Today, I’m launching a countdown of posts and prizes on my Collections website! Don’t know what that is? Well, it’s a long story, but it’s a site that’s not all about me!!! It’s about the anthologies and the authors who have written for them. First Response releases at the end of this month, and the authors and I want to tell you about who we are and what our stories are about. Today, there’s a contest with THREE WINNERS, so be sure to drop by and comment!

Where to go? Delilah Devlin: What’s Coming? Contests! Excerpts! (Contest–3 Winners!)

It’s my blog. I get to do this. 🙂

My daughter, Kelly, is my best friend. We’re not sure how that happened. When she was 15, she stole my car and drove from San Antonio to Corpus Christi with a girlfriend to go to the beach. I was sure my wild child would be the death of me. But I should have known. She is me. We’ve both defied the promise of our youth to become productive, law-abiding citizens. LOL

Our annual Ugly Christmas Sweater Party. Kelly and I at her old place a few years ago.

As she’s matured, we’ve drawn closer. I was sure when I moved from Texas that our bond would be stretched a bit. She’d get on with her life, and we’d see each other at holidays. However, a few months later, she called. She couldn’t stand it. She was coming to Arkansas, and we’ve been tight as thieves ever since. In fact, we share the same house now.

Us at an antique car show a couple of years ago.

She’s an amazing friend to her children as well. Yes, she can get loud when she’s displeased, but she’s always fair. And she’s very much “in” her kids’ lives. She knows their friends, throws parties for the kids (pre-COVID!), takes them to the games… She’s always on the go and never complains. Her oldest girl is just like her, and they are so close. I know when I’m gone, my dd will still have a lifelong friend.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how special she is to me. Every woman should have a best friend in her corner. Someone she trusts, someone she can lean on. For me, it’s my daughter.

Happy Birthday, Kelly!!!

So, everyone out there, do you have a special best friend in your life?

My ex said there was an old Irish saying that went like this: Never do today what you can do next year.

Yeah, that’s his sense of humor. Born and bred Irish. It’s why we’re still great friends.

Today’s one of those days. It started off well. I got out of bed at 6:30 AM. I decided to try to catch up on artwork for the two challenges I’m participating in. I completed them and was sitting down at my computer to begin my “real work” day when my daughter came downstairs in a tizzy to remind me we had dental appointments.

We had both completely forgotten, which meant no time to shower (ew!) and barely enough time to brush our teeth before we hurried into town. That was a long ordeal due to the COVID precautions—time to sterilize in between, waivers, etc.

Once we came back, I sat back down at my computer, but one of those “70’s stars—Where are they now?” popped up on my news screen when I first opened it up, and an hour later I was dozing in front of my screen.

Now, it’s time for a late lunch…maybe a swim…don’t I need to vacuum? You get the picture. Anything but what I need to do to keep on track. I have tons of items on my To Do list to tackle, but…really, can’t I take a “do-over” tomorrow?

What do you think?

My mental health is fine (I hear my dd cackling). But then, I limit my time watching the news these days. While the nation goes to “hell in a handbasket,” I keep my head down with work and painting. I won’t get into politics here because opinions are like assholes—everyone’s got one. But I will ask, how’s the social distancing going? Are you still masking? I hope so because I wish you well.

My family is managing quite well. We take a few risks—food shopping, doctor’s visits. The kids had their first “playdate” with a couple of friends. They said they were distancing too, but we kept them all outside in the pool. Arkansas’ numbers are rising, so that might be it for the kids for a while, sad to say. The goal is survival in the Devlin house. Tempers flare now and then, but we have a pool. If anyone gets too hot, we jump in. No irritability lasts long there.

I have a puzzle for you! One sure to make you smile—or at least shake your head. It made me want to find some old Gloria Estefan tune to dance to! Enjoy!

