Quote of the Week from Indian Summer

I've started posting a quote of the week on my Facebook page. However, since not everyone is on Facebook, I decided to start posting on my blogs as well. The following is from my historical novel, "Indian Summer" available from the publisher
http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/ or from Amazon.com

Gabriella Deza is the daughter of the Spanish Territorial Governor. She is young, innocent and naive of the ways between men and women. Manuel, her fiance, is several years older and much more knowledgeable of the baser things in life. This conversation takes place one day when they are driving around town in Manuel's buggy.

"You've a question in your eyes, my love."

I reddened, dropping my gaze. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to me. Now what is it? There should be no secrets between us."

I pursed my lips and thought of the best way to phrase it. "Well, you know much about me having known my father for so long, but I know so very little about you. Much of what you told me just now, it was about your aunt. Tell me of you."

He smiled pensively. "Very well, and where shall I start?" It was more a rhetorical question, but
I decided to answer him in any case.

"You could begin, with telling me your age." I said, suddenly becoming interested in my shoes. I tossed my head back, looking him squarely in the eye.

His contagious laughter filled the town, echoing off the buildings. "Ah, Bella, I thought you wanted the confessions of all my sins or something the way you're acting. My age? Well I'm older than you but not old enough to be your father."

I stamped my foot, startling the horses. "I'm being serious! You know much about me, nearly my life's story. I know you're an orphan and that you love me and - that you're well appointed."

He laughed even louder. "What a minx you are to say a thing like that! All right, you win. First, you make a guess. How old do you think I am?"

I looked at him appraisingly, considering. "Well, when I first met you, I considered you an old man. I would have said a few months ago that you were in your thirties."

His laughter subsided, a twinkle in his eye."And now?"

I thought again. "Well when you laugh it takes many years off you. But when you're serious, it adds a few years. So I shall go with an average, somewhere in the middle and say three and twenty?"

"Well, I could be, but then again, perhaps not. You've not considered everything, my sweet." He ticked the points off on his fingers, dropping the reins. The mares stopped moving as soon has he set them down. "First, I'm a trusted aide to your father. Second, I'm extremely well educated and I speak several languages fluently."

He winked at me and I tapped him with my parasol lightly on the knee.

"And third?"

He considered a moment. "There is no third. No, I think we have covered the salient points. So, do you still think me three and twenty?"

"Well, given the evidence as listed, I would have to say more like three and thirty." I nodded to emphasize as if I meant it.

His reaction was animated and hilarious. "Three and thirty? Th -" He was incapable of speech for a long time, then very red in the face, he sputtered. "Is that what you really think? What kind of old lecher do you think I am?"

I suppressed a giggle with great difficulty. "I don't think you an old lecher in the least! But if a man of three and thirty were interested in a young lady of fifteen, he would certainly be one. I was teasing, my love. I don't think you're above three and twenty as I originally said." So saying, I sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.

"Well, as I tire of this game, I will tell you."

"You only tire of it because you're coming out poorly." I smiled sweetly.

He waved it off as unimportant. "Be that as it may, and I don't deny that's my motivation in part. I also must get you home soon. Very well, I'm not three and thirty, nor am I three and twenty. Given the ability to speak several languages fluently, as well as some Indian dialects of this area, I worked first as an interpreter. Then I became a liaison. Having other necessary talents, I obtained my position with your father at the ripe old age of seventeen. So therefore, my sweet, I'm a mere child myself."

I counted up the years he had worked for my father. "You're one and twenty!?" I hugged him, regardless of the looks we drew.

His smile widened as he held me closely. "Why is that so wonderful?"

"Well it's silly, really," I giggled, blushing deep red to the roots of my hair. "But I didn't want you to be too old, for fear you would tire of me since I'm still so young."

He took my hands in his. "I assure you, Gabriella, I'd never tire of you were I three and forty."

For other quotes from my other stories, check my Facebook page:
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my other blog: http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/

Oscar Friedman's Freakish Occurence - Part 6

In the words of Lewis Carrol, “Curiouser and curiouser”. Just when Oscar thinks things can’t really get much worse, they do. The GPS goes crazy, carrying him far from his destination, finally bringing him where he needs go. Hoping to find someone he can really talk to about it, he invites Jasmine to go to dinner with him.

