Since I will be on the road on my usual blog day, headed north for another summer in New England, I thought I'd reprise a blog from an earlier summer that a lot of folk enjoyed. For those who've read it before, I hope you still find it amusing and for those who've started following my blog since this was originally posted  . . . enjoy. Duff is still with me, and looking forward to spending another vacation on the island, too. 

         
It's 5:30 A.M. I'm Sound asleep and my cell phone rings. Mind you, this is a surprising occurrence all by itself because my cell phone doesn't get a great signal out here on my island and almost never rings, even when I can call out. But ring it did and the woman on the other end tells me she has my dog at her house. I'm still fighting off the residue of sleep and trying to figure out how my dog, who I left camped on the couch in the cabin when I went to bed in my tent could possibly be somewhere else at this unGodly hour. She tells me his name and that she got my number off his tag, thank goodness for the tag I got him, and then tells me that she is on a road that is miles from where I am.
   So, I scramble out of bed and into some clothes, then head out. Unfortunately, this is not like being home where the car is conveniently parked outside my door. To get to my car, I have to get into a rowboat, row ashore and haul the boat up, then hike up Cardiac Hill to where my car is parked. All of this takes close to twenty minutes and I'm gasping for breath as I unlock the car and fall into the driver's seat. (I really need to get back into shape - maybe I should have a call-out that makes me hustle up this hill several times a day?)
   Duff, when I finally get to the lady's house, hops in the car like "what's the problem Mom? I was just out for a little walk?" He is soooo in trouble! I made him get off the comfy sofa and accompany me to the tent for the night. He wasn't very pleased, but then, he asked for it.
    As if the unauthorized field trip wasn't enough yesterday, when a thunderstorm barreled in on us, instead of retreating to the dark recesses under the bunk for safety, this time Duff decided to try digging his way under the mattress on TOP of the bunk. In the process he shredded the new sheets my sister had put on the bed. So, today I wake up, fortunately after a full night's sleep, and it's cold out. And since it's cold and windy, I decide today is a good day to head to Concord to fix the thunderstorm/fireworks issue once and for all by purchasing a crate for Duff to find refuge in. Once again, we head to shore in the rowboat and climb the hill - so maybe once a day will be a good start on that getting in shape deal? Anyway, I consult the app on my phone to find out where the closest PetCo is and off we go.
   Here's where it begins to seem like my life is turning into a sit-com. I miss the turn in Concord and immediately begin to look for places to get turned around. The first two intersections are clearly labels NO U-TURN, so I finally pull into a parking lot, check the little map on my phone again and head back the way I came. Next thing I know, there are blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. The cop doesn't look old enough to be out of high school yet, but I'll cut him some slack since that's probably just my personal perspective given the old lady I looked at in the mirror an hour or so earlier. He asks if I know why he pulled me over. Honestly, I had no idea. I hadn't been speeding. Didn't take the U-turn even though I wanted to and hadn't been yaking on my phone so I said no. He tells me he pulled me over for the U-turn. Then goes on to explain that it's technically illegal to turn into private property, which a parking lot is, to avoid a traffic directive. Are you kidding me? This is New Hampshire. Where they refuse to pass ordinances to make folk wear seat belts or helmets on motorcycles and you're telling me I broke the law turning into a parking lot???
   But he was nice. Young but nice. When I told him I was lost and trying to find my way to PetCo, he gives me detailed directions. Then he takes my license and registration -"just to make sure I'm not running from the law in Florida!"
   So, now I'm back on my island and I got here promising I WILL NOT GO OFF THE ISLAND FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK! But that was before I couldn't remember if I'd actually locked the car when I got back. So, looks like today I'll have two hikes up Cardiac Hill to work on getting into shape, after all. Might as well. It's still too cold to go for a swim.

I grew up in New England and we have our share of wonderful men who truly fit the term “gentleman.” But since moving to the south, I’ve discovered that there is something unique and special about “southern gentlemen.” And I’m finally realizing that difference is part of how they were brought up.

When I was in my twenties and traveling through North Carolina, I had to pull over to change my infant son’s diaper. In the very short time it took to get the job done, three different men pulled over to see if I needed help. I was surprised by the offers because my car didn’t have an obvious flat nor did I have the hood up with steam pouring out and I wasn’t standing at the side of the road looking lost. Each of the men who took the time to pull over and see if they could help were polite and after discovering my reason for stopping, wished me a safe journey as they climbed back into their trucks. That was my first introduction to “southern gentlemen.” I’d had truly distressing things happen along the road in New England, including an accident that rendered my car undrivable long before cell phones made calling for help easy, yet no one stopped to offer assistance.