I started my writing career as a ghostwriter. It was a great way to cut my teeth and hone my craft, but the pay was abysmal, and of course, other people took the credit for my work. So, last year I finally made the leap to writing for myself, and so far, the pay hasn’t been any better, but it’s been a blast! I’m back for another Boys Behaving Badly Anthology and have several more anthologies planned for the coming year. The most fascinating part of this journey has been developing my writing process and learning about that of other authors. It’s amazing how differently everyone approaches writing. Some authors meticulously plan out their work step by intricate step. It’s like a beautiful dance in colorful illustration before the first word is even put on the page. For others, they wade in with a vague notion or idea and just see where it goes. My process lies somewhere in the middle.

Typically, I have a rough outline of where the story will go with major plot points. How I get from point to point isn’t necessarily defined. Sometimes, the storyline drives the words, but more often, I find the characters and who they want to become influences the story the most. I’ve been astonished at how some of my stories have turned out!

No one was more surprised than me when I finished my latest short story, The Invisible Goddess, about Hestia, the Greek goddess of fire, hearth, and home. I call her the forgotten Olympian because she has almost no stories about her. She’s rarely mentioned at all in the myths. So, I reinvented her with the idea to make her bolder and write a bit of romance into her hum-drum life of keeping Zeus’s court at Olympus. What I ended up with was a fiery hot goddess who brings Olympus to the brink of war over her hand and in the middle of it all, a primordial god of darkness stirring the pot, and the heroine’s heart. The god of darkness wasn’t even in my original outline of the story! This is the coolest part of writing. I love it when my imagination gets churning, and suddenly, a story that I never even realized was there materializes on the page. I look back at this short story and wonder where the heck it came from!

Aside from how writers approach the structure of their stories, I also find the logistical aspect of how authors work intriguing. Some authors write every day, 8 hours a day. It’s their job, and they treat it as such. Of course, that whole time isn’t necessarily spent spinning words onto the page of their latest and greatest novel. A lot of it is spent working social media, responding to emails, editing, and updating their website and blog. Some authors have a particular place they like to write, or they have a prewriting routine they do. Other authors don’t touch their keyboard for days or weeks. Then, they sit down and binge write for days on end. Again, I find myself somewhere in the middle.

I’m not cool enough to write full time- yet! One of these days…. But for now, my writing must fit in with a full-time job as a nursing instructor, a 21-acre farm, and a family. I don’t have time for rituals or routines- other than coffee. There is always time for coffee! I fit writing in whenever and wherever. I often peck away at my keyboard at my daughter’s horse riding lessons and scribble ideas on the back of my grocery list while waiting in line at Costco. I wish I was one of those disciplined souls that would get up 2 hours early and write before work. Countless failed early morning exercise aspirations have proven that it isn’t a sound strategy for me! My main goal is to write a little bit every day. Sometimes, it’s literally a single sentence, and sometimes, when the writing gods smile upon me and the stars align, it’s pages. In the end, it always seems to come together.

Anthologies, like the latest Boys Behaving Badly with my gracious hostess, Delilah Devlin, attract me because I can write tons of different storylines, and they’re typically short story to novella lengths. I have several going at the same time. One of the other things I’ve discovered about my writing process is the stories and characters often need to marinate at different points along the way. Sometimes, we gotta give each other a bit of space! I also like to sleep on my stories. Seriously, I do my best writing as I am falling asleep. I’ll turn a particular point around and around in my head, and in that semi-dozing state, my mind forgets boundaries, conventions, and the distractions of daily life. Suddenly, the imagined world is possible and some of my best ideas have come from this technique (Ok… I’m not sure that falling asleep is a technique, but I’m going to go with it!). I’ve also utterly annihilated storylines and caused myself tons of extra rewrites because I came up with a scene that I just couldn’t live without. I guess that’s why they call it a process!

I will continue to hone my practice and do hope to transition to writing full time. I have dreams of writing full-length novels with glossy dust jackets adorned with my picture and having a fan base that stretches beyond blood relatives! For now, I’ll continue to grab the time as I can find it and inspiration where it is granted. I can’t wait to see where my journey takes me next. I hope that you’ll join me along the way!