Jasmine Bond met Oscar in the hotel lobby at six twenty-five and they went to dinner together. They shared a bottle of wine as they waited for their meal to arrive. Oscar was finally able to relax and unwind after his trying day. He had nearly made up his mind to tell Jasmine how the car had been behaving when their appetizers arrived. Instead, he ate his soup, chatting with Jasmine about her day at work and his book signing. The subject of the car’s behavior didn’t come up.

By dessert, Oscar felt as if he’d known Jasmine his entire life. Slightly buzzed, he gazed into her fabulous blue eyes, smiling rather foolishly. Jasmine, equally as inebriated, smiled back at him.

“You know, I think I’ll have to call a cab to go home. I don’t think I can drive in this condition.”

“Me either,” he chuckled. “You know what I want to do?” He raised his eyebrows like Grouch Marx.

Jasmine laughed, shaking her blonde curls.

“I wanna go dancing. You like to dance?”

“I love to dance! Where can we go?”

“The hotel has a lounge with dancing, sir,” the waitress told them in a quiet voice. “They are open until three.”

“Shank of the evening!” Oscar said more loudly than he meant to.

Handing the waitress a generous tip, he walked unsteadily to the lounge with Jasmine. They danced and drank until the lounge closed. Uncertain that she could get home, Jasmine hesitated at the doorway.

“Come upstairs. I’ll make coffee. Then you can call a cab.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I like coffee.”

Between the two of them, they got his door open. It took nearly five minutes of laughing and shushing to get the card to work. They collapsed together on the king sized bed, laughing giddily.

“You know what, Bond. Jasmine Bond?”

“Nope. What?”

“I’d really like to kiss you,” Oscar said, suddenly feeling less giddy.

“I’d really like that,” she replied, grabbing his coat collar.

Totally out of character, Oscar found himself not only kissing Jasmine Bond, but doing things on a first date he’d never done before. In a turn of events that caught them both by surprise, they were naked and kissing. Somehow, making love seemed like the right thing to do, so they did. Following an even more logical sequence of events, they tried it again just to make sure they had done it right the first time, only to find that they had.

Next Installment of "Oscar Friedman"

The next installment of “Oscar Friedman” is now up at http://secondwindpub.wordpress.com/

When Something You Write Makes You Cry

I just got done writing one of the saddest books I've ever written. Unusual for me, because most of my work is pretty upbeat. It might be intense or action packed, even hot and steamy, but not sad. I don't mean depressing, because the story is one of hope and it has a happy ending. However, I had a lot of moments when I found myself in tears.

Crazy. I'm the one writing it, and it's making me cry. Does that make sense? When we write something that moves us to tears, is that a fair judge of how our readers will be affected? Does it make us even crazier than we thought we were? Or is it something else?

I like to hope that what I'm writing creates an emotional response in my readers. I want my words to excite them, get their imaginations moving and energize their senses. A story is more than just words on a page. They become meaningless and dull if they don't go somewhere. What if that somewhere is dark, murky, frightening? Or conversely, light, humorous, whimsical? Sometimes that place is sadness, remorse, resignation.

The story I wrote hasn't really got a title yet, so let me give a brief synopsis. Kyle, a 34 year old single father, is still grieving after the death of his wife, Margo. She died from cancer five months prior to the beginning of the book. Haunted by his inability to 'fix' the situation and make her well, he buries himself in work and the responsibilities of raising three children alone. Seeing him heading toward an early grave himself, his boss (who is also a good friend) forces him to take a month off to get himself together.

At his boss' insistence, Kyle books a cruise and takes his children and housekeeper/ friend, Carmelita, with him. The first night at dinner, he meets Emily. Beautiful and vivacious despite the fact that she's recently finished chemo therapy, Emily captures his heart. His children love her, Carmelita likes her, everything is perfect - until he discovers that Emily, too, is dying. By the time he finds out, he's already falling in love.

Kyle's past comes back to haunt him and he makes a disastrous mistake, thus jeopardizing his relationship with Emily. Tortured by guilt and self-doubt, he falls into a very dark, emotional place. It is a story of regret, rebirth, renewed faith, resignation and remembrance. It also made me cry like crazy.

Have you ever written something that worked your emotions like the characters? Maybe you needed a huge box of tissues. Perhaps it made you laugh out loud? Did you feel the thrill of that first meeting or the joy of true love's first kiss? Do you think this makes a fair assessment of reader reaction? Is our emotional involvement simply because we are so in tune with our characters?

Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions!

Dellani Oakes is the author of "Indian Summer" published by Second Wind Publishing.