For several great years, I worked as an office administrator for an investment broker. Doug was thoughtful and generous, interesting and smart and just plain fun to work for. He had also been in the Army for thirteen years, and on leaving active duty, joined the reserves. I used to joke that you could take the boy out of the Army but you couldn’t take the Army out of the boy.  I met him when he was just a Major, but his dedication and commitment to the Army kept him advancing until he retired as a full colonel. When he made Lt. Colonel, he became the commander of the training battalion for the State of Maine, which put in him in charge of five different companies whose day-to-day operations were overseen by regular Army staff sergeants. That was my first introduction to being called ma’am. No one in the State of Maine calls a woman ma’am. In fact, in my entire life, I’d never been called that in any New England state. Answering the phones was one of my tasks, and I always knew I had one of Doug’s “men” on the line when I was greeted with Good morning, Ma’am. I found that small level of respect, inculcated by their military training to be pleasant and very welcome. No matter how brief the conversation, or how urgent the reason for their call, the contrast between their civility and the greetings from regular business clients was refreshing.

So now I’ve moved south permanently and the manners that men and boys learn here has become underscored everywhere I go. The fact that all the bagboys at the grocery offer to wheel your cart out to the lot for you every time you shop was the first thing to surprise me. That NEVER happens in New England even when you are very old, or coping with a handful of small children. The other day I was walking my dog along a road that winds through a county park along the edge of the waterway and I noted, not for the first time, that every single man that drove by me waved as they passed. Nothing flashy, just a brief salute of acknowledgement in passing. In one spot a teenage boy was casting out a fishing net while three very bold herons hovered close by hoping for a snack. I commented that he had an audience and the young man looked up and replied, “Yes, Ma’am.”

There’s a lot I love about where I’ve chosen to live, but this small mark of respect, this ingrained civility that I’m sure the men who show it never even question is a very special bonus.

Trusting Will, book 3 in the Camerons of Tide’s Way series is out and available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Google Play and iBooks.

Will is the younger of the Cameron twins, the middle child in the family of five children. Ben (Loving Meg) has always been the serious twin: patient, conservative, and reliable. Will wants everything yesterday. Although Will is not the youngest in the family, he’s the one everyone else jokingly refers to as the grown up kid. He works just as hard as everyone else, but he plays harder. Philip plays tennis, Ben enjoys golf and Jake (Falling for Zoe) loves to explore the intercoastal waterway in his kayak when his busy life permits. Will, on the other hand, jumps out of airplanes, takes kiteboarding to its limits, and rappels down anything, the steeper and more dangerous the better. Will is a North Carolina State Trooper, rides a motorcycle on the job work and pushes himself to excel in everything he does.

When Will took over his nephew’s Cub Scout den when the former leader got transferred, he discovered he loved working with the eager young scouts, especially Sam, a boy desperately in need of a man in his life. Sam’s mother is a knockout and as soon as he discovers she’s a single mom, Will is determined to pursue her. Now, if only he could impress her as easily as he impresses Sam.

But it's little wonder that Brianna Reagan, who’s already had her heart broken by a man who put his life on the line in the service of his country, isn’t eager to get involved with another bigger-than-life, alpha kind of guy who’s willing to risk his life wearing the uniform of a law enforcement officer and seems to thrive on danger. She might have managed to keep from getting involved with Will at all if only he hadn’t turned out to be so darned good with her son, Sam. If only he didn't make her pulse race when he looked at her with interest in his eyes. If only he didn't always seem to know what she needed, even when she was in denial.

An excerpt from Trusting Will:

Fort Benning, Georgia, three years ago

Brianna Reagan woke with a start, her heart racing, and her chest tight with apprehension. She listened for something unusual. Something unexpected. But there was nothing.

Nothing but the sound of her startled heart thrumming in her ears and her son playing in the next room.

Sam’s piping five-year-old voice issued orders to his army of tiny soldiers. He had always loved the little figures his father had given him, but since the day they’d taken Ed to the airport at the start of his most recent deployment, the little green men had become an obsession.

“Guess what, Daddy? I’m going to be a general when I grow up,” Sam announced, nodding his head in determination. “And you’re going to be really proud of me.”

