What We're Writing (or not) Week - Jenn McKinlay

First, Happy Mother's Day to all who mother two legged, four legged, finned or feathered! 

And, because this is also a day that can be difficult for many, here are hugs to those who wanted to be moms but life had other plans, those with complicated relationships with the ones who mom them, to those who've lost their moms, and to those whose active mom time was shorter than expected. Please know that you are beautiful, special, uniquely you, and you are loved.

Second, we have some winners!!!  From our coppersmithing author friend, Sara Dahmen, the winners are...

Celia Fowler for the book!

Susan Emerson for the copper straws!

You can email Sara at: housecopper at gmail dot com with your addresses and she'll send your prizes! Congratulations!

Jenn McKinlay: And now, what am I writing? Welp, I can start by saying it hasn't felt like writing. It's been more like driving alone in a white out blizzard in a Geo Metro from New London, CT to Worcester, MA -- a white knuckling, while really needing to pee, drafting in behind a trailer truck for the entire stretch of I-395 experience, ending when I landed at my brother's house, where I did a face plant in the snow but shot my hand up out of the snowbank to retrieve the tumbler of whiskey he held out to me. Good times!

Basically, I'm writing Wait For It, my second stand alone women's fiction rom-com, by the seat of my pants, which is exactly what driving through that blizzard felt like. I couldn't see where I was going and every mile felt like five hundred miles. I had no idea where I was or when I would get to my destination, if I arrived at all. Full disclosure, this is the first book I have written by the seat of my pants (NO OUTLINE!) since I started writing mysteries. I have no idea why. The world was on fire all around me and I just couldn't get it together to write an outline but the book was due either way, so I strapped in and away I went. Only time will tell if this was the stupidest/smartest thing I've done in writing to date. 

All I do know is that the book is due on May 15th, and IT WILL BE DONE. Because it's in no shape to be shared right now, I'm going to share a snippet of Paris Is Always A Good Idea, which I did have an outline for, thank God!

Excerpt: Chelsea Martin vs. Jason Knightley

“You’ve got some hidden talents, Martin,” he said. 

I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me and I should resist. Instead, I smacked his feet off the corner of my desk. 

“You’re mistaking my work space for the frat house you wallow in, Knightley,” I said. “Feet stay on the floor.” 

“You’re no fun,” he complained. 

It was exactly the sort of thing he could have said to me on any other day and I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Not today. Today I felt as if he was speaking my truth, and it hurt. 

“Was there something you needed?” I snapped. “Because I really am busy.” 

He studied my face. Clearly, he’d been expecting a bit more of our usual back-and-forth. 

“Busy doing what exactly?” he asked. 

“Packing,” I said. I gestured to the box and my stuff going inside the box. I really thought I should get points for not adding duh to my answer. 

He heaved an exasperated sigh. “No kidding, but why are you packing?” 

“Because I’m leaving,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“Wait . . . what?” He rose to his feet, and I found myself staring up at him. “You’re serious? You’re leaving? For real?” 

“Yes,” I said. “In two weeks I’m gone.” 

Jason stared at me, slack jawed. He looked stunned, as if I’d just told him I was pregnant and the baby was his. 

“But . . . that’s . . . How . . . Why . . .” 

I took no small satisfaction in making the usually smooth-talking Jason stutter. I watched as he shook his head as if trying to realign his brain. When he finished, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me. 

“Martin, you can’t leave. You can’t leave me.” 

I stared at him. He seemed genuinely upset. Had I misjudged our heated rivalry as corporate fundraisers for the American Cancer Coalition all these years? I’d thought he couldn’t stand me. Had I been wrong? Maybe beneath his flagrant disregard for my organizational skills and his sarcastic asides at meetings when I was speaking, he actually liked me. Was our relationship the professional equivalent of the boy on the playground who showed a girl he liked her by pulling her pigtails or punching her in the arm? 

