I'm a Confused Writer by Vonnie Davis

When I try to write something serious, readers laugh. When I try my hand at comedy, readers email me and fuss that I never warned them it would pluck at their heart strings so badly. I don't know how I manage to put in the wrong emotion. I mean, I feel like a sweat suit at the Spring formal.

I had a goal of writing deeper emotion. To see if I could make readers go from laughter to tears. So, I wrote For the Love of a Fireman, with two wounded souls. The hero was especially hurt; his co-workers at the fire station had taken to calling him Ice Man. My heroine lost her mother in a car accident a few months earlier, was dealing with a father in the early stages of dementia and was being stalked by an ex-fiancé who had beaten her when she broke off the engagement. Serious stuff, right? I've gotten more reviews and emails from readers who claim they've never laughed so hard the whole way through a book.

Well....that's not what I was aiming for! How did I screw that up?

The truth is I do enjoy starting a book with a humorous scene, for I feel it draws the reader in and makes them like the characters right away. Often the characters tell me how to do it. Barclay, my hero, told me how to write this opening scene of For the Love of a Fireman as an example.

 

“Quick! What aisle are the douches in? I’ve got three bitches at the beach cottage and they all stink to high heaven.” The broad shoulders of the harried man appeared solid under his faded t-shirt, worn inside out and backward. His pale whiskered stubble was pulled tight by his clenched jaw and tensed lips. The customer practically vibrated with frustration.

 

 

“I can’t let them in bed with me smelling like that.” His fingertips tapped a beat of annoyance on the check-out counter. “What is it with females, anyway? Ain’t got the good sense God gave them.”

 

Molly Devon’s temper flared. Oh, yeah, as if you men are the sharpest knives on humanity’s chopping block.

 

He brushed his neck, his fingers tangling in the worn tag. He looked down, plucked the material of his shirt and muttered a curse. “Sorry, I grabbed the first top I could find and just yanked it on. He reached back with one hand and jerked it off, trying to set it to rights.

 

Molly’s Colorado born-and-bred gaze took a skiing trip over the mountains of his hardened pecs and skied down the ridges of his abs. Along his downhill masculine slope, she noticed other things. Skin tanned dark. On his left side, a wide tribal rib tattoo ran from below his armpit to beneath his pants to who knew where. A light tan treasure trail of chest hair thinned at his navel. The waistband of his raggedy jeans barely hung onto the V indent at his hipline created by well-toned obliques.

 

Sweet Lord, what a girl couldn’t do with…

 

For Pete’s sake, swallow this mouthful of drool. Stop gawking! Haven’t I learned my lesson? Men are bad news. Not to be believed and never to be trusted.

 

Firm biceps flexed as he slipped the faded t-shirt, advertising boogie boards, over his torso, tugging it down and shifting his wide shoulders. “Sorry, about that. But, believe me, I’d sooner be home, hammering away, than in here.”

 

His crass remark jerked her admiring attention to his overconfident square jaw.

 

Yeah, just give me a hammer, buddy. I’ll pound some sense into your arrogant over-sexed brain.

 

He leaned toward her. “Well? Where are they?”

 

The stranger’s bark startled her. With her nerves on edge from her mother’s recent passing, her father’s increasing signs of dementia and Wade’s violent reaction after she broke off their engagement, any perceived threat—no matter how minor or brief—set her insides to trembling. Paranoia had her in its grip for she was sure she’d seen Wade’s battered, dark blue SUV cruising Gulf Boulevard in Indian Rocks Beach, Florida. Both times she hid, her body having slipped into fear mode.

 

Molly tussled with her anxieties, scrambling for internal control.

 

“Ah…” She lifted her index finger to indicate she needed a second or two as she scanned the overhead signs, listing the items stocked in each aisle. Where had she seen the feminine products during her brief new-hire orientation two days ago? Another deep breath and calmness returned, her mind finally chugging into gear.