“I’m real proud of you already,” Ed replied with a suspicious sheen in his bright blue eyes. He stiffened into a formal salute, then unable to maintain the distance, scooped Sam into his arms and hugged him hard before putting him back on his feet and turning to Bree.

Bree dismissed the haunting daydream abruptly, sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. As she reached to shut off the alarm she hadn’t needed, she stopped a moment to gaze at Ed’s photo that sat next to the clock. It was his formal military portrait, but even in that solemn pose, Ed hadn’t been able to keep the twinkle of mischief out of his eyes. Sam was a miniature of his dad. Same dark hair, same blue eyes. Same mischievous sparkle. Bree blew the portrait a kiss and slid to her feet. It was time to get Sam moving, get some breakfast into him and head off to work.

At her dresser, Bree dragged a brush through her tangled blond hair and wistfully considered the idea of cutting it. Except that Ed loved it long. She pulled it into a ponytail and worked an elastic band around its thick bulk, then leaned forward to check for new wrinkles. Twenty-seven wasn’t old, but already little lines fanned out from the corners of her dark eyes. Too much worry and stress, she thought as she reached for her robe and headed for the hall.

The solid thunk of a car door shutting out in front of their base-housing duplex halted her in her tracks. She turned and hurried to the window

Her heart froze in horrified denial.

Bree’s world telescoped into a narrow tunnel focused on the flat gray-blue tops of the dress uniform caps moving purposefully up her front walk. Desperately, Bree tried to think of any other reason two officers in dress uniforms would be coming to her door so early on a Monday morning.

But her heart already knew. There could be only one reason these men had come.

Her chest constricted in pain, and her head roared. Her eyes ached, but there were no tears. Not now. Not yet. She raised a clenched fist to her mouth, knuckles white with strain as her heart plunged into the unavoidable knowledge that her life would never be the same again.

Available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.

Note: Short Stories, Loving Ben and Mike's Wager are free on Kindle.

If you’re a bookworm like me, you probably recognize that empty feeling you get when you read the final words in the latest really great book. I get the same feeling when I’m writing a book, but in the back of my mind I know I can always revisit these people. Maybe, if there’s still a lot of story that could be told, you have this hopeful little feeling that you can write another book featuring the characters you’ve come to love. Surely that’s the emotion that keeps Diana Gabaldon going  even though she’s already produced thousands of pages in seven books about Jamie and Claire Fraser. But as readers, we don’t have that option. We can hope the author has more ideas in store, but more often than not, he or she has moved on to new characters and a new story, often in a new place and even a different time.

So, you’ve just clicked back to the menu in your electronic reader, or closed the cover of this book you just loved and set it aside. What now? Well….. now you want to find another great book. Maybe even better than the last. My first recourse used to be to hurry down to the library or the closest bookstore and see what else this author wrote. Today it’s even easier – just head to Barnes&Noble.com or Amazon.com. Online booksellers have even done some of the homework, showing the covers of books others who enjoyed the book you just finished ‘also bought.’ The most exciting thing is to discover that this author has dozens more books already out and you won’t have to wait until their next book is released. But what if this is their first book, or you’ve already read their other books? What if none of the suggested books appeals to you?

That’s when you start paying attention to your friends who’ve been raving about a new author they just discovered. One of the nice things about Facebook, in spite of the games they play that leave you out of so many posts, or about Twitter in spite of the thousands of posts you can’t possibly keep up with, is that authors and their friends or enthusiastic readers post links to books all the time. Books you might never have discovered otherwise. For people like me, it’s a win-win bonanza.

But today, I’d like to hear about the books my blog readers have read and loved. Or Authors. I especially like to find new authors. So, please, leave me a comment – tell me what your favorite book/author of all time is and also what is the most recent book you’ve read that you just loved and couldn’t stop raving about. I’m going to compile a list of all the new suggestions you ladies and gentlemen make and two of you will win a $10.00 GC to either Barnes & Noble or Amazon – your choice. Be sure to leave me info on how to reach you, preferably an email address, which you can send privately to me via skye@skye-writer.com

Recently someone on FACEBOOK asked the question, ‘What was the first book you read and loved when you were a kid?’  My mom read to me when I was really small and I’m sure I had my favorites, but I don’t recall them. I remember sitting on my dad’s bench reading Mr. Popper’s Penguins to my dad who was building a small wooden sailboat when I was ten or so, but the one book that stood out most in my mind was Heidi by Johanna Spyri. I was totally in love with that book and at least half in love with Peter.