“I mean, who is going to make me look good at the weekly staff meetings if you’re not there to bore us all to death with your Power- Points, charts, graphs, and other assorted mind-numbing minutiae?” he asked. He uncrossed his arms and spread his hands wide. “I count on you, Martin, to make me shine.” 

So that was a negative on him actually liking me. I should have known. Jason Knightley was an arrogant asshat. If I could pick one thing I was not going to miss about working here, it would be him. 

“I’ll be sure to tell my replacement to load up on the statistical data,” I said. “I wouldn’t want your lazy little star to go dim.”  

“Lazy?” His eyebrows rose. “Are you calling me lazy?” 

He put his hands on his hips and looked incredulous. Clearly, I’d struck a nerve. Goody. 

“Truth hurts?” I asked.


“Truth?” he asked. “What truth? I work just as hard as you do.”


I snorted and held up a hand as if he were telling a joke that was too funny. “Please.”


“I do,” he insisted. “Just because I don’t bog it all down with number projections in Excel spreadsheets—”


“Bog it all down?” I gaped at him. “Those projections are what convince the corporations to pony up the major gifts, Knightley. They want to see how their money will be used, how it will impact their business and spread their mission.” 

“It’s all smoke and mirrors,” he said. He shook his head. “You make it more task driven than it needs to be. You like busywork because it makes you feel like you’re accomplishing something. News flash—you’re not. It’s the big picture that matters.” 

That did it! I really was going to brain him with one of my awards. 

“Busywork?” I hissed through clenched teeth. My right eyelid started to twitch. I could feel it throb in time to my heartbeat. I wanted to hold it still with my index finger, but I didn’t want to betray that he was getting to me. 

“Yup,” he said. He pantomimed typing on a keyboard with his hands. “Busy, busy, busy. No one wants to read those long-winded reports of yours. They want big ideas; they want something to get excited about; they want to have a campaign that goes viral and makes their company a global presence.” 

If he kept talking, I suspected my resting bitch face was going to become permanent, like a stone mask that nothing could crack. This. This was precisely why I couldn’t stand Jason Knightley. 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But you’re an idiot. No corporation is going to sign off on a major gift for a ‘big idea.’” 

“No?” Jason asked. He gave me a superior look. “Then why did the sneaker company Soles jump in and match the millions in donations for my hot wing challenge for the Children’s Leukemia Society?” 

I closed my eyes. I drew in a long breath, held it, and then carefully let it out. So typical of him to bring up his one significant claim to fundraising fame. I stared at him across my barren desk. 

He grinned at me without humor. “It drives you crazy, doesn’t it?” 

I rolled my eyes. “It was lightning in a bottle.” 

“Bullshit. It was a well-thought-out campaign that people loved to participate in,” he said. 

“Well thought out?” I leaned back on my heels and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look down on him, which was not easy, because he was several inches taller than I was. “Who are you kidding? You cooked it up while killing time at some bar for happy hour where the wings and beer were half price.” 

He didn’t even look embarrassed. He shrugged and winked at me and said, “Inspiration strikes where it strikes, plus it made millions. How much have you ever managed to wrestle as a major gift? One million? Five million?” 

“I’m sorry, are we comparing dick size here?” I asked. “Because I can assure you while my anatomy is different, if it’s a pissing contest you want, I’ll win.” 

“Admit it, Martin.” He leaned down so our faces were just inches apart. “You don’t have my reach.” 

“Ugh.” I curled my lip. That was it. I was leaving my job. Why was I even speaking to this Neanderthal? I turned on my heel and crossed to the open door of my office. I raised my hands and gestured for him to leave. “I think we’re done here.” 

“Is that how you deal with losing a debate?” he asked. He turned to face me. “You just throw the person out?” 

“First, this wasn’t a debate. It was a waste of fifteen minutes of my life that I’ll never get back,” I said. 

I reached forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the door. Normally, I would never touch another employee, as I was hyper- aware of the rules put forth by our human resources person, Michelle Fernando, who was downright scary, about encroaching on my colleagues’ personal space, but at the moment, I had no Fs left to give. If Jason Knightley didn’t leave my office right now, I was going to put my foot in his backside and kick him out the door. 