 

The customer lifted his blue ball cap with some kind of marine rescue emblem on it, forked his long fingers through straight hair—bleached nearly pale blond by the sun—and resettled the hat. “You do carry Massengill, don’t you? That’s the best brand, according to my research.”

 

“Ah…” My God, what kind of man researches douches? A man who goes to bed with three women, Molly. Now concentrate.

 

Two broad hands clasped the edge of the counter. His index finger had a nasty red-rimmed cut on its side. An appealing mixture of sawdust, lime and ginger snagged her attention and, when the man cleared his throat, her gaze snapped upward to lock on a pair of surf green eyes flecked with blue. “Is my question too difficult for you to answer…” he glanced at her nametag, “Molly?”

 

Oh, this guy has a good tongue lashing coming. Molly sucked in a breath, pulled together a string of insults to hurl at him and then changed her mind. Better to smile while she enjoyed her private opinions of this man-whore, especially since she needed every penny to buy groceries and her father’s medicines. She’d put a big dent in her credit card balance to substitute the laptop her dad had misplaced, along with his wallet and her carryon of her clothes.

 

Finally the product’s location slipped into place. “You’ll find them in aisle six, on the right.”

 

The knuckles of his fisted hand rapped once on the counter before he sauntered off.

 

Big-headed, demanding jerk.

 

Her gaze settled on the box of chocolate bars calling her name, taunting her. Why did everything she ate have to settle on her ass? Two women strolled in the store wearing shorts that showcased slender, toned thighs and itty-bitty butts. Her thighs were toned, but thick by society’s standards. Unfortunately, the only things slender on her body were her earlobes and toes. Life just wasn’t fair.

 

Molly was shoving packs of cigarettes into racks behind the register when someone thunked items onto the check-out counter. She pasted on a smile, did a quick pivot and sighed as the grin slid off. Douche-man was back with twelve double packs of Massengill disposables.

 

“You only had two boxes of the mixable kind.” He read the printing on the box he held, never once sparing her a glance. He tapped the second carton resting on the counter with his cut finger. “Would you mind checking your inventory in the back? I’ll need more.”

 

“I’m not allowed to leave the register, but I’ll be happy to page our stock boy.”

 

Douche-man grunted and flipped the package around. “It’s gonna take at least two boxes for Lola. She’s big. Got wide hips. Skinny legs, though. Kinda like a twenty-gallon tank on toothpicks.”

 

What an ass, talking about his girlfriend like that! Molly sneered and depressed the button on the store’s intercom. “Cruz, could you check our supply of mixable douche powder? I have a man who needs three or four boxes.”

 

“Make it five or six. And they have to be Massengill, don’t forget. God, I don’t know which girl smells the worst.”

 

Well, quit putting your nose in their hootchies. Molly cleared her throat and rolled her eyes before depressing the button on the intercom. “Could you make that six boxes of douche powder? Massengill, please, Cruz.” A few snickers floated over from aisle two.

 

“I can see I’m gonna have a rough night ahead. Maggie Mae hates when I give her a good scrubbing, especially if I get soap in her beady eyes or get too rough with her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and sighed like a man greatly imposed upon. “God, I hate a whiny bitch.”

 

Oh, I am so going to belt you.

 

“Caroline handles her bath pretty well. She likes it rough, especially when I hold her head under the faucet.” He had the audacity to chuckle. “She tries to drink the water, but then she’ll drink most anything.”

 

She’d have to be drunk to put up with you, buster. You need some serious help.

 

Cruz hurried to the register, his arms full of boxes. “Here you go, Molly.” He shot the customer a curious glance.

 

“Thanks. Would you do me one more favor, please?”

 

The pimply-faced teen’s head bobbed. “Sure.”

 

“Our customer needs a bottle of peroxide and Neosporin for the cut on his finger. It’s showing signs of infection.” Cruz nodded and hurried back to aisle four.

