This Republic of Suffering: Civil War fiction in a twenty-first century world

I’m a history girl with a writing problem.  Or, maybe a writing girl with a history problem; regardless, I have an out of control passion for the American Civil War.  I am a Civil War reenactor.  I like Civil War trivia.  I like running around Civil War battlefields.  My blog, The Rambling Jour, is actually named after an obscure firsthand account of the clerk of the provost marshal’s office in Harper’s Ferry during the war.

And I like writing about the Civil War.

Don’t get me wrong, there are things about the Civil War I don’t like.  I’ve never read Gone with the Wind.  Tactics and strategies put me to sleep.  I thrive in the effect the war had on civilians and medical procedures.  I’d rather read about the role of women and how that role changed as the war changed.

My recently completed novel, Anything You Ask of Me, is about all three of those key elements.  In 1862, a society girl turned spy must decide which is more important: the married general who asks her to risk everything for him, or the man tasked to stop her at any cost.

There is a monument in Gettysburg, near the copse of trees on the third day’s portion of the battlefield, inscribed with a few simple words: Double canister at twenty yards.

Canister shot.  Canister shot is basically a tin can full of golf ball sized steel balls; it turns an artillery piece into a giant shot-gun.  Double canister is two rounds of canister shot jammed into the barrel of the piece.

The effect of the human body is devastating.  These are the men listed in the ominous “missing” column in the ranks of casualties.  These are the men who simply disappear in a pink mist.

We have a nasty habit of referring to the Civil War as “the last gentleman’s war” or the last war before the initiation of modern warfare.  But this is so far from the truth.  Soft lead bullets, like the Minié ball, enter the body the size of a quarter but come out the size of a pancake.  If a soldier survives his wound, it is more than likely he will die of infection.  In the 1860s, we could see bacteria under microscopes—we knew it was there—but we didn’t understand how it impacted the human body.  This was the cusp of medical breakthroughs.  The war forced us to understand.

This is why I write historical fiction.

I’m a twenty-first century girl.  I drive an SUV to work.  I sit in front of a computer all day long.  I listen to Swedish Death Metal (I know, this actually surprised me too) on my iPhone while I edit my novel on my laptop.  I talk on a cell phone and wear jeans and eyeliner and take for granted all of our modern conveniences.

But I’ve also been cinched into a corset.  I’ve ridden in the back of a temperance wagon and marched in a temperance parade.  I’ve sat in a dry goods store and hand sewn a quilt by kerosene lamp and sewn on a period treadle sewing machine.  I’ve felt the rumble in my chest when a 12 pound light gun howitzer artillery piece was fired near me.  I’ve done archaeology of an antebellum house and held shattered pottery in my hand, textiles not handled by a human since, in one moment one hundred and fifty years ago, it broke and was discarded.  I’ve been touched by the past and it haunts me.  I refuse to forget the sacrifices of those who came before us and stared death in the face—and chose to march forward anyway.

This is why I write historical fiction.  Because those who are remembered, never die.

Heather Hambel Curley is just a hot momma writing a novel about (what else?) the Civil War and the brutally hot men who fought it.  And she likes cupcakes.  For more, she can be found at http://heatherhambelcurley.wordpress.com or http://www.facebook.com/heatherhambelcurley

Today’s theme is “City as Setting.” And what does that mean? Well, writers always try to paint a picture of where the story is set—enough so the reader can climb into the scene and live with the characters. Sometimes, a setting becomes a character itself, in the sense that the place has its own tone and personality. Just after Katrina hit, in the days when the city was filled with people who’d come to help put it back together, NPR and the TV news ran stories incessantly about the cleanup and what New Orleans looked like. I’d been to New Orleans several times before the storm hit, so I knew what it was like before, and it wasn’t hard for me to picture the dismal atmosphere during the months following the storm. In Silent Knight, I created a hero just as depressed and dismal as the city streets he walked—someone equally in need of rescue. Take a look…

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a free download of this book!