 “Second, I’m not throwing you out but merely assisting your overly swollen head through the doorway so that it doesn’t get stuck,” I said. 

“Aw, sweet.” Jason chuckled as I propelled him forward. In an innuendo-laden voice, he wagged his eyebrows and asked, “So, you like my big frontal lobe?” 

“Get. Out.” I gave him a firm but what I hoped would be construed as friendly—it wasn’t—shove through the opening. I stepped back and grabbed the door, slamming it in his face. Then I huffed out an exasperated breath, trying to find my Zen. 

“I take it that’s a no on the sexy frontal lobe?” he called through the door. 

In spite of myself, my lips twitched. 

 And now for some awesome news... a Starred Review from

Publisher's Weekly for Paris is Always a Good Idea! YAY!!! 

Also, I'm getting a tattoo of the word "flawless" on something 

somewhere someday. LOL!

Dropping July 21st!!! 

Okay, then, Reds and Readers, who is a plotter and who is a seat of the pantser? It doesn't have to be just in writing. How do you live your life - planned or spontaneous? Has it ever switched on you? (Oh, horror!)

What We’re Writing by Jenn McKinlay

First, last week’s winners from our guest bloggers are…

The winner of Ellen Byron’s FATAL CAJUN FESTIVAL is – Ramona Long!

 and

The winner of Nancy Coco’s FUDGE BITES is – Jamie Gillespie!

CONGRATS, Readers, the authors will be in touch!

JENN McKINLAY: Revisions! Revisions! I have no idea why but I can’t speak these words. Oh, no, they must be sung out loud to the tune of “Tradition” from Fiddler’s Roof. Why? Because I’ve been on a writing bender for the past two months that would have turned a demure church lady into a drunk, like, pirate Jack Sparrow drunk. Seriously, pass the rum! 

Normally, I love revisions. It’s usually a tweak, a twist, a tightening of the screws. Not this time. This was like shearing a sheep in possession of a donkey kick with only a rusty pair of toenail clippers. And no, I am not overdramatizing the situation! 

In two weeks, I removed ninety pages (90!!!), jigsaw puzzled the remaining chunks that were left, and then wrote a brand spanking new sixty-five (65!!!) pages to stitch it all together. And now we’re gearing up for round two. 

The book in question is PARIS IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA, coming out in July 2020. It is my first stand alone, a rom-com that I love as intensely as only a mother could. 

In short, it’s a story of self-discovery as our protagonist Chelsea Martin is forced to confront the reality that she has become a raging workaholic with no life when her widowed father announces he’s getting remarried. At her sister’s suggestion, Chelsea decides that in order to find herself again she must go back to the year she spent abroad and find the three men she once loved – Colin in Ireland, Jean Claude in France, and Marcelino in Italy – and try to reconnect with open hearted, happy young woman she once was. Basically, she's looking for a life do-over. 

Here’s an early look at the opening of PARIS IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA:

Chapter One

     “I’m getting married.”

     “Huh?” 

     “We’ve already picked our colors, pink and gray.”

     “Um...pink and what?”

     “Gray. What do you think, Chelsea? I want your honest opinion. Is that too retro?”

     I stared at my middle-aged widowed father. We were standing in a bridal store in central Boston on the corner of Boylston and Berkeley streets and he was talking to me about wedding colors. His wedding colors.

     “I’m sorry, I need a sec,” I said. I held up my hand and blinked hard, while trying to figure out just what the hell was happening.

     I had raced here from my apartment in Cambridge after receiving a text from my dad, asking me to meet him at this address because it was an emergency. I was prepared for heart surgery not wedding colors! 

     Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I wrestled the constricting wool scarf from around my neck, yanked the beanie off my head, and stuffed them in my pockets. I scrubbed my scalp with my fingers in an attempt to make the blood flow to my brain. It didn’t help. Come on, Martin, I coached myself, pull it together. I unzipped my puffy winter jacket to let some air in, then I focused on my father. 