My website and latest releases, including The Invisible Goddess coming this fall, can be found at acdawn.com or wander over to my Facebook page and follow me there!

As always, many thanks to Delilah for letting me pop in! Until next time…

Here’s a picture of my home base in north Georgia…

A science-fiction setting is popular for both writers and readers of erotic romances. The reason is simple, at least it is for me. Give me a fictional world and I can design it to meet any number of needs. The rules, regulations, and social standards we all live with can’t get in my way when I’m writing. I can make them go away.

A domineering man and submissive woman don’t require justification when the lifestyle is standard operating procedure in the world I came up with. I don’t have to justify why a man throws a woman over his knee and repeatedly applies his hand to her ass. Readers of spanking erotica accept that this is how things are done within these pages. A woman doesn’t yell “insanity” if the man in her life treats her like a child. Instead, she gets the norms of the world she finds herself in. Sometimes, it takes a while but that’s part of the fun.

Okay, that’s all well and good. A woman wears a collar and crawls on hands and knees behind the hunk who commands her to because it’s expected and she’s turned on.

But what’s their physical world like?

Setting is vital to me. I can’t start a story until I know what my characters’ world looks like. And here’s a secret: I suck at creating fictional worlds. If you’ve read some Vonna Harper erotic fiction, you may have noticed I don’t put my characters on distant, exotic planets with complex social and political structure to say nothing of blue suns and five-legged household pets. Instead, I rely on corners of the world I know.

Case in point, one of my eroticas is Midnight Touch. Much of this story about a couple with heavy loads of emotional baggage takes place in eastern Oregon. No urban center or exotic city for me because I’ve never lived there and have no desire to. Give me wide open spaces every time—spaces where the few residents live their isolated lives in private.

Sara’s dead ex-husband was a domineering SOB who got away with treating her as he wanted. She seldom saw anyone and didn’t know whether she could trust those she did. She repeatedly tried to escape but never succeeded. I didn’t need to invent a planet because I planted poor Sara in ranching country with more cattle than humans. I know what eastern Oregon’s high desert land looks and smells like. I’ve been there. No need to try to figure out where water and other necessities come from. I’ve seen the wells.

My hero Mace doesn’t belong there, but he has no choice because Sara needs him in ways only he understands. Taking him deep into that isolated setting while he grapples with the forces that brought him there was so much fun. I put that poor man through a lot. Fortunately, he’s up for the challenge.

As for why I chose a country where antelope live, it almost never rains, the nearest grocery store is fifty miles away, and two people struggle to find peace and love there.

Looks like you’ll have to read Midnight Touch to comprehend their dangerous journey, hint, hint. You might also wind up with a darn good idea what panoramic eastern Oregon is like.

Midnight Touch

Obsession. Insanity. Darkness.

The words explain why Mace Seeger has come to see a woman he should have nothing to do with. But when he finds Sara Parmenter’s photograph in her dead husband’s wallet, her haunted eyes touch his soul, distracting him from her naked bound body.

The woman he finds at the isolated ranch is no longer trapped with a cruel and violent man because Ronnie Parmenter is gone, murdered.

He’s no longer a danger.

Sara desperately wants to believe she’s free from her nightmares—and to understand why she’s willing to risk everything with Mace, a man maybe she shouldn’t trust or believe.

A lifetime ago she’d been a sexual woman. The realities of her marriage had stripped those things from her, but being near Mace has reawakened primitive needs. She’s returning to life.

But Ronnie isn’t done.

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As a lover of history, the line, “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” from William Faulkner’s Requiem for A Nun, thrills me. Why? Because I believe what has gone before is not only always present, but also has the power to control the present. When I look at this picture I took from the Brooklyn promenade where the World Trade Center used to stand, the truth of Faulkner’s line hits home. That sky isn’t empty. It’s full of the lives lost, the lives forever affected by those losses and will always be.