“…The perfect holiday read! Delilah Devlin took a Christmas tale to a whole new level when she crafted SILENT KNIGHT.” ~5 Stars, Heather, eCataRomance

“…[SILENT KNIGHT] is a sizzling hot vampire story that will take you on a short escape — the perfect read for a busy holiday season. Sexy and fun, make sure Silent Knight is on your holiday “must read” list!” ~4 Kisses, Romance Divas

“Erotically decedent and thrillingly carnal, Noelle and Magnus’ story is enough to make a person self-combust with want.” ~4 Roses, A Romance Review

In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Noelle Moyaux questions her gift of sight until a chance encounter with a mysterious stranger sets her on a path to save his soul.

Magnus Thornton is a millennium-old vampire who has found evidence of an old foe’s evil at work in the demolished city of New Orleans . Weary of the fight, he decides to greet the coming dawn after a night reveling in his favorite things–a bottle of Bordeaux and a willing woman.

Noelle seems the answer, but she quickly creeps into his heart-the vampire, so jaded from life he never speaks, must now persuade Noelle to flee the city before it’s too late.

Noelle Moyaux flicked off the battery-powered Christmas lights that ringed her metal cart, folded her purple tablecloth into a small tidy square and tucked it and the folding table inside the cart before latching the lid closed.

She wheeled the cart across the busy street and waved to her friend Gerard, the owner of a small Cajun restaurant. Continuing around the back of the eatery, she stowed her palmistry kiosk in the storage unit she’d rented from Gerard since before the troubles.

Today’s earnings were slim, despite the unseasonably warm weather that allowed the thin-blooded residents of the city to roam the streets in light jackets. No one believed in a future amid the chaos—and some questioned her ability since she’d received no divination of the coming catastrophe. Indeed, Noelle questioned her gift daily as she sat beneath her umbrella in front of the embroidered cloth advertising “Noelle’s News”.

If not for the little nest egg of money she’d saved from substitute teaching before the flood, she’d be in dire straits.

Clutching her purse close to her side, she headed down the street toward home.

One last night. One last chance to lose myself in The Hunger, a fine glass of wine and the body of a willing woman. Before my last sunrise—the first I will see in nearly a thousand years…

Noelle heard the quiet, fleeting thought as she passed through the crowd ambling along Bourbon Street and spun to find the owner. The inner voice that accompanied the thought was masculine and raspy. Added to the familiar spark of connection when her skin had brushed against his was a wash of the blackest melancholy she’d ever sensed. It nearly drowned her in despair.

But whose? No one stood out among the evening crowd of construction workers, disaster-junkies and uprooted residents looking for diversion from the daily serving of desolation New Orleans had become. Was he an out-of-town contractor lonely for his home and family during the holiday? Or a N’awlins native who’d lost his friends and community to the terrible storm with the pretty name?

Whichever, she had to find him. She’d spent months second-guessing her place in the world, wondering if her gift served a higher purpose or just provided a distraction from true contribution. This brief glimpse into another’s pain seemed the answer she’d been seeking.

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, she reminded herself God didn’t give away special gifts without expecting extraordinary sacrifice. The man was clearly demented. He believed himself a thousand years old. And he meant to end his life—with a sunrise?

Perhaps he only felt a thousand years old, so great was his sadness. And maybe she hadn’t understood the flash-burn of light and the acrid scent of singed flesh that accompanied the dour thoughts. But if someone intended to blow himself up or set himself ablaze, it was up to her to save him. He’d touched her. Now his fate belonged to her.

She walked back the way she’d come, letting her hand drift out from her side, skimming the tourists and garbage collectors, finding nothing darker than desire for the buzz of alcohol and a quick, illicit screw. Then she touched him again and instantly recognized his painful soul.

She paused, suddenly overwhelmed. Dark, erotic pictures blurring like an out-of-focus film spooled through her mind—limbs sliding sinuously apart and together, lips and fingers gliding over sweat-slick skin, powerful, full-shaft surges into warmth so tight and hot Noelle’s nipples beaded in response to the lustful images.

A finger trailed down her cheek, taking away her breath, and she blinked back into focus. He stood close. Large, black Spanish boots, polished so well they reflected lamp glow, were braced apart.

Afraid to look up, she swallowed, tempted to continue past and forget all about trying to save his soul from a terrible sin.

Then he lifted her chin, dragging up her face until their gazes clashed.

