I know I know. When we create a character, we need to give them a backbone. We make the heroes delicious and heroine’s booby. Right? The men have to be bad-asses with a weird soft spot for the heroine. The women are strong-willed and well—snippy.
Not for me. Sorry. I’ve said it before – I write characters that I’d like to hang out with. I want a hero that I know how to approach and I know will receive me with a grin and a cold beer in his hand. I want a heroine that answers the phone with a sympathetic ear when I call and she cries when she’s hurt.
Honestly, when I am reading a book and female lead is a bitch, I put the book down. I deal with too many of those people in the real world, why do I want to spend my make-believe time with them too?
But we’re supposed to make them feisty! That’s a thin line.
I’m thinking of Adrian Culpepper in my new release, Green Grass. Golly gee, she’s a sweet heart. Where I chose to put her metal is not in an abrasive personality, but in her strength to tough it out at all costs. Her life has been a series of tragedies, and yet she manages to stay optimistic and hopeful. She’s nobody’s fool. She’s not embarrassed by her poverty and certainly not too proud to go to the Laundromat and take free showers, even if it means the creepy owner gets to watch. Small price to pay for clean hair and a pulsating shower head.
Adrian might drive me crazy with her quirky comments and non sequiturs, but I love her to bits. And so does my hero, Kevin Shepherd. He’s a softy and a smart-ass, and delicious in his own right. And tough in all the right ways.
My other leading ladies? Jessy Tanner in Animals is a little lost in terms of her life’s direction. But when the chips are down and her back is against the wall (literally, in this case) she fights like a tiger. Jasmine Bly in Night Blooming Jasmine appears to be a character full of flaws. Until we begin to understand her strength to rise above a consuming heroin addiction and start a new life.
Yes, when I look at my character files, I see wonderfully flawed characters, and very few grumps and sourpusses. If you’d like to meet some really cool people, check out my books at www.gemjudson.com/My_Books.html
Thank you Ginger for having me! It’s a nice place ya got here! Comfy…I took my shoes off. Hope that’s ok.
In Australia the 1860/61 Land Act allowed free selection of crown land. This included land already occupied by the squatters, (wealthy ranchers), who had managed to circumvent the law for years. A similar scheme apparently operated in the US as well.
The Act allowed selectors (small farmers) access to the squatters’ land, and they could purchase between 40 and 320 acres, but after that, the authorities left them to fend for themselves. Not an easy task against the wealthy, often ruthless squatters who were incensed at what they thought was theft of their land.
The Act of Selection was intended to encourage closer settlement, based on intensive agriculture. Selectors often came into conflict with squatters, who already occupied land. The bitterness ran deep for many years, sometimes erupting into violence.
Steele Rudd (a pseudonym for Arthur Hoey Davis 14.11.1868 – 11.10.35), an Australian author wrote a story On Our Selection. He based it on his father’s experience as a selector struggling to make ends meet on a small parcel of land. It started out as just one chapter published in a magazine in December 1895 and eventually became the basis for Dad and Dave, a popular radio series which ran from 1932 – 1952.
Henry Lawson 1867 – 1922, was born on the gold fields of NSW. Many believed him to be the first poet to capture the Australian way of life. After a childhood ear infection, he was totally deaf by the age of 14, and he grew up to be bitter about his poverty and ill-fortune.
In 1888 he started publishing his stories and poems.
The Fire at Ross’ Farm, was a classic poem about selector versus the squatter.
Robert Black, the squatter’s son, loved Jenny Ross the selector’s daughter.
When Robert tells his father about the bushfire (wild fire) threatening the Ross farm, his father said, and I quote these couple of lines from Henry Lawson’s poem, which I feel epitomise the extent of the hatred and mistrust between the squatters and the selectors.
Then let it burn the squatter said, I’d like to see it done
I’d bless the fire if it would clear Selectors from my run (run is an old, no longer used, Aussie term for ranch).
Frontier Wife, my latest release from The Wild Rose Press, is set against this background.
The heroine’s uncle selected 80 acres for his farm on Adam Muno’s 40,000 acre property.