Dellani's Quote for the Week

This is something I started on Facebook a couple of months ago. I was doing them daily, but that gets to be outrageously difficult. This is from a work in progress that hasn't got a title yet. It's currently named "Chase" after the main character.

Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.

"Why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.

"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky," I said that with the straightest face I could.

Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"

"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.

She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted my car's sleek fender.

"Me? Nope. That's advertising."

I leaned back, stretching so she got a good, long look at my pants. I ran my hand up under my shirt so the washboard abs showed. Tracey laughed, kissing my cheek.

"How can you do that?"

"Do what?" I opened the door to the house.

"Make me quit focusing on how miserable I am."

"Completely selfish, I assure you." I pulled her to me as if we were dancing. "When you're focused on your problems, you can't focus on me."

The Lone Wolf Gives Exclusive Interview!

Wil VanLipsig, also known as the Lone Wolf, gives an exclusive interview at Second Wind's blog.

Pierre Roustan Is My Guest Blogger

Today, I am delighted to have Pierre Roustan, author of "The Cain Letters", as my guest blogger. Recently, he was fortunate enough to cross paths with Alexandra Glade. Below an exclusive interview.

Only in the author’s private world can an audience really see the fantasy become a reality. Here, you have that opportunity to see my fantasy become your reality—
I took a step into her world, my heroine’s world. I sat down at the table and across from me was her, my main character. A woman named Alexandra Glade. Here, you will read her story. A story she has told me many times. But let me tell you—it was worth it to hear her story that many times or else I wouldn’t have been able to pay homage to her with my first novel THE CAIN LETTERS. Enjoy.

Pierre: So…Miss…Glade?
Alexandra: Alexandra Glade. Yes.

Pierre: It’s a pleasure having you here on such short notice and in such a, uhh…dark part of town here.
Alexandra: The location is necessary. Trust me. At least for the likes of me. I prefer darkness.

Pierre: Fair enough. Okay. Well. Let’s start then. I feel like I have a slammin’ story coming my way.
Alexandra: I should hope so, friend.

Pierre: All right, first question—if you can please our readers with this answer, where are you from?
Alexandra: London, England.

Pierre: Where do you live currently?
Alexandra: Everywhere.

Pierre: ..... Everywhere? Ooooor nowhere? Maybe?
Alexandra: I mean what I said—everywhere. I’ve lived in London, Paris, Mexico, Australia, Africa, all over your United States. Russia. Poland.

Pierre: W…wow. How the hell do you get mail?
Alexandra: I don’t. Usually. I do have an apartment, but I’m rarely there. Typically maybe one week a year I reside there.

Pierre: And what do you do for a living then that allows you to live in so many places around the world?
Alexandra: I am a hunter.

Pierre: A hunter? Just a hunter? What do you hunt?
Alexandra: Vampires mostly.

Pierre: What?? Come again??
Alexandra: Mostly. Evil creatures that mean us harm, that defy and stand against God.

Pierre: So a vampire hunter. For God?
Alexandra: In a manner of speaking, yes. I work for the Vatican, specifically. Although many other churches, sects and organizations have hired me to handle issues of a somewhat demonic nature.

Pierre: Oh, so, like, exorcisms or ‘ghostbusting’ and stuff like that?
Alexandra: Never had to do any ‘ghostbusting’ or even exorcisms. But I have had a conversation with the possessed before. One I care not to remember.

Pierre: Forgive me. All right. Next question: what are your qualifications as a hunter? Sounds like a pretty high-profile position. Not something you’d find in the Grand Rapids Press, you know what I mean?
Alexandra: I was trained by an ancient organization of warriors known as the Berith Lochem. We are Warriors of the Three Trinity Lines. Our founder was Nimrod himself. From the Book of Genesis?

Pierre: Wow! Book of Genesis.... Wow. My Scripture knowledge is a little shaky—
Alexandra: He was a great hunter for the Lord. He began the Berith Lochem to fight evil.

Pierre: And what does ‘Berith Lochem’ mean? Sounds like a language I’ve never heard.
Alexandra: It means ‘Divine Covenant’. Hebrew.

Pierre: Interesting. Okay. And what kind of training are we talking about?
Alexandra: These days really do call for a more extensive regimen: weapons and tactics, martial arts, vampiric theory and culture as well. Our training is the equivalent of a United States Navy S.E.A.L. or Marine or K.G.B. operative. We are trained to kill.

Pierre: …. Okay. All righty.
Alexandra: Do you have any more questions for me?

