TRUE CONFESSIONS - MARGARET TANNER

THE BLIND DATE

In my late teens in the 1960’s, I worked for a large government department in a typing pool with about twenty girls in it. Yes, I am that old.  I started off with a manual typewriter and we had to type up an original and four carbon copies of every report or letter we did. I used to arrive home every night with black carbon marks on my sleeve. And don’t get me started on the woes of changing a typewriter ribbon.  But I digress.

In those times in the typing pool, a blind date was a thing of ridicule. You were looked upon as desperate because you couldn’t find a man of your own, and had to rely on some other girl’s generosity to introduce you to her brother, her boyfriend’s mate etc.

Anyway, every year there was an annual ball/formal dance, and if you didn’t attend, you were socially ruined. It was then public knowledge that you couldn’t get yourself a man.

My girlfriend and I cringed when everyone else was discussing their ball gown etc. and we hadn’t even been asked. Well, our fear of missing out on the ball and the subsequent humiliation led us to contemplate a desperate plan - the blind date. She lined me up with the guy living across the road from her, and I lined her up with my cousin who had just broken up with his girlfriend.

We had a great time at the ball, and no-one ever knew our dark and deadly secret, we had attended in the company of our blind dates.

My cousin ended up going back to his girlfriend, and I ended up marrying my blind date.

I have written two novels, set during the 1960’s, Reluctant Father, and Make Love Not War.

http://www.amazon.com/Make-Love-Not-War-ebook/dp/B0094WQOPU/ref=sr_1_12?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1346642917&sr=1-12&keywords=margaret+tanner

 

http://www.amazon.com/Reluctant-Father-ebook/dp/B00433THD6/ref=sr_1_12?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359678332&sr=1-12&keywords=Margaret+Tanner

True Confessions ... Wish I Lived Here

Aloha! I'm so pleased to be the newest Genre-ista.

I'm just as pleased to be writing my FIRST post from
Kihei, Maui, Hawaii.

'Aue! It's 87 degrees here at the Kihei Beach Condos on Sugar Beach, but with the lovely breeze you'd never know it. The air feels like a kiss, soft and humid. Smells like the sea, warm earth and flowers. Sounds like surf  surging on the beach just off our lanai, bird calls (mostly chickens living in the brush across Kihei Road, lol), the occasional Harley roaring past and happy kids playing on the condo lawn and beach.

This vacation is a gift from my in-laws. (Thanks, folks. Love ya bunches) Otherwise I'd be in the middle of a Montana snowstorm--brrr! Rather be here, typing away in my damp swimsuit while I sip iced tea. Not quite time for mai tais, 'cause we're several hours behind you folks on da mainland.

This morning we snorkeled, got nose to nose with two big sea turtles and a number of tropical fishes. Then it was time to hit the local farm stand for pineapple and other fresh fruit and veggies, and back here for lunch.  Some careful suntanning, 'cause it's easy to fry our pale haole, Caucasian hides here in the first few days. Strenuous schedule, I know, but someone has to do it.

Wish I lived here. I mean, I could seriously do this full time. Never too hot, never cold. Always beautiful. But since that's not really in the forecast for the DH and me, I will just keep doing the next best thing! You guessed it--writing stories set here in paradise so I can relive my vacations here and on da Big Island, and YOU can pretend you live here too.

Ready? Let's drop in on the Ho'omalu ohana, family, in Nawea Bay, south Kona, Big Island. It's a small, private beach enclave that's been in the ohana for as long as there have been Ho'omalus on Hawaii. Ho'omalu means guardian in Hawaiian, so it was the perfect name for my Hawaiian Heroes, a family of powerful warriors tasked by the goddess Pele herself with keeping her island safe while she slumbers, deep beneath her volcano, Kilauea.

Book 1

Book 2

In this contemporary series, brothers David and Daniel and their cousins Bella and Leilani discover they have powers gifted to them from Pele herself. David can bring to life the fiery lava of the volcano. Daniel can call upon the denizens of the deep, from the friendly nai'a, dolphins to the not-so-friendly mano, tiger sharks.