FRONTIER WIFE - BLURB
Tommy Lindsay arrives in colonial Australia to claim the rundown farm she and her brothers have inherited.
Hidden behind her fragile English rose beauty, beats the heart of a courageous young woman. She will need all this strength to survive the unforgiving heat, and the dangers lurking around every corner. Lost in the bush, capture by a feral mountain family, raging bushfires are nothing, compared to the danger she faces if she gives her heart to wealthy squatter, Adam Munro.
Adam has no room in his heart to love a woman. All he ever wanted was a presentable wife who would provide him with heirs. He didn’t need passion in his life, not until he met the beautiful English rose living next door to him.
Only in the new world can a highborn young Englishwoman and a tough frontier man, ignite the passion that will fulfill their hopes and dreams in ways they never imagined possible.
Note from Ginger: Although I consider all the people on my blog to be friends, Margaret and I have connected across the miles, and I consider her not only at the top of my friend's list, but she's a favorite author of mine. She's too shy to tell you that she's an award winning author, and has recently been named a finalist in the Readers Favorite Book Reviews and Award Contest. If you read one of her books, I bet you'll have to read them all. As a matter of fact ONE lucky commenter on Margaret's post will receive a free copy of Frontier Wife. Get to commenting!
Do we call it ‘Word of Mouth’ or ‘Word of Computer’?
Recently we bought a bigger camper. What to do with our current one?
“No problem,” my husband told me. “We’ll list it for sale on Craigslist.”
I’m sure many of people have had good experiences with this list, but I immediately got a chill and heard a hoarse whisper, “Craigssslissst.”
Without hesitation, my husband wrote his ad and uploaded the pictures of the RV with his special C.L. security code.
See they have security precautions. Not to worry. I told myself.
The first prospective buyer’s email showed up almost immediately. He wanted to exchange a Harley Davidson bike for the camper. Now, we’re talking about a four year old hybrid vehicle worth around seven thousand, hardly a match for this type of bike.
“We’re not really good at bartering, or riding Harleys,” my husband said as he read it to me.
I agreed. We were more the pedal type of bikers. So we waited for another buyer to turn up
We didn’t wait long. The next hopeful candidate offered to pay a thousand dollars more than the camper was worth. Wow, was this a philanthropist? Wait, before we counted our profits, there was one minor glitch. The buyer couldn’t afford to pay all at once. He’d give us a thousand dollars a month until they reached the golden number of 8,000. Hmm, camping season would be long over by the time the buyers paid us off. And, the email continued, we weren’t to worry about his state of bankruptcy; his lawyer would send us a letter vouching for his ability to pay.
This was strange. If you’re in debt should you be buying a recreational vehicle? It’s not like we were selling a huge, live in type. Before we had a chance for a third offer or to reconsider our two offers, my husband walked outside, chatted with our next door neighborhood and sold our RV.
“Sorry,” he wrote our applicants, “the camper is gone.”
So is it true that the old fashion type of communication is dead? What I think it really means is despite all the headlines and discussions, you can’t beat the old face to face conversations that we’ve had since Eve told Adam, “Try this apple. You’ll like it.”
Sirenbooks Review (Nikki reviewer) This book was written with witty humor and spine tingling suspense.
The Romance Studio (Theresa Joseph reviewer) The characters were so endearingly realistic.
An Author’s Life Every summer Romance Writers Of America holds its annual conference.This year the location had to be moved last minute when torrential rains and the rising river flooded Nashville’s Gaylord Opryland hotel. Orlando’s Disney Swan and Dolphin Resort provided a beautiful alternate venue for the July 27-31st event. Wednesday evening authors and readers gathered in the enormous hotel ballroom. I signed my latest print release novel, Soul In His Eyes, at the “Literacy for Life” multi-author event.
Nora Roberts and me
Five hundred authors from around the globe gathered donating the proceeds of book sales to organizations that promote literacy. Over sixty thousand dollars was raised in the span of the two-hour event.