Pierre: Umm.... Sure. I suppose.
Alexandra: Then fire away.

Pierre: ( laughs nervously) I’ll do my best there, Miss Glade—although you probably have more experience than I do at ‘firing away’.
Alexandra: (she smiles) Well, I do love a firearm. But my weapon of choice does tend to be a blade.

Pierre: (laughs nervously again) So…Miss Glade.... Do you have many friends?
Alexandra: Some. My friends, though, tend to also be comrades, other hunters that stand by me.

Pierre: And how do they see you?
Alexandra: I would hope a woman they can trust.

Pierre: And your enemies? How do they see you?
Alexandra: Someone they cannot trust. At all.

Pierre: Because you hunt them down and kill ‘em, right?
Alexandra: If they break the Code, yes.

Pierre: The Code. What is…the ‘Code’?
Alexandra: Dear Mr. Roustan. Dear Mr. Roustan…so sheltered from the truth. You must know…vampires exist. And they are a community. A nation. And they have their laws. Regardless of what Hollywood has to say about vampires, it is true that even the darkest of shadows have their morality. Even demons have decrees they must follow. It just so happens that vampires, these days, have a Code that respects humankind. And hunters, we must respect it, too.

Pierre: You’re saying vampires are not allowed to kill? Right? I thought they had to in order to drink blood.
Alexandra: Some vampires, ‘rogues’ we call them, feel they need to. But the truth is…they don’t. To feed is not to kill. In fact, in this day and age, moral vampires feed on ‘consenting adults’. They do not break any laws. Therefore, we must refrain from killing them. The ‘rogues’, or even lesser breeds without self-control, we hunt down and kill because they violate their own Code and take away human life.

Pierre: Wow…and how can you tell you’re facing a ‘rogue’?
Alexandra: Usually…they try to kill me. Before it would come to that, though, I receive intel from ‘reliable’ sources about my targets. Usually, I never initiate a hunt on a noble vampire. Usually.

Pierre: So I take it hunting vampires is what makes you happy?
Alexandra: In the name of God…most definitely, yes.

Pierre: (clears throat) And…what makes you sad?
Alexandra: (pauses) …. Many things. Friends I’ve lost....

Pierre: Any regrets?
Alexandra: More than I can count with my fingers.

Pierre: Sorry to touch on a fragile subject there.... Don’t mean to—
Alexandra: Nothing to be ashamed of. This is an interview after all.

Pierre: It most certainly is, Miss Glade. It most certainly is…. One more question then….
Alexandra: Fire away.

Pierre: …. How do you see your future?
Alexandra: Look around you. I picked this location for a reason….

A Little Bit About "The Cain Letters"

All legends have beginnings— some are worth remembering -- others are better left to darkness.

When college student, Marcus Brennan, discovers an ancient book revealing the origin of vampirism, all hell breaks loose not just in his life but for the world around him. He is holding the ultimate weapon two master vampires desire more than blood. The weapon that will give them the power to rule the Vampire Nation and all mankind alike.
It is up to Alexandra Glade, fierce and radiant vampire hunter, and her team, the Berith Lochem, to find and protect Marcus in order to prevent the unthinkable…

… The awakening of Cain.

Link to Oscar Friedman

http://secondwindpub.wordpress.com/2009/05/26/oscar-friendmans-freakish-occurence-part-1/

http://secondwindpub.wordpress.com/

Check it out!

Please have a look at my story, "Oscar Friedman's Freakish Occurence" featured now at Secondwind Publishing. Dellani

Guest Blogger - Ann Stanmore

Iam pleased to host Ann Stanmore, one of the delightful writers from Red River Writers Blog Tour. I’ll let Ann tell you a little bit about herself, because she can tell it so much better than I.

I retired from my job as a buyer for smart cards two years ago after staying an extra two years. I am now 69. I am a fun loving person and my book reflects that. It was written with the hope of brightening someone’s day. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing my first book and have in fact started on a second.

I am a firm believer that every cloud may not have a silver lining but certainly has a funny side.

I have always loved books and stories and used to make up my own stories to tell my children at bedtime, something my parents did for me and that inspired my love of reading and now writing.

I lead a busy life as apart from my writing, I am a Tree Warden for the Royal Borough of Windsor & Maidenhead, I am also secretary of the Social Club where I live, and also help at a teenage group for youngsters who would otherwise be roaming the streets.

