The comments for the ELF dances - 2008

The CLASSIC:

At 5:15 PM, Lisa J said...

What style and panache......

At 7:27 PM, Peggy_Tupaz said...

Hi Denyse, I loved it, It really made me giggle and smile. It was so hilarious.
Thank you, it cheered me up.

Saluti e baci xx
Peggy

At 8:29 PM, Shiela said...

That was just what I needed today, Denyse. Thanks a bunch!

Oh, and the two of your really have some awesome moves. LOL

At 10:52 AM, Annette said...

Nice footwork! Dancing with the Stars might be in your near future!

At 2:35 PM, Anonymous said...

Oh dear...you two are a little scary you know.......LOL!!!!Lisa xx

At 7:31 PM, Anonymous said...

Very jazzy Denyse. Hilarious but enjoyable as well.Love Peggy

The CHARLESTON:

At 3:57 PM, Lisa J said...

Scary thing is, I can actualy see you two doing this.......LOL!!!Lisa xx

At 4:28 PM, Judith Leger said...

Too funny! Neat too!

At 8:28 PM, Annette said...

yep..dancing with the stars is definitely next!

The DISCO:

At 7:21 PM, Anonymous said...

Can't beat this. So good and entertaining to watch. Cheers, Peggy

At 3:54 PM, Shiela Stewart said...

This one is my favorite only because I am an avid Saturday Night Fan and I LOVE the Bee Gees. LOL

COUNTRY:

At 2:32 PM, Anonymous said...

Watch what you're doing with that pitch fork pet - you do someone a mischief with that........LOL!!!!

At 7:28 PM, Anonymous said...

So acrobatic with a pitch fork as well. WOW!It was enjoyable, nevertheless. Good one Denyse!Love Peggy

New Review!!

Dec 7, 2008:

Blood Wine and Pale Roses

Review by Kersyn

Rating: 5 Stars

For being a short read may I just say WOW! The amount of passion and description in this story rocked my world. I especially enjoyed the visualization that Denyse writes with. The passion for her work as well as the passion between her characters is vibrantly vivid....

To read more, visit Bitten By Books

Guest: D. BARKLEY BRIGGS

Author’s Bio:

D. Barkley Briggs has worked in radio, marketing and new product development. He also pastored for 11 years. After losing his wife of 16 years, Briggs decided an epic fantasy might inspire his four boys to live courageously through their loss. The Book of Names is the first in a series of adventures set in the Hidden Lands of Karac Tor. Briggs has since remarried and now has eight children. Learn more at http://www.hiddenlands.net/

Link to book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Book-Names-D-Barkley-Briggs/dp/160006227X

Short synopsis:

It was supposed to be a routine Thanksgiving break. But when Hadyn and Ewan Barlow discover an ancient Viking runestone buried on their family farm, they unwittingly open a magical portal to another world. Fleeing grief and broken dreams over the loss of their mother, the two brothers find themselves hailed as Champions in the Kingdom of Karac Tor. But all is not well. Nemesia the witch is releasing shadows over the whole land. Names are being stolen from The Book of Names, the most sacred relic of the kingdom. Before long, the Barlows realize they must find the courage to fight, or they will never find their way home. There’s just one problem: even if they win, will anyone know how to send them back?


Book excerpt here:

(By now, the chilling truth has sunk in: Hadyn and Ewan are in a strange, new world. It’s not a dream. As they journey toward the capital city of Stratamore, hoping to find someone who can send them back home to Missouri, they are attacked by an angry mob of birds and five drone-like teenagers who have been following them for unknown reasons. Accompanied by Sorge the Gray Monk, Asandra the mirling, and a grumpy, stouthearted gnome named Flogg, the brothers take temporary shelter in a small structure called The Stone House.)

Sorge glanced out the peephole cut into the wall, “The birds that attacked us are a Flight of Crows. Sorcery makes the birds fly swifter, with focus and greater rage. They even seem to multiply. It’s Nemesia’s doing, I’m sure. Ewan, lock the door. Everyone else up against the east wall. Stay flat and still.”