Amid the bustle, called greetings and the jazz blaring from several bars, a blanket of quiet fell around her, around him, as she stared at his stark, rugged beauty. She blinked, unable to hold his steady blue gaze and instead let hers drift over him.

Lamplight reflected against curling brown hair with glints of gold interwoven in the shoulder-length strands. His height and the breadth of his shoulders made her wonder how she’d ever missed him in the crowd. Clad in black from head to boot, he must have seemed like one big shadow. A square jaw and blunt nose emphasized the strength evident in his frame.

But those blue eyes disturbed her most. Bleak, wintery blue that pierced the space between them, drawing her closer like a fishing reel—only she was the trembling catch.

When she stood so close his breath stirred her hair, she drew a shaky breath.

His gaze dipped to her mouth, and Noelle felt the heat of his glance lick a searing path across her lips. She touched them with her tongue, half expecting to feel blisters.

His eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, and his hand slipped around her wrist.

You’ll do.

His lips hadn’t moved but she read his intent. His head dipped and she found herself incapable and unwilling of resisting while he dragged firm lips across hers.

Eyes wide open, she shivered, unable to break the spell holding her immobile. A shallow gasp broke from her lips and he deepened the intimate caress, rubbing his lips on hers, sinking strong fingers into her hair to bring her face closer still.

When he drew away, she realized they stood with bodies pressed as close as lovers, a thick-muscled thigh thrust between hers, anchoring her quivering frame. The heat of that masculine thigh pressed through her cotton skirt and she rocked her hips, rubbing on it like a cat.

Come.

Suspended on that thigh, she stood limp in his arms. “I will,” she whispered, and realized he may not have heard her. “Don’t stop.”

Not here. Where?

“Close, I’m close.” And she was. Warmth pooled between her thighs, her breasts tightened against his solid chest.

He chuckled—not a lighthearted sound, but dry and raspy as though his voice was seldom used.

His thigh slid from between hers, and he snagged her wrist again.

Now.

Swaying on her feet, Noelle fought the haze of desire that fluttered around her body and mind like a wispy curtain. How had he done that? Made her forget herself and her mission?

Then she remembered—he’d wanted a willing woman for one last night.

Despite the sensual languor he’d built, she pulled free of his hold and straightened, lifting her chin. “Not so fast, mister.”

He stood still as stone, the slight breeze lifting his hair the only motion. You followed me.

“I thought you…” Wait a minute. She stared at his lips. They hadn’t moved—and she wasn’t touching him.

Don’t think too much. I won’t harm you.

She shook her head, a frisson of fear prickling her spine.

Even without the physical connection, his voice slipped inside her mind like a stealthy wraith. You followed me. You want this too.

She shook her head again. Her gift led her to him. “I wanted to…save you.”

A mirthless smile curved his lips. Too late. I’m already damned. He stepped back and gave her a short bow. I’ll not keep you.

That old-fashioned courtesy struck her as odd. As did the sadness tightening the smile on his lips. As he turned to leave her, the quiet that had enveloped them lifted and the jarring sounds surrounded her again, disconnecting her from the compelling figure disappearing into the crowd.

Then she remembered the deep searing pain she’d felt when she’d first encountered his desolate soul. This last night she’d been placed in his path to find him. Just because the saving might require an intimate surrender to slip inside his walls, she shouldn’t be dissuaded from her mission. And she was honest enough to admit he’d stoked her curiosity as well as her libido.

“Wait!” she called out to his rapidly disappearing figure. “Don’t go!”

He halted but didn’t look back.

Slowly, her steps faltering as her heartbeats increased, she reached him and slid her palm along his. Only when his fingers curved around her hand did she take a deep breath. Enveloped again in warmth and the odd quiet, she let him lead her down the street.

* * * * *

Be sure to check out the snippets on these other authors’ blogs:

Leah Braemel
Caris Roane
Eliza Gayle
McKenna Jeffries
Selena Blake
Taige Crenshaw
Felicity Heaton
HelenKay Dimon
Shiloh Walker
Lissa Matthews
Myla Jackson
Lauren Dane
Jody Wallace

A Canadian Holiday

Worth the Risk was written in response to a submission call looking for stories with a Canadian theme.  Since, I’m a Canadian, I figured, hey, I can do that.  I can even throw in a few “eh’s” and “aboot’s” (just kidding, we actually say “about” like everyone else 😀 ).