Looking back on it now, I realize that was the beginning of my love affair with romance. Even though it was a child’s story about an orphan, there was something appealing about her friendship with Peter, and in the sequels Peter and Heidi grew up, fell in love and married. My first romance for sure. I grew up as well and graduated to Georgette Heyer who wrote dozens of Regency romances and set the standard for all who followed her. 

Since the days that Heyer kept me enthralled, romance has changed significantly. There are so many genres and sub-genres. Whatever catches your fancy: military heroes, cowboys, wealthy CEOs, vampires, time travel, suspense, mystery, historical, Regency, medieval, inspirational, sweet romance or hot and sexy there is a romance out there to please. The advent of e-books and then the explosion of self publishing has shattered the grip that the big NY publishing houses had on the romance genre and everyone is pushing the envelope. And I think there is a place for all of them.

Romance has also become more diverse and inclusive. When I was young and nearly innocent myself, all the heroines were just that – young and innocent. Now they are all ages, from young adult teenagers to college women, and career women, women who have been married and widowed or divorced, and even older with grown children. And the heroes who were once always older, wiser, wealthy and more worldly have become more diverse. They might be wealthy or they might be farmers, or carpenters or policemen. And both heroines and heroes have begun to represent all of America. Instead of always being white, they are men and women of all ethnicities, skin colors and faiths. That surely has to be a plus for everyone. America is strong because she is diverse and to represent that diversity in romance just makes our reading experience better.

One of the biggest changes I’ve seen though is in the stereotypes. Heyer surely started the feisty heroine with a mind of her own trend and most readers of romance have little patience for heroines who simper and sigh and let the heroes make all the decisions. Heroines have become career women and soldiers, politicians and FBI Agents. A healthy reflection of the freedom that women have today to pursue their dreams independent of men. And our Heroes have changed as well. Once upon a time heroes were all stoic, strong, smart and capable. All of those characteristics are still part of our favorite heroes, but we’ve moved beyond that to accepting men who have been hurt and are struggling and sometimes even being willing to share their pain, especially with the heroine. Instead of standing, legs spread and arms folded across his manly chest on the rolling deck of his ship, untouched by the mayhem of a pirate’s life, he can be hurting inside because of the man he didn’t save, or the mother who turned her back on him. And even more recently we have navy SEALS, soldiers and Marines who can pull off the most amazing feats of heroism under fire and yet be gentle and loving and struggling with the things they’ve seen and done.  Just as I loved Peter back when I was ten, I love these men who push themselves to the limit physically and mentally, who would move heaven and earth for the woman they love and are yet able to admit to the things that haunt them and reach out for help from those who care and be humble with their heroines. This softer side of today’s heroes makes them more complex, more complicated and more loveable.

The one thing that hasn’t changed is that romance is here to stay. More than any other genre in print or e-book, romance tops the list in sales and distribution. Love really does make the world go around, and I doubt we’ll ever get tired of reading happy endings.

Check out these other authors to see what they have to say about Romance today:

Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/
Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/
Connie Vines http://connievines.blogspot.com/
Skye Taylor  http://www.skye-writer.com/
Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/
Helena Fairfax  http://helenafairfax.com/
Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/
Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/
Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/
Rachael Kosinski http://rachaelkosinski.weebly.com/
Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/

High Tide at Noon, the first of the Tides trilogy by Elizabeth Ogilvie, was first published in 1944, long before I was born, but it was the first romance I ever read and I fell in love with Bennett’s Island and the people who lived there. Storm Tide was my favorite of the three and Ebbing Tide completed the story of Joanna Bennett and Nils Sorenson. I have hard cover copies printed on second rate paper during WWII and while I’ve considered purchasing newer editions, these hold a bit of nostalgia I’m not ready to abandon.

Ms. Ogilvie went on to write more than forty more novels, most set on the coast of Maine, many on Bennett’s Island. When I read her autobiography, I discovered that Bennett’s Island is a real place. An island at the very fringes of Penobscot Bay, Maine called Criehaven after the original family who settled it in the eighteen hundreds.

