I can't lie, I prefer to be an introverted tech dinosaur. But I love books and talking about them, so the concept of a vlog is kind of appealing in that sense. As a result, here's my first attempt. Feel free to ask questions, make suggestions for books to mention in the next one, etc.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Thursday, May 1, 2014
The Wastes teasers
I have been hard at work on The Wastes, the prequel/companion novel to Nov. 2013 Lace & Lead, and I have to say, I am in love with this story. It's taken me completely by surprise (again).
I'm at 44K words and climbing, with no real end in sight. And I've been so happy with this that I'm gushing about it.
Hence my pretty pictures below...I figured it's time to share!
I'm at 44K words and climbing, with no real end in sight. And I've been so happy with this that I'm gushing about it.
Hence my pretty pictures below...I figured it's time to share!
Monday, April 7, 2014
Mending the Shroud Cover Reveal!
The exciting sequel to Tearing the Shroud is coming July 1, 2014 and here's the cover! Once again Escape Publishing did an amazing job on the artwork and tying the two books together visually. JM is hard at work on the third book, so keep a lookout for it.
When you’ve learned to take possession in stride, love should be easy. Right? It might be if your life and the lives of people you loved weren’t threatened by an invasion of monsters.
Vincent thought saving the world once was a challenge, he didn’t figure on retribution putting a price on his head. It means college takes a back seat again as he’s possessed by Coleman to fight a new battle with the Kafla. But this time he’s not alone, Jule, the woman he loves is also is possessed.
Together they hope to stave off the invasion and take the fight to the Realm, where only a supreme sacrifice can Mend the Shroud and save their worlds.
Together they hope to stave off the invasion and take the fight to the Realm, where only a supreme sacrifice can Mend the Shroud and save their worlds.
About the Author
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J.M. Bray lives in Southern California with his college sweetheart and their two dogs. After a lifetime together, they are happier than the moment they met. When not writing or working his "day job", he loves to cook, play the guitar, and travel with his wife. Every chance he gets, he races an old Porsche named "Tuffy" at tracks in the southwest.
Twitter: @jmbraybooks
Blog: http://blog.jmbray.com
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/JMBray.books
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/jmbraybooks/
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Excerpt from "The Wastes"
One of my current WIPs is the prequel/companion novel to Lace & Lead, the SFR novella that was released last November. For now, the working title of this full length novel is The Wastes, and it's a blast to write.
“She thinks I’m handsome–?”
Talia laughed. “No. She’s saying...she means...your strength...your–” She placed a hand on his chest. “Your soul...comes through your eyes.” She looked up, swallowed. “You have nice eyes.” She stepped back. “That’s what she means.”
“That’s what she means?” Cade asked, his lilt teasing out the emphasis.
“Of course.”
He took a step closer to her, eyes focused on her lips. “And what about you?”
“What about me, Lieutenant Cade?”
His eyes flicked up to hers. “Alex,” he ordered.
His command danced over her skin, sending out goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cool night breeze. Something shifted between them, and the teasing was gone now, leaving a crackling awareness in its wake.
“What did you say when you were answering her? I saw how you looked at me, Talia. I’m willing to feign indifference to a point, but not with that look–”
She didn't realize he’d been forcing her backward until her back hit the cold stone of the abandoned building. “What look?” she asked, confused.
“The one that says you think I could be a hero.” One hand went up against the wall near her face. He leaned into her, his face lowering so they were cheek to cheek. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, refusing to moan from the scent of sweat and sulfur and dirt that clung to him.
“I’m not a hero,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to be.”
“What do you want, Alex?”
“You.”
She tilted her head to see him better. She could see the lust warring with confusion in his eyes, knew that he was just as torn over this...thing that existed between them. “You said you can’t have me.”
“I can’t.”
“The boys–”
“I won’t put your safety over theirs.”
“I wouldn't ask you to.”
“Then tell me what you said to her.”
“It was private.”
“Not anymore.”
“She asked if you were passionate,” Talia said, wishing her cheeks weren't burning.
“Passionate?”
“When we’re...together...”
