Greetings! Through January, the Fortytude series will be on tour with Goddess Fish Promotions, so I will be sharing links to various blogs who have been gracious enough to host me. Today I'm featured on author Christine Young's site with a brief interview. I'd love it if you came by and said hello on her blog. :)

Everyone has varying comfort levels when it comes to sex scenes in novels. There are two main reasons I steer clear of explicit sex in my stories. One, I'm a middle school teacher who uses her real name on her books, so writing descriptive sex would likely be problematic. Even without the graphic sex, I still try to keep the fact that I'm an author from my students. Not that any of them would have interest in reading the stuff I write, but if one or two of them did, it would just be... weird. Two, I write chick lit/romcoms, and to me steamy sex kind of seems out of place in that genre. However, I'm sure there are authors who pull it off quite successfully.

That being said, I do like to include at least one romantic/sexy/amusing scene between my hero and heroine, and you know what? It's really hard to do without getting explicit, and sometimes it's tempting to go there. But as much as I like to keep a light, whimsical tone when I write, I'm still a romantic at heart. I LOVE to read and write about the build-up that leads to the hot sex.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy a well-written steamy read as much as the next girl. Which by the way, I recently read Lindy Dale's Seven Days, and all I have to say is hooooooooeeeeey! You better have a bucket of ice water on hand if you choose to indulge in that one.

Now what was I saying? Oh yes. Romantic at heart. Build-up to steam. Difficult to convey.

Maybe it comes easy for other writers, but not for me. The reason being is that sexy, romantic scenes involve talking about eyes a lot. And hands. And fingertips. Then back to the eyes. Throw in a collarbone and neck. Lips. Mouths (essentially recycling the word lips). Then we're back to the eyes again. Are you catching my drift? There are only so many romantic gestures one can come up with without repeating yourself, and if you want to make the scene as lengthy and satisfying for the reader as possible, you start running out of ways to show interactions that we take for granted when watching films.

In movies and TV it's easier because we can just watch the dreamy couple share that romantic dance for a full minute or two without hearing the narration. "He looked deeply into her eyes and brushed her cheek with his thumb. She lowered her gaze before looking into his eyes again." Blah, blah, blah...

I will always remember when I wrote my first book, which I never published because—just no. I asked my closest friend to read and comment on it. She is an amazing writer, by the way. Anyhow, I wasn't aware of how often I used the generic phrases he looked at her... she looked at him, etc. To this day, I distinctly remember her comment in the margin which said something to the effect, "Geez. There's a whole lotta lookin' goin' on," with a little smiley face next to it. Remember, Michelle? Heh heh. I was like, "Oh my gosh! All they do is look at each other!"

I've spent the last couple of days working on my one romantic/sexy/amusing scene in my work in progress, and I'm praying that readers will find it romantic/sexy/amusing. Not "OMG! This scene just goes on and on and repeats the same crap over and over. And then I get to the end of it, and there's no graphic sex? WTF?"

Only time will tell.

As usual, I got a little sidetracked from my opening and I'm wondering what level of sexual detail others prefer in their novels. I was quite surprised when one of the reviewers for Menopause to Matrimony said the sex scenes made her extremely uncomfortable. She had agreed to review it for me and was kind enough to finish the book despite the fact that it made her uneasy, but I was taken off guard because to me, the sex in my books—what little there is of it—is pretty vanilla.

So I guess like anything else, it's all a matter of perspective. :)

UPDATE: Here's the link to a guest post I wrote from a couple years ago on a similar topic, if you'd like to have a look-see.

Thanks for reading! To return to the FICTION WRITERS BLOG HOP on Julie Valerie’s Book Blog, click here: http://www.julievalerie.com/fiction-writers-blog-hop-aug-2015

I apologize in advance for having no clear focus to this post. I guess I just want this to be kind of a fun/tribute/reflection kind of rambling. How's that sound for a heads up?

I'm currently working on the third book in the Fortytude series. What is the Fortytude series, you ask? Good question, because up until a couple of weeks ago, the series had no name. It was only when I scheduled a blog tour for Vegas to Varanasi and Menopause to Matrimony, and the tour coordinator asked me the name of the series, that I decided I should probably come up with one. So Fortytude it is.