At the time, my dad had a small cruising sailboat and to my astonishment, he, too, had read the Bennett’s Island books. If you knew my dad, you would be astonished too. He’s not the romance type at all. But it wasn’t hard to convince him that we should sail out there one summer and explore the place. Once there was a bustling year-round community on Criehaven, or Ragged Island as it’s called on the charts. But in the mid fifties the price of lobsters plummeted and the draw of modern conveniences spelled the end of a way of life that had survived for over 150 years. For years the island lay forgotten, the solid old homestead perched on a ridge above the harbor sat empty along with all the other homes, the one-room schoolhouse, the store/post office and the club house.

Eventually the families who still owned those properties began to return in the summer months to fish the still teeming waters. The Krementz family (Of Krementz Jewelry) bought the homestead and restored it. The schoolhouse is now a cottage and the clubhouse a crumbling ruin, but many of the homes now hum with generators and electricity. The well still produces crystal clear, icy cold water that tastes like ambrosia. And the sea still beats an endless rote upon those granite shores, while men once again fish for lobsters within sight of that proud old homestead.

For me, it was love at first sight. As we rowed ashore to explore, we passed another small skiff headed back out to a quaint little boat rigged with a sail, a canvas tarp and a crooked little stovepipe. The man rowing looked as though he might have lived there a hundred years earlier. He called out a greeting and asked if we were headed up to Joannie’s place. Joanna Bennett being the heroine of Ms. Ogilvie’s books. Clearly we were not the only ones who’d read the stories and been drawn to come out and see this piece of paradise for ourselves.

We returned many times over the years my dad still owned a sailboat, and we always went ashore to explore. There was an ancient cemetery with gravestones dating back to the original Crie family. There were hushed forests of tall spruces, numerous coves and always the sound of the sea wherever we went. In the Tide books, the oldest brother had married beneath him according his family and moved in with his in-laws on the far end of the island so of course, we followed the old dirt road to see where Charles had lived. One night the sea was pounding against the seawall and even in the harbor the waves were big enough to roll us out of our berths so one of the lobstermen came out to invite us to spend the night in his daughter’s home because she was away and not using it. Turns out her place was the converted schoolhouse so I can even say I’ve slept on that island in a building that once saw children learning their numbers on blackboards.  We always bought lobsters from the men whose graceful boats were anchored in Criehaven Harbor and I know they were the best lobsters I’ve ever eaten anywhere. Then we would turn in to sleep, rocked by the sea with the lullaby of the ocean in our ears.

The old Schoolhouse                                     The Well

To say there is a lot of nostalgia for those days and that place would be an understatement. On one trip I found a gorgeous pink granite rock, made smooth by the crashing of waves on the shore. It was huge and I could just barely lift it, but I wanted that rock so I rowed down to the cove where I’d found it and wrestled it into the skiff and brought it back. It rode home on the floor of the cabin and lived for years by my back step in Maine. I even brought here to Florida with me where it still elicits compliments. I keep hoping that one day I will find a way to return. My dad is ninety-five and no longer owns a sailboat, but perhaps I’ll find a lobsterman to haul me and a couple weeks worth of food out there so I can revisit all my favorite places. Maybe I will some day. Or perhaps I won’t. But the memories will be with me forever. 

  The road on Criehaven                                                         The road in Summerhaven

I have always loved the sea and am fortunate to live here on a barrier island in Florida where it’s considerably warmer than Penobscot Bay Maine. Nearly every day I go for a walk, usually along the edge of the water. But occasionally, I wander up into the dunes where I’ve found the remnants of a long ago road that winds down the middle of the sandy soil and lush vegetation. And when I do, I am always reminded of the road on Criehaven. There are no tall spruces and prickly pears grow instead of beach roses. But the sound of the sea is in my ears and the scent of the ocean all around me. And if I close my eyes I can almost imagine I am on Criehaven again.

The road through the dunes of Summerhaven, St Augustine, Florida

In honor of Mother's Day . . .

My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when she was seventy-seven, but even then we all wondered if she’d had it for a lot longer than we or the doctor knew. She’d been completely deaf since her late thirties and while she lip-read very well, she also got to be an expert at pretending she knew what strangers or casual acquaintances were saying even when she didn’t have a clue. In retrospect, we began to realize that she’d been faking it with us as her memory began to fail.

She never seemed frustrated by her loss of memory. In fact, it was the rest of us who were frustrated and she always responded with a big smile that defused our exasperation.