A lazy smile was spreading. “You’re telling me the tribal elder, who is well over eighty years old, asked you about your sex life?”
“She can still appreciate a handsome man. And women here aren't as prudish as your blue-bloods.”
“Agreed,” he murmured, his other hand playing with the slit of her skirt. “So what did you tell her?”
Talia shifted against the wall and she saw Cade’s jaw tighten as her hip accidentally brushed against his. When had the night become so warm? And why didn't she have more than a thin layer of fabric between her and his touch?
“I told her I didn't know yet.”
A dark, primal hunger sharpened his face and she could hear as his fingers curled and dug harder against the building stone. “Yet.”
“Yet,” she whispered, unable to look away from his mouth.
“But you told her we were together. Is that why no other women gave me a second glance tonight?”
She kept her chin up, refusing to feel embarrassed over the claim she’d put on him. “Perhaps.”
He chuckled at her answer.
“Are you angry that you weren't fawned over like Jenks or Tane?”
“Not at all. Just amused at how alike we are.”
“Oh, are we?”
“I wanted to kill that man who danced with you.” His tone was light, but she heard the steel beneath his words. “And if you’d left the celebration with him, I would have.”
“I wouldn't have left with him.”
“But you left with me.”
“Yes.”
“A poor decision, really.”
“Only if you keep talking.”
His expression became serious. “They can’t know.”
She knew who he meant. “They won’t.”
“If I have to choose, I’ll choose them.”
“Every time.”
They stared at each other for a moment and she murmured, “You can still walk away, Lieutenant.”
“Like hell,” he growled. And he was kissing her.
The story centers around Alexander Cade, a lieutenant with the Lawmen, and his small team of elite soldiers. When he was training to be an officer, Cade had freed a Northern Wastes labor camp from the rebel army; one of the prisoners was Natalia Volkova, Talia for short. Years later when Cade returns to the Wastes (the most dangerous and uncivilized part of the Republic) with his team, she's working as a Lawmen scout and the fascination between them grows into something much stronger.
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| Inspiration for Cade |
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| Inspiration for Talia |
Yesterday on my Facebook page, I asked whether it was better to continue to write the story in order, a new method I've been trying to see if it increases my writing quality and quantity, or whether I should go ahead and write a fun scene that was out of order.
Comments instantly reminded me that life is too short to not get to the good stuff, which is why this snippet exists. Here's my out-of-order scene from The Wastes for your reading pleasure...
Talia laughed. “No. She’s saying...she means...your strength...your–” She placed a hand on his chest. “Your soul...comes through your eyes.” She looked up, swallowed. “You have nice eyes.” She stepped back. “That’s what she means.”
“That’s what she means?” Cade asked, his lilt teasing out the emphasis.
“Of course.”
He took a step closer to her, eyes focused on her lips. “And what about you?”
“What about me, Lieutenant Cade?”
His eyes flicked up to hers. “Alex,” he ordered.
His command danced over her skin, sending out goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cool night breeze. Something shifted between them, and the teasing was gone now, leaving a crackling awareness in its wake.
“What did you say when you were answering her? I saw how you looked at me, Talia. I’m willing to feign indifference to a point, but not with that look–”
She didn't realize he’d been forcing her backward until her back hit the cold stone of the abandoned building. “What look?” she asked, confused.
“The one that says you think I could be a hero.” One hand went up against the wall near her face. He leaned into her, his face lowering so they were cheek to cheek. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, refusing to moan from the scent of sweat and sulfur and dirt that clung to him.
“I’m not a hero,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to be.”
“What do you want, Alex?”
“You.”
She tilted her head to see him better. She could see the lust warring with confusion in his eyes, knew that he was just as torn over this...thing that existed between them. “You said you can’t have me.”
“I can’t.”
“The boys–”
“I won’t put your safety over theirs.”
“I wouldn't ask you to.”
“Then tell me what you said to her.”
“It was private.”
“Not anymore.”
“She asked if you were passionate,” Talia said, wishing her cheeks weren't burning.
“Passionate?”
“When we’re...together...”
