Showing posts with label Lost in His Arms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lost in His Arms. Show all posts

Saturday, August 18, 2012

And a little child shall lead her…

By  M.S. Spencer (Guest Blogger)

When I post my biography or tell stories about my life, I’m often met with gasps of astonishment…well, at least an open mouth or two. It’s true: from my first flight halfway around the world to Ankara, Turkey at the age of five, to living or traveling to countries on five continents over the past fifty-odd years, to working for the U.S. Congress, to raising perfect children, I have built up a store of experiences that some would find unusually diverse. There are those who find stimulation in the everyday romance of living. Miss Marple in her St. Mary Mead, or Edith Holden’s Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady come to mind. I don’t deny that human nature is the same, whether in a small Devon village or the jungles of the Amazon River basin. However, in any micro-climate you’re limited to the study of the uniformity of human nature—what traits humans have in common. It’s only when you come upon an unfamiliar architectural style, taste an exotic dish, or hear a foreign language that you can appreciate the extraordinary variety of solutions humans have invented for the same set of challenges.

Because that variety fascinated me, I studied anthropology in college and graduate school. Anthropology has a two-pronged mission: (1) to document the different approaches cultures use to deal with the world; and (2) to find the elements common to all cultures in order to ascertain that which differentiates Man from other animals. In other words, what makes Man Man? We can debate specifics—is it his tool-making ability? His belief in a spiritual world? Fire?—but deep in our bones we know that humans are different from animals, that something in their makeup not only brought them out of the forest to build houses, make clothes, and tame the land and the climate; it also led them to build castles and temples, establish law, and write poetry and symphonies.

But I digress (reader mutters, “Ya think?”). I’d better go back to the beginning, before the fascinating subject of human nature drew us off course. I had started to explain my life and how I ended up here, writing.

In my youth, I lived in Turkey, France, and Morocco and traveled with my family throughout Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. During the course of a somewhat extended academic career, I studied the aforementioned anthropology, library science, several languages, and the Middle East at four of the top schools in the country (this is actually relevant—not just blowing the old horn). Post college I lived in Egypt, New York, Turkey, France, Boston, and Chicago, finally coming to rest back in my home town of Washington DC. I found a job by accident on a committee of the U.S. Senate, where I worked on energy and natural resources (national parks, oil, water, etc.) issues, before moving on to writing speeches for a Senator and then policy development in the Department of the Interior. Those positions gave me the opportunity to visit Alaska, fly the length of the Colorado River, tour a slew of great dams like Hoover, and take a helicopter ride over the sloughs of North Dakota, to mention a few highlights.

The greatest of my adventures began when I married and had two gorgeous children. Besides the sheer mystery of trying to figure out another human being (especially considering the dramatic changes they go through every year), I could take them on trips (Puerto Rico, Chincoteague, Arizona, the Everglades, Peru, Maine) and teach them (and me) to garden and kayak, play music, ride, bird watch and…well, you parents out there know the drill. I also learned just how hard it is to run a volunteer organization—diplomacy and appreciation are so much more important when a salary isn’t involved.

Like most writers, I’d been writing since I could hold a piece of chalk and bend my knees enough to reach the sidewalk. While I did a lot of academic writing and speech writing, I wrote very little fiction after high school. Sure, I thought about it—how I longed to see that slim volume gathering dust on the bookshelf—but life got in the way. So instead I turned to reminiscing. I went on and on—usually at the breakfast table (me and Oliver Wendell Holmes) about all the cool things I’d done in my life, dropping the names of all the elite institutions I’d attended wherever possible.

Then one day, my son (he was at that maddeningly skeptical age) looked at me and said, “So, Mom, what have you used any of it for?”

His question was met with a shocked look and no ready reply. “I…uh…um…” A quick look at my watch and a clearing of the throat and I escaped into parent mode. “Time for school; we’ll talk about this later, young man.”