The underlying premise of my story was inspired by something that happened to me more than a few years ago. But, no spoilers are being given away here, so instead I thought I’d provide a little history lesson around the Canadian weekend during which Worth the Risk takes place.

Origins

May 24^th, or the Monday before May 25 is officially known as Victoria Day.

The holiday, named after British monarch – Queen Victoria – gave royal assent to Confederation. She was born on May 24, 1819, ascended to the throne in 1837 and ruled until 1901 – holding the longest reign in British history. This is also how the term Victorian era was coined, a period of significant change in many areas for the British Empire.  Parliament declared her birthday a statutory holiday in 1845.

When Victoria died in 1901, the day officially became known as Victoria Day. Through the years, however, the birthdays for the reigning King or Queen was also celebrated. That’s a lot of cake!  Apparently, continuous improvement and process efficiency are not new ideas, for in 1952 a decision was made, and proclamation passed, to declare the Monday before May 25^th as the official day to celebrate both Victoria’s and the current reigning sovereign’s birthdays.  Party poopers.

Today in Canada, May 24 signifies a few things. Winter is over, and summer is just around the corner. We can start planting our veggies and flowers without the risk of frost.  More importantly, it’s the traditional long weekend when we open camps and cottages, and for those in the north, it signifies the start of summer Blackfly season. Believe me, they are horrible little bugs that get in your hair, your eyes and they love to feast on little children.

The reference to ‘two-four’ rather than ‘twenty-fourth’ is a Canadian inside joke referring to the obligatory case of 24 bottles of beer.  Provincial parks and camp grounds begin officially accepting visitors, and community parks and outdoor patios are thriving. You’ll see fireworks in all major cities, and many small communities.  The barbeques are hot, friends and family are near, and the pool is being prepped.

We’ve got nicknames for it: May Two-Four, May long weekend, May Long or even Firecracker Day.  But for most Canadians, this particular weekend starts things rolling for the next few months.  And regardless of the weather (cause quite often it’s cold and wet), WE DON’T CARE! It’s time to party!

So, here’s Worth the Risk. I hope you enjoy your weekend!

Even the hottest sex might not be enough to ease the pain of the past…

Molly Simpson arrives at a beautiful provincial park, ready to spend the May Two-Four holiday camping with friends. This weekend is the highlight of her year—or it was, until Tanner Daivies showed up. Her high school crush is all grown up, sexy as sin, and he’s demanding answers—answers Molly isn’t sure she can give him. She had her reasons for leaving him all those years ago, but now, sex with Tanner is scorching, and when they’re together, it’s clear they were never meant to be apart. But the past doesn’t want to stay buried, and Molly isn’t sure reliving it is worth the risk…

Excerpt: (if you’d prefer – just use the hyper link which goes back to my site)

It was really him. Curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced back over her shoulder. Memories assaulted her as he removed his six-foot-plus frame from the car to stand in the center of the welcome circle. Her friends were all talking at him, their voices filled with excitement. Judging by his glazed expression, their reaction left him a little overwhelmed.

Ten years. She rubbed her chest, thinking back to the invisible ache that had bothered her earlier on the drive here. She’d struggled the entire two hours to keep her focus on the road and not on painful memories from her past. Read the rest of this entry »

Writing a Sex Scene With the Lights Off

I have always loved to read. I lean towards the suspense genre, but I love a good erotic story. Who doesn’t? But I found out fast that reading and writing a sex scene are two different things, and I suck at writing them.

In my first book I have one sex scene. I swear I wrote it with the lights off. You see I grew up in a strict Irish Catholic home and went to a catholic school. My mother never mentioned that word in the house and the nuns would send us to confession if they even thought we had those ideas in our head. I will admit I spent many hours in confession.  🙂   I just felt guilty, but once I got older I realized god was not reading over my shoulder.