Even before she went into assisted living care, she began to be foggy about who I was. One night when she asked, and I told her, she didn’t believe me. So I hauled out my driver’s license thinking to prove I was who I claimed to be and her shocked reaction was to ask why I was in possession of my sister’s driver’s license. Even she laughed about it two nights later when she did remember who I was. Conversing with a deaf person who can’t recall how the sentence began has moments of humor, but it’s mostly frustrating and increasingly sad. A few things she never forgot – like the fact that it was me who took her car away. Until nearly the end of her life, she held that indignity against me. And she never forgot that her Johnny was the love of her life.

One thing I remember most about her last few years was that in spite of not being sure who I was, she still loved me and it showed. Until she went into care, she lived next door and I always stopped by on my way home from work. She always lit up with welcome and opened her arms for a hug when I walked into her living room. I  “talked” to her mostly through written notes on her multitude of notebooks which had the advantage of being able to flip back a page or two when she continued to repeat the same questions. But the visits were always good ones because I knew she enjoyed our moments together even if she remembered nothing of them as soon as I disappeared from sight.

When the call that I’d been dreading for some time came, I rushed to her side at the hospital where her labored breathing was the only sound in the room. Her heart had failed and although the EMTs had gotten it started again, she never did regain consciousness. When her last breath came, my sister was with us and we were talking on the phone with my brother who lived several states away. So we were all together, hanging on to each other and our memories of a mother who had always loved us with her whole heart. I will always remember the stillness and love that filled that room at that moment. But even more, I will always remember the thousand-watt smile that greeted me every time I went to visit her, even long after she’d completely forgotten either my name or my place in her life. Sometimes a mother’s love is felt more than spoken, and ultimately it transcends even death. I see her smile in billowing white clouds against a brilliant blue sky and a dozen other things she loved, and I feel her touch in the soft darkness as I fall asleep each night.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You were and are the best.

No – not physical babies, but still . . .  Every author has been there. You’ve spent hours and hours plotting and writing your story. You have fallen in love with your protagonist and you’re rooting for them to succeed. And, of course, since you’re the author who created them, you can make sure they do. You’re pretty impressed with yourself, for the quicksand you tossed your characters into and the unexpected ways you threw them a line and hauled them out of trouble. It’s your baby and it’s your best work yet.

So, with a smile on your face, you send it off to your trusted critique partners and a beta reader or two. While you wait for them to get back to you, you’re doing your best to focus on a new set of characters with new complications to overcome, but you’re still anxiously awaiting word. You want to hear how wonderfully you’ve woven your story and how terrific your beta readers felt it was. Phrases like “I couldn’t put it down,” or “your love scenes were perfect,” or I never saw that ending coming,” would fill you with a sense of accomplishment and pleasure.

But what if the reports are less glowing? What if one of your beta readers does love your characters and thought the love scenes were hot enough to make them need a cold shower, but….. Always a but. What if they also saw a huge plot hole? What if one of your characters was so totally out of character that they just couldn’t care what happened to them? Or what if the plot and the characters were great, but they found a lot of “stuff” you didn’t really need? Cliché and redundancy.

You could, like some authors who don’t react well to honest critique, or others who decide that they ultimately knew best in spite of a fair consensus to the contrary, go ahead and either publish your work as is, or send off to an agent or editor convinced it will be the best submission they’ll get all year.

Or, you could go back and edit your work, keeping in mind the honest comments your “trusted” readers made. That’s when killing your babies comes into play. If you fix a major plot hole, you might discover that some of the scenes you were the most enamored of are no longer relevant. Places you spent a lot of time getting just the right words to create the perfect picture have to go. You are in love with those words. But if your readers are right, you’ve got to cut them out. It hurts. It’s so hard to let go of those perfect scenes and flowery phrases that didn’t captivate the reader nearly as much as they did you. That’s ‘tough love’ for an author.

As I evolved as an author and began to take such critiques seriously, I still wanted to “save” my best babies so I created a file where I could preserve them. Perhaps I’d find another scene where they would work, or another book maybe. But as it turns out, there are quite a few files on my computer filled with my hopeful saves. When I took the advice offered, more often than not, I discovered my plot was better and stronger without them. And my characters were just as vibrant and loveable.

Just as it was when I was raising my kids, when tough love was hard to dish out, and I steeled myself to do what had to be done and my children grew stronger for it, so it is with my books.               