     “What did you say?” I asked.

     “Pink and gray, too retro?” Glen Martin, aka Dad, asked. He pushed his wire frame glasses up on his nose and looked at me as if he was asking a perfectly reasonable question. 

     “No, before that.” I waved my hand in a circular motion to indicate he needed to back it all the way up.

     “I’m getting married!” His voice went up when he said it and I decided my normally staid fifty-five-year-old dad was somehow currently possessed by a twenty-something bridezilla.

     “You okay, Dad?” I asked gently not wanting to set him off. “Have you recently slipped on some ice and whacked your head? I ask because you don’t seem to be yourself.”

     “Sorry,” he said. He reached out and wrapped me in an impulsive hug, another indicator that he was not his usual buttoned down mathematician self. “I’m just…I’m just so happy. What do you think about being a flower girl?”

     “Um…I’m almost thirty.” I tipped my head to the side and squinted at him.

     “Yes, but we already have a full wedding party, and you and your sister would be really cute in matching dresses, maybe something sparkly.”

     “Matching dresses? Sparkly?” I repeated. I struggled for air. It was clear. My father had lost his ever lovin’ mind. I should probably call my sister. Dad needed medical attention, possibly an intervention. Oh, man, would we have to have him committed?

     I studied his face, trying to determine just how crazy he was. The same brown-green hazel eyes I saw in my own mirror every morning held mine, but where my eyes frequently looked flat with a matte finish, his positively glowed. He really looked happy.

     “You’re serious,” I gasped. I glanced around the bridal store that was stuffed to the rafters with big, white fluffy dresses. None of this made any sense and yet here I was. “You’re not pranking me?”

     “Nope.” He grinned again. “Congratulate me, peanut, I’m getting married.”

     I felt as if my chest was collapsing into itself. Never, not once, in the past seven years had I ever considered the possibility that my father would remarry.

     “To who?” I asked. It couldn’t be...nah. That would be insane.

     “Really, Chels?” Dad straightened up. The smile slid from his face and he cocked his head to the side which was his go-to disappointed parent look. 

     I had not been on the receiving end of this look very often in life. Not like my younger sister, Annabelle, who seemed to thrive on “the look”. Usually, it made me fall right in line but not today.

     “Sheri. You’re marrying Sheri.” I tried to keep my voice neutral. Major failure as I stepped backwards, tripped on the trailing end of my scarf and gracelessly sprawled onto one of the cream colored velvet chairs that were scattered around the ultra feminine store. I thought it was a good thing I was sitting because if he answered in the affirmative I might faint. 

     “Yes, I asked her to marry me and to my delight she accepted,” he said. Another happy stupid grin spread across his lips as if he just couldn’t help it.

     “But…but…she won you in a bachelor auction two weeks ago!” I cried. “This is completely mental!”

So, how about you Reds and Readers, have you ever had a time in your life when you wanted a do-over?

What We're Writing: Jenn and the dreaded copyedits.

JENN McKINLAY: I'm plugging away, cranking out ten pages a day on a brand new venture that I'm enjoying immensely  It's been sold and I'm quite thrilled by the enthusiasm of the publisher, but while the contracts are still being drawn up, I can't say anything about it as yet. Bummer, I know.

In the meantime, because writing four books per year is a juggling act, I'm also doing the dreaded copyedits for October's book, The Christmas Keeper. It's a rom-com that features cranky horses, romance writing divas, and ugly Christmas sweaters. What's not to love, right?

A popular phrase in publishing these days is "meet cute", which describes how a heroine and hero meet. This is not the case with these two characters: Joaquin (Quino) Solis and Savannah (Savy) Wilson. In fact, I believe "meet snark" would be more apt, which could be why I love them so. Here's the scene from the perspective of Joaquin's friend Ryder:

Savannah charged into the office, carrying two mugs of coffee. She saw Joaquin standing there but didn’t slow down. She just plowed past him into the room. Ryder caught Quino’s look of surprise and almost laughed.

