February 11th, 2009 - As you can see, I wrote this almost four years ago to the date. Tomorrow is my youngest son's birthday and I'm very proud of the man he's become. I think 'romance' had a little to do with his being around. *lol*
While I'm waiting for my vision to clear up, I figured it was a good time to share this again. Besides, isn't Valentine's day almost here, too?
Writing romance comes quite naturally for me. I write from my own perspective. The way I fantasize my hero would react to me, treat me, love me. Sadly, life isn’t always like fiction, but reading the romantic stories of passionate authors gives us pause to dream, smile, and be entertained.
I’ve had two loves in this life. My first marriage lasted thirty-two years and I’m working towards my thirteenth (now seventeenth) with my second husband. Neither one of them rode in on a white stallion and fought a dragon for my attention, but it doesn’t matter how your hero came to be part of my life…what matters is they are. My first ‘hero’ rode into my life in his 1962 Impala with side pipes that sounded like a jet engine. My second ‘hero’ rode into someone else’s life who didn’t have time for him. I met him at a single’s dance while he awaited the attention of the woman who invited him there. I liked what I saw, asked him to dance, and found the ‘matching shoe’ I’d been searching for. Her loss!
While my first husband used to look around at parties and gatherings, then whisper in my ear, "you’re the prettiest woman here," my present husband falls flat in the compliment department. He’s about as smooth-talking as sandpaper, but he SHOWS me his love by the sweet things he does. Sort of like writing styles. Some authors tell you their stories while others go to great pains to show you theirs. That’s what differentiates a story from a novel. If you feel the love, sense the butterfly kisses, and warm from the passion, then you’re reading a novel!
It’s taken me a while to glean all the ins and outs of fiction writing, and I learn something new every day. I think I’ve got the first kiss down pretty good. At least my friend says this is her favorite so far:
Excerpt from Ellie's Legacy – Setting the Scene: Ellie has been practicing her shooting on the sly, and Ty challenges her to a contest. She accepts, and although she loses the first round, she foolishly agrees to another. To her delight, she wins, and….
Ellie delighted in the dumbstruck look on his face. She’d matched him shot for shot. Maybe she’d taken a split second longer, but she’d knocked down all her cans. Wasn’t that what counted? What she set out to do?
Ty still hadn’t said a word. He kept staring at the log as if expecting his one remaining can to fall, or for one of hers to jump back up. Ellie couldn’t stand the silence, and containing her need to gloat got harder by the moment.
“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Her lips curved into a smug smile.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what to say. It looks as though your practicing has paid off. Good thing we didn’t really wager anything on it.”
She erupted into uncontrollable laughter. It couldn’t be helped. Her glee at proving she could shoot, and at this moment, better than him, was cause for celebration. She covered her mouth to stifle her levity. It seemed overly cruel to rub it in too much.
“And…just what would you have wagered?” Her curiosity piqued.
Without a word, Ty closed the distance between them, gathered her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. Her eyes widened, and a gasp of surprise parted her lips enough for his tongue to dart inside to mingle with her own. Shivers of delight coursed through her body, turning her knees to jelly. Her startled eyes slowly closed and she melted into his embrace. Just as she started to revel in the moment, he pulled away and held her at arm’s length.
“That’s what I would have wagered,” he said matter-of-factly. “Too bad I lost.”
With a grin, he turned and began gathering up the strewn cans and putting them back into his burlap sack.
Ellie's Legacy is available at http://www.amazon.com/author/gingersimpson.