Book 3

Bella discovers that the plants and trees of the forest obey her, while Leilani has rain, wind and lightning in her fingertips. They use their powers to battle vicious drug smugglers and ruthless land developers, both very real problems in Hawaii.

Kind of a Hawaiian mixed plate, yeah? And did I mention they're all dead sexy? Kinda goes without saying if you've ever read one of my stories. If you haven't ... pack your heat proof bikini, wahine!

Visit my website for excerpts, reviews and more @ http://www.cathryncade.com

Although the Ho'omalus are not a real ohana, they've become real to me. I fell in love with David, Daniel, Joel and Jack, heroes every one. I suffered along with Melia, Claire as they struggled to find their place in Hawaii as women in love with heroes, and Bella and Leilani as heroes themselves, wielding powers that terrify and exhilarate them. All of them living in paradise, here on Earth.

So if you could live anywhere, where would it be? The tropics, the mountains, a houseboat, the wild west, or even a desert? I'd love to know.

Leave a comment, and I'll enter you to win a FREE ebook from me. Your choice of one my 3 Hawaiian Heroes available now. Book 4, Burning up the Rain debuts next month, Jack and Leilani's story

Be sure and leave your email so I can contact you!

best,
Cathryn Cade

... red hot romance!

Goodreads, My Website, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest,

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Putting yourself in a book

"Do you put yourself into your books?"

That's a common question directed to authors. "Is that character you?" "Where did you get the inspiration for Character X?" "Is that smarmy villain really your ex?" Oh, and the big one: "How do you rehearse your sex scenes?"

Honestly. It's as if no one in human history ever made anything up. News flash: we're writers. We're paid to make stuff up. Our careers would be short and rather sad if we had to stick to the truth.

So, just for the record: none of my heroines is me. Not the world-weary succubus sex slave. Not the fairy diamond thief, or the kick-ass banshee gangster girl. Not even the atheist medical examiner or the crafty vampire angel-slayer or the sexy interstellar secret agent.

It would be cool to be these people. As much as I would love to be as awesome and kick-ass as the lady on this book cover? Uh. No.

And – sorry, honey – none of my heroes is my husband. Nor are they any of my exes. As for how I rehearse my sex scenes… well, maybe I have a posse of sexy fairies and hot angel warriors chained in my basement. You'll just have to use your imagination.

However.

They say (yeah, They. You know Them, right?) that every writer has a 'core story'. A theme we return to over and again, possibly without even realizing it. The question or problem or heartfelt grievance that drives us to be a story-teller in the first place.

My core story seems to be the person inside. Or possibly the evil within. I haven't figured it out yet. But most of my stories feature a character who chooses to be – or is forced to be – something they're not. Someone with voices in their head, or a reckless inner impulse, or a second self that tempts them to do bad things. Who knows the difference between right and wrong, but for some reason walks the darker path.

Perhaps they're all possessed by this guy... Bob from Twin Peaks

Where the hell does this come from? I have no idea. I don't hear voices. I'm not bipolar or ethically challenged or possessed by a demon. I'm not suppressing an evil inner self (bwahaha… I tell you that) or groaning under a yoke of personal oppression, at least no more than any other white, college-educated, comfortably middle-class woman drowning in the tasty chocolate milkshake of her first-world problems.

But for some reason, over and again, I return to this theme of duplicity. Perhaps my stories understand me better than I understand myself. Maybe all of us really are two people: the one we show the world, and the one we secretly want to be.

Or maybe this theme has nothing to do with me, and it's just fun to write about.

Yeah. That must be it. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Do you find yourself choosing books to read that have the same theme, over and over? If you're a writer: what's your core story, and what are the different ways you've dealt with it?

P.S. a treat for paranormal and urban fantasy lovers: my sexy vampire romance short story Hunter's Blood is currently reduced to $0.99 on Kindle and Nook!