Scooting on all fours, Ewan found the latch and slid the bolt. They all pressed against the stone wall, though Flogg seemed more irritated than afraid. Outside, amidst scattered, low voices, a sound drew near. Feet crunching on pebbles.

Memory jarred Ewan. “Sorge, the hole you made!” he hissed.

Quickly, Sorge smeared the rock face with his fingers. The surface sealed under his touch as if made of paste. At the wall, he drew himself to his full height, staff in hand. Pacing feet now ringed the Stone House. Only the four walls stood between the hunters and the hunted.

The five outside circled the Stone House with slow, deliberate movements—once in full, then twice. The light sound of flapping wings returned. Claws scratched against the thatched roof. Squawking. On the third circuit, something like fingernails began scraping the rock wall. Inside, the air strangely thickened, so that Ewan found it hard to breathe. A strange heaviness began oozing under his threshold of conscious thought, like smoke slipping under a door, making it difficult to think clearly. He fought it, trying to focus on a spot on the far wall. Beside him, Haydn leaned hard against the stone, as if using it to hold himself up. Matted blood was stuck in his brother’s hair, smeared on his face. His ragged breath strangely comforted Ewan, to know he felt it, too. They were both fighting the same thing.

Though Sorge had counted five, only one voice arose from the artificial calm. It was creepy and directionless, drifting like a leaf in the wind, leeching through the stone, shiftless and flat.

“Who travels...so far?” the voice said. It was male, not old. He sounded neither curious nor fearful, stringing words together like pearls on an open loop before letting them tumble thoughtlessly to the ground, unclaimed. Other voices rose faintly in response, moaning like wind on a barren plain. “Who journeys...through...the skies to the home...of despair?”

More soft strides on padded feet. More scraping. More bird noises. Strangely, none of them even attempted to peer through the high windows. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps this was all some bad dream, or a very bad joke.

When a hard fist suddenly rattled the wood planks, Ewan jumped. So much for that theory. Sorge reached out to his left and right, placing a steady hand on the shoulders of both boys. He put a finger to his lips to focus their thoughts. Shhh...

Another thump, this time harder, as if one of the people outside had taken a heavy stone from the pond, and was trying to smash the door apart.

“Who crosses the hidden...barrier...”

The door rattled again, a bone-jarring sound. Thwack!

“...to trouble holy men?”

Thwack! By now, the birds had gone wild, dancing and squawking, flapping and pecking.

“Plans come to nothing. Yours...ours. Nothing. The world will...come to nothing. Hide and prove us true. Emerge and join us. Fight and be consumed. We are...the Name—”

Thwack! Another blow and the door would surely shatter. Ewan found himself straining to concentrate. The what? What had he called them? The last word had drowned in the clatter, but Ewan thought he heard it: the Nameless. The boy’s voice had an gooey, sticky quality. The words formed questions, yet at the same time seemed passionless to any answer that might be given. Ewan’s head spun. The voice in his head felt foreign on the one hand, yet it entered his brain with a sense of relief, leaving a residue of thought he could not wipe away. He shook his head angrily, saw Hadyn making a similar gesture. Ewan wanted to scream, to force it out of his head. The same young man kept droning on:

“Do not think proudly, outlanders. You have come for no great purpose. Let me show you the beginning...of the way of peace: Nothing matters.”

The other voices joined in, creating a soft, uneven chant: “Nothing. Matters. Nothing.”

It seemed to crescendo. Ewan braced for the door to splinter. Wings flapped wildly. Sorge’s knuckles were white on his staff. Asandra’s face glistened in the half light.

“Nothing matters...”

Then, simply nothing. They were gone, the sound of their feet trailing away to the south, lost amongst the whispering grass and the generous curves of dimpled land; lost in the slow circles forming on the water where silver perch topped the pond, gulping for mosquitoes. Birds and voices alike—gone.

