Night before last, I had to take some pictures of paintings/drawings I’ve done this past year for my local art guild’s brochure. We’re doing a studio tour this fall. I’ll sell my paintings (I hope) and my jewelry. I hope to have some mosaic and altered art jewelry boxes by then, too. I thought I’d share some of my photos. They suck—the pictures. So does the art work, but I’m learning. As you can tell, I’m not a photographer, and I didn’t have a lot of time to set things up. Every one of them has the flash from the camera in the glass. *sigh*
But I’m sharing because we all need creative outlets—something that feeds our souls or calms us—whether it’s creating a garden or a lovely meal. And since I have a black thumb and burn Campbell’s soup, I choose these things. What things feed your soul?
These are supposed to be poppies…
I like apples, but it was boring when I finished it, so I flicked my brush at it…
I zentangled a pear then used watercolor pencils to paint it…
More poppies. I like them. I might paint more. And no, I’m not bored of them yet…
Hey, I framed this one myself, too! I call it, “Feed Me, Seymour!” Get it? Little Shop of Horrors...
I’m a visual person. I learn by watching. As a writer, I can’t get a scene on paper unless I can see it in my head. Surprisingly though, I’m not one of those people who create story boards for their books. I like the concept of having photos of each of my characters – pictures of everything from the dress the bride wore to the kind of tires on the hero’s motorcycle. It works for some people, but I can never find images that match what’s in my head.
A picture can however spark ideas for a scene or the start of a story or even a character for me. Like today. As I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, I found a photo of a man – needless to say he was a good looking man – that made the little voice in my head whisper, “he’s hunting a dragon.” After a moment’s pause, the rest of my brain fired up.
Why would he be hunting a dragon? In what century would this man live? What would he do with the dragon after he caught it? Exactly how lethal is this man? And what kind of woman would catch his interest and match his soul so closely that he’d be willing to lay down his life for her?
After rolling those questions around for a bit, I stopped and asked myself what it was about that photo that made me think he was hunting a dragon. Was there something about the set of his chin? (He did have razor stubble and God knows that always catches my attention) Were his eyes dark and edgy? Or was it the touch of mystery the black and white shading gave him?
My answer: I have no idea.
But I know I have the start of a brand new story!! Now to find time to write the darn thing…
In the meantime, check out my contemporary novella Risky Business…
Mia Sanford has admired Jake Hudson from afar ever since she transferred to Marketing. She might be comfortable tangling with the company playboy in meeting rooms but not in private. Facts and figures she can handle, but that blue-eyed devil is out of her league.
Jake was impressed with Mia, the sexy analyst who provides his monthly Marketing data, the first day he met her. Not only is she smart and reliable, she has legs that have inspired a few sizzling hot workplace fantasies. However, her girl-next-door demeanor and the company’s no fraternization rules force Jake to keep things strictly professional.
When Mia becomes the target of an embarrassing betting pool at the annual office party, Jake alerts her to the danger. But since he never expressed an interest in her until now Mia isn’t certain if he’s really looking out for her, or just trying to win the pool himself. If she trusts him, it might place both her reputation and her heart on the line.
Dena Garson is a Process Redesign Specialist by day and a writer and jewelry designer by night. She is raising two rowdy boys who play lots of sports which forces her to spend way too much time on the practice field and/or sidelines. Thankfully she has a loyal and loving Labrador Retriever to listen when she complains and a spoiled cat who reminds her daily she is merely a servant.
The name I choose for every character I write about means everything to me. The name needs to resonate within me, inspire me, sweep me off to the hero and heroine’s personality, their thoughts, emotions, desire, dreams and wounds. A name has energy to it and a very specific vibration. That name is a template from which the character “talks” to me for the duration (and sometimes, after) the book.
When I start a new book, I’ll see a character come forward and introduce themselves to me. I see what they look like, how they are dressed, the expression on their face, etc. From that, I pick up a vibe about him or her. I can feel who they are inside and out, as if they are utterly transparent to me on every level with me. This is the magical part of creation which I love.