A lazy smile was spreading. “You’re telling me the tribal elder, who is well over eighty years old, asked you about your sex life?”
“She can still appreciate a handsome man. And women here aren't as prudish as your blue-bloods.”
“Agreed,” he murmured, his other hand playing with the slit of her skirt. “So what did you tell her?”
Talia shifted against the wall and she saw Cade’s jaw tighten as her hip accidentally brushed against his. When had the night become so warm? And why didn't she have more than a thin layer of fabric between her and his touch?
“I told her I didn't know yet.”
A dark, primal hunger sharpened his face and she could hear as his fingers curled and dug harder against the building stone. “Yet.”
“Yet,” she whispered, unable to look away from his mouth.
“But you told her we were together. Is that why no other women gave me a second glance tonight?”
She kept her chin up, refusing to feel embarrassed over the claim she’d put on him. “Perhaps.”
He chuckled at her answer.
“Are you angry that you weren't fawned over like Jenks or Tane?”
“Not at all. Just amused at how alike we are.”
“Oh, are we?”
“I wanted to kill that man who danced with you.” His tone was light, but she heard the steel beneath his words. “And if you’d left the celebration with him, I would have.”
“I wouldn't have left with him.”
“But you left with me.”
“Yes.”
“A poor decision, really.”
“Only if you keep talking.”
His expression became serious. “They can’t know.”
She knew who he meant. “They won’t.”
“If I have to choose, I’ll choose them.”
“Every time.”
They stared at each other for a moment and she murmured, “You can still walk away, Lieutenant.”
“Like hell,” he growled. And he was kissing her.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Fear
This post isn't really for you. It's here to keep me honest when I look back in five years. But if you can help keep me honest, I welcome your reading it.
I will readily admit that the majority of the time, Twitter is a time suck. I've only recently discovered it and the flood of information that comes through it is both disconcerting and lovely due to its sheer volume. I mostly follow writerly friends (authors, readers, publishers, and others of our ilk), but have given in to get the occasional celebrity update as well. I guess I like realizing that they're normal people too.
Now, you may be wondering how this little fact relates in any way to the title of this blog post. Well, here's why:
As hard as it is, I'd like you to ignore the beautiful man (thank you, +Ian Somerhalder) holding the sign and instead focus on what that second sign says.
Most of us can instantly think of something flippant and funny and intelligent...you know, something that would catch another person's attention, lead him to see our rapier wit while still showing our slightly vulnerable side, and let us move on with our lives.
That didn't happen to me.
Maybe it's just the right question at the right time, but seeing that second sign left me with a strange tight feeling in my chest because I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what I would do if I weren't so afraid.
My life is full of uncertainty right now.
My job - the one that doesn't involve my writing - is becoming increasingly difficult to navigate due to massive changes beyond my control. I cannot stress enough that I adore my career, but every day I see the profession being forced further and further away from its true goal.
I sent in a partial manuscript to an incredible editor that I never dreamed I'd ever be able to possibly write for.
I'm working on several stories at once, which I haven't done before, and I need them all to be good.
I am willing to admit that I'm a chronic worrier and someone who is always so surprised by success that I don't ever seem to believe it's truly repeatable, but when I saw that question on Ian Somerhalder's picture, something inside just seemed to click into place. Then I started reading the Twitter comments (again, something I never, ever do on celebrity messages) and was struck by the fact that no one really answered the question.
So I did.
It was stupid. No one will ever read my message, no one will care, but that damn question was its own challenge to me.
Worse, I answered honestly. I answered on a gut reaction, one of those horrendously primal urges that makes you type something and hit enter before you can take it back. (And, for the record, yes, I wish I could take it back.)
And the second I saw my comment posted, all I could think was, "Finally, a little bit of honesty with yourself."
The truth is that at this moment of my life, I'm terrified. It's not paralyzing, it's not crippling. It's a slow-spreading poison that eats out your heart and soul and I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I can stop its destruction by talking honestly about my fears for the first time in far too long.
So here we go...
I have been beyond fortunate in terms of my writing. I am blessed to have been published and every day I remember that.
I still have nightmares that it's not real.