You’ve poured your heart and soul into a book or a story. You’ve edited and polished. Now, you’re ready to share it with your critique partners. If you have a good relationship with your critique partners, they will tell you what didn’t work for them and what did. They’ll tell you your characters leapt off the page and into their hearts, or maybe they felt the heroine was too wishy-washy and the hero too arrogant. They liked your story and can’t wait to find out what happens next. Or maybe they didn’t get the point. What do you do when their comments don’t echo the love you felt when you sent them your pages?

If you want to be a good writer, a better writer, or an excellent writer, you listen to their comments with an open mind. 

After careful review, you might decide that you know your heroine better than they do and she has to come across like this for now, or your hero is heading for a fall and his arrogance is going to drive the conflict. But is it possibly you left out something important from their backstory? Something you know inside and out, but your reader hasn’t got a clue to? Not that I’m advocating an information dump, but perhaps you need to revisit your pages and see where hints of their pasts could be inserted to give the reader a reason to love them in spite of their tentativeness or arrogance. Just maybe the reason your critiquers didn’t get the point was because you thought withholding some critical piece of information would make for a nice surprise later on in the book, but on careful reflection they had a point. They needed to know that bit in order to get why the hero or heroine was even doing this or that now. And trust me, your critique partners are only the first people who are reading your work. Next comes your editor who’s likely to be just as discerning and then your readers who won’t hesitate to shoot you down if you leave them hanging when they expected better of you.

If your crit partner or reader suggests that you should have started somewhere else, listen to them. Maybe you should have. We’ve all heard the lessons on the “HOOK.” The hook in the back cover blurb, the hook in the tag line, the hook at the end of the first page and again at the end of the first chapter. Once you’ve convinced a reader to pick up your book, you don’t want to give them any reason to put it down again until they’ve turned the last page and sighed with pleasure because the story was so awesome or groaned in anguish because there is no more. Some of my favorite books and I’m sure yours as well, were written some time ago, before this world of instant everything from coffee to news cycles to Skype and text messaging. If you revisit those books, how many of them take entire chapters or narrative and description before the action begins. If they were being written today they’d never make it into print because the reader would give up long before they got to the action. We read them over again because we already know we love the characters and the story, but we might be skimming over that boring beginning. So if someone tells you that you began your story in the wrong place, it’s worth taking seriously.

In the end, the story is yours. The voice is yours and the characters came to be in your imagination. You need to be true to all three, but the importance of keeping an open mind about negative critique can’t be overstated. Consider the comments objectively and then revisit your pages. Sometimes I’ve changed something I thought was great just the way I’d written it, but because my critiquers had brought it up, I tried rewriting it with the change they suggested and discovered that my story was stronger and better than before. Sometimes it’s a case of not being able to see the forest for the trees. We are so close to our characters and their struggles, we fail to see what is obvious to anyone looking in from the outside. Other times you will decide it really is just fine and better the way it is, and you won’t change it. But being open to critique will always make you a better writer.

And what about those negative reviews? Sometimes they are frivolous, sometimes totally off the wall. A reader loves sweet romance and they pick up erotica because they liked the cover maybe. It’s not the author’s fault they didn’t like the sex. In another book a reader felt the language was coarse and the carnage too graphic, so why did they choose to buy a book written by a soldier about the war that gives him nightmares? Those reviews can be dismissed. Yeah, they hurt, but they don’t count. But if several reviewers all found the same problem, maybe it is worth considering. Unless you are self-published and can fix and repost the book, it’s too late to change this book, but the critique can be considered for all future books.

Not everyone is going to love your work, just as you aren’t going to like everything else that’s out there to read, but any critique or review might contain a nugget of wisdom that will help you grow as a writer. Instead of letting a bad review ruin your whole day or your whole week, consider it an opportunity to be better than you already are.  

What keeps me glued to a story start to finish? Characters I care about. It’s totally about characters, whether it’s a romance, a thriller or women’s fiction. If I can’t care about the characters, then why on earth would I care about what happens to them?

In a romance, I want a hero I can fall in love with and I want a heroine who is strong, resourceful and generous who can laugh at herself. In a mainstream, thriller, intrigue or drama, I want a protagonist who is portrayed as someone I’d like to have as a friend. Heroes and heroines don’t have to be perfect, gorgeous, young, wealthy or powerful. They should be flawed, but aware of their failings and trying to be better people. I am especially drawn to heroes who have been hurt and have found or are finding the courage to overcome the things that have broken their hearts and spirits.