Ann's book is "Well It Was Fun" available at: http://www.booksbyann.co.uk/

Ann Stanmore

My Dad he was a lovely man, he always made me smile
He would take me on his bike, and for a little while

I’d sit upon his crossbar and keep my legs out wide
We’d look out for the policeman, is he coming up the side

The policeman played a great big drum in the village band
He’d bang it really hard, the drumstick in his hand

If you went out Sunday morn, he always could be seen
Banging on his big old drum on the village green

Read on and you will not fail
To hear about this little tale…………….

If the weather was fine, Dad would take me out on his pushbike. This was a real delight for me, and I would be so excited when I knew we were going out. At first we didn’t have a seat for me, so I sat on the crossbar with instructions from Dad to stick my legs out so they were away from the spokes. I understood that we were being naughty because we really should have had a seat for me, but Dad explained that there were varying degrees of naughtiness and this wasn’t one of the bad ones. However, he did tell me he would get a seat for me as soon as they had enough money for one.

It wasn’t until I was grown up that I realised the importance of these bike rides. Mum and Dad tried to take me out as much as possible because the living conditions where we were at that time were pretty appalling. We had a back yard area that was used by all the houses in the terrace and had toilets (or privvies as we called them) in a row at the end of the yard. Each house had their own but they were horrible places and had to be emptied because there was no flush toilets there then. Some people had flush toilets. My Grandma Bramley did, and it was lovely when we went to her house to go to a nice, light and clean place where you pulled a chain and it all went away! My Grandma Ratcliffe didn’t have this luxury unfortunately, we had to go down the garden there but it was nicer than the one we had in that yard, where although each family had their own, some people would use any one.

Dad also used to take me when I was a little older, to watch Loughborough playing football on a Saturday afternoon. I loved this and sometimes, if it was crowded and I couldn’t see, Dad would lift me up on his shoulders. I didn’t really understand the rules of the game then, just knew our side had to score goals, but it was being out with my Dad that was great. The fact that we were watching Loughborough Brush was secondary!

Anyway, back to this tale. We would go out into the countryside and find a nice green area and play ball. I loved sitting there as we whizzed along the road. Dad would show me the little wild flowers and we would listen to the birds singing. It was a magical time for me and I loved every minute. Being out with my Dad was really the best thing ever. Dad always made things funny and we used to laugh a lot. He was still doing this when he was an old man in a nursing home. All the nurses used to be in stitches.

However, back to the story……Well, in the meantime, I had instructions to keep my eyes open for the village bobby. As mentioned earlier, this gentleman played in the village band in his spare time and could be seen on Sundays in the bandstand on the park playing his drum. Once he was playing in the band with his big drum out in the street. I think it was a march for something and the band was going down the high street. Anyway, he spotted Dad with me on his bike and put down his drum and chased us down the road waving his drumstick at us!! Dad would be laughing and I started to giggle. Oh my naughty Dad, how I loved you.

Actually, I found out later that Dad and the policeman were friends, but he couldn’t let Dad off without making it known he disapproved of his actions. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before I was sitting on a proper bike seat but secretly, I was a bit disappointed! Nothing like being naughty with your Dad’s approval.

It really isn’t surprising that one of my favourite things even when I was fully grown up, married and had children of my own, was riding my bike. In fact, it was only arthritis that made me stop when I was in my forties. Something I miss. I would bike for miles and miles. There is a special kind of freedom cycling along the country roads, I never tired of it. Sometimes when I see a dad with a son or daughter cycling down the road, I remember those magical times.

See what you started Dad!!

Lots of fun was had when I learnt to ride my first bike but that’s another story in another part of this book…..

Dellani's Quote for the Week

The following is a scene from one of my crime/ romance novels. It hasn't got a proper name yet, I just called it "Chase" after the main character. I liked this exchange and wanted to share it as a sample of dialog pacing.

Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.

"Chase, why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.

"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky." I said that with the straightest face I could.

Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"

"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.

She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted the Jag's sleek fender.

"Me? Nope. That's advertising."

Keys

There is a pesky vortex in my house that takes keys. It must have a really sick sense of humor, because they are always missing. It seems most fond of mens' keys because my husband and 2 older sons can never find theirs.

Generally, the key vortex leaves mine alone. Either it can't locate them in my purse, or it's afraid of me. On the rare occasion that it does take my keys, it's because one of the males has handled them. Since it has a healthy respect for my abilities, it usually gives them back without a fight.
The same cannot be said for the keys of my husband and sons. It always takes forever for them to locate their lost keys. Until I join the hunt, the keys stay missing.