 

Douche-man glimpsed at his hand. “Thanks. I do have a first aid kit, but I’ve been too preoccupied with work to take care of it. Ain’t nothing but an infected splinter. Can’t seem to dig deep enough to get to it."

 

 

Oh, just give me a machete. I’ll show you how deep a good woman can cut.

 

He slid his fingertips into the front pocket of jeans, pulling them a little lower on his hips, and she fought to inhale her next breath until he finally tugged out folded bills secured with a silver fire truck money clip. “What’s the damage?”

 

To your wallet or the self-esteem of those poor women?

 

After totaling his purchases, Molly handed him his change and six plastic bags. “Hope you get them cleaned up.”

 

He grunted again. “Sure as hell hope so. Don’t know if I can sleep without the girls laying all over me.”

 

She planted her hand on her hip. Oh, puh-lease.

 

He headed for the exit, high-top sneakers clunking the tile floor.

 

Molly glared at his retreating form. What a piece of macho jerk.

 

He snapped his fingers and returned. “Where’s the dog toys? They’ll be expecting a treat after I scrub the skunk smell off.”

 

“Dogs? Dogs!” Had he been talking about dogs all this time?

 

Douche-man nodded, his blond five o’clock shadow more an eight o’clock sexy scruff. “Yeah. An overweight Black Lab, a beady-eyed Chihuahua and a Collie mix. I’m kinda partial to my girls, but not when they chase skunks and get a good spraying.”

 

“Skunks? Spraying?” God, I sound like an echo.

 

“Used to wash them down with tomato juice after being sprayed, but Caroline would lap at the juice and get terrible gas.” He shook his head once. “Couldn’t stand to be around her for days.” He grinned and dimples slashed his cheeks. “So, I researched online and found out about bathing animals in Massengill after encounters with skunks.”

 

Boy, talk about a miscommunication.

 

 

Although I stuck in bits of humor here and there throughout the book, I also thought I wove in moments to take a person's breath away, to play on their sympathies and to make them feel sorry for this man who has lost so many loved ones in his lifetime. Somewhere along the line, I got confused.

My Eyes Get Blurry

Vonnie Davis

I really don't know what to write about to grab your interest or entertain you today. Odd, isn't it? I mean, I'm a writer for heaven's sake. I just can't seem to keep my mind focused on one thing. I've got so much to do--and don't we all? How did life get to be so busy?

Right now, I am over-scheduled with contracts, which is a good thing, a grand thing. But ladies, it's all I do. From nine in the morning until one the next morning, my laptop and are I attached at the thighs. There are emails, self-promotion, facebook, twitter, street team management and writing. Around three in the afternoon, my eyes are so tired, I take a nap for an hour, so I can see the print on my computer screen. My eyes get blurry. This is pretty much the life all writers live, especially if they're retired like I am. It's not glamorous. To move forward, it has to be our main focus.

 Right now, I'm writing book two of my "Wild Heat" series about firemen for Harper Impulse--For the Love of a Fireman. At the same time, I'm also going over the edits my editor at Random House Loveswept wants in book two of my paranormal "Highlander Beloved" series. I'll be honest. Signing contracts with two publishers at the same time was not the smartest move on my part. I thought I could handle the stress, the time drain, the mental confusion of switching from writing in a Scottish burr to firemen's lingo in Florida. Just call me foolish...sigh.

I'd love to be able to show you the cover of book two -- A Highlander's Passion, but I'm not allowed. Random House has contracted an exclusive cover reveal with a large blog. But here's the cover for book one, which is already out.

My editor at Random House also wants me to send along chapter one of book three of my next highlander book to insert as a teaser at the end of book two. To be honest, I really haven't given much thought to that book yet. I was hoping for a week of brain rest before I started it. Random House has asked me to write exclusively for them. For self-preservation and to get part of my life back, I agreed.

My editor called the other day to brainstorm on my next series. I was so brain-fried, she did all the brainstorming. I could barely pull together a puff of wind. I just took notes and said, "Okay" a lot. She went over what types of stories were going out of style and what readers are looking for now.

