“Here you are, wandering around the garden searching for Lily to protect her from the attentions of a lascivious lord.” He tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. “This part of the garden is dark and remote, and you’re alone. I can’t decide if you’re daring or merely foolish, for
When I emerged from my writer’s garret about a year ago, my ink-stained fingers shielding my eyes from the blinding sun, I was faced with the eternal writer’s question. My book is finished. Now what do I do? OK, so I don’t really have a garret, and my fingers weren’t ink-stained. Since I live in
“Off to bed at last, Delia?” Delia nearly jumped out of her skin. The low drawling voice seemed to come out of the darkness itself, but when she turned from the stairs there he was, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning causally against the wall next to his study door. He’d removed his coat,
Coming from Berkley in fall of 2015! Delia Somerset knows the ton has tittered over her family’s disgrace since her mother’s spectacular scandal decades earlier. Delia’s policy with aristocrats is avoid, evade, ignore—that is, until Lord Carlisle discovers she’s caught his younger brother’s roving eye and threatens to crush the gossip, and Delia, under his
Eskimos have over 50 different words to describe snow, give or take a word here and there depending on dialect. According to David Robson in the January 2014 edition of New Scientist, “. . . languages evolve to suit the ideas and needs most crucial to the lives of their speakers.” Today, while researching an
Have you ever noticed no one reads romance novels? It’s always, “Oh, I don’t read those books,” or “Those books are trashy,” and “They’re nothing but sex.” No one reads them, and yet the romance novel industry is, according to Romance Writers of America, a 1.43 million dollar a year industry. Someone, somewhere, is reading
She was determined to sever the connection between her brain and her mouth before any unpleasant truths could escape. After all, she didn’t need a brain to flirt, did she? His low chuckle brushed across her nerve endings like a stroke of velvet. “Yes. I have at times been flattered by young ladies,” he said.
A mere $25-35 fee is a small price to pay for thoughtful, courteous critique from seasoned (and often published) writers. That’s how it went in my head, anyway, before I attended RWA#14 and eavesdropped on enough conversations to discover there are some horror stories out there. From what I heard (or overhead), entering a writing