Hadyn sank to his knees. In the warmish light, his face was pale. “We shouldn’t have come, Ewan. We should be home right now, with Dad. Not here, wherever this is. I’m so sorry.”

Ewan struggled to catch his breath. He felt the same. But home was a long, long way away...

Douglas Carlton Abrams

Don't forget to visit the fabulous website for this special book, too. I'm reading it now, and it's absolutely magical!!!

The Lost Diary of Don Juan

Bravery

Royal Consort - an excerpt...

Today has started off strange in some ways, I’ve just been offered a contract with a new publisher for me, and even the genre is a bit different for me. I’ve taken traditional adventure fantasy, the kind of quest-type thing that was born with LOTR or The Sword of Shannara books, and tossed in romance and a touch of the erotic… As a mixed genre it sounds pretty wild, doesn’t it? The story is called Royal Consort and you’ll hear more about it in coming months once I have it on my website.

One of the great joys of ePublishing is the opportunity to walk outside the traditional realms of fiction, to mix it up a little, and see what falls onto the page. In this case, a bit of sorcery, swords, epic quest, sibling rivalry, a handsome prince, and a magical world in jeopardy. How’s it sounding to you so far?

Here’s a peek at the tale, so please do let me know if you think this is a thing that will work, or just one of those weird things that should have been left alone????

ROYAL CONSORT - an excerpt:

Rienn nodded. When his hands on her waist moved her, she shivered as he slipped free of her body. “I’ll order a bath and some food,” he told her.

She grabbed his wrist and shook her head. “Later. I want you to hold me.”

Rienn stretched out and pulled her down to him, spooning her body to his when he pressed her back to his chest.

It seemed they’d only slept for minutes when the huge doors of the Prince’s chambers were flung open and the spacious room was invaded by numerous men, all bearing swords.

“Rienn.”

The word was a warning, and Sherindal slithered from the bed as soon as he released her. She scooped up her sword as she rolled, oblivious to her nakedness as she whirled to face the first rush of the attack. Somewhere through the early morning hours since they’d made love, Rienn had thought to retrieve his breeches, she noted from the corner of her eye. He had managed to gain his weapon as well, and they fought, back to back.

Sherindal hissed in fury and pain when the second of the men who engaged her slipped past her defense and inflicted a wound near her waist. It was a surface injury and she quickly rewarded him by slicing off his sword hand. Howling in agony, he toppled back, then fled as he recovered his footing several feet away from her.

Rienn had killed two men and was about to run through the third when Sherindal’s voice filled the room and the sword she wielded, called Huntor, rose with her song. The attackers froze momentarily, those two who remained, and she smiled with grim pleasure as the weapon cut them down, then drifted back to her outstretched hand, coming to rest in her grasp with near peaceful ease.

“Your blood-thirsty weapon has been sated nicely this morning,” Rienn observed with a tense glance at the gleaming blade.

“Who are they?” she asked, her tone as cold as her emerald eyes when she met his gaze.

“Why would you assume I know?” he retorted instantly. “This is hardly what I would consider an invigorating start to the day!”

“Really?” She smiled without humor. “It is one of the more interesting diversions you might have provided, Rienn.” Her laughter was faintly mocking, and not a little bit ironic.

Rienn’s handsome features suffused with rage and he reached for her, gripped her bare arm with fingers that dug into her flesh like steel bands.

“You evil bitch,” he whispered darkly.

Sherindal smiled, and this time it was genuine. She nodded, kissed his chin, the closest she could get to his mouth from her severely disadvantaged height, then she gasped as a fiery lance of pain reminded her of the slash near her left hip.

“Enough, Rienn,” she capitulated.

He released her, scooped her into his arms, and placed her in the centre of the feathered mattress of his bed. He looked closely at the injury, yanked the bell pull near the bed, and then went to the heavy wardrobe at the far end of the chamber.