I kept asking myself, how do they know what the average woman wants to read? And, please God, don't let her saddle me with a story concept I can't get behind. So in the later half of 2015 and 2016, I'll be writing three books about returning servicemen -- wounded and with PTSD -- who band together in a small town for the quiet, the remoteness, as they adapt to society again...and, of course, the women they meet. All I have to do is send her four paragraphs about each book, like what you read on the back of a book cover, only in more detail for her approval.

When someone looks at me and says, "I'd like to write a book someday." I want to reply with, "You'll work harder than you ever have in your life."...."You'll also have more fun than you've ever had."

And you'll need to grow a thick skin because some reviewers can be brutal and downright cruel. For example: "Really? This is the piss-poor book you wanted to write?" I bawled. Some can make your day shine like one I got recently. "Vonnie Davis is a modern-day bard of romance. Her mastery of writing mechanics is sublime, elevated to such a high standard that I don't have anything to say about it." I think I'll focus on it instead of one I once received "This woman can only write on the third grade level. I could only stand to read one chapter. Avoid her." Oh, if she only knew how hard I worked to get my bachelors in English while working in a factory at night and raising teenagers as a single mom. Couldn't she just have said, "This book was not my cup of tea?"

Have an awesome day, ladies. Guess what I'll be doing?

Do Senior Citizens Belong in Romance?

Vonnie Davis

Although my husband teases me about doing negative math with my age--he claims I subtract a year instead of adding one--I have no problem admitting I'm sixty-six. With each passing year, I find I'm more and more invisible to the younger set, an inconvenience, a slower moving person they hurry to get around. Yet senior citizens still have value. We add a deeper dimension to families and communities. That's why I love adding at least one to my romances. In fact, I often spend as much time developing his or her character as I do my heroine or hero.

I often make them my comic relief. Not because I want to be seen as funny, but because we all love that person who makes us chuckle, no matter his or her age.

In my Christmas novella, SANTA WORE LEATHERS, the senior citizen neighbor Mrs. Minelli is quick to stick her nose into everyone's business, including the budding romance of Wolf and Becca. Now Becca has a German shepherd, Einstein, who sometimes charges out of the house, usually with a pair of her thongs in his mouth. During this freedom run, he got in some thorny bushes.

“Stay where you are. He’ll be fine. He’s got some thorns in his hide.” Wolf removed the tweezers stored in a slot of the knife and began extracting the offending needles. “We can’t have an awesome fella like you in pain now, can we?” He worked as quickly as he could. “One more, big guy, and then you’ll be fine.” The dog licked him several times. “Yeah, I like you too. Let’s keep what I’m about to do just between us, shall we?” Wolf ran his fingers over the affected groin area, keeping his attentions on the dog’s reactions. “Looks like we got them all.”

“What in blue blazes are you doing to that dog? Are you performing some kind of ‘beasty-wildy’ on him?” Mrs. Minelli, his neighbor, punctured the air with her cane, her white eyebrows arched in question.

This novella that's sold well in the UK and Germany is the kick-off to my "Wild Heat" series about a fire and marine rescue unit in Clearwater, Florida. These will be full-length novels. Book one, HOW TO SEDUCE A FIREMAN will soon be out in eBook format. In December, Harper Impulse is shooting for a paperback version, as well. 

My senior citizen in the first book is Milt Garland. He's a lonely, nosey man who lives on the first floor of Quinn's apartment building. For those of you old enough to remember The Andy Griffith Show, think of an older Barney Fife. Quinn, my hero, has befriended Milt who can't show his gratitude enough. Someone is spying on Quinn and Milt has nominated himself as Chief Security Man. He was attached and brought to the fire station where a meeting was being held to figure out who had abducted Cassie, the heroine.

Poor Milt’s jaw was swollen and starting to bruise. Quinn squatted in front of him. “Did that bastard hit you?”