Now I want a story to grab me, pull me in, and make me feel like I’m part of the scene. That’s what I want from a book I write. When I was younger I would blush and skim over the parts that described the anatomy.  So when I made an attempt at a short erotic story it was like an anatomy lesson. Part A touches part B Then puts C into D and so on. I had 2300 words written when I stopped to read it. I laughed for hours at how funny I sounded. It was like I was in confession trying to explain my sins. Boy do I need a support group.  I decided to scrap that attempt. I’m not going to quit trying. I am determined to get one hot, sweaty sex scene that will pull you in and make you wish you were the one tied to the bed.

Like I said, in my first full length novel I have one sweet love scene. There is heavy petting, even with the description of body parts, yah me. But towards the end we fade to black and I let your imagination finish the rest. Sounds like a copout but it was the best I could do at the time. I decided it was time to come, (no pun intended), to terms with my past and take a class in erotic writing and BDSM. I know, I’m jumping in pretty deep and there is a reason. My character, Davis, is a by the book FBI agent with a secret and it has to do with a lot of bondage and an undercover assignment that will take him to the dark areas of a life no one knows he has. I know, you’re all laughing thinking I will need a ghost writer for that one.  It was not my idea, it was his. We all know our characters write their own story, or do they?

Did you ever have a problem writing a scene, and if so what was it and what did you do to work past it?

I think someone should write a book called…Writing erotic for dummies. I learn better with a little guidance and a lots of pictures.

My new release, Rescued from the Dark, published through Black Opal Books.

FBI agent, Jason Michaels goes undercover with the Irish Mob to get information on their gun smuggling ring. While on assignment he realizes they have joined forces with a known terrorist group manufacturing drugs. He searches for information to tie the two together when he finds out they have kidnapped a fellow agent, and the only girl he has ever loved. Jason soon realizes their using Mercy to perfect their dosage and that his cover has been blown. He knows he has to save her so takes off on a  journey that will take him up against his enemies, peers and the Agency that he loves, but willing to give up to bring Mercy back to him.

She has no memory of their love…

Kidnapped by terrorists and sent into a drug-induced coma, FBI intern Mercedes Kingsley awakes with no memory of her ordeal—or the intimate interlude that left her pregnant. Convinced her child was fathered by her fiancé, she walks away from the only man she has ever loved, determined to make things work with her ex, a man the FBI suspects is implicated in her abduction.

He knows the truth, but no one will listen…

FBI undercover agent Jason Michaels remembers what Mercy can’t and those memories are breaking his heart. Forced to keep his distance from his lover and their unborn child, Jason risks his life to protect Mercy from a cell of international terrorists who have vowed to get the secrets locked in her memory, no matter the cost. Can Jason convince Mercy to trust him until she remembers their past, or will he lose her to a man who will trap her in a nightmare world of darkness for which there is no escape?

An explosion ricocheted behind Jason Michael’s eyes as the pressure mounted in his head. The rush of panic consumed him. He struggled to move, tried to swallow, but nothing. His throat burned as the flames engulfed his lungs. He needed to breathe but couldn’t. Shit. He strained to make out the muffled voice, but the pounding in his ears erased all hope. His head started to spin and he succumbed to the realization, this was it, the end. He won. The flames dampened and his heartbeat slowed as the drums subsided, then the voice became clear.

“Give it to him now you son of a bitch. What were you thinking? We still need him.” Read the rest of this entry »

Self-Fulfilling Prophecies

 The older I get, the more I believe we live a life of self-fulfilling prophecies.

I grew up with grandparents who used to quote from the old version of the King James Bible (Proverbs 23:7):  “As you think, so shall ye be.” I thought the idea was a bunch of hooey at the time. More and more, I find I use goal visualization as an essential part of daily living. Visualization is how I stay focused while writing and marketing.

Here’s how I do it. I create in my mind’s eye the result I want to accomplish. I then decide on the “baby” steps needed to get to the goal. I’ve learned to be patient and wait for the process to work itself out. I use these visualizations to keep stress off my shoulders. With specific goals in mind and taking the steps needed to reach the goal, I can’t ask more of myself. No need to stress out.

At some point, I started wondering how I could use “self-fulfilling prophecy” in a love story where my heroine wants to find an ideal mate. One thing I decided right off was that, if she is what she thinks, she can’t obsess over all the wrongs done to her by men. To obsess would fill her mind with everything she doesn’t want to happen. According to the self-fulfilling prophecy, those obsessions would come true.