His guards were rushing along the corridor when he returned to the bed and helped Sherindal into one of his linen shirts. She bit her bottom lip against another stab of pain, and laughed in macabre amusement when she spotted the duo who entered the room.

“They look rested enough, my love,” she muttered, eyes chilly and contemptuous.

Rienn glared at her, then turned an even fiercer visage to the men who should have prevented the assault on his private rooms.

Guest Blogger: JOEL M. ANDRE

I'd like to welcome an exciting new guest to my Fantasy Pages this week, author Joel M. Andre. The book looks wonderful, and I'm sure you're going to love this amazing author....

Horror is so romantic. There is passion intertwined in the story line, and sensuality abounds. You probably are either thinking, freak, or dude has finally lost it. But maybe, you are that one person who is thinking, let’s see where this goes. Well, come hold my hand as I walk you through, the romantic realm of Horror.

I’m going to get rid of vampire’s right off the bat. Mostly, because I think they have become so cliché and have become mainstream and much humanized lately. Now vampires fall in love, walk in the light, and laugh at crosses.

Now Dracula wouldn’t have put up with any of that stuff in his day. He was dark and seductive, and although evil. You could sense the passion as he bit into Lucy Westenra, which opened her soul to her very own passionate emotions. The sensuality of the biting of the next, and in a sense transferring her soul to his, is a very romantic idea. He in turn brings her eternal life.

Next, we can take a quick look at Frankenstein. A tale often thought to be more along the lines of Childhood Innocence. When actually it is a tale of the passion to be loved and accepted. Through the book, the monster of Frankenstein is looking towards the purest form of love and acceptance from someone.

Another classic creature is The Mummy. After centuries of being dead and buried, he returns to a modern time, and falls smitten with the woman he believes was his queen. Through death and the after life, nothing made him forgets his beloved queen who he wants to reconnect with, and love again so desperately.

Then there is the ultimate tale of love, Beauty & the Beast. No, not the Disney tale, the original tale is one of corruption, and with a sadder and deeper ending. But the main theme remains true, a vile beast, and the most beautiful woman in the world butt heads, she finds him insincere and dark and sinister, until he releases her to her dying father for one week. She then is subject to the trickery of her sisters, resulting in the ultimate sacrifice, and finds she in turn loves a monster.

Horror remains to this day a very romantic and passionate genre. I urge you one of these days, and pull a classic off the shelf, and read it with an open mind. It will likely inspire you, and may even fall in love.

Visit Joel's website here: http://www.joelmandre.com/

GUEST: Jenny Gilliam

I'm very happy to have Jenny Gilliam back as my guest again. Her new book sounds just wonderful, and I think you're in for a treat with this terrific excerpt she's offered, so enjoy....

BLURB:

Roxy Palmer is a walking, breathing cliché. And darned tired of it. Working as the assistant librarian in her small, Southern home town, Roxy also anonymously pens the local love column, Ask Paula Rockwell—Thorton, Georgia's answer to Dear Abby.

But when the door leading to Roxy's lifetime dream is slammed in her face by one of the good ol' boys, Roxy brings out the big guns--and turns the genteel town upside down with her racier, feminist, home-wrecking new format.

Paula Rockwell is making Sheriff Noah Kennedy's life crazy. He's got angry husbands lined around the block, demanding the cancellation of the column, fights breaking out and women catching their boyfriends' trucks on fire. If he ever gets his hands on that woman…

But he's got his hands full of Roxy at the moment, and if he ever discovers the truth about Roxy, all hell will break loose.

EXCERPT:

In the course of one weekend, women had become the bane of Noah’s existence.

He was beyond pissed; he was downright fuming. Between Roxy and Mary Lou’s little excursion to Atlanta and his conversation with Joe this morning, he wanted to rip something, anything apart. With his goddamn bare hands. And teeth.

To compound matters, he had just gotten out of a meeting with Merle Granger, who wanted to know if Noah could do anything about The Gazette and the Paula Rockwell column. Never mind Bobbie Townsend had the First Amendment backing her civil liberties.