Actual nightmares. The kind where I wake up my husband and he mumbles something kind and curls back up around me to try to put me back to sleep.
Part of it is the competitive side of writing. Every time I hear about someone who's signed with an agent, sold another book, inked an audiobook deal, or gained another five hundred fans on Facebook, I worry that those things haven't happened to me because A) I haven't tried hard enough (my default answer to everything), or B) my writing sucks.
The other part of it is that I don't think I've figured out what I consider "success" is in terms of writing. It's something I need to work on and I need to do that without giving in to the pressure placed on me by outside sources. (I'm talking to you Twitter and Facebook ads declaring that in six weeks I can become the next Stephanie Meyer or EL James!)
My mother is the perfect example of a woman who is outrageously talented, but never recognizes it in herself. My father and sisters are the same way, my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and pretty much everyone I've ever been around my entire life.
They are talented, humble, and incredible.
In high school I was the abrasive girl who never dumbed herself down and had a small corps of friends who could stand me. In college I was dubbed "The Ice Queen" by others in my dorm because I stayed in my room to study and wasn't interested in anything but getting in, out, and on with my life.
Yeah, I'm that girl.
I've never been comfortable when complimented (a trait that my husband claims made my wooing much harder than it should have been). I turn funny colors and get tongue-tied.
I get so afraid of what people will say when they learn that I'm a total nerd that I try to avoid social situations. Now that I'm a writer (which is something I've dreamed of being my entire life...just ask my family and they'll confirm that statement) and am finally getting brave enough to mention that to others, that anxiety is even worse.
I know a lot of people think I'm rude because I don't open up immediately.
I don't mutually follow everyone on Twitter. I don't share all the Facebook promo posts that I probably should. I don't do everything those articles about how to become a popular writer tell you to do. I don't tell everyone how much I love them or beg for confirmations of my greatness. I don't gush.
Basically, I'm still that same uncomfortable, socially awkward girl I was in high school. I'm just older now.
I should love that girl because if I hadn't been her, I'd never be here. I'd never have developed the drive I have now, I'd never have decided that failure simply wasn't an option, and I'd never have found a way to respect myself, even if I do have moments when I pray I'll become someone - anyone - else.
Someday that girl deserves to know that I'm grateful to her for all she helped me become.
My husband and I will have been together for 10 years this July (married for 6 of those years). He's my rock. For every moment of my flailing, he remains the steady hand that keeps me on track. He reads all my stories before I send them to anyone else. He reminds me to trust myself.
He imagines me in the best light possible and reminds me of that every day, even when I don't deserve it.
I'm terrified that I won't be able to provide him that same support. I don't want to become so focused on myself and what I want to try to accomplish that I overlook his dreams.
Don't get me wrong, I seriously doubt this will happen. We are on the same page about so much and we talk - genuinely talk - to each other every day. We're like 3D glasses...together we blend into something magical.
That was beyond cheesy, but it's true.
Even though I know I will never let myself let him down, I still fear that someday I will. It keeps me motivated to not take him for granted.
So...if you've survived this massive post, there you have it. My three greatest fears. These are the fears that I find so debilitating.
And, to answer Mr. Somerhalder's question, here are...
1. Pull out the screenplay I wrote in college and rework it.
This is the story that made me want to become a writer for reals. I love it. It's dark and twisted and about love and demons and faith. Actual demons, not metaphorical. I've only shown it in its entirety to two people (my husband and my screenwriting professor). I think it could be something great, but it would hurt so badly to find out that it's useless.
2. Query agents.
Once again, I've only started trying to take myself seriously as a writer. The concept of asking an agent to judge me and determine if I'm a sound investment is one of the most frightening things I can imagine.
3. Be comfortable singing in public.
I sing. I like it. It makes me happy. I've sung on stage before, but I always shake and forget to lose myself in the music. I want to be able to lose myself in the music.
I will readily admit that the majority of the time, Twitter is a time suck. I've only recently discovered it and the flood of information that comes through it is both disconcerting and lovely due to its sheer volume. I mostly follow writerly friends (authors, readers, publishers, and others of our ilk), but have given in to get the occasional celebrity update as well. I guess I like realizing that they're normal people too.