Three days of intensive workshops moderated by the publishing world’s most well know authors, editors, publishers and literary agents ensued. On the final evening the Rita and Golden Heart award winners were announced. The Academy Awards of the Romance genre, black tie was the dress code; sit down dinner for two thousand. Spotlights, glitter and class marked the event of the year. Nora Roberts gave the keynote, admonishing those that bemoan the difficulties of the publishing world today. She reminded listeners that although the internet and computers have eliminated the author’s use of carbon paper, typewriter and ‘whiteout’, snail mail submission given way to instant email; it is still difficult to become published. It has never, nor ever will be easy. “Hard is what makes it special,” Nora said. So true. If you have never poured your heart into a creative work Nora’s comment may at first seem odd. In a society where everything instant and faster is prized, it might seem counterintuitive to think to work, to agonize over a book that requires an averge of six to twelve months of struggle to birth, could actually be sought after. Perhaps the malady that afflicts we authors should be listed in the DSM-V as authorittis psychosis. In what other aspired profession is there so much preparation, learning curve, long lonely hours and rejection? Ah..the bitter pill of being told time after time you are not good enough. All this with no remuneration. Months turn into years even after the “call” has been received. Perhaps one to two years longer post-contract before ‘your baby’ is released. And then months more before royalties are realized. “Hard makes it special.” Indeed. Most authors have a day job. We fit our writing between errands, while waiting in line, or after the kids are in bed. It is a hunger, a drive to create something from nothing; words to inspire, uplift, educate and entertain. Sometimes they are read by only a few. Some will stay forever in the drawer under the bed, relics of that learning curve and our love. But it is those few precious moments of which every author dreams. That unexpected email from a reader writing from somewhere across the world. Those simple words of gratitude. “You touched me.” “You changed my world.” “Your story made me laugh/cry…feel.” What a treasure. What joy. This double edged sword -- the gift of words. Reader to author is a symbiotic relationship that feeds the souls on both sides of the pen. There is no greater joy than creating a world eyes unkown can see and dream. Thank heavens we are crazy. Crazy hope, crazy dreams, crazy love. Hard makes it special.
How far would you go to protect you children in the face of disaster? How many rules would you break? Would you risk your life?
This is the scenario that Joslin and Grant find themselves in when a meteor smashes into earth just outside their city limits, unleashing an air born disease pandemic that threatens to infect everyone, everywhere. In the frigid Colorado winter, without electricity or running water, the family faces the biggest obstacle they’ve ever encountered: survival.
I sit awake in the solitude of my basement, next to the wavering light of our last candle. The windows have been boarded tightly shut, blocking any trace of light. The small fire is our only source of heat. My children are asleep several feet away; it’s comforting knowing they’re safe, for now. In the silence of the night it’s easy to reminisce about the life we lived, not-so-long ago.
Things changed so rapidly. It feels like an eternity that we’ve been barricaded inside our house. I close my eyes to welcome sleep, but visions of the past three months play in my head like a marathon of madness. I open my eyes and glance down at the journal in my lap. To me it means the world; it’s our story of survival. The notebook’s open, and I stare down at the blank page. The only writing is the heading at the top – Day 94. My heart aches as I wonder how many more entries I’ll be able to make.
As time passes and diseased “morphs” begin to roam the streets, the gravity of the situation finally sinks in. Joslin and Grant must risk their lives by going outside of their barricaded house to search for food, all the while avoiding morphs and the army patrols that are instructed to kill anyone outside of their home. The entire world is collapsing around them and the only sense of security comes from the fact that they are still together as a family.
Grant hurried to move the furniture away from the door. I knew what he was about to do, but I didn’t want to see any of it. Starvation drives normally gentle people to the brink of madness. I tried to talk him out of it, saying that the dog looked very dangerous. I don’t think he even heard me. I was thankful that we’d made the kids go downstairs, and they wouldn’t see was going to happen. Grant grabbed a shovel that was next to the door, and jetted outside.
He cautiously approached the dog, and that’s when I turned away. I heard several loud thuds, and that was it. I should’ve stuck to my instincts and avoided the window, but I had to know what was happening. As I glanced outside, I saw Grant using the shovel to decapitate the animal. He grabbed the remains by the back legs, and drug the carcass over to our house. It created a trail of blood straight to our back door.