She’d instead have to look for all the things she loves about men and decide which of those she’d like rolled into one “ideal” male. My heroine’s biggest challenge would be to stay focused on that “ideal” male package and not let contradictory, negative thoughts interfere—whether from her past, her friends and family or from the media. Negativity would bounce her out of her vision. Her eyes would be blinded so she wouldn’t be able to recognize her ideal man if he was in front of her nose.

Years ago I read that it takes ten positive thoughts to wipe out one negative thought. I made a commitment to be as optimistic about my writing goals as I can be and not have waste time overcoming those negative thoughts.

In the novel, despite the passage of time, staying positive and focused on what she wants would be my character’s biggest challenge. Sadly, I never wrote the novel, but I did start using visualization in my own life.

For example, if I’m giving a talk on writing techniques, I don’t think of all the things that can go wrong. I think instead of what I want the audience to get out of the talk. If I assign a writing goal to myself as I go to bed, I don’t wake up in the morning and go over a list of things in my head that could go wrong and get in the way of accomplishing that goal. I wake up focused on the goal and believing I can accomplish it. In most cases, this turns out to be true.

Of course, sometimes life gets in the way. I then re-align the goal and re-focus. What I don’t do is whine about how something always gets in the way. That’s self-defeating. If I did that while believing in a self-fulfilling prophecy, that’s how my day would end up–something would always be getting in the way. Instead, I focus on my adjusted goal and keep striving ahead, not fretting that there is still a lot of road to travel.

Optimism must work. I have a contract in hand on my fifth manuscript. With this sale, I will have sold every manuscript I’ve ever written.

I recommend optimism, visualization and staying focused on the goal no matter what you do in life.

What about you? How do you achieve your goals?

JoAnn Smith Ainsworth

MATILDA’S SONG (ISBN: 978-1-60504-195-7)
OUT OF THE DARK (ISBN: 978-1-60504-277-0)
POLITE ENEMIES (ebook ISBN: 978-1-61160-636-2) release Sept. 2013
THE FARMER AND THE WOOD NYMPH (ebook ISBN: 978-1-61160-660-7) release Dec. 2013
http://www.joannsmithainsworth.com/

Visit JoAnn Ainsworth on Facebook and Twitter.

Duty requires sacrifice…but the heart will not be denied.

At the time, pretending marriage to her middle-aged widower cousin seemed like the best way to escape a politically motivated betrothal to a brutal knight. Now, her journey toward a new life has landed her in hot water—she’s been waylaid by a local Norman baron who’s mistaken her for a real bride. And he demands First Night rights.

Hot water turns to steam in a scalding night of passion…passion she has never known. And now must live without.

Lord Geoffrey is entranced at first sight of the Anglo-Saxon beauty and finds that one night in her arms is not nearly enough. But all he can offer the low-born Matilda is a life in the shadows—as his mistress.

Her head warring with her heart, Matilda resigns herself to her duty in a masquerade of a marriage. It’s a choice that could cost her life.

For the knight who first sought her hand is back with murder on his mind. Now it’s Geoff who’s faced with the ultimate choice: which is more precious…his estates or the love of the one woman who can heal his soul?

Warning:  Warning, this title contains the following: a Norman baron who teaches an Anglo-Saxon beauty the medieval mambo in the bedroom. Men fight to the death for this lady’s honor. Read the rest of this entry »

“We interrupt this program…”

I used to love that opening message I used to hear on radio or TV (for some reason I picture a man cupping an ear and speaking into a big silver microphone). It was ominous. You knew it wasn’t an advertisement, but something you needed to pay attention to. And who was the “we”? I imagined green aliens with long needle-like fingernails, standing behind the bespeckled announcer as he read his lines. Yeah, I know, it began early with me.

So I don’t have anything really important to announce. And I’m not sure why I led with that line, but I go with what pops into my head, and that was it.  Maybe because last night I dreamed that my daughter gave birth to an alien with large slanted eyes and an elliptical-shaped head? And it was huge. half-grown, and already shooting lasers out its eyes.

I should remind you that I have a new book coming out in exactly a week. It’s a lazy, summery, fuckfest. Yeah, I said that too. If you’re needing your FF fix, look no further than In Too Deep! Oh, it’s got a cowboy. Nuff said?