When an author lets me into the heart and soul of his or her characters early in the story that makes me stay with the story when things begin to fall apart. Think about some of the events one reads about in the paper, or sees on the eleven o’clock news. A child has been abducted, a family was seriously injured in an auto accident, a policeman was ambushed and killed in a big city, or a volunteer fireman was crushed by falling timbers in a raging fire while he was trying to rescue a trapped old man. All of these events are the things we feel sorry about, but how many of them do we remember a few days later?

But consider Jeff Bauman and Carlos Arredondo whose faces captured the world’s attention the day after the Boston Marathon bombing. Arredondo in a cowboy hat doing his best to staunch blood from Bauman’s shattered legs was caught on camera and immediately they became the face of that horrific event. For some, perhaps many, that picture and the momentary thoughts they gave to the two men were the end of the story. But then we got to know more about them. We found out that Carlos Arredondo had lost a son in Iraq and was still suffering from that heartbreak when he launched himself into the middle of the chaos to save Jeff Bauman’s life. In the days and weeks that followed we began to see the depths of courage Jeff Bauman exhibited as he came to terms with the loss of his legs. As the personalities of these two men and their stories were revealed, we became engrossed in them and we began to pray for them and hope for the best. We wanted them both to become triumphant over the evil that had befallen them. They were no longer strangers we cared about only in passing.

That’s what an author has to do to keep me riveted to a story. They have to reveal the heartbreaks, the pain, the goodness, the courage, the generosity of their characters and make me care. Then I can’t put the book down because I simply have to know what happens to these people I’ve come to love. I enjoy a good thriller and Lee Child’s Jack Reacher stories are at the top of my list of favorites, but it’s not because Child fills his books with action or endows Reacher with incredible fighting skills. It’s because he makes me care about Jack Reacher as a person. A man with a past and a present I might not fully understand, but yet, a man I can care about. He’s had his losses and heartbreaks, he’s been places and seen things that have done their best to break his spirit, but he’s remained an honorable man in spite of them and he’s always setting aside his own life to help others. That’s what keeps me glued to Jack Reacher stories.  It’s the same with David Baldacci’s Oliver Stone. Oliver Stone is a very different character from Jack Reacher and his past is revealed bit by bit over the course of several books, but in the beginning, in the very first book of the series, in the first couple chapters Baldacci made me care about Oliver by showing me the caliber of the man Oliver is and hinting at the suffering and loss in his past. Whatever the current intrigue or conflict, I am cheering for Oliver Stone and his odd collection of friends because the author created characters I could care about and become totally engrossed in.

When it comes to romance, I almost never read about rich and powerful men. I’m more taken with men who’ve made something of themselves without wealth and family influence. A soldier, a cowboy, a man who builds houses – their status means little, it’s their personality that counts for me. Men who can be strong when they have to, yet have their weaknesses. Men who aren't afraid to show their feelings and men who put the ones they love above themselves. The same goes for my heroines. There are very few women in this world blessed with stunning beauty, so I’d rather read about real women. Strong, capable, amusing, intelligent and loving. It’s not her beauty that makes Cinderella a character the world is forever in love with, it’s the struggles she faces and her cheerful resilience in the face of adversity. It was not Johnny Castle’s charm and good looks that won the hearts of women in Dirty Dancing, it was his humility, his humanity and caring more about Frances "Baby" Hauseman than himself. And it wasn’t Julia Robert’s beauty that made me care about Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman, it was the strength of her character, her determination to be someone in spite of her background and her willingness to teach a man who knew little of love what loving was meant to be even if it broke her heart.

So, for me, it’s all about the characters. Whatever the genre, if I don’t come to care for the characters early on in the book, it matters little how gorgeous the scenery, or how dire the circumstances, I’m probably not going to finish the book. And the books that stick with me long after I’ve closed the covers and put them back on the shelf are the books peopled by unforgettable characters I fell in love with and couldn’t turn my back on.

What keeps you glued to a story? Don't hesitate to leave a comment below. And in the mean time, why not check out some of these other authors and see what keeps them turning pages.

Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/
Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/q
Ginger Simpson http://mizging@blogspot.com
Skye Taylor  http://www.skye-writer.com/
Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/
Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/
Helena Fairfax  http://helenafairfax.com/
Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/
Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/
Connie Vines http://connievines.blogspot.com/
Rachael Kosnski http://rachaelkosinski.weebly.com/
Victoria Chatham http://victoriachatham.webs.com/
Lynn Crain  http://www.awriterinvienna.blogspot.com
Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/