Having been a minister, I’m already predisposed to accept realities that go beyond the five senses. After all, the core belief of my religion is that over 2000 years ago a man named Jesus was crucified dead and was buried then rose again. It’s not just the knowledge of that sacrifice that gives the Christian power, but the belief that the energy released through that act reaches through time and enables me to heal through the laying on of hands or casting out demons by invoking Jesus’ name. It’s as if a nuclear bomb had been set off 2,000 years ago, and the aftershocks from the blast are still being experienced.

In Requiem For A Nun, one character tries to escape her past by claiming she’s no longer the person she was. But the lawyer who speaks the line is telling her you can’t escape the past. It’s always present. For my mind that’s not always bad. Energy from the past can be used for good or ill; which one depends on your level of awareness.

No wonder I enjoy writing ghost stories as Anna M. Taylor. Well, stories dealing with spirits or supernatural energy to be more accurate. Humans enter a situation, oblivious to or in denial about the past that is not dead, that is not past. Their level of awareness, i.e., ability to accept that alternate and concurrent reality, determines if things are going to end up good for them or ill.

That’s why in real life forgiving, repenting, remembering, and celebrating are such powerful and necessary acts. In these actions we name the past, which never died, and then harness the power of its presence for good. Think about it. When you feel guilty for something you’ve done wrong, don’t you feel weighed down? But let someone say, “That’s alright. I forgive you.” What happens to that weight? Aren’t you freed up emotionally, spiritually, and — in some cases because we can develop psychosomatic symptoms — physically, as well? The past while still present no longer has power over you. How about when you’re remembering an event, either sad or happy? Doesn’t the recollection bring an energy with it that has nothing to do with you? You’re engaged in the moment. It’s as if it’s happening right then and there. The ever-present spirit of the past is being tapped into. The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past. Never was.

Haunted Serenade

All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived as “Poor Butterflies”: women still longing for but deserted by the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, Anora fled Harlem for Brooklyn, severing her ties with her mother, Angela, and with the man who broke her heart, Winston Emerson, the father of her child.

Six years later, she comes back to Harlem to make peace, but a malignant spirit manifests itself during the homecoming, targeting her mother, her aunt, Winston, and their little girl. Determined to stop the evil now trying to destroy all she loves, Anora must finally turn to Winston for help. But will their efforts be too little too late?

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Excerpt from Haunter Serenade

“I never understood how you and Elizabeth could stay here after Diana…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. My mother didn’t finish my sentence for me. Apparently she couldn’t say the word either.

Suicide.

We waited in the shared silence, unable more than unwilling to offer terms of peace.

“A person can will themselves to die,” my mother said. Her gaze drifted to the album cover in my hands. “It’s not so hard where unforgiving spirits reign.”

My gut clenched. “Do you really believe you’re dying, Ma?”

“According to my doctor, I’m sound as a dollar. But when you’ve got more days behind you than in front of you, that’s not saying much.” She directed her gaze to me. “That’s why Cammie is so important. She’s the future. I feel better just having been in her presence a little while.”

“I should have known.” I gripped the album cover with fingers trembling with anger and disappointment. “All that display of affection…you’re only using her to make you feel better.”

“No, Anora.” My mother came over and grabbed my arm with an earnestness that surprised me. “It’s not like that. I—I want the ghosts keeping us apart to die. Don’t you?”

I wanted it so much it hurt. I grimaced but nodded.

“Cammie took one look at this house and asked if it was haunted.”

My mother snorted. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

“Exactly what I thought.” I returned the album cover to its resting place.

Resting place.

The term troubled my mind. Can the spirit of anyone who dies the way my aunt died ever rest?

The question went unanswered, interrupted by my daughter’s screams.

*~*~*

Website: www.annamtaylor.webs.com
Facebook: @annamtaylorAuthor

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