Here’s your question today. Just because I know you have a burning need to share… 🙂

What is your favorite kind of party? A wedding, birthday, hens or stags, New Year’s Eve, Star Party, or tailgate? And what do you like to do for your fave?

My first novel, ILLICIT IMPULSE, comes out this week from Ellora’s Cave. It’s the story of a neuroscientist, his best friend, her friend with benefits, and some no-strings-attached fun. I had the devil’s own time getting the book finished, but I finally got The Call (in my case, actually, it was The Email) just before Thanksgiving. The journey from The Call to release has been surprisingly brief.

It’s amazing how quickly things move once you finish the book.

My trip to publication really began when I won the Passionate Reads Pitch Contest in February 2011. When I got my first chapters ready to enter in late 2010, I was coming off a tough breakup and really just needed to occupy my time between boyfriends. I didn’t have the whole manuscript ready, but that didn’t worry me very much. The contest didn’t require entrants to have the entire manuscript, and honestly, I was in it mostly for the experience.

I received lots of advice to have the manuscript complete anyway. None of those people would explain to me *why* the manuscript had to be finished, though, especially when the contest didn’t require it. I can be a stubborn person. I am open to advice, as long as it comes with an explanation. Otherwise it looks a lot like direction. I resist direction.

Now I understand why the manuscript has to be finished first, so I can offer you the same advice, along with an explanation.

After I won the contest, the judge, who is now my editor, requested the full manuscript. I explained that I didn’t have much more than she’d already seen. She said she understood – the contest had not required a complete manuscript anyway – and she said she’d wait to see the whole thing. She also specifically told me to take as long as I needed to get the rest of the book ready to submit.

That took just short of two years. I thank my editor for her endless patience in the acknowledgments. She waited for a long time and had to tell me more than once to take as much time as I needed.

But it didn’t have to end this way. Sure, there’s the obvious possibility that your editor might not be as patient as mine is, but there are at least three other excellent reasons not to wait to get your book submitted.

First, there’s that sick feeling of not being finished. Even knowing that someone was willing to wait as long as I needed, I had to face the reality that I wasn’t finished every single day for a pretty long time. That’s just not a pleasant feeling. The oppressive weight of the unfinished project lifts, well, as soon as you finish.

Then, there’s the reality that change is the only constant in the universe. I knew that my publishing house probably wasn’t going anywhere, but there was nothing to stop my editor from leaving. (Not that she would. But she *could.*) If the only person waiting for my manuscript changed jobs or retired or for whatever reason became unavailable, I’d have big problems! There wasn’t any guarantee that any of her successors would be enthusiastic about my book or that my editor would be able to take it with her to her next job. I’d have ended up in limbo, and worse, it would have been my fault.

Finally, let’s say that the publishing house is stable and my editor stays put … but someone with a completed manuscript similar to mine gets her submission in first. There’s no sound business reason for a publisher to hang on to the promise of a book when a real book is available, all other things being equal. The safest alternative was to secure my place with a finished product.

Having said all this, I won that contest with just the three chapters and now I’m an author with my first choice of publishing houses despite the fact that my editor had to wait for years to see my completed manuscript. So I imagine you can take my substantiated advice with a grain of salt.

I just wouldn’t use the whole shaker.

Years of research have led neuroscientist John March to the creation of Impulse, an experimental drug that suppresses the bonding hormone, oxytocin, and would allow women to enjoy sex without commitment. Now he just needs a test subject who’s willing to put Impulse through its paces, a woman who’s not afraid to indulge all her sexual desires and then go on record with her experiences. He needs a woman like his best friend, Grace. She and her boy toy could solve all John’s problems. If only he didn’t want her for himself …

Grace Foley’s dreams have just come true. Her sex-without-strings arrangement with Tal Crusoe has started to feel a bit complicated. Thanks to Impulse, Grace can keep things friendly while making the most of Tal’s abundant benefits. Too bad she can’t have John, too. She’s aching for a little experimentation of her own with the sexy scientist. But once it’s over, could they ever go back to being friends?

How far will two best friends go under the influence of Impulse?

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