The old man nodded. “I opened my door in the hope I could take the picture, nonchalant like so he wouldn’t know what I was up to, but Killer charged out and attacked him. Smart dog, Killer. He knows when a person’s no damn good.” Milt nodded once. “I got the picture just fine, but when I cussed out the man for kicking my dog, he cold-cocked me.” The old man turned to Noah. “For those of you who ain’t in the security business, that means he hit me before I knew what was about to happen.”

To Noah’s credit, he kept a straight face.

 

 

My favorite senior citizen is my alter-ego in book one of my contemporary romance with paranormal elements. Effie, or Gram, is bawdy, out-spoken and extremely protective of her grown granddaughter. The first page of the book, A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION, published by Random House describes her perfectly.

  

Paisley Munro tried  not to gawk at the two broad-shouldered men in kilts as she hefted her suitcase off the luggage carousel in the Inverness Airport, located northeast of the city referred to as the capitol of the Scottish Highlands. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was all eyes.

“Before we leave this country, I’m finding out what they wear under those kilts, even if I have to hike one up and take a gander myself.” Her grandmother patted her curls. She’d dyed her hair dark red for the trip. Unfortunately, the inability of her white hair to absorb the dye’s full effect resulted in a halo of pink curls. The combination of her tresses and her pink pantsuit made her look like the Pink Panther with wrinkles, just as skinny and wiry but without the tail.

“Behave yourself, Gram.” Paisley tugged her grandmother’s luggage off the slowly moving belt that squeaked with every couple inches gained. No use telling the free spirit to act her age. At seventy-four, why should she start now? “Our ride ought to be here somewhere.”

Paisley glanced around for Fiona Matheson, who should be holding a sign for Matheson Lodge. Fiona had promised in her reservation confirmation e-mail she’d meet them. 

Gram elbowed her. “Good grief, they’re coming toward us. Look at those broad shoulders and hairy legs. I’m not drooling, am I?” She pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chest. She lowered her chin to talk to her breasts. “Look perky, girls. Sexy hunks at two o’clock.”

 *** I apologize for the goofy coloring of this post. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it looked. If you care to find out more about my books, visit my blog... www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com or my website www.vonniedavis.com.

 

 

I write humor, not heavy. So, why did I try?

I love a dash of humor in my stories. For me, it's one of my strengths. One of my weaknesses? Oh boy, which one shall I chose? The one that bothers me the most, I suppose. My lack of being able to write deep emotion. I just don't feel I can do it as well as I'd like. I want to make your heart ache with sadness. I want your chest to constrict with pain. I want you to cry. Doesn't every writer want to elicit emotions from humor to anger to heartache to joy? I know I do--someday.

So, when I designed my heroine and hero for book one of my Firemen's Wild Heat series, To Catch a Flame, I wanted a darker hero, one who was more emotionally damaged, one who didn't believe in love. Enter Quinn. Exit my good sense.

Things started out good enough. Really, they did. My critique partner assured me I was breaking her heart over the damaged soul of this guy. I was off to a good start and just as pleased as punch.

Then my sense of humor reared it's nasty head.

Quinn knew he had fallen in love with Cassie, but felt he was too damaged for her innocence. Now, Cassie may have been sexually innocent, but she was also a bit of a pistol. Get her angry and she would go off like a roman candle. To get away from her before he damages her in any way, Quinn decides to leave town. As soon as she finds out, she storms over to his apartment to find out "why" he's leaving without telling her. They exchange words at the U-Haul trailer Quinn's packing. Quinn walks away from her snit--a BAD move for any man--and storms upstairs to his second floor apartment. He packs more boxes, waiting for Cassie to come up to continue the argument....

Still no Cassie.

Had she given up and gone home? He carried the box containing his microwave into the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors overlooking the parking lot.

Holy Mother of God!