Sometimes all it takes is for me to say, "Have you looked in the pocket of your dirty jeans? Did you check your uniform? Could you have left them in the bathroom?" Other times, I must also join the hunt. The vortex always gives them back right away when I start looking. That's why I suspect it's afraid of me.

Once in awhile, my pesky vortex gets tired of hiding keys and takes my husband's glasses instead. It's much more clever where those are concerned. Even with me in the hunt, they aren't always located right away. The vortex has left them in some pretty odd places. On top of the microwave, out in the garage and once in the refrigerator. One night when he was getting ready for work, his glasses were missing. Even with me in the hunt, the vortex didn't give them back. He had to go to work without them. We didn't find them for several days, so my husband went and got new ones.

Of course, as soon as the new glasses were in the house, the old ones showed up in a place we had already looked several times; on top of a bronze colored box on the dresser, much the same color as the glasses. Clever vortex employed camouflage that time. Now, however, the new ones have disappeared and even my excellent powers of persuasion and perception can't locate them.
I really wish the vortex would go haunt a different household. Every time he strikes, I get blamed. I can't imagine why when I'm the one who finds the missing objects. Does my family think I hide things for fun? I have more important things to do than hide and locate their keys. Until such time as the vortex gets tired of tormenting me, I'm stuck with him. I hope maybe when my kids move out, he'll follow them instead of staying with me. Then again, I'll still have my husband, so I guess I'm stuck with the vortex for life.

Check it out!

Hi folks! I'm guest blogging on Velda Brotherton's blogs today. Drop by and check it out! http://vbrotherton.blogspot.com/ and http://www.veldabrotherton.com/

The Politics of Marriage

For my writing group last week, our topic was politics. Now, I don't know diddly about politics because hypocrasy and double speak make my head spin. So this is how I chose to handle the subject instead.

"Honey! Where are my cuff links?" Brodie called to his wife from the huge walk-in closet.
"Wherever you left them, honey!" She answered from the dressing room.
"I left them right here on top of the dresser."
"Then they're still there."
"They aren't! Where did you put them?"
Cassandra walked out of the dressing room in her underwear and stockings. "I haven't touched them. What do I need with a pair of cuff links?"
"I don't know! But they aren't where...." He found them, swallowing his angry comment.
Smirking, his petite, redheaded wife walked back in the dressing room. She came out a moment later in a sleek, tight fitting black sheath dress with black, strapless pumps on her feet.
"How do I look?"
He glanced at her, admiring the view, until she turned around. The dress didn't fit well across her rear end.
"Well, it's a little too formal, don't you think?"
"Sweetheart, nothing is too formal for one of your mother's big bashes."
"Maybe you'd look better in the sapphire blue dress you wore at our wedding reception?"
"Brodie, what's wrong with you? You're flushed. Are you ill?"
"No, fine." He dug at his shirt collar, trying to loosen his tie.
"Is there something wrong with my dress?"
"Well...." He held out his hands helplessly. "It doesn't fit like it did a couple months ago."
She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means... well, sweetheart, in all honesty, it's a little snug."
"Snug? You mean it makes me look fat?" She turned her rear end to the mirror, staring over her shoulder. "Oh, my God! I look like a Hummer! My butt looks like the front end of a truck! And you were going to let me go to Lena's house in this? Malcolm Wallace Brodie!" She took off her shoes, throwing them at him.
"I suggested the blue dress for a reason," he said, ducking. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. Cassandra!"
She slammed the closet door in his face. "Don't talk to me!"
"Honey, you're three months pregnant. Of course things aren't going to fit exactly like they did a couple months ago."
"I get it. I'm fat. Fat, fat, fat! Well it's your fault!" She bellowed from the closet.
"I wasn't the only one there," he mumbled, taking a step or two away from the closet door.
"I heard that!" She came out of the closet dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. "I'm staying home."
"Sweetie. Cassandra, you can't. Mom's expecting you. Us...."
"I can do anything I want. I don't have to go just because Lena expects it."
"Wear that pretty red dress you wore to Reva's wedding.... Or the one you wore to the opening last month. That was really cute."
"I don't want to go now. You said I looked fat."
"No, honey, I said .... you look beautiful, Cassandra. Please, come with me. You'll look gorgeous no matter what you wear. In fact, you could go in your robe and slippers and look better than any other woman there - even Lena."
"Your mother is a super model, Brodie."
He could tell she was softening. Pushing his advantage, he took her in his arms, holding her close. "I've seen pictures of Mom when she was pregnant with me. You totally blow her away. Do you know she gained nearly 75 pounds with me?"
"No! Lena? You're kidding!"
"Porked out. She was huge. Of course, I've never pointed that out."
"That wouldn't have been nice."
"You know what dress I'd like you to wear?"
"Which one?" She snuggled next to him, playing with his tie.
"That pink one you wore the day we met."
"That was a business suit. I can't wear that to a party."
"Well, maybe you'd like to wear this instead?" He reached into the top of the closet producing a dress box.
Cassandra's eyes glowed as she fumbled with the lid. "Oh, Brodie! It's beautiful! When did you buy this?"
"I got it the day after you told me you were expecting. I wanted it to be a surprise."
She held up the bright blue dress. The lines were free flowing, the material light and airy. It brought out the color of her eyes, setting off her red hair.
"You know what makes me the happiest?" He said as he helped her dress.
"No, what?"
"It's now a perfect fit." Kissing her, he thanked God he was well versed in the art of diplomacy.