He had a nasty headache and a raging case of lust that a twelve-pack of beer and two hundred miles hadn’t been able to put a dent in. He couldn’t yell at Mary Lou, because one look at her face this morning had sent him back the way he’d come.

Well, he would damn well deal with one of them. Noah stormed through the glass doors of the library. His manners abandoned him, a testament to his state of mind, as he failed to remove his Stetson. He scanned the circulation desk for the librarian who was causing mutiny in his body and…heart—no, mind.

“Can I help you, Sheriff?” Alice Monroe asked.

“I’m looking for Roxy.”

“She’s re-shelving books in non-fiction.”

He didn’t have a clue where non-fiction was, but damned if he’d ask. In his current mood, he might unload on the head librarian and get himself banned, Sheriff or no.

It took him under a minute to find her. She stood at the end of the 800’s, a book in her hand, her eyes on the top shelf.

She wore one of those God-awful jumpers, and she had done something to her hair. It floated down her back in sable and crimson waves, and the sides were clipped back by some metal contraption. He felt a wave of unwelcome lust punch him square in the groin. He tried to focus on the shapeless dress she wore, but now he knew what she hid under it.

Soft, pink skin, gorgeous curves and one amazingly perfect ass.

His groin tightened again, irritating him further. He wasn’t supposed to have these feelings for Roxy. Damn it, he wanted things back the way they were. As if she had put some sort of spell on him, bewitching him with her sexy body, he charged forward, ready to give her hell. She’d caused this. If she hadn’t…What? Taken a shower in her own house? Hell, he was more pissed off at himself. For his reaction to her, and her lack of reaction to him. He’d never been in this place before. Women always chased him. All he’d ever had to do was sit back and wait to be caught.

It was unsettling to be the pursuer this time.

Roxy looked up as he approached, her lush mouth forming a little “O” of surprise. He swore she flushed just a little before looking back down at the cart of books she was shelving.

Satisfied he affected her on some level, he stalked toward her.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Really?” she asked. “Well, it’s a good thing you caught me then. I’m awful hard to track down.”

Noah narrowed his eyes. Was she making fun of him? He closed the distance between them, looking hard into her wide green eyes. “You’re damned lucky I’m the law ‘round here, Roxanne.”

In a purely female move, she tilted her head back and fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, Sheriff, I had no idea.”

With frustration and lust dueling inside him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her body flush against him. Her soft, heavy breasts pushed against his chest, and he went from semi to full salute instantly. “I ought to haul your ass into lockup to teach you a lesson.”

All teasing fled. The shallow breaths she dragged into her lungs, and the flush that worked up her pretty neck were all Roxy. Unable to control himself, he pushed her against the metal bookshelf, widening his thighs to cradle hers.

“Noah,” she whispered.

She’d have to be dead from the waist down not feel how she affected him. While the rational part of his brain screamed This is Roxy!, the wild beast straining to break free looked down into her face, into eyes gone emerald with lust, and smiled.

This is Roxy.

Want more? Buy THE TRUTH ABOUT ROXY at http://www.thewildrosepress.com/

BIO: Jenny began writing at the age of twelve, when she realized the voices talking in her head were characters, not a result of pre-teen induced psychosis. She’s been writing on and off for almost twenty years, but actively pursuing publication for the last three. She lives in Oregon with her husband and two children. She is the author of four novels. Jenny loves to hear from her readers.

You can visit her at http://www.jennygilliam.com/

A Special Bond...

© Vincenzo Chiofalo

A Special Bond

You are the shadow waiting on the edge of my awareness. A sweet angel who watches, part of me always, like the air that I breathe.

We share a special bond, you and I, one that is stronger than any friendship or simple love. We are tied together by the past and the promise of tomorrow, and though we are not together, we are never really apart.

To the heart that loves like this, a week can be an eternity and a lifetime will never be long enough… Those who love from their souls understand this in a way others can never see, but it is an eternal truth. A bond that can never be broken.