I looked back to where its head lay in the snow. Grant looked like he was about to vomit. He picked up the dog and carried it to the garage, where he dumped it roughly onto the floor. He sprinted to the back door and threw up outside. Once he regained his composure, we talked about the blood path. We decided it was best to try and cover the tracks, so it wasn’t so obvious we were in the house.
Grant went back out with the shovel, and started scraping clean snow over the blood trail. I paced back and forth in the house, wondering what I was going to do with the dog’s body. I’ve never butchered anything before.
Grant’s muffled voice caught my attention. I knew by the tone that something was wrong. I rushed to the window to see him fighting with a morph outside. The morph held the head of the dog in one hand, and Grant’s coat sleeve in the other. Grant lost his grip on the shovel and it lay several feet away. They struggled back and forth in the snow, and as I watched I forgot to breathe. Grant jabbed the morph twice in the face, and then gut-punched him once more.
He glanced in my direction and screamed, “Shut the door!”, before he picked up the shovel and ran. The morph stopped long enough to catch his breath, pick up the dog head again, and take off after Grant. Tears streamed down my face as I slammed the door and pushed the furniture back in front of it. I looked out the window again, but couldn’t see where they’d gone.
When Grant encounters the morph he knows that he’s been infected, and chooses to leave his family to fend for themselves. Joslin and the children are distraught without him. But several days later they’re faced with the unthinkable situation; Grant returns home in a delusional state, threatening to infect the entire family. It’s then that Joslin realizes in order to save her children, she must face Grant.
Shards of broken glass littered the floor of our bedroom. The wooden door was sturdy, but it had a large glass window in the top-half of the door. He’d shattered the window, and the dresser in front of the door shook with every swing of the ax. I pulled the home-made gas mask over my mouth and nose, and cautiously approached the door. The ax became embedded in the wood; he had a difficult time pulling it free. I was done trying to rationalize with this monster.
I crept along the bedroom wall with my back pressed flat, hiding my presence. He was still struggling to get the ax free. I never thought that he’d come back with an actual weapon. In every scenario I’d imagined, we were on equal fighting grounds. This changed my entire plan. As he wrenched the ax back and forth, I jumped up in front of the dresser and introduced my can of mace. Fluid shot out of the can through the broken window, landing squarely on his face. I heard the liquid sizzle as it came in contact with his skin.
He stopped, stunned, before unleashing a grueling scream. Tears threatened to escape my eyes, but I refused to feel guilty. He forgot about the ax and backed away from the door, tearing at his eyes with both hands. With a surge of determination I stood tall, and shouted as loudly as I could, “Go Away. I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you try coming back in.”
Wrong thing to say. His head jerked up and he looked the door, as if welcoming the challenge. That instant I knew one of us would die before this ended. He came at the door with new-found strength, and tore the ax away in one savage movement. I backed away, but didn’t retreat out of the bedroom. The weight of the wall against my back was the only thing keeping me standing. My knees shook and knocked together, but I refused back down. At this point, it’s him or me - and if it’s me, he’ll get the kids, too.
Thanks for having me today, Ginger. And I am so sorry for not getting this to you sooner!
I wanted to talk a little about the reasons authors write. For me, it is the pure joy of creating characters and an entirely new world. In this world I can pretty much do whatever I want, and for someone as creative as me, that can be just about anything. *big grin*
When I first started writing I never once thought about how much I might make or where I would be published and because of that, I think that the first book I ever wrote was my best work. But now, I find myself worrying about being accepted and rejected and what royalties I am going to receive and so on, which leads me to the horrible writers block, which is where no writer wants to end up.
I guess what I am trying to say is this: Write because you love it. Not because you want to make money or find fame. Write because you know that that is what you want to do and who you are.
And don’t take on too many projects. I know that promotion is great but make sure that you have all of your ducks in a row. I am the queen of making this blunder. As a matter of fact, I forgot about this very blog piece and believe me, I felt like the biggest boob for doing so. Take your time and make sure that you have time to do what you need to or you will end up running in circles.
On another note, if you like a good steamy romance, check out my website! I have a little bit of everything on there including my newly released, upcoming and works in progress. I hope to hear from you soon!
