus triggers a phenomenon described as fireworks of color which fade when the sound ends. It can be a single sound like a single musical note or a wide variety of sounds that trigger the experience.

The sound can alter the perceived brightness, intensity, directional movement and other aspects of the color display, which is described as seeing it on a screen in front of one's face rather than in the mind's eye. While the same sound doesn't produce the same results with all synesthetes, loud tones are generally brighter, softer tones paler, and lower tones darker than high ones.

This seems really weird to me, but what do I know?

Number Form Synesthesia

Whenever a synesthete with NFS thinks of numbers, a mental map of numbers appears automatically and involuntarily. Cross activation between regions of the parietal lobe that control numerical recognition and spatial cognition may be the cause. This one was hard for me to understand.

  The Galton Number Form - Wikipedia

 Eric Johnson, software developer, writes on his blog that he see numbers differently. "I see them on a path—one that is and always has been the same. What shocked me about the image above is that it's nearly identical to how I see numbers, although mine tends to take a slight horseshoe shape. The only real difference is that my path keep rising up to the left (the 200s are higher than the 300s). If I'm counting, I sort of zoom-in on the particular number I'm on (each number on the path is written in a space like a board game), with my point of view, or camera angle, changes based on where I'm at on the number path."

I've always wondered if programmers see numbers differently. I guess some of them do.

Ordinal Linguistic Personification 

OLP is where ordered sequences such as days, month, letters, or numbers are associated with personality types, such as the Wikipedia example where one individual said, "T's are generally crabbed, ungenerous creatures. U is a soulless sort of thing. 4 is honest, but… 3 I cannot trust."   Yikes!

Lexical→Gustatory Synesthesia  

This is rare. Here, individual words and the phonemes of spoken language create a taste sensation in the mouth. To some, three senses are combined and the tastes have colors. Well, maybe this one isn't as rare as the researchers think. Doesn't the word chocolate cause the writer's mouth to water with that delicious, comforting taste? I certainly don't get the same reaction with the technical name theobroma cacao. In some people, words evoke taste of food no longer made or on the market.

Mirror Touch Synesthesia  

This form is also rare, but when the individual with MTS sees another person being touched, the synesthete feels the touch as well. They can also feel the pain of another when that person is hurt. Perhaps there are real empaths.

Just a Few Words of History

 

The ancient Greeks philosophers seemed to be aware of the condition when they asked "Is the color (what we now call timbre) of music quantifiable?" Both Isaac Newton and Goethe suggested that musical tones and colors shared frequencies (which, actually, is incorrect).

The first medical description of colored hearing was written in 1812 by German Gustav Fechner. His thesis stirred up interest, but testing proved difficult and it "faded into science oblivion." Medical interest waned until the cognitive revolution in the 1980s.

In the early studies, the estimated frequency varied widely, as high as 1 in 20 to 1 in 20,000. Since then, with more studies, it is estimated that 1 in 23 individuals has some kind of synesthesia, and 1 in 90 have colored graphemes.

Recent studies show that the condition runs in families, which suggests a genetic origin. There is an almost equal sex ratio, 1.1:1.

It's a complicated subject with links to other areas of study. If you're interest, I've listed several references to start with.

Hear Ye, All Authors and Readers

What kind of stories does this condition bring to your mind? A teacher trying to work with a child who is a synesthete but no one knows it?  A musician struggling to cope with music she loves but stimulates tastes in her mouth? Leave a comment and tell me what stories this suggests to you.
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Resources

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synesthesia
http://www.livescience.com/169-rare-real-people-feel-taste-hear-color.html
http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/releases/92698.php
http://www.plosbiology.org/article/info:doi/10.1371/journal.pbio.1001205
http://voices.yahoo.com/synaesthesia-rare-condition-causes-people-to-7439522.html?cat=5http://www.nytimes.com/1999/02/23/science/when-people-see-a-sound-and-hear-a-color.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm
http://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/syne.htmlhttp://web.mit.edu/synesthesia/www/
http://synesthete.org/http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2011/04/22/how-synesthesia-works/
http://www.thejohnsonblog.com/2011/10/28/number-form-synesthesia/
http://www.thejohnsonblog.com/2011/10/28/number-form-synesthesia/http://personalitycafe.com/general-psychology/1606-synesthesia.html

The Name Game

What's in a name? Everything I say. I can't start on a book until I've figured out the perfect name for my characters. Never mind that I know very little about the story or about where I'm going save for a very vague map of where I'll end up.

But I have to have names.

I've been getting some feedback about my newest release, a science fiction erotic romance, A TOUCH OF LILLY. People love the story. What they're not enjoying are the odd descriptions of aliens and names of planets and such. Interesting. It never occurred to me that I could drive readers away from a story by coming up with new alien names.

Kind of silly that I didn't think of that since I'm one of those readers that actually "says" every word I read in my head. I have a hard time enjoying a story if I can't decipher the pronunciation of every character. But here's the thing I think that makes writing different. I created the characters/places/aliens. They're logical in my head. Crazy I know. But there it is.

Here are some of the aliens and names in "A Touch of Lilly" ...

Xerick
Ka'al
Braugtot
Drikspa
Znedu
Ickbata
Thaegan
ba'alkin dagger
Pteran Omega
Beta Mrenn
Krystallos Three

That's most of them. I'm sure there are more. What do you think? Difficult to pronounce? Would they drive you crazy as you stumble through them in a romance?