Anyhoo, in this third book, which will be titled Harmony to Heartburn, there will be quite a bit of Anna's father. As some of you may know, I like to envision certain celebrities for my characters so I have a better feel for their personalities, appearance, and/or mannerisms. Right around the period I began creating Anna's father was the awful time that Robin Williams died, bringing him to the forefront of my mind.

His death hit me really hard, and it made me realize how much I've always adored him. It seems I don't realize my love for a public figure until they're taken from us, and it takes me by surprise. I remember it was the same when Princess Diana died. Of course I loved and admired her, as many did, however when she died I was surprised to find myself crying for days! I never knew it was in me.

John Ritter was another one. John Ritter? What the hell? I never gave John Ritter a second thought, but I remember exactly where I was when I saw it on TV, and I immediately started crying--not for days like Princess Diana, but still.

Michael Jackson. Ugh! I was heartbroken when he left us. Just devastated. That one didn't really surprise me though. There were definitely a few days of boo-hooing over him, and to this day I can still get a little misty when I think on the fact that he's gone.

Obviously, I don't do this every time a celebrity dies. We lose celebrities every day, but I find it odd when a death hits me particularly hard. Which brings me back to Robin Williams. Not only do I feel his death was a tremendous loss because of his humor and compassion, but it was especially tragic that he spent his life bringing so much joy and laughter to others, while inside he was a tortured soul. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.

I always thought his blue eyes were so full of playfulness and kindness, but after he died, I remember others saying they felt his eyes often hinted a deep sadness. I never saw it. I was in complete shock to learn he'd taken his life. I dearly hope he now has the peace he failed to find while he was still with us.

The reason I mention Robin is because he is who I modeled Anna's father after in Menopause to Matrimony. As I said earlier, I'm currently working on the third book, in which I've included a scene where Anna and her father, Everett, ride the Voodoo Zipline together here in Las Vegas. Everett's the adventurous one; Anna is terrified. 

Given that up until today I hadn't been on the ride, I figured I'd better check it out if I was going to have any idea what I was talking about. I have watched several YouTube videos of people riding, some quite hilarious I might add, but it's not the same as experiencing it firsthand when you have the opportunity to do so. And it's a good thing I did, otherwise I would have gotten a few of the details wrong.

I wasn't crazy about the idea of doing this, because with age I've become increasingly fearful of heights. Luckily it turns out it really wasn't all that bad. The anticipation was definitely the worst part. In fact, when the Rio Tower came into view as I was driving down the freeway, the butterflies started immediately as I contemplated the height of that building!

It wasn't so much the ride itself that scared me sh*tless--it was my irrational fears. Visions of the cable suddenly splitting and unraveling. Or a nearby helicopter malfunctioning, careening into our line and taking us with it. A faulty seatbelt disconnecting, dropping me and my daughter to our deaths. I know, I know... Been watching too many movies.

Anyway, I hope that my rather aimless post wasn't too bothersome. For now, I will leave you with the video footage I posted on Facebook of my daughter and I riding the zipline. If you're ever in Vegas, you should give it a go. If I can do it, you can! ;) 

Thanks for reading! To return to the FICTION WRITERS BLOG HOP on Julie Valerie’s Book Blog, click here: http://www.julievalerie.com/fiction-writers-blog-hop-july-2015

Bio: Bridget Sampson is the owner of Sampson Communication Consulting (SCC) and has been a lecturer in the Communication Studies department at California State University, Northridge for over twenty years. SCC is dedicated to developing and facilitating cutting-edge professional development programs for corporations and educational institutions. Their clients include Google, Mattel, and The Los Angeles Alliance for Children’s Rights. Bridget lives in Southern California with her husband, their two sons, two silly dogs, and a variety of other pets.