Excerpt from "Savage Heart"

Although this is from later in the book, I liked the interplay between the two characters so much, I decided to post it. This is from the sequel to "Indian Summer" called "Savage Heart" Manuel is the hero of "Indian Summer". Sailfish is his Indian blood brother. They are on a mission to spy on and infiltrate General Oglethorpe's troops. ~ Dellani

CHAPTER TEN
Eighth May, 1740

The sun was high in the sky as Sailfish and Manuel trudged through the tall river grass along the shore. This part of the country was much less traveled than some others. Mosquitoes rose
from the brush and rushes, feasting on their unprotected skin. Stinging flies swarmed around them, landing on the exposed pieces of skin that weren't covered by mosquitoes.
Swatting uselessly, Manuel led the way. "I'll be covered in welts and drained of blood before we arrive!"
"I did say not to come this way."
"I had hoped to cut a little time off our walk."
"I recall that argument being put forth at the time of our discussion. And what did I say in response?"
"The other way was better. You failed to elucidate how."
"I thought my assessment was enough for you, Brother."
"Yes, yes...."
"You usually take my advice without second guessing me."
"You're certainly a nag today. Perhaps it's lack of sleep?"
"Perhaps it's blood loss! Bear more to the right."
"I thought you weren't familiar with this path."
"I didn't say that. I said the other way is better. How would I know unless I'd also come this way? Take to the water. If we swim part of the way, the insects will be less troublesome."
"Are we going to argue all the way to Georgia?"
"It's a distinct possibility unless you let me lead."
"Fine! If that will make you happy and less of an old woman, by all means!"
"Shh!" Sailfish held up his hand.
Although Manuel was mid-cry, he halted, words bitten back. Listening carefully, he heard sounds that could only be made by man. The creak of leather, clank of metal and gruff commentary filled the air.
"At least we've found them," Manuel whispered.
They eased to crouch. Not even swatting the insects now, they listened. Perhaps they could gather the information they needed without infiltrating the camp after all? A flash of red no more than a score of yards ahead reminded them that the British too knew how to secure an area. Backing slowly, they made their way toward the river. Slipping silently into the water, they swam a half mile or so away before hauling themselves onto the bank.
"Now what?" Manuel asked as he squeezed the water out of his hair.
"This was your brilliant plan, brother."
"I hate when you're smug."
"And I hate when you're arrogant, so we're even."
Sailfish dug around in his waterproof pack for something to eat. He pulled out a packet of dried meat, sharing some with his brother. Manuel took the food automatically, with a nod of thanks.
"We can still approach them."
"Oh, aye. We'll not draw any attention marching toward a landing force. We'll be shot before we go a bow's length."
"How's your Creek?"
"Terrible. You knew that already."
Manuel nodded, gazing over the water. Chewing and swallowing, he continued to think. "If we had a good story, a strong opening...."
"We would still get shot before...."
"Pessimist!"
"Pest!"
"Shh!"
The men dropped low to the ground, listening. They heard movement, talking, the clatter of gear. Swearing quietly, they slid into the water once more. Fortunately, the sounds grew more distant as the scouting party passed. Instead of coming out of the water, they came up for air, kneeling on the sandy bottom of the shallows. The men looked at one another with consternation.
"If they catch us lurking in the water, we will not have a good excuse," Manuel muttered. "We either need to retreat or make up our minds how the hell to present ourselves."
"I had a thought." Sailfish said nothing more.
Manuel, never a patient man, bit back on his impatient outburst. Feeling his anger build, he reminded himself that his Indian brother was less inflammatory and much more even tempered than he. Where Manuel was a man of immediate action, his brother deliberated a long time. Also a man of action, Sailfish only acted when he was sure. On the rare occasion where he did something suddenly, it was because he'd been thinking of it ahead of time. Biting his tongue, Manuel said nothing.