What's really interesting is that I pride myself on finding new and inventive words when I'm creating a new world. My intention is not to create a stumbling block--just the opposite in fact. I just want to create a something new and different that the readers can fall in love with. But now I'm wondering if I've gone a bit far. What do you think? Have you put down a book because you couldn't get past the names the author chose?

And since we're chatting about my newest release, how about I throw in the blurb and a short excerpt. (Oh, you soooo knew I was going there didn't you? *vbg*)

Ex-Chicago detective LILLY D’ANGELO has a secret she doesn’t share with anyone. A master of the one night stand, she’s given up ever finding a soul mate and thrown herself head first into her career. That is, until she captures the wrong alien. Kidnapped and sold into the sex slave trade, she’s shipped into deep space. Barely escaping with her life, Lilly now travels the galaxy working as a bounty hunter using her secret talents to bring down criminals and seeking revenge on the one male who ruined her life. 

Agent DALLAS SAWYER works for deep space’s version of the FBI. After a disastrous mission that left several of his team members murdered, a president executed, and Dallas near death, he’s determined to take down the assassin targeting government officials. When a sexy human female gets between him and his goal, Dallas and his alien partner find themselves on the receiving end of a passionate night they won’t soon forget and a proposition that may very well blow up in their faces.

Because in deep space … true love can happen with just a touch.

EXCERPT
Lilly D’Angelo wasn’t expecting a trip down memory lane when she sauntered into the dingy tavern, but the acrid stench and gruff hum of the Friday night crowd carried her back to one of the seedier establishments on Chicago’s south side nonetheless. Except for the clientele, the owner had managed to replicate nearly every detail right down to the blue haze of cigarette smoke and the soft crooning of a jazz band on the corner stage.

Pushing the sour thoughts of home from her mind and focusing on the job at hand, Lilly morphed her features into her sexiest vixen pout and moved gracefully toward the long bar on the other side of the room. Her voluptuous breasts, spilling temptingly from her silk blouse, led the way. The eyes watching her leather-clad ass sashay around the battered tables were clustered on various life forms—none of them human.

Yeah, definitely not Chicago. Hell, this wasn’t even Earth for goodness sake.

“Regent’s ale, straight up, hold the brenic.” Lilly ordered the local brew in English, hoping the two-headed alien behind the bar had a cochlear translator in one of those eight holes that passed for ears. Satisfied when one head nodded, she settled on a stool, making sure her fur jacket and blouse parted just enough to offer a seductive view of her cleavage. She shifted, allowing the black leather skirt to ride up her thigh and expose a little more silky real estate. The reflection she saw in the mirror behind the liquor bottles was every inch a working woman on the prowl. She wasn’t trying to attract anyone in particular, just hoping to mislead the locals into thinking she was some female making a living with her body—which was true—just not as the human streetwalker she impersonated.

Undercover work was what kept food in her belly and a roof over her head. But it was the cold-hearted need for revenge that had driven her to flaunt her feminine wares on distant planets. Walking among low-life criminals—most of them of the non-human variety—was a small price to pay for the opportunity to avenge the calamity that had become her life.

Lilly wasn’t a xenophobic bigot by any stretch of the imagination. It’s just that six months in deep space, working as a bounty hunter in these kinds of joints, wasn’t really long enough to become accustomed to the scenery. The Nebulae Galaxy’s spaceports overflowed with aliens of all sizes and genders; from two-headed Xericks, like the bartender, to the gangly-limbed Znedus and oversized Ka’al with their mahogany skin and flat noses. The twelve planets of this galaxy had become a melting pot of sorts for all types of aliens.

Only that wasn’t really a fair term here in deep space.

Alien inferred the life forms didn’t belong. On the contrary, it was humans who were invading their territory. The treaties of 2253, signed well over forty years ago, had guaranteed the safe travel of humans in deep space. After the snafu of ‘34, which saw the first major battle over territories since light travel had been discovered, humans had insisted on protection for their species. They’d formed some bullshit board of security, guaranteeing humans could run roughshod over the universe like everywhere else. Though they were technically called Q’orstan Aerlheit Lunivarsium, most people referred to them as QAL. Lilly nicknamed them the alphabet mafia. At one point in time, she’d actually considered working for them. Then they’d discovered who she was—or more specifically what she was—and she’d had to detour from that career path. It didn’t matter. They could all go take a flying leap into the lava pits of Beta Mrenn for all she cared. Just because they didn’t appreciate her gift, didn’t mean Lilly couldn’t use her talents to bring down the bad guys.

Of course in deep space, bad was a relative term.

There was the kind of bad that got a person lost on the polar ice caps of Dallas Eight without a backup plan. Or the bad that forced someone to stow away in the engine room of a Drikspa alien tanker bound for unknown destinations, praying not to get caught. Or the bad that got a human female imprisoned as a sex slave on the mining colonies of Krystallos Three, hidden from even the long arm of the QAL. Lilly shivered at that one. Even her talents wouldn’t free her from that kind of torture.

She was just happy to be here on Garalon Five where bad meant nothing more than crossing paths with every brand of space pirate, ex-con or fugitive looking for a new start. As one of the more recent colonies in the Nebulae Galaxy, the G-5 government turned their collective back on past offenses on other planets and allowed anyone to start a legitimate business. It’s what had actually brought her here to the dark planet.

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