© 2008 Denysé Bridger

GUEST: Douglas Carlton Abrams

WINNER of a copy of Douglas Carlton Abrams' beautiful book is LAURIE D. Thanks to everyone who visited!!

When I was asked to host author Douglas Carlton Abrams on his "virtual book tour" I'd honestly never heard of this book. When I visited the stunning website he's created for it, I was enchanted, and have since spent a lot of time exploring all the wonderful things that are there to be experienced. It's worth a visit, so DO go and discover the magic of this special book, and the equally special author! Just click on the book cover, and you'll soon discover another world. We will also be giving away a copy of this amazing book in a few days, too, so please leave a comment for us, and check back!! You may be the one lucky enough to win a copy of this beautiful book!! Now, my guest: Douglas Carlton Abrams

Was Don Juan truly nothing more than a rapist and a villain? You would certainly think so, judging by how he has been portrayed over the centuries.

From his inception, Don Juan has been depicted as a libidinous scoundrel, capable of rape, misogyny, and even murder. When Tirso de Molina first created the character of Don Juan in the early seventeenth century, he did so as a warning against the dangers of rampant male sexuality and the galanteadores, who were seducing the women of the time. Later, in Mozart and Da Ponte’s opera Don Giovanni, Don Juan rapes a woman and kills her father almost before the curtain even rises.

But would Don Juan have been capable of feeling and doing much more? Male desire can be villainous and overpowering, but it is also multi-dimensional, ranging anywhere from heroic passion to caring tenderness. Any man long rumored to be the world’s greatest lover would certainly have understood these subtler aspects of desire, as well as the unspoken needs of the women he loved.

It is this side of Don Juan’s story that motivated me to write The Lost Diary of Don Juan. I wanted to explore the true nature of love and passion by creating a more complex Don Juan than the one we usually meet. His previous incarnations in plays, novels, and films have only allowed us to see the man from a distance, and we have judged him accordingly. Reading about his life in the form of an historical diary set in Golden Age Sevilla lets us go further into the body, mind, and heart of the man himself. What we find there is far more than an indifferent playboy, but rather a man for whom romance was elevated into an art form, a Casanova with a calling.

This is a Don Juan worthy of far more than mere lust and villainy, a man capable of forming deep and complex relationships with women. This 16th century Don Juan is worth recovering for the 21st century, if only to provide balance in a culture that all too often forgets the true complexity and mystery of desire.

Website: http://www.lostdiaryofdonjuan.com/

New Release!

Available TODAY!

Blood Wine and Pale Roses
From: The Wild Rose Press
Erotic Vampire Romance

SALE PRICE, too!!

Eden Colbourne has spent most of her life pursuing dreams that never quite came true. Running from yet another failed relationship, she seeks solace in the familiar surroundings of England's countryside, and her art. Drawn to the remnants of the abbey, she spends her days sketching the face of a man she believes is a ghost haunting both the abbey and her heart. The reality is even more disturbing...

When Sean Rourke finally reveals himself to her, Eden discovers the ghost is a creature of myth and dark dreams. Turned into a vampire by the man for whom his wife betrayed him, Sean is tormented and lonely, and more afraid of Eden's power to make him love than she is of his nocturnal curse. It isn't until the ancient vampire who made him returns to claim Eden that Sean is forced to decide once and for all if he can let go of the shade of his wife, and permit love to heal what remains of his humanity...

Guest Blogger: DONNA HATCH

Today, my special guest is Regency author Donna Hatch. The book sounds fabulous, doesn't it? Welcome Donna, and thank you for being her today...

Do you long to dance with Mr. Darcy or flirt with Mr. Ferrar? Do you fantasize of regency bad boys like rakes, highwaymen, and pirates? Do you swoon at the sight of a man on horseback or engaging in a duel?