Now, you may be wondering how this little fact relates in any way to the title of this blog post. Well, here's why:
As hard as it is, I'd like you to ignore the beautiful man (thank you, +Ian Somerhalder) holding the sign and instead focus on what that second sign says.
What would you do if you weren't afraid?
Most of us can instantly think of something flippant and funny and intelligent...you know, something that would catch another person's attention, lead him to see our rapier wit while still showing our slightly vulnerable side, and let us move on with our lives.
That didn't happen to me.
Maybe it's just the right question at the right time, but seeing that second sign left me with a strange tight feeling in my chest because I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what I would do if I weren't so afraid.
My life is full of uncertainty right now.
My job - the one that doesn't involve my writing - is becoming increasingly difficult to navigate due to massive changes beyond my control. I cannot stress enough that I adore my career, but every day I see the profession being forced further and further away from its true goal.
I sent in a partial manuscript to an incredible editor that I never dreamed I'd ever be able to possibly write for.
I'm working on several stories at once, which I haven't done before, and I need them all to be good.
I am willing to admit that I'm a chronic worrier and someone who is always so surprised by success that I don't ever seem to believe it's truly repeatable, but when I saw that question on Ian Somerhalder's picture, something inside just seemed to click into place. Then I started reading the Twitter comments (again, something I never, ever do on celebrity messages) and was struck by the fact that no one really answered the question.
So I did.
It was stupid. No one will ever read my message, no one will care, but that damn question was its own challenge to me.
Worse, I answered honestly. I answered on a gut reaction, one of those horrendously primal urges that makes you type something and hit enter before you can take it back. (And, for the record, yes, I wish I could take it back.)
And the second I saw my comment posted, all I could think was, "Finally, a little bit of honesty with yourself."
The truth is that at this moment of my life, I'm terrified. It's not paralyzing, it's not crippling. It's a slow-spreading poison that eats out your heart and soul and I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I can stop its destruction by talking honestly about my fears for the first time in far too long.
So here we go...
My Top 3 Fears
Fear #1 - My writing successes are flukes.
I have been beyond fortunate in terms of my writing. I am blessed to have been published and every day I remember that.
I still have nightmares that it's not real.
Actual nightmares. The kind where I wake up my husband and he mumbles something kind and curls back up around me to try to put me back to sleep.
Part of it is the competitive side of writing. Every time I hear about someone who's signed with an agent, sold another book, inked an audiobook deal, or gained another five hundred fans on Facebook, I worry that those things haven't happened to me because A) I haven't tried hard enough (my default answer to everything), or B) my writing sucks.
The other part of it is that I don't think I've figured out what I consider "success" is in terms of writing. It's something I need to work on and I need to do that without giving in to the pressure placed on me by outside sources. (I'm talking to you Twitter and Facebook ads declaring that in six weeks I can become the next Stephanie Meyer or EL James!)
Fear #2 - I will never learn to love that nerdy, slightly abrupt, learning-to-be-confident girl I was in high school.
My mother is the perfect example of a woman who is outrageously talented, but never recognizes it in herself. My father and sisters are the same way, my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and pretty much everyone I've ever been around my entire life.
They are talented, humble, and incredible.
In high school I was the abrasive girl who never dumbed herself down and had a small corps of friends who could stand me. In college I was dubbed "The Ice Queen" by others in my dorm because I stayed in my room to study and wasn't interested in anything but getting in, out, and on with my life.
Yeah, I'm that girl.
I've never been comfortable when complimented (a trait that my husband claims made my wooing much harder than it should have been). I turn funny colors and get tongue-tied.
I get so afraid of what people will say when they learn that I'm a total nerd that I try to avoid social situations. Now that I'm a writer (which is something I've dreamed of being my entire life...just ask my family and they'll confirm that statement) and am finally getting brave enough to mention that to others, that anxiety is even worse.
I know a lot of people think I'm rude because I don't open up immediately.