The only downer is my characters never tell me their names! I go through a number of books, thumbing through them, muttering a bunch a names to see if one “fits” them or not. I go to tons of baby names websites on the Internet. I look for unique, interesting or oddball names. I’ve written over 135 books and all my favorite names have long ago, been used up!
Choosing every name of every character is one of the most important things I do when developing a story. Every time I say that name out loud, I get an instant telepathic and emotional hit on that character. I never go out-of-character because of this. Choosing a name that embraces the particular character’s personality is vital.
I favor short names over really long, convoluted ones. I like names you can create a nickname from or around. For example, the hero of RUNNING FIRE is a US Navy SEAL named Kelly Ballard. But everyone has, forever, called him by his nickname, Kell. And so, he grew up with it. There’s usually a reason why some people get nicknames spinning off their given name. Sometimes, there isn’t. In Kell’s world, people around him just automatically shortened it. Besides, Kell is an easy going sort of man and wasn’t one of those people who went around correcting everyone every time they didn’t call him by his real name, Kelly. (There are people out there like that, believe me). I also don’t care for a name I can’t pronounce without stumbling all over it. I figure if I do, so will my reader.
It was tougher for me to find the heroine’s name: Leah Mackenzie. Names sound strong or weak to me. When I say the name, I want to investigate the layers enclosed within its vowels and consonants. In Leah’s case, when she came forward to introduce herself to me, I felt layers of steel, of grief, of suffering, but also, family meaning everything to her, a kindness and a loyalty that ran deeply through her. She was a highly complex and compartmentalized person, so I needed a name that had far more layers than normal to it.
Above all, Leah was a person who cared deeply for family, and less for herself. I needed a name with vulnerability built into it. I wanted that softness that I felt deeply hidden and guarded by her. I had to have a name that contained those juxtapose polarities: marshmallow combined with steel. I spent seven days and finally discovered the name that resonated with her: Leah.
Afterward? I always have fun looking up on the Internet what a name means by the country of its origin. And also, any historical or religious significance to it, or not. I’m always amazed, after I choose a name and then scour the basics of the name through history, that it ends up reflecting some basic tenets of my character. Go check the name Leah on Google, and you’ll get a ton of information!
I hope you enjoy the many layers, twists and turns of Running Fire! Please run over to my website and sign up for my quarterly newsletter (free). It contains exclusive information, giveaways, and surprises that only my subscribers will receive! I love to hear from my readers, so make yourself known to me at www.lindsaymckenna.com.
UPDATE: The winner of the free download is…Kristie!
* * * * *
Ménage can be kind of irresistible. To write or read. Why settle for one hot lover when you can have two or more? I enjoy the challenge of writing it—figuring out how to describe all those moving parts, trying to make the scene move quickly, and still let the reader know who’s saying/touching what. And I’ll admit it. When I’m writing it, I’m that character, closing my eyes and imagining every kiss.
I’ve written a few. 🙂 The book coming May 12th, Under a Blood Moon, features a foursome (a witch, two mermen and a sea draugr). To tide you over until then, take a peek inside Two Hot!
Comment for a chance to win Two Hot or one of the short stories on this carousel!
Do you like ménage stories? If so, what flavor of ménage do you prefer — m/m/f, m/f/m, f/m/f, f/f/m? More mm’s?
* * * * *
Click to Buy
Afraid to spoil their friendship, Emily had been reluctant to act on her attraction to the two sexy men next door. However, when she’s caught spying on them, the men decide a little punishment is in order…
Beads of condensation, glittering jewel-like in the sputtering candlelight, ran in rivulets down the sides of Jason’s ice-cold beer.
Detail I shouldn’t have been able to note, given the fact I was thirty feet away.