    “Here you go,” Savannah said. She thrust the mug at Ryder. Then she scowled at him. “What did you say to Maisy?”

    “Nothing, why?” He took the mug and tried to ignore how his pulse jumped at the sound of her name.

    “Liar,” Savannah said. “She’s with her kitten right now and she’s—,”

    “Crying?” Ryder asked in alarm.

    “Singing.” Savannah gave him a dark look.

    Oh, singing was bad, very bad, for a variety of reasons. “Over the Rainbow?”

    “Worse, Tura Lura Lural,” she said.

    “The Irish lullaby?” Quino asked. “What’s wrong with that?”

    Savannah and Ryder shared a look and then Savy said, “I’m sorry, this is your business why?”

    “Because Ryder is my friend,” he said.

    “Well, Maisy is mine,” she countered.

    Ryder glanced between them. If ever there were two people who should not be in the same room together, it was these two. Both were fiercely independent, stubborn, and frankly, mouthy.

     “Here’s a thought, if you don’t want me knowing your friend’s business, maybe you shouldn’t talk about it in front of me,” Quino said. He crossed his arms over his chest, doing a fair imitation of a wall.

    “If you had any manners, you wouldn’t have listened in on what was obviously a private conversation,” Savy said. She ended it with a hair toss and Ryder saw his friend’s pupils dilate. Quino had always had a thing for gingers.

    “Steady, you two,” Ryder said. “We’re all friends here.” He cast a glance at Savy. “At least, I hope we are. Joaquin Solis, this is Savannah Wilson. There you’ve been introduced, now play nice.”

    Quino’s eyes moved over Savannah’s tall, curvy frame. She was dressed for success today in a skirt and blouse with spiky heels. Her long red curls were loose and framed her face becomingly while her green eyes blazed provocatively. Ryder would have felt sorry for his friend if he wasn’t all consumed by his own female based misery right now. 

    “You’re a city girl, aren’t you?” Quino asked.

    “Woman. I am a woman, not a girl,” Savannah said. “And, yes, I’m from Manhattan, or as we like to call it, civilization.”

     A slow smile spread across Quino’s lips. Ruh roh. Ryder knew that look. It practically shouted “challenge accepted”.

    “Well, woman, since we’ve established that I lack manners, I’m going to say exactly what I’m thinking,” he said.

     “That should be a short sentence,” she retorted.

    This time Quino laughed and it hit the room like a sonic boom of warmth. Ryder noticed that even Savannah responded to it by relaxing her posture a bit. She turned to face him and Quino moved forward until they were an arm’s length apart.

     “I think you should go on a date with me,” he said. Tall and muscular, with movie star good looks and a friendly personality, it had long been established that Quino could have any woman he wanted. In fact, in all the years Ryder had known him no woman had ever refused a date with him.

    “That is never going to happen,” Savannah said. “But thanks for the offer.”

    Ryder was pretty sure his jaw hit the ground. He tried to cover it up by taking a long sip of coffee, but seriously -- Holy Shit! – no one ever said no to Joaquin Solis. He thought his friend might be embarrassed to have crashed and burned in front of him. 

    Nope. Quite the opposite. Quino looked at him as if to say Her. I’ll take her. Ryder had the abrupt epiphany that his world had just gotten infinitely more complicated. This had to be nipped. Immediately!

October 2019

So, how about it, Reds and Readers, how do you prefer your meets between characters - cute, snarky, or other?

What We're Writing - Jenn McKinlay

Jenn McKinlay: Technically, what I'm writing is Buried to the Brim, the next London Hat Shop mystery (2020), but I'm also writing the publicity posts for The Good Ones a bookstore rom-com (Feb 2019), finalizing the page proofs on Dying For Devil's Food, the next Cupcake Bakery mystery (May 2019), copyediting Word to the Wise the next Library Lover's mystery (Sept 2019), writing the proposal for One for the Books, the next-next Library Lover's mystery (2020), revising The Christmas Keeper, the second bookstore rom-com (Oct 2019), and working on a top-secret super special project completely out of my wheelhouse. So, what I'm writing is...well, it's complicated!