I don't mutually follow everyone on Twitter. I don't share all the Facebook promo posts that I probably should. I don't do everything those articles about how to become a popular writer tell you to do. I don't tell everyone how much I love them or beg for confirmations of my greatness. I don't gush.
Basically, I'm still that same uncomfortable, socially awkward girl I was in high school. I'm just older now.
I should love that girl because if I hadn't been her, I'd never be here. I'd never have developed the drive I have now, I'd never have decided that failure simply wasn't an option, and I'd never have found a way to respect myself, even if I do have moments when I pray I'll become someone - anyone - else.
Someday that girl deserves to know that I'm grateful to her for all she helped me become.
Fear #3 - I will let my husband down.
My husband and I will have been together for 10 years this July (married for 6 of those years). He's my rock. For every moment of my flailing, he remains the steady hand that keeps me on track. He reads all my stories before I send them to anyone else. He reminds me to trust myself.
He imagines me in the best light possible and reminds me of that every day, even when I don't deserve it.
I'm terrified that I won't be able to provide him that same support. I don't want to become so focused on myself and what I want to try to accomplish that I overlook his dreams.
Don't get me wrong, I seriously doubt this will happen. We are on the same page about so much and we talk - genuinely talk - to each other every day. We're like 3D glasses...together we blend into something magical.
That was beyond cheesy, but it's true.
Even though I know I will never let myself let him down, I still fear that someday I will. It keeps me motivated to not take him for granted.
So...if you've survived this massive post, there you have it. My three greatest fears. These are the fears that I find so debilitating.
And, to answer Mr. Somerhalder's question, here are...
Things I Would Do If I Weren't So Afraid
1. Pull out the screenplay I wrote in college and rework it.
This is the story that made me want to become a writer for reals. I love it. It's dark and twisted and about love and demons and faith. Actual demons, not metaphorical. I've only shown it in its entirety to two people (my husband and my screenwriting professor). I think it could be something great, but it would hurt so badly to find out that it's useless.
2. Query agents.
Once again, I've only started trying to take myself seriously as a writer. The concept of asking an agent to judge me and determine if I'm a sound investment is one of the most frightening things I can imagine.
3. Be comfortable singing in public.
I sing. I like it. It makes me happy. I've sung on stage before, but I always shake and forget to lose myself in the music. I want to be able to lose myself in the music.
Monday, February 24, 2014
My Writing Process blog hop
My fellow Escape Artist Ros Baxter (who writes incredibly funny and sexy stories) is the one who got me involved, so stop by and say hi to her if you get a chance.
Now, on to the questions!
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| Now available from Escape Publishing |
What am I working on?
I've definitely got my thumb in a lot of pies right now. I'm currently going through edits on my paranormal romance Blood Moon (releasing this summer with Escape Publishing), the sequel to Red Moon. I'm prepping another story tentatively titled Melting the Ice Queen for submission to Mills & Boon's Modern Tempted line after winning 2nd place in their #TemptedToWrite competition. My untitled SFR prequel to Lace & Lead is waist-deep in the drafting stage and I'm polishing an older manuscript called A Muse of Fire in preparation for the RWA conference in San Antonio this July. So...busy, busy, busy.How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I wish I had some intelligent, artsy answer to this one, but all I can honestly say is this: I love to torture my characters. I'm not positive if I should be proud of that and this little quirk drives my husband nuts; he's been begging me to write one, just one story where my characters are happy and have nice lives. But I'm a character-driven writer and I always come back to motivations. If a character is some super-alpha male, there must be some bad ass reason for that. It's all about balance, and the steeper the character arc, the more I demand that my characters have gone through hell to make it out the other side.Why do I write what I do?
I write because I can't not write. Growing up, I was the kid who had imaginary friends until I was 13. Then I only had imaginary friends in private because it was too embarrassing otherwise. I know a lot of other writers say it, but I actually hear voices in my head...not beautiful prose, but loud, jarring dialogue. It's like having a TV implanted in your brain and you're constantly scanning the channels so you only pick up on little snippets here and there. Sometimes those snippets catch your attention and boom! you have a story.That's why I really don't have one genre I stick to. According to all sorts of articles, this is the cardinal sin of an author, but I don't really care. Again, I write for the characters and if they're werewolves, gamer nerds, or Regency-era dukes, so be it.
