Another Book Cover

I just ran across the French version of OUR LITTLE SECRET online, my second book.  This was my least favorite book cover.  I like the French version much better, even though the picture has almost nothing to do with the story.  (When do they ever?)   Except come on, France, couldn't you make my name a little bigger?

Who Should I Kill, and Does He Wear Medium or Large?

I came out of my writing-coma long enough today to do some Christmas shopping.  I was only partially successful - it's hard to dispel the voices in my head.  They keep having conversations as I'm browsing the clothing department, trying out new plot directions.  While I'm running down my gift list they nudge me and whisper, "What if you gave the hero a dog?" 

But most distracting of all, they experiment with the climactic ending.  This is my own fault - I wrote my whole synopsis, except for the very end of the book.  Then I went shopping.  Stupid move!  I've set up several characters to be the ultimate bad guy, and now that it's time to reveal him, I'm not sure who it is, and how I will dispose of him.  I can pretend to take a break, but my mind won't let go of this problem.

So next time you're standing in Target selecting new pj's and the person next to you is staring at the racks, lost in thought, it might not be indecision over what size to choose.  She could be thinking about how to kill someone.

SILVER SPARKS in Venice

My latest book is traveling to Venice for the holidays - lucky book!  The trip is courtesy of my friend David, head of international distribution.  The division is looking mighty sinister this year with those leather gloves.

I wonder who will pick it up in Venice, and if some tourist will carry it with them to a new city?  I should put a tracking chip in these things!

It Must Be The Economy

Nikita is a saver.  If she were human, she'd have a nice passbook savings account and a 401K.  Since she's a dog, the most valuable things she owns are treats.  When we leave the house and lock her in her cage, she gets a dog bisquit.  It's always there when we get home. 

Then it vanishes.  But I soon found where she banks her treasures - in my furniture cushions.  This is the chair in my living room.  Notice the back right corner.

And the chair in my family room, same place:

This one I can't explain.  I saw the broken piece of bisquit on the floor, and tossed it onto the pillow with the other one.  Nikita came by a minute later, examined the arrangement, and moved it right back to the floor where it had been.  I'm obviously missing some instrinsic value here, but it might have something to do with diversifying her portfolio.  Everyone knows you shouldn't put all your money in one place.  Or all your bisquits.

Hot Enough For You?

Ah, the expectations of reviewers when they open a romance book!  It's a mysterious thing.

The love story is a given.  The variable is sex.   More politely, the "level of sensuality."  Translation:  Will they kiss with flushed cheeks and yearning in their hearts?  Or will their naked, sweaty coupling knock the pictures off the walls and violate state ethics laws, possibly before exchanging names?  There are no guidelines.  No scale that says if he puts his tongue in her mouth it's a 4, and if they invite the neighbors to join them, it's a 9. 

So let's be daring and quantify it.  On that imaginary scale of 10, I'd say I come in at a 6.  But that's just my interpretation.  Here are a few reviewers' takes on my newly-released book, SILVER SPARKS:

"Hot."

"Would have liked the heat level to be turned up a couple of notches."  This reviewer laments that there is no sex until the middle of the book, and then "they never really did it again."  I disagree, but let's just say she obviously subscribes to the Bill Clinton definition of sex.

"Plenty of sizzle."

"It didn't get steamy towards the middle overall."

"The sparks fly...it will have you wanting an icy cold drink nearby."

"Ambrose is excellent at the love scenes without making it erotic."

So do you get an idea of what to expect?  Not sure?  Don't blame the reviewers, they can only judge based on their own expectations.  You'll just have to read it and decide for yourself.  (Golly, who would have guessed I'd come to that conclusion?)

Sincere thanks to the many reviewers for telling readers about SILVER SPARKS!  Whether they yawned through the sex scenes, or fanned themselves vigorously, they all loved the book, and I love them in return!

Wham! Hello Winter!

