Monday's Inspiration: What to Give the Writer Who Has Everything (In Their Imagination).

Have a writer on your Christmas gift list? Stuck for ideas? That’s not surprising, considering you’re dealing with a person who can have anything he or she wants – in their imagination, of course!

But buying for writer friends or family needn’t be a chore. And it needn’t be expensive, either. Of course, the latest word processing programmes, computer technology, a library full of books or a year’s rental on a retreat to a villa in France, would all be welcome gifts. Bear in mind that the latter could be very pricey indeed, because most of us writers are broke much of the time so you’d definitely have to throw in air fare and stock the place with food.

But for more realistic purposes, here are a few writer pleasing ideas.

1)     Fancy pens, pencils, cute notebooks, or other desktop gadgets. Sure, we know we’re in the age of high tech, but there’s nothing like the allure of a clean, virginal page or a fancy new gel pen.

 

2)     A really good diary with at least a page per day for notes. Or more than a page, to help keep track of word counts, deadlines, book signings, talk events, submission dates, etc.

 

3)     The online version of The Writer’s Market.

 

4)     The online version of Writer’s Digest

 

5)     A comfy cushion for the desk chair – you’d be amazed just how numb one’s posterior can get after a few hours of typing madly, butt in chair….

 

6)     One of those little desk puzzles, to give the brain a break from words. Careful with the choice, though – nothing too difficult. Writers are all too familiar with failure, and not being able to do the Rubik’s Cube, for example, can begin a slow slide into depression as fast as any rejection letter.

 

7)     A pair of those woolly fingerless gloves, for typing when the power is out – or has been cut off – and there’s no heat.

 

8)     Woolly socks with tops that will fit over flannel pajama bottoms.

 

9)     Flannel pajama bottoms.

 

10)  A gift card for Starbucks or Tim Horton’s, so that your writer won’t get black looks after sitting in the warm café for hours, typing without buying…..

11)   Probably the very best gift for a writer costs nothing: Time. Yes, time to write without interruption is such a gift! Be a friend. Don’t take offence when your writer buddy rolls her eyes at your suggestions that the two of you go out, when you know she’s on deadline. Offer to take the kids for a couple of hours, cook a meal, pick up groceries, dry cleaning, kids from school. Don’t talk for hours on the phone. Listen when she needs a sounding board, otherwise give her some space.

 

Trust me, she or he will eventually emerge from the writing cave, eager and ready for human interaction again……one the writing is done. Until the next book, of course….

 

 

All About Winters & Somers - My Irish Detective Novel.

Irish PI, Cíara Somers, makes a good living testing the ‘temptability quotient’ of men for their insecure lovers…but when NY homicide cop and author of red hot romances, Jonathon Winters, makes her take him on as a partner in her Dublin agency, he gets the wrong message from her raunchy style . . . especially when he wants her for himself.
Somers isn’t the type to let a man push her around – the incorrigible Grannie Somers raised her to be her own woman. But when she discovers that even Grannie drools over the sexy Winters, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to indulge in one of the fantasies that have millions of women reading his romantic books.
And when Somers finally gets her first real case – to capture the notorious jewel thief dubbed The Diamond Darling – she has to survive the help of her weird relatives, the landlady from hell, two stoned friends, a stray dog – and Winters himself . . .

Cíara Somers prowled among the top drawer clientele of the exclusive Dublin nightclub, her scarlet lips pursed in a sexy pout.

When a hearty male hand slapped her bum, she clamped down on her instinctive reaction to impale the man’s foot to the shiny wooden floors with her wicked four-inch stiletto heel. Instead, she cracked a sultry smile and batted her dark eyelashes provocatively.

After all, she was working tonight. And you could hardly blame the poor darlings. Frankly, any man who didn’t respond to her artfully designed siren’s call had to be dead. At least from the neck down.

The nightclub catered to very rich business and professional Dubliners – the place positively reeked of money – but she was after a specific fish, so it wouldn’t do for a woman like her to draw too much attention to herself. If the eagle-eyed club management copped on to what she was up to, she’d be thrown out on her mini-skirted rear end.

She spotted her prey over by the bar, drinking alone and looking sorry for himself. Bingo! He looked exactly ready for the company of a beautiful, sympathetic blonde. Straightening her back to accentuate the rounded swell of her breasts, Cíara sashayed up to the bar with a hip-sway that would raise any healthy hetero male’s blood pressure off the charts.

She leaned on the bar, the action pressing her cleavage into a picture that instantly mesmerized the barman and several other men. But here was the tricky part – to attract only the one she wanted.

Attracting him wasn’t hard at all. The tall, thin man on her right turned his head to follow the barman’s gaze – and was hooked immediately. Slowly, his eyes traveled from her chest to linger on her mouth, before taking a slow detour to her toes while taking in other vital areas along the way.

“Well, hello there,” he growled. A wolfish smile lit up his face and he treated her to a display of crooked teeth. She suppressed a shudder. This was work, after all, but just occasionally it would be nice to work on a guy she really fancied.