SCC Website: http://sampsoncommunicationconsulting.com

CSUN’s Communication Studies Lecturer Page: http://www.csun.edu/mike-curb-arts-media-communication/communication-studies/part-time-faculty-0

Aside from letting you in on book promotions, I don’t often use my blog to talk specifically about the writing or marketing process. In general, I usually just ramble on about life stuff. However, today I’m going to talk about writing. Actually, I'm going to talk about emotional attachment to your writing.

I have written four books and recently realized I’ve made consistent efforts to gain new readers for my last three, but I’ve pretty much ignored my first baby, and had to ask myself why. I’ve always reasoned that its genre is just too difficult to pinpoint, so who exactly is the market for my lonely little novella? Whenever you submit your book to a promotional site, you must provide its genre.

Believe is a story that deals with grief, spirituality, loss of faith, and forgiveness. I would say the strongest element is the spiritual aspect, but spirituality is often associated with religion. How many times have we heard someone say, “I consider myself spiritual, but not necessarily religious,” or something of that nature? If there wasn’t a close association between the two, why would someone feel the need to make such a statement?

So spiritual fiction and religious fiction are often lumped together, and the problem with that is many readers expect their religious fiction to follow very strict guidelines. Well, I’m telling you right now Believe has a few naughty words in it, so readers of religious fiction generally don’t appreciate that. I know because one reader said she was permanently removing the book from her Kindle because of the potty mouth language. (Okay, I’m making an assumption that she was expecting religious fiction—I don’t know that for a fact.) In any case, she was certainly entitled to those feelings.

But going back to genre placement, let’s scratch religious fiction, or even spiritual fiction because of its close association with religious fiction.

Then there’s women’s fiction or plain ol’ contemporary fiction, which I have used in the past for promotional purposes for lack of something more appropriate. However, contemporary fiction is so vague. And women’s fiction? It’s an okay choice for the story, but still not great.

By now you’re probably thinking, “Alright, enough already about the genres! We get it. You can’t figure out what your book is. Can we move on?”

So here’s the real truth about my reluctance about promoting this book. It has very little to do with the proper label and everything to do with its content and what it means to me. Every author has a certain amount of emotional attachment to each of her works, for varying reasons, but because this book was my way of working through the death of my daughter, I get very nervous about how it’s received by readers.

I’ll admit the writing wasn’t as polished as it hopefully is now. After all, it was my first work and as writers we all hope to improve our craft with each book. Not long after it was published, I ran a free promotion that resulted in several unfavorable reviews on Goodreads. After that, I was afraid to put it out there again.

All authors need to learn how to deal with negative feedback, especially first time authors, but because this book was so painfully personal, any criticism against the writing felt like invalidation—not only of my experience, but more importantly, my daughter’s. It’s quite ridiculous, really. It sounds like I’m saying the topic in and of itself should have exempted the book from judgment.

Subconsciously, that may have been what I thought, because as I went on to write my other books, I pretty much gave up on trying to put Believe in front of readers with any amount of oomph. I wanted people to read it, but at the same time I kinda didn’t. Low ratings and/or meh reviews of my other works weren't exactly fun, but they didn’t feel as personal. Not only do those stories have lighter themes, but with each book comes the acceptance that you won't please everyone.

I’m nearing the end of a three-day free run of Believe in which the number of downloads at the time of this writing is just over two thousand. And no, that doesn’t mean a whole lot because there are lots of people who download free books and never read them. Expecting fifty reads out of two thousand is being extremely optimistic. In any case, I do have a little bit of a sick feeling in my stomach, anticipating reader response. In a writing group I belong to, I once asked if anyone else still gets a little anxious when discovering a new review. A fellow author described it best when she said she does a little cringe with a one-eyed peek. Yep. Perfect depiction.

However, my skin has become a bit thicker since I first released Believe. There will inevitably be readers who won't like it, or it won't speak to them in any way, and that's okay. At the same time, occasionally that review comes in when it’s clear your reader just “got it.” They got exactly what it was you were trying to accomplish. 