When I went to bed, the lawn was green and the trees were brown.  When I woke up, the world had gone brilliant white:

But if you asked the chickens, they wouldn't agree.  Snow clings to chicken wire, turning their world dark.  This is what they saw when they looked into their yard:

I left the light on all day for the chickens.  For the horses, snow on top of dirt that hasn't had a chance to freeze, equals mud.  Every step will churn it up more. 

I might be the only one who thought the first snow was pretty.

Watching the Watch Dog

That's Nikita in her cage, with her cat buddy, Harley the Fearless The cage is a permanent fixture in my family room.  This is NOT my idea of chic home decor. 

Nikita's not there because I told her to go there.  She likes her cage.

When we adopted Nikita at one year old we were her fourth home.  She was insecure, ignorant of boundaries, and only half-housebroken, and had to be confined when left alone, like a puppy.  I thought it would be a temporary situation.  Hahahaha, I can be so naive!

Whenever I put my shoes on or jingle my keys, Nikita runs to the cage.  If I don't get there to close the door soon enough, she bounces back out, watching me and making false moves toward the cage, tail wagging.  Making sure I don't forget to lock her in.  Because my job is to protect her.

But if anyone ever breaks in, man, watch out for Harley.  She's tough, and she's not locked up.

Writing, with Restrictions

Writing chapter two with TC.  If I just avoid using P,O, K, L, and M the story moves along fine.

MRI of an Author's Brain

I haven't been posting.  I haven't done much of anything, due to one all-consuming obsession - I've started a new book.  (Bet you thought it was another Rock!)

This is how the process works for me.  I figure out who the main characters will be and what their conflicts are, both with each other and their own internal conflicts.  Then I plot a story around that.  It's all pretty vague, and the whole mess churns around in my brain until I have a feel for what the first scene will be.  Then I start writing.  That's where I am now, fifteen pages into it.

If you could see inside my mind, it would look exactly like this:

That swirling fog is trying to coalesce into a story.  See the dark spot on the left?  That's chapter one.  It's solid and sure - stuff happening, characters interacting, tension set up.  It's reaching short tentacles into the confusing mess behind it, trying to find the right elements to pull together for chapter two.

 

See the small yellowish dot in the lower right portion, the itty bitty spot that's barely visible in my mind?  That's the rest of my life.  Thanksgiving and Christmas are in there, along with family obligations, house cleaning, cooking, and my perpetual list of errands.  Embarrassing, but true.  As that solid core of story gets larger, and the churning mass gets smaller, the tiny yellow spot will grow.  By next April the yellow spot might fill half of my brain and I will be able to pass as human for short periods of time.  Until then, please bear with me.

Summer of Hawks

Early this summer I noticed a man I didn't recognize walking down our road, camera in hand.  A few days later I saw him again on the same stretch of road, just a few houses from mine.  Then again, and again, always with a camera.  He was too obvious to arouse suspicion, but still, it was odd.  He didn't live there, and there's not much to take pictures of except trees and the occasional turkey or deer.  I finally stopped and asked what he was doing.

His name was Dale Hoffman, he lived a mile away, and he was watching two Cooper's Hawks build a nest at the top of a pine tree just off the road.  He pointed it out to me, a huge mass of sticks crowning the tree, but shielded from view by the branches of a larger, dead tree.  He intended to photograph the hawks from egg laying through raising their babies to adulthood. 

He was also standing guard.  The road commission was trimming trees along the power lines, and the hawk's nest was close to where they would be cutting, just when the pair was laying eggs.  Fearing they would abandon the nest, Dale made sure the tree trimmers skirted the area until the young hawks were grown.  They'd have to come back in two months.  He got no argument - Cooper's Hawks are protected in Michigan.

I saw Dale all summer as he kept a daily log in photos of the hawks raising their brood of four chicks.  It turns out Dale is a pretty good photographer (in addition to having long hair, a rugged physique, and abs of steel - or so he says.  He knows I write romance!)  He allowed me to share his photos here.



The adult's wingspan is from two to three feet, the female being larger than the male.
        

All four babies made it to adulthood.