Welcome to the magical and mysterious Regency world where men were civilized and cultured, educated in dance, art and literature, and yet engaged in manly pursuits like hunting, fencing and the steeplechase. Imagine yourself in the glittering world of dukes and duchesses, libertines and lovers. Wear beautiful gowns, waltz with a viscount, outwit a killer, and fall in love.

Announcing a debut novel by award-winning author Donna Hatch - The Stranger She Married, a sweet, yet sensual regency romance with adventure, intrigue, a love triangle, and a terrible secret.

Torn between a disfigured war hero with the heart of a poet, and a handsome libertine who may not be all he seems, impoverished Alicia must marry by the end of the month. Despite a murder threat looming over her, learning to love the stranger she married may pose the greatest danger of all … to her heart.

Order on line at http://www.thewildrosepress.com/. Look for me on the new release list, or on the English Tea Rose Line.

Guest Blog: J.L. MILES

Today it is my pleasure to have Jackie (J.L.) Miles as my special guest. The book she's talking about, Cold Rock River, is an amazing read, believe me! And, we'll be giving away a copy of this book, hardcover, on WEDNESDAY, October 8th, so do check back for your chance to win, okay? Now, over to Jackie....

BEST-SELLER BLUES


I started my writing career when our children left home and my husband insisted they weren’t coming back unless they needed money. Previously, I wanted to be a movie star, but when the mirror confirmed that my theatrical-clock had not only stopped ticking, it was at the cemetery, I thought writing might be a better choice. While at the dentist waiting on a root canal—never make career decisions while waiting on a man with a knitting needle who intends to stab you in the mouth with it—I picked up a tattered paperback entitled The Writer's Little Instruction Book.

Spooky! I was merely contemplating the idea of becoming a N.Y. Times bestselling author and the perfect manual appeared. Surely God, his angels, and all the saints were trying to tell me something, right? I didn’t consider that maybe the devil and his deceivers were having a good laugh. The book listed 365 (give or take) secrets for writing and getting published. Perfect! It was an omen. In 365 days I’d be on the bestsellers list. I simply needed to master one little ol’ secret a day. The first one I came across was the key to a successful story. It was threefold: 1. Get your protagonist up a tree. 2. Put a tiger under the tree. 3. Get your protagonist out of the tree.

Elementary! I was on my way and about to discover secret #2, when the receptionist called my name. It was time for my root canal. Piece of cake—I was on a mission to greatness. Not even that flashing knitting needle held high in Dr.I-Forget-his-name’s hand would stop me now. Four injections (the first three didn’t take), and two hours later I drove home not the least bit interested in the N. Y. Times, its bestsellers list, or who was on it.

Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee. However—don’t you hate that word?—I forgot about one character defect I’ve struggled with most of my life: I’m a world class procrastinator. If they ever give out Pulitzer’s on the subject, I’ll be a major contender. Not to say I don’t get things done. I do. But I tend to do them one minute before time’s up.

Procrastination is not a good attribute for an author. All the best books on writing (there are slews of good ones; here are my favorites: Anne Lamott, Elizabeth Berg, Julie Cameron, Stephen King—and Walter Mosely's brand new contribution), state clearly that writers are to place themselves before the computer (or notepad, or typewriter) at precisely the same time each day for precisely the same amount of pre-determined hours each day (weekends and holiday included), in order to not only hone one’s craft, but to complete the manuscript at hand. Ahhh. . .that might be a problem.

The moment I get out of bed, I tend to explore the world around me and assess the damages, making a list as I go. Stupid little things like, I forgot to do the laundry, again and there’s no clean underwear, the milk’s sour, there’s nothing to eat but cat food, the garbage hasn’t been dragged to the curb in a month, and the refrigerator filter hasn’t been changed since we invaded Iraq. The list grows as I walk from room to room. Are those fur balls under the dining room table really having grandchildren? Can’t be, last week they were barely parents. I climb under to investigate. I meander from room to room, procrastination taking over the morning. I get out the phone book. Surely there’s an organization that can assist me. There has to be. I’m on the verge of being a bestselling author! I need recovery.