And that, my friend, makes all the fear and apprehension worthwhile. :)



Thanks for reading! To return to the FICTION WRITERS BLOG HOP on Julie Valerie’s Book Blog, click here: http://www.julievalerie.com/fiction-writers-blog-hopapril-2015/

It's my pleasure to feature Tracie Banister's newest book, Twin Piques, in today's post. Her first two books, In Need of Therapy and Blame It On the Fame, have received many positive reviews from readers so I expect this will be a great read as well. 

Tracie loves her dogs and has often wondered what goes on in their furry little heads, which is what prompted her to create the character Willa, the pet psychic. I'm a dog person as well and have found myself wondering the same thing. In fact, my family and I make a habit of creating mini dialogues for our pups as they interact, or when they give us a certain look.

We recently got a 5-month-old pit bull puppy (Junebug) to keep our 4-year-old pit/greyhound (Frankie) company. At first, Frankie was excited about the new addition, but after a few days, the novelty wore off, and she went through a period of mourning the loss of being the center of attention. In this shot, I imagine her asking me, "Are you sure you really got this demon for me? I mean, look at her. She's a beast!" (Yes, Frankie is a priss. Junebug... is not.)

Frankie has since adjusted. I guess she finally realized little Junebug isn't going anywhere. (I use the term "little" lightly. Junebug's quite the chunk.)

Anyway, on to Twin Piques! I absolutely love the cover image. Congratulations on the new release, Tracie!

An avid reader and writer, Tracie Banister has been scribbling stories since she was a child, most of them featuring feisty heroines with complicated love lives like her favorite fictional protagonist Scarlett O'Hara. Her work was first seen on the stage of her elementary school, where her 4th grade class performed an original holiday play that she penned. (Like all good divas-in-the-making, she also starred in and tried to direct the production.)

Tracie’s dreams of authorial success were put on the backburner when she reached adulthood and discovered that she needed a "real" job in order to pay her bills. Her career as personal assistant to a local entrepreneur lasted for 12 years. When it ended, she decided to follow her bliss and dedicate herself to writing full-time. Twin Piques is her third Chick Lit release. The pet psychic character in this novel was inspired by Tracie’s rascally rescue dogs. She’d love to know what goes on in their heads!

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We all have dreams for our children, don’t we? Many of them we take for granted, until they sometimes dissolve.

These past several months have prompted some huge adjustments for me. You see, my son finished high school in June, ending a very successful run in which he completed four years of NJROTC and graduated with High Honors and a GPA of 4.4. He was even awarded a couple of scholarships.

Needless to say, I am extremely proud of him and had always assumed he would go on to earn his college degree. I never seriously considered that he wouldn’t. My son had often expressed that he wanted to join the military after he finished college, which I was totally fine with. He’d most likely enter as an officer, and would be less in harm’s way. Just get that degree first! That’s all I really cared about. Of course I didn’t want him to major in basket weaving, but so long as he studied something he was interested in that gave him a pretty good chance of earning a decent living, I was happy.

However, during his first couple of months of college, I was getting the warning signs. Signs that I pushed aside. The following comments often fell from my son’s mouth:

“College sucks.”

“Why am I doing the same exact thing I did in high school?”

“When am I ever going to use this stuff?”

“Why did I bother taking all those Honors and AP courses, just to be starting all over again?”

I understood his frustrations because I remember feeling the same way, and I tried to tell him those feelings were normal. And though I was also a high achiever in school and experienced a sense of academic burnout, his experience was still quite different than my own. He took far more rigorous courses than I did. I was in Honors classes throughout high school and graduated salutatorian, but I never took Anatomy, Honors Trig, AP Calculus, etc., like my son. My courses had more of a liberal arts emphasis, and by my senior year I’d met all my requirements so that I could basically enjoy a final year of fluff.

My extracurricular activities consisted of Yearbook and Theater, while my son’s spare time was spent taking part in NJROTC commitments such as community service, lengthy daily practices on the Armed Drill team, parades, competitions and the like, in addition to challenging coursework.

If I’m being completely honest, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised when my son informed me that he was quitting college and planned to enlist.  But oh! What a shot to the heart! Was my son, my high-achieving, made-for-college son, really quitting school? This could not be! No, no, no! My kids go to college!