A powerful young vampire demon-huntress teams up with a legendary slayer to rid their city of soul-munching demons – but he's already broken her heart once. Will he betray her again in his burning quest for revenge? 

Demon-slaying, magic spells, action and hot romance. Awesome. Check it out!

Confession: I was wrong. You can go back.

by Christy Carlyle

My true confession? I confess that I was wrong when I moved away from home thirteen years ago. Now, I

don’t regret my experiences of the last few years, and I have certainly enjoyed living in Oregon, one of the most beautiful states in the union. However, my reasons for leaving were probably wrong-headed, and my belief that I would never go back has been proven total fallacy, given the fact that I’ve spent the last week moving back across the country. Back to where I started. Back home.

Born and raised in a relatively small town in northwest Indiana, I spent my twenties thinking that my hometown was too small to contain me. I had big dreams, big goals, and I needed to spread my wings and fly. I considered a couple of different states. Texas is big, so that seemed like a good choice. Oregon is beautiful, and something about the reputed vibe of Portland drew me in. After a trip to visit the state, I was in love and moved a couple of months later.

With a foolhardy and absolute belief that “everything would work out,” I packed whatever I considered essential and could fit into my Toyota Corolla. A friend I’d made in Portland flew out to Chicago and helped me share the driving burden as we traversed the country back to the west coast. Within a week, I’d found work through a temp agency and soon had my own apartment. The years flew by and, for most of those years, I was determined never to move back to Indiana again. The very notion felt like a step backwards.

In the last couple of years, I experienced more personal challenges than in my whole life put together. Losses and the death of family members, dashed hopes, and a complete recalibration of life goals caused a change of heart in me. I visited home last year and the year before and began to see, not just what I’d gotten away from, but what I had missed. Cousins seemed to have sprouted like the corn stalks that grow so plentifully in the Midwest. Family members had gotten older, and I had missed out on so many holiday get-togethers, cookouts, and thirteen years of birthdays.

It was surprisingly easy to make the decision to return to my hometown, even after so many years of insistence that I wouldn't  The actual moving part wasn't easy. It was much harder to go back than it was to leave, but I feel that I've come back for the right reasons. And I acknowledge that I might have left for the wrong reasons. I was wrong to think I would never, could never go back. You can go back, and sometimes it’s just where you’re meant to be.

Did you leave your hometown or is that where you'll always stay? If you've left, would you ever go back?

True Confessions?!?

True Confessions

Childhood

When I was a child of five or six years old I idolized Hop a Long Cassidy.  I had my horse, actually my bike, and a white cowgirl hat.  One day, instead of watching Hop a Long, the family watched a show that might have been Twilight Zone.  All I remember is the hero was blind and yet could “see” with his mind.  He didn’t run into furniture or get hit by cars. 

This seemed an awesome talent to have.  Could anyone have this talent?  I ran a test on myself.  I put on my white cowgirl hat and hopped on my bike, closed my eyes and promptly ran into a clothesline pole and fell off my bike.  Theory tested and disproved!

Teen years

I tested another theory: since my mom can’t drive a car, she can’t go looking for me.  At thirteen years old this was a wonderful revelation.  Rode my horse, ah bike, fifteen miles across Sunnyvale, CA to Stevens Creek Park, and spent the day with friends there and rode home about seven hours later.

I didn’t quite make it home when there’s mom two footing it around the corner, madder than Hades.  Theory tested and disproved, moms will search for you even if they don’t have a car.  And believe me, seven hours with friends at a park, not worth the punishment meted out by mom!

Adult

I have no theories that I’ve tested as an adult.  But I do have a true confession; I’ve developed an addiction of sorts.  I love watching live courtroom drama.  Not the Judge Judy kind, but the murder trials. 

I make sure I have lunch around twelve o’clock and turn on HLN and watch the lawyers and the witnesses, etc.  It’s so interesting.  Court t.v. is research, isn’t it?  For writing?  That’s what I’m saying, and I’m sticking to it.

Do you have any childhood theories you tested out?  Do you enjoy live courtroom t.v.?