After much dithering, I decided to share the opener to Dying for Devil's Food, mostly because I just received the cover art, after much angst on the artist's part, and I have to say it is fantastic!

May 2019!!!

As the New York Times bestselling series continues, it's going to take every recipe the Fairy Tale Cupcake crew has to whip up a quick defense for Mel Cooper when her high school reunion goes from a cake walk to a car wreck...

Chapter One

     “Squeee!”

     At the screechy noise, Melanie Cooper squeezed her pastry bag too tight and frosting shot out of the tip into a big glob on top of the cupcake she was decorating for a wedding the next day.

     “Angie DeLaura, what was that?” she asked. She blew her blond bangs off her forehead as she glared at her business partner, who had just come running through the swinging doors from the front of the bakery into the kitchen where Mel was working.

      “That’s Angie Harper to you, and…” she paused to strike a pose and fan herself with a large envelope and fancy looking invitation, before she continued, “to everyone else we graduated high school with fifteen years ago.”

     “Huh?” Mel frowned at her recently married, petite brunette friend.

     “Our fifteen-year reunion,” Angie said. She pointed to the envelope in her hand. “It’s coming up and guess who they want to bake cupcakes for it?”

     Mel stared at her childhood friend and business partner. How could she put this as tactfully and delicately as possible?

     “No.” Mel used a rubber spatula to scrape the glob off the ruined cupcake and flicked it into the large garbage bin to her right.

     “What?” Angie froze in mid-fan. “What do you mean, no?”

     “I have no intention of baking cupcakes for those people,” Mel said. 

     She bent over the cake in front of her. It was a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting. She was keeping it simple and working the frosting in a thick smooth swirl that she then sprinkled with small red hearts. Just the thought of going to her high school reunion made her want to mainline the frosting and shove a whole cupcake into her mouth like a boss.

     “But…but,” Angie stammered. It was clear she hadn’t anticipated this sort of response, which boggled Mel, but she continued on.

     “No buts,” she said. “You’re welcome to go to our reunion but I refuse.”

     “Mel, I don’t think you’re grasping the big picture here.”

     “Oh, I’m grasping it and I’m tossing it away.”

     “But look at us,” Angie said. She swung her arms wide to encompass the kitchen and beyond. “We’re hugely successful. We have franchises all over the country. That gives us a moral imperative to show up at our reunion.”

     “No.”

     “Mel, I know there were some people who hurt your feelings back in the day—“

     “Hurt my feelings?” Mel straightened up. She grabbed a pinch of heart shaped sprinkles and didn’t sprinkle them so much as threw them onto the freshly piped frosting. She stared at her friend. “Angie, they called me ‘Melephant,’ they bullied me about my weight, and Cassidy Havers, in particular, wrote my name in all of the boys’ bathrooms with my phone number. She was vicious and mean and cruel and if I never see her again, it will be too soon.”

     “She’s Cassidy Havers-Griffin now,” Angie said.

     “Griffin?” 

     “Yes, as in Daniel Griffin.”

     “She married Danny?” Mel asked. She felt her old high school crush spread its wings and rise out of the ashes of her adolescent heart like a phoenix. “When?”

     “A couple of years ago,” Angie said. “I think you were in Paris at culinary school at the time.”

     “And you didn’t mention it?” 

     Angie just looked at her and Mel nodded. Yeah, she wouldn’t have told Angie if her high school crush had gotten married either. Oh, wait, her crush had been Tate Harper and he had gotten married six months ago. To Angie.

     “But you’re going to marry Joe,” Angie said. “And you had a much deeper and longer lasting crush on Joe than on Danny, right?”

     “Well, of course, but I can’t believe he married her,” Mel said. She shuddered. “I mean he was captain of the basketball team and totally out of my league in high school, and she was the homecoming queen so I guess it makes sense, but I always hoped he’d meet someone…”

     Mel’s voice trailed off. She was not going to say it out loud.

