I’ve been wracking my pea-brain for a blog topic, and yesterday something happened that gave me an idea. I belong to my local chapter of Romance Writers of America, and we meet the second Saturday of each month. I’m the treasurer, so that means I have to attend—physically that is. I spend a lot of time in my head, and meetings involving a lot of sitting and being talked at usually send me into my own daydreams. Vaguely aware, I knew the group was talking about libraries and providing a presence to promote our organization and writing in general. Someone said something about our published authors, and someone else mentioned my name. Huh? I kind of came out of my imaginary world to listen, and that’s when everything for this blog clicked into place. Bear with me. This is more circuitous than linear.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had this romanticized notion about the birth. First, I was certain I was carrying a boy. I bought all kinds of overalls, cowboy pajamas, and boy stuff. Second, I was convinced that the moment my baby was born, there would be this instant recognition and bonding. After all, the child grew inside my body, and I anticipated the birth moment with great longing. I was the kind of expectant mother who held conversations with my unborn. I wrote letters even. Yep. I was that mom-to-be.
Reality. After seventy-two hours of labor. Yes, you heard right. We went the mid-wife route, and they are reluctant to intervene with the process unless mother or child are compromised. Anyway, after seventy-two hours of labor, my daughter was born. Due to the prolonged labor, her face was smooshed flat, and her tiny head had taken on a comical cone shape. I held her in my arms for the first time, gazed at her, and the first thing that popped into my head was, “Who the hell are you?”
There was no moment of instant recognition. Though we bonded, I can’t say that I knew her at all. In fact, I’m still getting to know her, and she’s a grown woman with a husband and a home of her own.
What does this have to do with my debut novel, HEART OF THE DRUID LAIRD?
I had this romanticized notion about what I’d feel like once I was finally published. During that meeting on Saturday when my name was mentioned in conjunction with published authors, I didn’t immediately see myself as part of that group. I realized I don’t feel any different at all. I don’t think of myself as “published” versus “non-published.” My friends and family certainly don’t treat me any differently. I still have all the angst I had prior to publication, only the angst subject matter has changed. Now it’s—can I stay published? What if my books really suck? Before it was—will I ever get published? What if my books really suck?
Hah! I’m still the same insecure geek who spends way too much time in my head. Being published hasn’t changed me at all.
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Cursed with immortality, Dermot MacKay craves death. To lift the faerie curse placed upon him and his men over 1,600 years ago, he must return the soul of his reincarnated wife to the exact place and time of her murder. But her soul is currently residing in the very modern Sidney St. George—and first he has to convince her to accompany him to Scotland.
Sidney doesn’t believe Dermot’s wild claims of immortality and rebirth, yet she cannot deny that she is drawn to the sexy Scot. Nor can she explain the sense of déjà vu his touch elicits. Desperate for answers, she agrees to go with him—only to learn too late that to help the man she loves is to lose him forever…