After I’d seen him safely out the door, I pulled out a notebook and pen, sat down, and began to write. Five years later I have five books published, one on the way, and one in the works. Those twinkles in my eye are still more stories lined up waiting to go into labor. Thanks to my son, I got off my behind and got around to doing what I love most. Thanks to my son, my myriad memories have been neither wasted nor inflicted on bored cocktail party-goers, but woven into novels. Thanks to my son, I’ve done something useful with them.

I’m also much less annoying to be around.

This was my first published novel, and the one I sat down to write with my son’s goosing…er…blessing:

Lost in His Arms
Red Rose Publishing (2009)
eBook, 61,000 words, ISBN 978-1-60435-375-0
Romantic Suspense, Action/Adventure; M/F; 3 flames

In an era electric with possibility and peril Chloe Gray, political writer, and Michael Keller, CIA troubleshooter, meet under curiously conventional circumstances. Despite the instantaneous sparks, they both sense there is more between them than physical attraction. Chloe's professional detachment from the dramatic world events of the 1990s—a disintegrating USSR, Middle East peace talks, and Vietnam's reemergence on the world stage—dissolves as their love affair intensifies.

Michael appears and disappears at unpredictable moments, leaving her limp and lovelorn. Is he using her or protecting her? In her quest for answers, she is yanked into the dangerous world of Michael's work—in Washington, DC, in France, and in Spain. Looking for safe harbor (for her emotions? or her body?), she submits to the advances of a dashing French diplomat. Will she embrace the luxury and comfort of Emile and his chateau or the romance of international intrigue with Michael?

Buy Links:

Amazon Print:


EXCERPT (R)—First Mating
Chloe pulled his arm closer. "It is not just a cut. It's a gash. Look at all the blood you’ve dripped on my floor! Come here." She held his arm under the faucet and carefully washed the grit out of the wound. "Now just stay there. Press this paper towel against the cut. I'll go get some Neosporin and a bandage." She slipped up the stairs and through her bedroom to the bathroom. As she came out with the supplies she stopped short. He was sitting on her bed.

"I thought I would save you a trip." He spoke diffidently.

"Oh…that's…okay." Chloe willed herself not to touch his thigh as she sat down on the bed next to him (too close?). She applied the ointment and bandage, trying to keep her hands from trembling. He must have noticed anyway, because he put his larger one over hers and gently squeezed.

"Is the blood bothering you?"

She hesitated, breathless. He looked into her eyes, and before she knew it his arms went around her and she was kissing him. No, he was kissing her. She lost all sense of time and place and clung to his mouth as though she were drowning and it was a lifeboat. She felt herself falling, landing on his chest. He held her tightly, squeezing the life out of her. Or was it her soul he was drawing into his own? How could she tell him it was not his blood that bothered her but her own, boiling up in waves of desire? He let her go reluctantly, but she held onto his buttons, tearing them off. She opened his shirt and buried her face in the soft black hairs of his chest. His hands went to her arms and gently moved her off him to the side. Slowly he undid her blouse, unhooked the bra and brushed each breast with his lips. She lay back, her eyes unfocussed, waiting for the touch, living for the scent of his hair. He looked up through his bangs and blasted her heart out with a glance of those azure eyes.

"May we?"

She did not need elaboration. She nodded mutely. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and down her stomach. A thousand butterflies fought to escape from her belly. He pulled down her zipper and tugged at the skirt. She still lay quietly, lost in pleasure. It all seemed to pass in slow motion. Everything felt perfect. Then he stopped. She opened her eyes. "What?"

His expression had altered. He was glaring at her, his face only inches away from hers. "What the Hell am I doing? This is nuts!" He sat up, facing away from her. She saw that she had taken his shirt off and his belt and zipper were undone. For some inexplicable reason his shoes were neatly arranged at the foot of the bed. She put a hand on his back. He stood up abruptly.

A sudden flash of panic hit her. He couldn't leave. Not now.

“Please don’t go.” Her voice stayed almost steady. “It’s…not exactly something we planned. Unexpected, unexplainable, maybe. But it’s also right. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t.” His voice slurred with anger as he slapped the words down. “This is neither the time nor the place. I can’t afford to do this now.”