As I lowered my nephew’s toy binoculars, I reflected that I had indeed sunk to a new low. You see, my bedroom window conveniently overlooked Jason and Robert’s backyard. A fact that probably never registered with the previous tenants, but one that proved too delicious to ignore after the arrival of the handsome duo. Privacy fencing, which ran down to the pier that jutted into the lake, separated the row of houses where we lived. It was high enough the neighbors on either side of ours couldn’t see into their yard, but lucky me—I had the perfect view.
Upon discovering this, I had began a furtive surveillance. One that had me cringing in embarrassment each time I greeted them in passing and feeling even more ashamed when we struck up a friendship.
We’d shared meals, drinks, late afternoon swims, watched football games together on their wide-screen TV. And still, I peeked into their backyard, waiting for those moments when they popped outside to mow the lawn or catch a few summer rays. Their bodies gleamed with sweat while raw lust warred inside me, along with the fear that I’d mess up our relationship if I let the guys know how I really felt.
My convenient perch on the windowsill afforded me a window into their private lives, and from the very beginning, I was hooked. They’d become an obsession, one frustrated by the fact they treated me like a kid sister, rather than a woman one of them might desire.
And therein lay another problem. I’d resisted the urge to seek a deeper relationship because then I’d have to choose. My libido was completely fickle, lusting after Jason’s muscled physique, then sighing over the possibilities of what Robert’s tall, bony frame and large feet hinted at. That their personalities were perfect bookends, fierce and funny, confused my heart as well.
Lucky, lucky me. I licked the sweat gathering on my upper lip while this night one of the handsome men living next door tilted his bottle and took several long sips. The look of pure bliss that softened his otherwise stern features made my chest ache.
I watched the movement of Jason’s throat as he worked it down, imagining him sipping at my overheated flesh. My skin began to tingle. My nipples beaded, crowding uncomfortably against my lace bra. My thighs clenched as a delicious wash of arousal seeped to wet the crotch of my plain panties.
The sigh he emitted as he set the bottle on the table was echoed by my own painful groan. Watching either of them had never caused my heart to skip a beat like that hint of a moan sliding on the tail of Jason’s long exhalation.
Sure, it was hotter than hell out there. I too felt the effects of the enervating heat. Record temperatures had strained the region’s resources and planned service interruptions began that night. But something about that sigh felt…un-subtle, exaggerated, maybe even dramatic. And Jason was too straightforward a man for that.
I blotted sweat from my forehead, asking myself again, What am I doing?
Only this time, my peeping hadn’t been deliberate. I’d rushed home from work and showered quickly to beat the scheduled brown-out. Then I’d stripped to my underwear, pulled back the curtains, and opened the window, hoping for a breeze to cool my skin. Sitting limply on the sill, I waited for the world to flicker into life again.
That’s when I’d noticed him, sitting in a lounge chair alone in the dark.
He wore his usual work “uniform”—khaki trousers, white shirt and a tie. Tonight, the tie hung loosened and askew, his collar opened beneath it.
Despite the lack of electricity, I could see it all. Moonlight silvered his dark hair and reflected bright as a beacon against the white shirt. The golden light from the large Citronella candle leant warmth to his skin and the amber bottle he held between his hands.
As always, he was lovely to watch, but tonight, his expression drew my attention more than his breath-stealing features. A sullen slanting of his brows, a bit of pout plumping his masculine lips, an edgy energy to his slight movements—he was either irritated or aroused.
Wanting an answer to the “either-or,” I watched. My forte is observation; my people-radar exquisitely tuned to body language and a voice’s tonal cues. My curiosity and my lust were caught. No way could I back away from my window now.
The bottle tapped the table as he set it aside. A long-fingered hand tugged the knot of his tie, dragging it from his neck.
When he began to undo the row of buttons down the front of his shirt, I settled deeper on the sill, leaning closer, but taking care to keep my pale body hidden behind the sheer curtain.
The edges of the shirt parted over a broad, nicely muscled chest. My gaze zeroed in on taut lean abs dusted with dense fur the same color as his close-cropped black hair that stretched nipple to nipple then ran along a thin dark line to slip beneath his zipper.