I knew it was coming, as much as I wanted to deny it. And my son even admitted that the comments he’d been making over the prior months were meant to prepare me for his decision, but I still wasn’t prepared. In a world that’s gone crazy with major unrest ever since 9/11, my son has informed me he’s joining the military. After already having lost one child, my mind takes me to places I don’t want to go.

Yet, his unmistakable unhappiness since he started college was no good either. In the end, I would much rather he pursue his own dreams and be happy, than continue in a direction that's not for him, simply because it’s what his dad and I want.

Right around the time all of this came out, and I was mourning the loss of my dreams for my son, a parent who’s part of a Facebook group I belong to was mourning the loss of her young adult daughter to cancer.

It brought me back to when I lost my own daughter to the disease. She was only eight, but I remember for a long while pretending that she wasn’t really gone—just living somewhere else—happy. Living her life in another part of the world, but not gone.  

It made me realize how blessed I am that my son is still here. No, he may not be choosing the path that I had chosen for him. No, I won’t see him nearly as much as I do now, and after this holiday season, who knows when the next time will be that we’ll have another Christmas with him. But he’s still here, healthy and free to live his own dreams. I won’t have to pretend that he’s happy somewhere else. He really will be—God willing.

Given that he could be leaving as early as February, this Christmas is most precious to me, and I’m going to spoil that little brat as much as I can. I usually make a ham for Christmas because I’ve only made a turkey once in my entire life, but when my son asked if we could have turkey this year, of course I couldn’t say no. Send a few prayers my way that it won’t be gross.

I guess my message in all this is that, even when we think the hard part of parenting is over, it never truly is. These guys will continue to throw us for a loop, no matter how old. The best we can hope for is that we’ve prepared them to be successful no matter which path they choose. I’m confident my son has what it takes to succeed on whatever road he travels.

And with that, I wish you all a very happy and healthy holiday season with your loved ones. Peace!

Excerpt:



“I didn’t really have a relationship with her. She was someone I wanted, but she didn’t know how I felt until an hour ago.” Would she decide to kick him out of her apartment for either leading her on or being a complete ass?

She gripped the couch tightly and it collapsed beneath her hands. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her mouth twisted in anger. Here comes her emotional eruption. He braced himself.

“You put me through all of that for nothing?” She said it with so much control he wondered where she got it.

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” he reasoned.

“Wasn’t nothing? Do you know how many times I felt guilty because you had a girlfriend, or know how many nights I lay awake imagining I’d go to hell for the dirty thoughts I had about you in this apartment, inside and outside your car, even the examination table in your office?” She paced before him.

Jackson was speechless, and turned on, as he thought about everything she’d just mentioned. He remembered the night she kissed him in the car and wondered what would’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted, or if they’d been in a secluded area instead of outside her apartment.

“Hey!” she shouted, pulling him from his erotic thoughts of her spread out over the roof of his car.

“Stop that! You don’t get to have a fantasy in the middle of my rant. Got it?” Her index finger pointed at him.

He wanted to smile, but knew she’d probably knock his lights out if he did. “Please continue,” he said as politely and seriously as he could.

“Why couldn’t you be honest with me?” She ran a hand through her hair.

Honest about that? She couldn’t be serious? “Honest about wanting someone I hadn’t even told how I felt? I hardly knew you, Remy, and you wanted me to share something I’d kept secret for nearly two years?”

“Two years?” Her voice echoed in disbelief.

It sounded ridiculous to hear it out loud.

She must’ve thought so, too, because she laughed. It started as a light chuckle, but then escalated to full, out loud, boisterous laughter until it was so extreme she fell to the floor behind the couch.

He walked over to where she lay. “It’s not that funny,” he insisted.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and laughed harder.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this at my expense.” He extended a hand to help her up, but she waved it away as another fit of laughter overtook her. “You might not believe this, but I’m incredibly shy.”

She roared louder and gestured with her hand for him to stop talking.

He couldn’t blame her for laughing. He’d been anything but shy around her. She had a knack for bringing out emotions in him that were less than passive, with her audaciousness and that unfiltered mouth of hers.

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