“To do what? Make love?”

He looked down at her, his face softening. “It’s more than that. I don’t know why. But you know it too.”

Chloe gazed at him. It was true. She knew that first day, when he stood on her front step in his white uniform, the sun glinting off his dark head and his eyes flashing blue in the heat. Her heart flip-flopped. She had never wanted a man so much before. She didn’t want to ask any questions; she didn‘t even want to ask about protection. Mentioning condoms could be so...well...deflating. She rose and put her arms around him. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him softly. His arms went slowly, inevitably, around her and they drifted into their own world.

When she opened her eyes she found him calmly pulling off the rest of her clothes. She appeared to be doing the same for him. He stopped and took a condom out of his wallet. Good. Now she could relax.

His pants flew across the room and she fell on his naked, beautiful body. He pulled her under him and moved, hard and swift, up her body and then down. Everything moved, as though they rode on the sea, in a great harmony of tides. She felt him press inside her, so deep it almost touched her heart. She moved with him, accepting the throbbing energy and meeting it. Faster he went, closer she came to her climax, her hands clutching, drawing him toward her. She dimly heard herself crying and calling him all sorts of names. Relentless, entering and leaving, driving her to the brink, he murmured, “Love me. Oh God, love me.” Then the world stopped. They looked into each other’s eyes and collapsed.

You may be interested in my other novels:

Lost and Found, love and lust in the wilds of Maine~

Losers Keepers, rekindled romance and murder on Chincoteague (ebook & print) ~

Triptych, lost artworks, jealousy, sex, larceny and genius plays out above the mighty Potomac River (ebook & print) ~


My books are also available at B&N, all Romance eBooks, Bookstrand, and Fictionwise.


I’d love to hear from you!
Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/M.S.SpencerAuthor



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Sunday, November 21, 2010

The War Between Reading and Writing

By M.S. Spencer (Guest Blogger)

“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to be entertained as you watch two titans of the ring locked in an eternal struggle for your…er…time. In one corner feast your eyes on the Tome, masked in fancy vellum, costumed in elaborate prose, as big as the New York City Public Library. A fearsome foe indeed.” The emcee pointed toward the ropes, where a massive rectangle, his name in raised gold lettering across his chest, riffled his pages at the throng.

“And now I direct your attention to the other corner. Please give a cheer for Quill the mighty scribbler!” The audience turns to see a gangly welterweight stand up, his eyes streaming purple ink, his long thin fingers clenching and unclenching, clearly longing to wring the Tome’s neck.

Unfortunately, this kind of duel doesn’t draw in the big crowds (nor, sadly, the big bucks). It is usually fought alone, in a study, staring at the walls, out the window, at your fingernails…anything but at the page or the pad of paper. It is the conflict that has endured ever since one Cro-Magnon wanted to continue painting his wall epic while his companion pressed to go see what the neighbors put on their wall in case they could learn something from it. It is the abiding war between Reading and Writing.

Now you, Dear Reader, may not see it that way. I’ll bet you love to read (you’re reading this, aren’t you?). You spend hours of your day racing through paragraphs, flipping pages, humming as you go. You put off the book report or letter in order to get to that last page before supper. Then with a sigh you pick up pen and paper. Writing is the chore after the fun.

You, Dear Writer are another story. Perhaps you plod dutifully through the novel, always aware of the page you’re on, checking your watch, then closing the book with a happy sigh at the appointed time. You turn eagerly to the pad of paper. You prefer to create the sentences and the story, not have it thrust upon you.

Of course there are people who think both activities are equally enjoyable. But as a writer I often find myself torn between the two, unsure which should be the priority. Reading, as we all know, increases your vocabulary, your facility with language, your knowledge of the world and the human condition, in a way that writing in a cave will not (unless you’re a Cro-Magnon, but I think we’re beyond that, don’t you?). However, if you are a writer, putting words on paper is the immensely satisfying fulfillment of an internal necessity. I speak of the urge, on the one hand, to teach and to reach other human beings, and on the other, to create and to control the means to that end; in other words, the desire to produce something original that will affect the reader in a new and different way.