His hand stroked his chest, scratching through the hair, the faint crinkling sound causing my own chest to tighten, my nipples to surge.
A light sheen of sweat glimmered on his chest and belly. Again, my tongue swept my lips, tasting salt, and I imagined I lapped the dew right off his skin.
When a lazily roaming hand slid over his belly, I tensed, fascinated as he swept the flat plane. Would he be hard or desk-soft? His stomach looked firm. So, I enjoyed fantasizing that he was and touched my own stomach, following his path.
His hand slid down to the knot bulging behind his fly, and he cupped it. Squeezed.
My own hands itched to replace his and grew still, clenching against the fantasy of holding his burgeoning cock as it roused. My cheeks heated and my breaths shortened. No need to tease my own body into arousal, moisture already soaked my panties.
The buckle clanked open, and the belt slid sinuously from the loops as he lifted his hips and pulled it free. A flick of his thumb and the button at the waistband of his trousers opened. His zipper rasped as it slid down.
Dark fabric formed a vee-like shadow as his hand rooted beneath his waist, and then he slipped the long, gleaming column of his semi-aroused sex from the flap at the front of his boxers and wrapped his fingers around it.
I swallowed the liquid pooling in my mouth. I blinked to moisten eyes that had grown dry and scratchy as I stared, wide-eyed. My breaths grew ragged, a little choked, and I must have made a noise, because suddenly his head swung my way.
His gaze narrowed on my bedroom window.
Holding my breath, I froze, hoping his gaze couldn’t penetrate the darkness.
But a crooked smile slowly stretched his lips, and his hand tightened around himself and began to pump up and down the thickening rod. All the while, he stared at me.
Jason knew I watched but didn’t seem to mind. I let out a deep, trembling breath and continued to stare, my own body heating, growing increasingly aroused in tandem with his hardening cock.
His head turned away, and his hand dropped from his engorged cock. It fell against his belly with a soft, muffled thud. Heavy, hot, thick—I knew its girth would stretch my mouth.
Another sound intruded. The chime of my doorbell. I bit back a curse and drew away from the window, slung on my robe, then headed downstairs to the front door.
Robert stood on the stoop, a lazy grin on his face, a sweep of lank blonde hair covering one eye and two beers dangling from his fingers. He was shirtless. Low-riding, blue knee-length shorts encased slender hips and revealed long legs. His large feet were bare. “Thought you might like to join us.”
A Navy SEAL puts his training to the test to rescue a sexy news reporter from a hostage situation
Home on emergency leave, Navy SEAL Dustin “Dustman” Ford didn’t expect to run into his high school sweetheart, local news reporter Jenna Turner, figuring she’d have shaken off the dust of their hometown a long time ago. A woman as addicted to action and adventure as he was, he thought she’d have moved on. But she was still there, and every bit as distracting as she’d been when they were teens.
Jenna Turner never got over Dustin, but moved on with her life, establishing herself as a news reporter for the local station. In an effort to take on more than reporting social events and weddings, with the help of a cousin and an inside connection on the police force, she chases the hotter news items, determined to make her break into the national news scene.
Now that his father is on the mend, Dustin tests the heat with his old flame and finds it’s sizzling. When Jenna is taken hostage in a religious compound, Dustin and his brothers stage a rescue operation to bring her and others out alive.
With the sun glaring off the glass, he didn’t see what was behind it until he slammed into a young auburn-haired woman with a bandage around her forehead, rising out of wheelchair. He dug his boots into the smooth tile floor, but not soon enough to halt his forward momentum. Dustin barreled into the young woman, grabbed her around the middle, threw himself over onto his back and landed hard on the ground, the woman landing on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs.
“What the hell?” The female pushed against his chest and stared down at him, her green eyes shooting flames. “Of all the idiotic, stupid things to do, plowing into a hospital full of sick and injured tops the charts.”
Still fighting for his breath, Dustin opened his mouth but nothing came out. He sucked in a ragged breath, his mind clearing about the same time as recognition dawned. “Jenna?” he wheezed.