Good News!

Fantastic news! Second Wind Publishing has now got Ebooks available! Pop over and check it out! http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/ebooks.html

See a Reader's Perspective

My friend Cherry De wrote an insightful post on my Word Press blog. Pop over and have a look!

http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/

Why Do I Write?

People love to talk to writers. I don't know why that is, but they do. Many are, I'm sure, trying to get published themselves and want advice. Others like the aura and mystique of a writer. They stand around in awe. While this is flattering, it's somewhat uncomfortable. Most of the writers I've met are somewhat shy and reserved. We may not come across that way when among others of our breed, but there is the tendency to want to shrink away from public acclaim.
Inevitably, when people find out you're a writer, they ask several uncomfortable questions. At least they are uncomfortable for me, because I don't have good answers for them yet. The first question I usually am asked is, "How do you think of the stories?"
After a brief 'duh' moment, I try to stammer something out, but it's vastly inaccurate and not very satisfying for them or me. Being a strong believer in the Greek concept of the Muse, I can't explain that the ideas and words possess me briefly, flow from my fingers to the keyboard and park themselves on the page without my conscious effort. How do you explain that concept to someone who has never experienced it? Not only that, if you say the word "possessed" you're either going to have an exorcist or the men in little white coats descend on you in the wee, small hours of the night.
I generally say something stupid like, "Oh, I don't know. They just come to me." How blah is that? There is a facial change in those around me when I say that. They were waiting for pearls of wisdom and I just handed them cold oatmeal. YUCK!
Another uncomfortable question and, if possible, more difficult to answer is "Why did you become a writer?" The 'duh' moment is longer on this one because I really have to think about it. Why did I become a writer?
Because from the moment I could talk, stories came to my mind? Because I feel this driving compulsion to put word to paper? Or is it because there are stories there that must be told? Characters create themselves demanding to speak! I, as the instrument, must tell as many of their stories as I can in one lifetime or they can never live, love, resolve their inner conflicts. They need me as much as I need them.
I look back on my life and realize I was always creating stories. When I was three, my older sister started kindergarten. Never having been on my own, I created an imaginary friend, Snowy Green. He and I went to Rainbow School and played games, sang songs and painted pictures with finger paint. I told ripping yarns to my mother about all the amazing things we did at Rainbow School and how we spent our day. I can't remember any of them now, but I know that was my first foray into the world of storytelling.
Once I got into high school, under the strict tutelage of a wonderfully patient teacher, Mr. Ray Frakes, I learned the importance of expressing myself well. He took my lack of style and rudimentary mechanics well in hand, honing my skill. Later, in college, I used to write plays and short stories. This further fed my love and desire to write.
I set aside the writing when I was a young mother. I didn't have the time, but the urge to be creative was still there. It wasn't until my youngest son started kindergarten that I was able to devote more time to writing. From then on, it became a full time passion. I write every free moment. The number of novels, essays and short stories I've got on file boggles my mind. The millions of words I've combined into a coherent whole amazes me. There are still tales to be told, characters to meet, conflicts to resolve. I could spend the rest of my life writing and never tell them all.
Where do the ideas come from? I don't know. They're out there. Some are meant for me to chronicle, others are not. I read the books my friends have written and think, "That's so good! I could never have written that!" It wasn't my story to tell, it belonged to them. However, once the story is published, it belongs to us all.
How selfish would the Brontë sisters have been if they hadn't shared "Wuthering Heights" and "Jane Eyre"? What would we do without Daphne du Mauier's "Rebecca"? And where would the world be without A.A. Milne's "House at Pooh Corner" or J.R.R. Tolkein's "The Hobbit?" The stories these authors told have enriched our lives, opening new worlds for readers to explore.
My questions for you are some you may encounter when amongst the "Madding Crowd". Why do you write? How do you think of your stories? Where do your ideas come from? What compels or inspires you to write? What author most inspired your imagination? If you can answer these for yourself, then answering them for others will be easy and you can avoid that uncomfortable 'duh' moment.