Later she’d remember the old saying about being careful what you wished for in case it came true, but tonight she was just another working girl.

So she returned the smile, twitching her lower lip into that full ruby pout that men found so irresistible. She let a wave of blonde hair fall forward over one eye as she languidly stretched out a sun-tanned hand and drew a blood-red fingernail down his shirtfront.

“Hello, yourself,” she purred, and watched with satisfaction as he swallowed the bait.

Thirty minutes later, she extricated herself from her target’s roaming hands, giggled throatily and excused herself with the need to powder her nose.

“Don’t be too long, baby, I’m having a hard time waiting!” he leered, and gave her an indulgent slap on her behind as she walked away. Cíara turned to wink at him and blow a scarlet-lipped kiss in his direction.

He’d already invited her back to his place for a nightcap ‘…and whatever else we fancy!’

Shockingly, Yes, This Is Me, Praising Winter....

I live in 'cottage country' in Ontario. We have lots of temporary residents & tourists in the summertime, and then in the winter many of our friends head south to escape the snow and ice.

In the spring and summer we have bugs as big as pterodactyls, and the humidity is something else again.  I do love the fall, when the leaves in this wooded area put on their beauty pageant.

But I like winter. Yes, I do. Ironically, I don’t do winter sports – Did you ever see that Disney film about Bambi? Remember Bambi on ice, when the poor little critter was slipping& sliding everywhere? Well, that's me. Can't keep my balance to save my, er, dignity. I did try cross-country skiing once, but it was too embarrassing to watch the four and five year olds skiing past me as I sat on my rear in the snow, skis pointing skywards…

So what, you may ask, makes me sing the praises of winter?

Well, aside from the sheer beauty of it all, there's a serious snowstorm coming in – they say it will be a bad one. Tomorrow's trip to Ottawa will be white knuckled at times, and we'll bless every snow plow we meet. Sometimes the bad weather wipes out our satellite internet connection, possibly for as long as several days. Yes, I hate that – oh, but all the extra time I find in my day…

And it's quiet. I'm sitting here now, in my office, and watching the snow which started as a few flurries, gaining in strength until it becomes a thick curtain which will almost obscure the chicken coop on the other side of the driveway.

And I am writing. This is my first blog in months. My first writing in months. There has been a lot going on in life, distractions good and bad, that have meant taking some sort of action. Now, with the snow building, it's quiet and peaceful. All the worries and pleasures demanding attention have to be set aside – everything comes to a halt.

It's cozy and quiet in my tiny office with the huge window looking out onto the landscape that's rapidly changing into a winter wonderland. There are three cats sleeping on the pillows beside me, the computer is working - the power hasn't gone off yet - and I've a hot cup of tea right here...

It's peaceful and did I say how good it feels to be writing again at last?

                                                                                                                            

 

When Did You Know You Were a Writer?

There are probably as many answers to this question as there are writers! It's something that has interested me for a long time.

And the question that goes with it, is what makes a person a writer? Some argue that only writing fiction makes a writer. Others say writing books. Novellas.

Some argue that writing for commerce, such as copy writing, advertising writing, web content, business emails, landing pages, grant writing, publicity... all these, too, are writing. journalists are, without question, people who write.But are the people who do them actually writers?

And do they harbor a closet ambition to one day be a "real" writer, with a stack of books to their names?

Because isn't that what most of us think of as being a writer - someone who writes books, whether fact or fiction?

You'll laugh at this - I wrote my first essay as an angry (and perhaps precautious) four year old. I'd been told at Sunday school that God forgives everyone. Then one Sunday, the teacher told us all that there was a Hell for sinners, a horrible place.

And my four year old self couldn't get the discrepancy out of my mind. Would an all-loving, all forgiving God throw badly behaved kids intro the flames?

Why, or course not. I filled several pages of my tiny notebook, and handed them in.

My Sunday school teacher was not impressed. I dropped out soon after that...:-)

So, for a while, my writing was confined to school work. But I read newspapers voraciously from the age of seven or so, and I so admired the men and women whose words filled those pages. I did apply for a Fleet Street - the London, England, Mecca for journalists - job on a national newspaper. They kindly suggested I try again when I was a little older and had some journalistic experience....

So I started small, persuading our local newspaper editor to hire me. He didn't think women were cut out to be journalists, told me he'd give me six months trial and then I'd be out. That was a challenge I eagerly accepted when I was 17. After three months, he paid for my college courses and I became one of the youngest senior reporters around.

I worked for a number of publications, national magazines, etc., after that.

But there was an itch I couldn't scratch, even with the best of stories.

Until one day I sat down and started to write a book.

And that was that.

With some breaks due to work, travel, health problems, children, all the usual stuff that everyone has to deal with, I have been writing steadily.

I've written mysteries, romantic suspense, romance, children's books, books on mental health and on travel. I even wrote a book on writing: Naked Writing, The No Frills Way to Write Your Book.

And have no problem now in answering the question "What do you do?" by happily saying:"I'm a published writer."

So, I'd love to hear your views on what makes a writer - and how you came to be one!