The woman’s skillfully arched brows puckered, and then a smile lit her face. “Dustin?”
She rolled to the side and air flowed into Dustin’s lungs.
Her joyous smile crashed into a deep frown. “Holy hell, can’t you enter a building like everyone else?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” Dustin sat up, grabbed her arms and stared into her face, memories of the woman crashing in around him. “Are you okay?” God, she was even more beautiful than when he’d left for Navy Basic Training a decade ago. He nodded toward the white gauze wrapped around her head. “Why are you wearing that?”
The bandage slipped loose and dropped down over one of her eyes. “Damn.” She unwound the binding from her head and wadded it into her fist. “I told them this was too much.” A butterfly bandage stretched over a cut on her temple, holding the edges of skin together.
His grip tightened. “What happened to your forehead?”
She snorted, shook free from his hold and pointed at the injury. “This little thing?”
“Don’t let her fool you. It’s a gunshot wound.” A tall, lanky man with a baby face extended his hand to Jenna. “Need a hand up?”
Jenna placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet, her color rising in her cheeks. “It didn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, but had it hit one inch over, you wouldn’t be falling all over a man in the hospital lobby. You’d be stretched out on a table in the morgue.”
Jenna’s face blanched.
“Damn, Jenna.” Dustin pushed to his feet. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Jenna smoothed her hair back from her face, like she did when she was avoiding an answer. She winced when her hand brushed over the bandage.
The lanky dude answered, “We were reporting on a hostage situation when the gunman started shooting at everything. After the gunman was hit by the SWAT team, his shots went wild. One nicked my girl, here.”
“Damn.” Dustin planted himself in front of her, cupped her chin and studied the injury, his hands tingling with the electricity that shot through him whenever he touched this woman. Even after ten years, she still made him crazy.
“The doctor said it shouldn’t leave much of a scar.” Jenna laughed shakily. “He glued it together, rather than stitching.”
Dustin shook his head. “What have you been up to since I’ve been gone?”
Jenna pulled free of his grip, the color returning to her cheeks. Rubbing her hands over her arms, she tilted her chin. “I’m a freelance reporter for the local news station.”
The young man behind her grinned. “Yeah, and she’s good. Today’s report ought to get us into the national news.”
Dustin glared at the man who’d gone with Jenna into danger. “Who the hell are you?”
The young man’s grin slipped. “Toby.” His own eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”
His chest swelling out, his back stiffening, Dustin answered, “Dustin Ford. Jenna’s fiancé.”
Toby’s brows rose into the hair hanging down over his forehead. “Fiancé?” He glanced from Jenna to Dustin and back to Jenna. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”
She shook her head. “Former fiancé. A million years ago.” Jenna brushed her hands over her rumpled skirt suit. “We were teenagers in lust. Not a brain between the two of us. We’re lucky we broke it off before we made the biggest mistake of our lives.”
About the Author
NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author ELLE JAMES also writing as MYLA JACKSON is an award-winning author of stories including cowboys, intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edges of their seats. With over seventy stories in a variety of sub-genres and lengths she is published with Harlequin, Samhain, Elloras’ Cave, Kensington, Cleis Press, and Avon. When she’s not at her computer, she’s traveling, out snow-skiing, boating, or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories.
I’m a visual person. I learn by watching. As a writer, I can’t get a scene on paper unless I can see it in my head. Surprisingly though, I’m not one of those people who create story boards for their books. I like the concept of having photos of each of my characters – pictures of everything from the dress the bride wore to the kind of tires on the hero’s motorcycle. It works for some people, but I can never find images that match what’s in my head.
NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author ELLE JAMES also writing as MYLA JACKSON is an award-winning author of stories including cowboys, intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edges of their seats. With over seventy stories in a variety of sub-genres and lengths she is published with Harlequin, Samhain, Elloras’ Cave, Kensington, Cleis Press, and Avon. When she’s not at her computer, she’s traveling, out snow-skiing, boating, or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories.
