Hens Lay Eggs
food for thought
The Dragon Wore A Kilt
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nIn the northern reaches of Scotland rests Loch Saorach, home to an ancient legend—a dragon. The Matasan family has guarded the loch and its dragon for centuries. n |
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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B014N34IU2
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Excerpt
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nHe gathered the woman in his arms and grunted as he stood, the thick muscles of his thighs and calves bulging beneath his old, worn kilt which clung to him most uncomfortably and smelled unpleasantly of wet sheep. As comfortable as the old garment was dry, it did not bear close acquaintance when soaked through. The tendons and muscles in his arms bunched and bulged as he hefted the woman’s weight and settled her against his chest.
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n“You’re a mess, Connor. If you’ll wait, I’ll fetch a wagon.”
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n“I’ll walk,” he said and made good on his intent. The wet wool clung wetly to his thighs and his boots squelched, but the steady movement generated much needed heat to his chilled muscles.
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n“Let me carry her for a bit then,” Liam offered with sympathy. “She’s got to be heavy and you’re soaked to the bone and cold besides.”
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nThe woman was heavy, but Connor did not want to relinquish his burden and did not really know why. It was not as though she were a sterling example of feminine pulchritude. She was as old as Liam’s mother would have been had she not died a few years ago. She was fat, carrying extra weight that some disciplined food consumption and exercise could remedy. Her skin was doughy and old pock marks on her face showed the remnant scars of adolescent acne. Her hair was thin, light brown, and liberally streaked with gray. But he held on to her. Liam ran ahead to alert his grandmother of their impromptu guest. When Connor finally walked into the old manor he called home, his sister clucked her tongue at him and ordered him to relinquish his burden.
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n“Liam will take her to the rose bedroom,” Brenda said, hands on her hips and tolerating no disobedience from the men. “You get yourself to your tub and soak until you’re warmed through.”
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nThen Connor did give over the woman to his grandnephew. He headed for the comfort of his own chambers to strip the cold, wet garments from his clammy skin. The tub steamed gently and he sighed appreciatively as he sank into the scented water to soak the cramps from chilled muscles.
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“Sanctuary,” I murmured, #MFRWhooks
Focus by Holly Bargo
nEnemies to Lovers Billionaire Romance
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nProfessional photographer Dana Secrest has a secret and doesn’t even know it. When she storms from her best friend’s home on Christmas Eve—not the wisest decision she’s ever made—security contractor Sam Galdicar follows her to save her from her own hot temper and impulsive action. Upon arriving home, Dana discovers her apartment has been ransacked. Then an attempt is made on her life. She doesn’t know who’s trying to kill her or why, but Sam is determined to protect the woman whose eyes don’t need a camera to see the truth. n n |
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Excerpt
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n“Sanctuary,” I murmured, knowing that while many churches still practiced sanctuary, it held no legal force.
nSuzanne Blankenship, pastor’s wife and southern transplant, responded with a wide smile and an invitation to join her in the kitchen.
n“Why, I remember when I was pregnant with my fourth child. Nothing but tomato juice would curb my nausea. Today, I can’t tolerate the taste!” she babbled as she led me back through the church and into the adjoining parsonage.
nI wondered how long Gordon would wait before he started searching for me. I wondered how persistent he would be before dragging me back to Bradley.
nSuzanne sat me down in her cozy kitchen and poured me a glass of milk. “Y’all need calcium.”
nI found my finger again running underneath the edge of the collar.
n“You want me to unfasten that vile thing?”
nI nodded, unable to speak, unable to bring myself to remove it. She moved behind me and her warm fingers quickly unfastened the clasp that my clumsy fingers dared not touch. Bradley allowed me to put on a collar to coordinate with my outfits, but never allowed me to take one off. Suzanne dropped the collar on the table.
n“Would you like to talk about it, woman to woman?”
nI opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. A door slammed open and I flinched. Heavy footsteps resounded on the wooden floors until they stopped on the kitchen tile. Gordon’s gaze flickered to the collar lying on the table.
n“Mrs. Vermont, you’re to come with me.”
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Too many choices
One of the reasons I scoff at prospective clients who offer me a percentage of royalties to develop their ideas into full-fledged novels is that ideas are plentiful and free. Developing them into something fit for public consumption takes time, effort, and skill. It’s hard work. Not physically difficult, mentally difficult.
I don’t exactly build muscle sitting at my computer tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard.
If the “experts” are right, there are only a small number of overarching plots anyway. Every story is based on one of those archetypes. So, the prospective client’s idea isn’t exactly original or valuable. There’s no gold in that hill. The value of an idea comes from the skill with which it’s developed. The sheer, overwhelming number of titles available on Amazon should indicate that authors certainly don’t lack for ideas to develop.
I don’t believe in writer’s block either: that mental stoppage of creativity. Sure, a writer might reach an obstacle in the story beyond which he cannot figure out how to maneuver his characters around or through. In that case, some distance may be just what the doctor ordered. Let the plot crisis percolate in the subconscious and a solution will likely float to the top. Or delete, delete, delete until you can redirect the character’s path and avoid writing him into an oubliette. Another option is to abandon the manuscript. Perhaps it’s given you all it can, and now it’s time to move on to bigger and better things. Or at least something else.
I do suffer from writing stoppages. Those hiatuses occur because of mental or creative exhaustion. This usually happens after I finish a book and may last up to several weeks. (If I’m really stressed, the hiatus may last years.) My mind feels drained. It needs to rest and recharge. That may include reading books, watching television, spending time with the animals, going shopping or on other excursions, etc. I tend to sleep more during these periods, letting my subconscious play as it dredges up old weirdness and lingering emotions in dreams.
During such a hiatus, I may work a little here and a little there on any one of the two dozen or more manuscripts that I’ve started and will probably never finish. Some of them were basically brain farts, temporary explosions of limited creativity that eased as soon as I wrote them down. That’s one way of knowing whether a story idea is any good. If I can’t keep it going, then it wasn’t meant to go anywhere, good intentions notwithstanding. Either the story bored me or it quickly tipped beyond even my generous limits of absurdity. Regardless, if it’s not worth my time or mental effort to develop, then it’s certainly not worth a reader’s attention.
That said, I have lots and lots of ideas for stories. Occasionally when I feel restless with the urge to write but I don’t quite know what I want to write, I’ll go back to those old files and sift through them, hoping to find one or two that spark my interest. I have many from which to choose, too many. Sometimes I’ll put in a few paragraphs or a few pages. Sometimes not. I do have several manuscripts started that I want to finish. I don’t know that will ever happen, but I have good intentions.
And you know where good intentions lead.
Author
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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Karen (Holly)
Blog Swaps
Looking for a place to swap blogs? Holly Bargo at Hen House Publishing is happy to reciprocate Blog Swaps in 2019.
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