How had she gotten his Harley untied and out of the trailer? She’d pushed it onto the small patch of yard in front of the apartment building. All of his neckties flapped from the handlebars and what looked to be his jock strap was stretched across the back of its seat. Jammed into the ground at both ends of his bike were his water skis. The rope that had secured his bike upright in the U-haul was now strung from one ski to the other with all of his damn boxers hanging from the rope. In a semi-circle around the bike sat his high school and college football trophies.

His gas grill had also been dragged from the trailer, and hanging like dogs’ ears from the closed chrome lid was every sock he owned. He narrowed his eyes as his blood pressure exploded through the stratosphere. Because there…there…in the midst of all his previously packed boxes was the object of his wrath, kicking each of the cartons, arms waving, mouth moving as if she were cussing someone out. And he had a damn good idea who that lucky son of a bitch was, especially when she scowled up at his balcony and shook her fist.

Just what did she think all this chaos would do?

She stormed back to the trailer and crawled into its cavernous interior. He leaned toward the glass and cocked the box on his hip. Now what was she after? His gaze scanned his belongs scattered helter-skelter over the lawn. She’d already removed everything he’d worked so hard to pack. Except for his…oh no. Oh, hell no! A flurry of movement flashed in the corner of his eye, followed by an unholy sound, resembling a moose in heat. His narrowed gaze swung to Cassie standing below his window playing his treasured saxophone. If one could classify the metalized shrieking she produced as playing.

She’s a dead woman. That horn’s all I have left of Uncle Mat.

He slammed the box onto the sofa and barreled out of his apartment. By the time he sprinted down the steps and charged through the building’s door, every dog in the complex was howling along with Cassie’s demented saxophone caterwauling.

“What the hell are you doing?” He tried to grab the instrument from her hands, but she spun and hit a high note he’d never imagined an alto sax capable of reaching.

“If you don’t stop that infernal racket, I’m calling the cops!” Milt Garland, the old coot who lived on the first floor, ambled out of the building. “I had to turn down my hearing aid.” He gestured to his trembling Chihuahua, snuggled between his arm and his chest. “Scared poor Killer so bad, he peed on the floor.”

“I’m sorry, Milt. I’m trying to stop her.”

Cassie slipped the mouthpiece from her lips. “I’m serenading the man I love. Don’t tell me you’re against romance, Milt—” She hip-bumped the old man and winked at him. “Not a stud muffin like you.”

Milt’s wire-framed glasses all but fogged up and a cheesy grin spread. “Well, no, I’m all for a little romance, sugar plum.” His gaze shot to Quinn. “Don’t know if this young whipper-snapper can deliver, though.” He smirked and his pigeon chest puffed out. “Maybe you’d be better off with an older, more experienced gent.”

The neighborhood dogs quieted since Cassie had stopped frantically pounding the instrument’s keys as if she were typing a letter to Santa.

She leaned against Milt’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to marry this young whipper-snapper.”

Milt narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips while he petted Killer. “Don’t look like the marrying type to me.”

Quinn folded his arms and widened his stance. “That’s because I’m not the marrying type. I’m more the one-night stand type.” This whole conversation was totally bizarre. He glared at Cassie. Thanks to her shenanigans, he’d have to repack everything.

“Oh, you can make book on this, Milt. Hot lips here is mine. His ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.” Cassie sucked a bucketful of air and blew four sour notes at one time.

Quinn jammed his index fingers into his ears and cursed.

Milt jerked his hearing aid out of his ear.

And Killer pissed on Milt’s shirt.

~~*~~*~~

OK, so maybe writing deep emotion, the kind that touches your heart with sadness won't be my thing, after all. We all write what we write. Right? Still, we can dream a little. Try to stretch our wings. I emailed this manuscript to my editor at HarperImpulse two weeks ago. So far she hasn't fainted--that I've heard of. Keep your fingers crossed for me and my dark hero. Or maybe Quinn's not so dark, maybe he's more grey or deep tan. But here's how I envisioned him.

 Visit Vonnie at her website: www.vonniedavis.com