The yellow page lists Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, Cheaters Anonymous, Kleptomaniacs Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous. There are groups for Obsessive Compulsion Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, and Bi-Polar Disorder, but absolutely no procrastinators support group. There must be an organization meeting somewhere. Actually a helpline would be my choice. A number I could call the moment I find no underwear I’m willing to wear or encounter a chore I’m tempted to do—featuring a commanding voice like my mothers that will instruct me to immediately march over to my computer and bolt myself to the chair for a minimum of three hours, and call her in the morning.

I look through the entire collection of yellow pages I’ve amassed, as well as the local newspaper’s classified ads and find nothing to assist me. Obviously, I’m one of a mere handful of major procrastinators in existence. There are simply not enough of us to require a network of supporters. Yikes! I’m on my own. I search the room for answers and spot my computer. It’s waiting, perfectly able to do my bidding. And I only have 364 more secrets to master. Glory be—I’m ready to discover them!

I dash to the computer, sit down triumphantly, and put my hands on the keys. At last! I’m ready to write the great American novel. However—the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s waiting on me. “Did you forget you need to take me to the dentist?” Ahhh. . .yeh, I did, but I don’t tell her. “I’m on my way!” I say instead. I get up from my computer and grab my car keys.

Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee.


J. L. (Jackie Lee) Miles is the author of Cold Rock River, the critically acclaimed Roseflower Creek, and the soon to be released Dwayne Series. Divorcing Dwayne debuts April 2008. Dear Dwayne & Dating Dwayne to follow.

Write to Jackie at jackie@jlmiles.com
Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/

**WINNER** of the copy of COLD ROCK RIVER is Lainey Bancroft.

The heart that makes us whole....

Sometimes, the heart that makes us complete is very far away.... So many people have seen the beauty of our words, the adoration that I can't contain, and the warmth and passion that seems to be part of every contact we make.... This lovely image was created by a special friend, a lady who sees magic when she looks at these two people and believes in the romance.... Thanks, Catt. For this, and so much more....

AS FATE DECREES - new review

I was very excited to find this posted! The reviews for this book have been consistently so good that it amazes and humbles me....

FOUR stars: Really good historical story, September 3, 2008
By Paul Lappen (Manchester, CT USA) - See all my reviews

In Ancient Greece, a woman named Amarantha finds herself as the next item up for sale in the Athens slave market. She is bought by a mysterious stranger who refuses to identify himself. He trains her as a warrior, and makes it clear to Amarantha that disobedience is a really bad idea. After her skills have been perfected, the stranger reveals himself as Ares, the god of war, and son of Zeus. She has been trained to be Champion of the gods of Olympus, to vanquish evil forever, until the gods say otherwise.

Sent into the world as a kind of traveling warrior, Amarantha runs into Iphicles, now King of Corinth. The two were very good friends, almost lovers, when they were younger. She stays for a while as one of his advisors, to the whispers of nearly everyone that their relationship is not exactly platonic.

While in another city also ruled by Iphicles that has been badly damaged by bandits, Ares tells Amarantha that Iphicles must return to Corinth, now. She can't tell Iphicles how she knows this, but when he finally listens to her and returns to Corinth, with Amarantha as part of the procession, the city has been decimated. There are many deaths, including Iphicles' queen.

Switching suddenly to present day Athens, Amarantha finds herself in the body of archaeologist Alexandra Christophi. This is not the first time that Ares has sent her elsewhere in time. This time, the enemy is a shadowy terrorist organization that has been bombing religious sites all over the world, including Macchu Picchu, the Vatican and all the religious sites in Athens. The object is to destroy all other gods and bring about the coming of The One True God. The gods of Olympus understand that their fate hangs in the balance. In the final battle, Amarantha/Alexandra is severely injured. Will the gods grant her the peace she seeks?

Here is a first-rate piece of writing. It's very readable, the characters are well done, and it is an interesting look inside Greek mythology. This gets two thumbs up.