     “More like you?” Angie guessed.

     This was the problem with besties, they knew you too well.

***

So, who gets iced at the high school reunion? Yeah, I'm not telling. You'll have to read the book to find out ;-)         

Now how about you, Reds and Readers, are you a fan of high school reunions, or not so much?

ABOUT A DOG is Out Today or How Did I Get Here?

My editor: “You’re going to need to write sex scenes.”

Me: “That’s cool. I like sex.”

My editor: Blink, blink.

Me: “Aaaand that came out wrong.”

It was June of 2015. I was in NYC, shopping for a new agent. This go round I wanted to actually meet the agents under consideration. You know, make eye contact, check out the grip of their handshake, examine their office, the whole shebang. I had quit my part-time job the year before, as the writing thing was moving from hobby to career, and I felt like I needed to treat it accordingly.

While meeting and greeting agents, I also took the time to visit my editor in her lair. It was pretty cool to walk into the building, get through some intense security and arrive at the floor where my editor resided. There were a few things that were “off” however. Apparently, the latest merger was causing some serious restructuring to happen. As I walked through the offices, I noticed most of the staff were in the process of packing. Huh.

Several years prior, I had survived the personnel gutting that had happened in the city of Phoenix. I remembered what it felt like (awful) and I was beginning to have the same hinky feelings at my publisher’s office. The writers’ rumor mill had been grinding out tales of market saturation, and authors’ series being canceled, etc. and so forth for many months. I'd heard the rumors but didn’t take heed until I stood there amidst the boxes.

View from the top of the Empire State Bldg
on the same trip.

So, while enjoying the view from my editor’s window, I asked her point blank what else she felt I could write because suddenly the need to diversify felt imperative. She didn’t hesitate. She turned to her floor to ceiling bookcase and pulled five books that she then pushed across the desk at me.

“This. You can write this,” she said.

I looked at the pile. They were romantic comedies. Oh, the irony! You see my journey as an author began writing romantic comedies (one of my very favorite genres) for Harlequin back in the aughts. It hadn’t gone well. In short, I was fired. But if my editor, who at this point had been with me for thirty books, felt I could do this then…maybe? I decided to give the genre a go.

Life was happening pretty fast for me at this point. My oldest hooligan was starting high school, and I was in deep, deep denial. Writing a romantic comedy gave me an outlet for all of the feels I couldn’t dump all over him. After spending a month thinking about the plot and writing an outline, I wrote 450 pages in thirty days. Crazy, right?

My new agent, who had signed me to be a mystery writer, got a manuscript dumped on her that she had no idea was coming. Surprise! The best part of this was when she read the manuscript and declared, “You wrote a perfect book!” This confirmed my decision to hire her, which actually came about because when I stopped by her office, she’d had cupcakes made to match the cover of my last book. Yes, that tipped the scale because details matter!

Annie the day I found her.

That surprise book is ABOUT A DOG, a romantic comedy based upon my own experience of rescuing a puppy (our Annie) who I had found tossed out in an alley, except the characters are younger, prettier, funnier, and a smidgeon less neurotic than I am -- but just a smidgeon. In a nutshell, it's about going home, shenanigans, stray puppy dogs, mischievous elderly aunts, big laughs, shared tears, hot sex, and falling unexpectedly in love. 

So, that's how I got here, releasing ABOUT A DOG to the world. It's pretty exciting. It was definitely a challenge not to shove a dead body into the middle of the book but I refrained. And now, as in all writing endeavors, I have to sit back and see how this new genre fits me. Am I fraught with anxiety? Yes, but it's the good kind. In the meantime, I've been noodling around a really cool idea for a YA...

Now, how about you, Reds? Do you have any genres that are lurking just beneath the surface, looking to get out? What would you do if your publisher told you they wanted to see something different from you?

To celebrate the release of ABOUT A DOG, let's have a giveaway! Leave a comment and one lucky person will be randomly chosen to win a signed copy of the book, a tote bag, and swag!  Good Luck!