My fear is that too much reading interferes with this creative process. I know that sounds radical, even stupid, but hear me out. Every book, every author has a certain individual style. Every culture and era promotes a certain literary style. Shakespeare’s rhythmic prose is different from Jane Austen’s perfectly constructed sentences, in contrast to Anne Rice’s florid paragraphs-within-paragraphs. But if you are steeped in Shakespeare, how do you write a contemporary romance that doesn’t sound stilted? If your favorite author writes in two-word sentences and minimal dialogue, how do you write that lush erotic love scene? Do you adopt his style or ignore it?

Some might recommend using bits and pieces of other styles to perfect your own. It is natural, likely impossible, not to. Your writing is for better or for worse informed by the authors you’ve appreciated. But when you’re searching for your own voice you must be careful to keep those elements at arm’s length. So how do you train yourself to be aware when someone else’s voice starts creeping into your prose?

Simple. Stop reading while you’re writing. I hear you gulp, but think of it as a pause between lessons, a diet between the holidays if you will. A candy diet. You have to clear your mind of other writers’ styles in order to find your own. As long as the urge is strong to call your hero Mr. Darcy rather than “Fitzwilliam” (yes, that was his first name) or even Fitz, you can’t make your story your own. And readers are very sensitive to a style that isn’t owned. It is confusing and irritating. Besides, if you truly are a writer, you want to have your own voice. And I maintain that it is difficult for all but the most self-assured and seasoned of writers to find that voice if there are tenors singing in your head while you’re trying to pen music for a baritone.

When I was young I read voraciously. I loved biographies in particular, but I would pick up anything and read it, from Dostoievski to Joseph Conrad to Evelyn Waugh. Those years provided me with a voluminous internal library, making it easier to set the reading aside while I concentrate on my own skills. Writing is after all a profession like any other, to be practiced and honed separate from the words. A trial lawyer must have the precedents at his fingertips, but in the end he’ll have to fashion his own creative defense. A fullback studies the playbook, but at the snap he must go after the quarterback on his own. A mathematician could not create his own original theory without the multiplication tables he memorized earlier. Now that I’m writing professionally I have an obligation to do the same: to draw upon my internal library, yes, but ultimately to provide my own unique perspective on the world. Otherwise, why would any reader want to read me rather than Shakespeare

I’m sure other writers have their own means of balancing reading and writing as they work. For me, if I’ve been reading a lot, it takes a real leap to get back into my writing. I lose the thread of the story, the atmosphere I’ve worked hard to create. I have to clear my mind and focus on the characters, sometimes even reread a large portion of the story, before I can slip back into the world I was constructing before I dove into someone else’s. You can’t churn out those bestsellers if you have to keep stopping to regroup.

That’s my take on the war between the Tome and the Quill. I look forward very much to hearing thoughts from other readers and writers.

Biography:

Although Meredith Ellsworth has traveled and lived in Chicago, Boston, Europe, South and Central America and the Middle East, the last 30 years have been spent in the Washington area as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter and editor. She worked for the U.S. Senate, for the Department of the Interior, and in several library systems, both public and academic.

Writing as M. S. Spencer, she has published two contemporary romance novels, Lost in His Arms and Lost and Found, both bestsellers at (www.redrosepublishing.com/books ). She has two wonderful children, Spencer and Emma.

Book Information and Purchase Links:

Lost in His Arms, by M. S. Spencer

Contemporary Romance, Action/Adventure; M/F; 3 flames

Lost & Found, by M. S. Spencer

Contemporary Romance, Action/Adventure; M/F; 3 flames

Contact M. S. Spencer:

Website: www.meredithellsworth.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mssellsworth

Facebook Author Page

Amazon Author Page

All Romance E Books Author Page

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