How does your writing process work?
Kind of like vomiting. Gross image, yes, but accurate. Sometimes it's slow and I know its coming. Other times it's spontaneous and I'm left scrambling to contain it before I lose it completely. Regardless, it leaves me with random notes stuck all over everything, a cork board full of pictures of beautiful men (go Luke Evans and Collin Farrell!), and a Pinterest board that has the same pull seen exhibited by black holes. I wouldn't trade it for anything.So there you go...now you know some of my deep, dark secrets. And even better, next week you can learn about the writing processes of three of my friends: Jan Meredith, Sarah Belle, and Sarah Daltry.
Next Week:
Jan Meredith - Jan Meredith is a wife, mother, nurse, and published author with Entangled Publishing's Flaunt line. Her first novella Playing Doctor was released in November.Sarah Belle - Sarah Belle writes 'Romagic Comedy' - romantic comedy with a dash of magic- think Suddenly 30 and Drop Dead Diva. Sarah's debut novel, Hindsight was released via Escape Publishing in 2013 and her second, Deja Vu Lou will be released later this year. She's also the mum of four young boys - hence the need for a magical escape at times!
Sarah Daltry - Sarah Daltry writes about the regular people who populate our lives; the principle behind all her stories is that human beings are most interesting in the ways they interact with others. Sarah has spent most of her life in school, from her BA and MA in English and writing to teaching both at the high school and college level. She also loves studying art history and really anything because learning is fun. When Sarah isn't writing (see her website for a full list of titles), she tends to waste a lot of time checking Facebook for pictures of cats, shooting virtual zombies, and simply staring out the window.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Why I don't celebrate Valentine's Day
To be completely honest, I wasn't sure I should even write this post. I mean, a romance writer deciding to talk about why she doesn't celebrate Valentine's Day? Isn't that...like...sacrilegious or something?
So I'll set the record straight...
I LOVE romance!
There's nothing in the world I value more than a story of how two people are able to compromise, trust each other, and take the most extreme risk in the world. That's what falling in love is, after all.
It's a risk.
A daintily raised middle finger to the darkness of the universe, a promise that it doesn't matter what the world throws at you, you have chosen this person to share all the joys and troubles with.
You choose to live for that person when it's usually far easier to disassociate yourself and no longer care who you hurt.
Maybe that's why I can't wrap my head around the magic of Valentine's Day. It's a holiday where you're obligated to remind a person that you love them.
Seriously?!?
Why can't we do that every day of the year?
I realize that I've been very fortunate in terms of romance. I'm married to my best friend and, almost ten years later, we're that annoying couple everyone else hates. If we end a phone conversation without saying, "I love you," we'll call back just to remind the other of that. Because apparently we didn't know that already.
He lets me put my freezing cold fingers under his shirt so I can warm them up. Trust me, up here in Alaska when it's in the negatives, that's a lovely present.
I do the dishes for him when I remember (dishes are his chore, not mine...yeah, I know he's a keeper).
But I have not gone a single day without feeling like he loves, cherishes, and protects me. Even when we've been arguing, I know we've been arguing and furious at each other because we care about the other person too damn much to let them be stupid.
So we don't really celebrate Valentine's Day. As he just said as he read my obligatory Valentine's Day card (I found with hedgepigs all over it!!!) and I apologized for the lack of romantic poetry written inside, "Yeah, we're just not romantic like that."
And I don't regret that at all. I get every other day of the year with him showing in the big and little ways how much he loves me. He doesn't have to showboat.
But, for all of you who adore the holiday, I truly, sincerely wish you the best and hope my little rant hasn't put you off your celebrations. Just know that I'll be spending the evening in the most romantic way possible...curled up near a roaring fire with my husband...napping.
(No, that's not a lie. We're both getting over the flu and we both agreed that the sexiest way to celebrate would be to curl up together and sleep. Not sleep sleep, but just straight, Nyquil commercial sleep.)
Happy Valentine's Day!
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