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Archive for August 1st, 2016

Lynda Bailey: A storyteller, a writer and an author walk into a bar… (Contest)
Monday, August 1st, 2016

UPDATE: The winner is…Mia McKimmy!

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A storyteller, a writer and an author walk into a bar…

…and the punch line is—they’re three different people.

Say whhhhat??? Isn’t a storyteller a writer, and isn’t a writer an author? To my way of thinking, no.

You see, I’m a born storyteller. I love weaving tales about pretty much anything. Ask me about our fabulous house, and I won’t give you the boilerplate rendition of how hubby and I got the best house ever. No. I’ll tell you the story of how we had the longest short sale in history (17 months!), how we looked at countless other houses, but couldn’t imagine any other than the one we got, how our realtor was an angel of mercy, how I got the news we’d be closing on our new house the day after my back surgery…. In other words, a story.

As a storyteller, I sometimes find the actual act of writing beyond frustrating. I know the story, but putting it on paper can be quite challenging for me. There’s no writing a scene three-quarters of the way through the manuscript then jumping to the beginning then the Black Moment. I have to start at the beginning, move to the middle, then the end. And heaven help me if I’m 40k words in only to realize I made a plot boo-boo in chapter three. I can’t simply make a note and move on. Oh, no… It’s back to where I made the fatal mistake, fix it, THEN move on.

A writer, on the other hand (and IMHO), undoubtedly has the discipline to put their butt in a chair and write every day. I believe the folks who pen those books about how to write 10,000 words a day are writers. I can’t image getting 10,000 words written in a day. I’m lucky to get that kind of word count in a month—hell, in two months.

Writers can also quite probably write about almost anything—they can follow the *trends* in the industry. Regency England midget vampires—got it! Teen-aged werewolf bikers—got that, too! My storyteller isn’t nearly so…flexible. A story gets stuck in my head, and I’m sorry, but that’s…the…story…period. Nothing else happens until THAT story is done. (It’s like have a bulldog for a muse…*sigh*)

And what of the *author* you ask? For me, an author is someone who most likely makes BIG BUCKS with his/her writing. So while it’s safe to assume they’re a writer, they may not be a storyteller. Allow me to explain with a well-known example I shall not name. And please, no hate mail if you know who I’m talking about. I sincerely congratulate the author on all her awesome success… However, I take strong issue with her *storytelling* abilities. Case in point—and again in my most humble opinion—there’s no story between the hero and heroine. A lot of sex, yes, but no story. What’s her GMC (goal, motivation and conflict)? What does she want? Why does she want it? What’s keeping her from getting what she wants? After reading the first book in the trilogy, I couldn’t answer those three questions—questions that should be answered after the first chapter. If the main character’s GMC isn’t defined, there’s no structure for the plot. And without a plot, there can’t be a story.

Now, can a storyteller be a writer and also an author, even by my definition? You betchum! I’m sure there are countless storytelling writers who make serious bank with their stories. Unfortunately, I am not one. As an innate storyteller, I must force myself (everyday!) to be a writer. And while I make some money with my books, it’s not what I consider author money or even moderate author money. But despite the many and varied obstacles in my way, I plan keep doing what I love—and that’s telling stories. <grin>

I want to give a huge THANK YOU to the FABulous Delilah Devlin for hosting me today!


Leave a comment for the chance to win one of the following titles:

Battle-Born Love
Battle-Tested Love
Erotic Escapades of a Married Couple
Naughty Neighborhood
On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful – MIC
On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful – KIRA
On the Corner of Heartache and Hopeful – GRACE
Shattered Trust


lbOn A Knifes Edge_800px

Please enjoy the following excerpt from my newest release, On a Knife’s Edge – rated R.

Lynch broke the kiss and grasped the pull tab of the sweatshirt zipper. With purposefully slowness, he lowered it. He bore his gaze into hers, giving Shasta the chance to stop him. She just stared at him with eyes so huge, so round, he thought he’d die within their brown depths.

Once the jacket hung open, he flicked it off her shoulders then skimmed the t-shirt up her torso. She lifted her arms and he pulled the shirt over her head.

He snagged her wrists. “Keep ‘em up, kay?”

Her delicate throat muscles labored as she nodded.

He ghosted his palms over her sports bra then wormed his fingers under the bottom. Still holding her gaze, he tugged it up. She licked her lips and her arms quivered slightly, but didn’t lower. Within seconds, her breasts were bared. He devoured them with his gaze.

They were flawless. The perfect size with two perfectly pearled nipples.

He outlined one areola with his finger. Her body trembled. He shifted her position so she laid prone on the seat, her feet near the handlebars and her head resting on the passenger cushion.

He kissed her again. His balls ached and his cock pounded at twice his heart rate. His hand molded around one breast. The satiny feel sent another shaft of hunger through his blood.

He kissed her eyes closed before nipping his way to her ticklish earlobe. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her body arched toward him. His mouth journeyed down her delectable flesh to lick the velvet hollow of her neck, then down farther to a rigid nipple. Her body went completely still—almost like she’d stopped breathing—as his lips closed over the puckered crest.

Lynch stroked his tongue over the peak while his hand skimmed across her flat belly to the snug waistband of her jogging shorts.

Shasta braced her heels on the handlebars and elevated her hips. Lynch pulled while she wiggled. At last, he peeled the offending garment off one leg then the other, along with her running shoes. He replaced her socked feet to the outside edge of the handgrips.

Air back up in his chest as he feasted on her spread before him in all her naked glory. Her skin held a slight rosy hue and her earthy, sexy scent filled his senses. Her nest of pussy hair tightened the knot in his belly. He never dreamed he’d see her like this again.

He again gently gripped her wrists and placed her hands on the passenger seat. “You best hold on, Shaly,” he croaked.


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