Every year, Harlequin publishes their annual Romance Report in time for Valentine’s Day, making the results available for the media to use and for bloggers to mock. This year, they’re conducting their survey online and you can take part here at their new site.

Who doesn’t love a good confession? We all have them, we all dread their repercussions, yet we are all intrigued by the confessions of others. But confessions can also be extremely romantic. They are about freeing ourselves from guilt, confiding in loved ones and developing truthful and honest relationships with those around us.

Here’s a snippet from Simon Baptiste’s story. No final word yet on when it will be released, and no title, so I’m teasing you for nothing. *g* And, no, that’s not my cover, but it is the picture I used for Simon!

* * * * * * * * * *

He slowed as he reached the entrance to the bridge that crossed the swampland giving Bayou Allain its name. A fire truck, an ambulance, and three cars from the sheriff’s department blocked all but one slice of road.

Simon could understand why. Hitting the bridge at too high a speed had not fared well for the car below, its front end buried in the muck, its underbelly exposed to the elements and covered in the detritus of the swamp.

The scene wasn’t fresh. The car’s wheels weren’t spinning. He didn’t see signs of a driver or passenger, though that could be explained by the ambulance. At least the parish coroner wasn’t on site.

He made it across the bridge without incident, sped up for the last half mile before the turn into his property, and headed for the house in which he’d grown up.

He doubted he’d see his cousin unless he made a concerted effort to do so. He didn’t want to leave here without setting things straight, but he wasn’t going to force a confrontation with King.

Not when the sale of the land would widen the rift between them.

Making provisions for his cousin was something he needed to discuss with Lorna, whether or not it could be done by giving King time to relocate, or setting aside for him a portion of the profits from the sale.

If there were any profits.

Simon might be looking at nothing but a break even proposition, if not a loss.

As long as this was the last trip down south he had to make, he could deal with that, he mused, his truck rolling to a stop in front of a two story frame structure that he barely recognized as his childhood home.

He took a minute to shake off old memories, then climbed out of the truck. He’d haul in his gear after he checked out the house, gauged whether or not it was livable or if he was going to need to head back to Abbeville for a room. He wasn’t up to rooming with raccoons, possums, and rats.

The porch steps were solid enough, though the railing wouldn’t have supported the weight of a bird. He shook it again. He’d have to round up a hammer and nails, pick up a couple of new two-by-fours . . .

Uh, no. He wouldn’t. He was selling the place – buildings and land – “as is.” Repairs would keep him here way too long, cost him way too much.

He was checking out the warped porch and the fit of the screen door’s frame when he heard a noise inside. The back door opened into the kitchen, and he knew critters enjoyed burrowing into cupboards, beneath old appliances, even under the floorboards of rooms with more hiding places than most.

Except how many of those critters had figured out how to pump the well handle to bring water up to the sink?

He slid the Smith & Wesson M&P .357 he wore at his waist from its holster, took hold of the door knob and slowly turned, pushing inward until he saw movement, then slamming it all the way open and swinging his hands up, gun at the ready.

“Who the hell . . .?” was all he got out before realizing he knew exactly who his trespasser was.

He’d just never seen her like this . . . standing at a sink, one hand on a pump handle, her dark hair caught on top of her head with a John Deere cap, a sheer push-up bra and a pair of rubber waders the only clothes she wore.

He engaged the safety and holstered the semiautomatic, chuckling under his breath with as much humor as disbelief. If only the guys from Page Six could see their favorite pair of tits and ass now.

“Well, if it isn’t Michelina Ferrer, heiress to the Ferrer Fragrance empire.”

Her lips trembled in response, the pallor of her face nearly the same shade as the shocked whites of her eyes.

He sobered, taking a closer look at the bruise on her right cheekbone, the scrape on the same shoulder, the gash on her forearm she’d duct-taped closed.

Then he remembered the accident he’d passed.

And he swore.

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asked, and she crumpled to the floor, shaking her head as a sob filled with fear shook her body.

* * * * * * * * * *

Check it out!

I’ve had quite a few thoughts lately on how reader participation is changing the world for modern writers. Twenty years ago, writers didn’t hear from readers so much. Oh, the occasional letter, the occasional comment in a signing line . . . that was about the extent of reader/writer interaction.

Now that readers follow writers’ websites and blogs and can have some kind of interaction with lots of writers, the picture’s changing, and how to handle the new relationship is getting to be more of an issue.

Click here to read more . . .

I’ve deactivated my Twitter plug-in that was responsible for that burst of weird posts. Some tests came through on it last night, and obviously it was hacked somehow! Back to Olivia and Finn …

I haven’t checked in over at Sven’s place since we launched the site, I don’t think. But I thought I’d report that since last Sunday? Eighty-eight pages. 88. I am pretty darn tired, but I gotta say, this story is sizzling. Yeow! If you want to join the second round of the challenge, check back at Sven’s site on Thursday where we’ll have more info to share (I hope)!

No, that’s not my cover, but TEX APPEAL is on sale, whoo-hoo! (It seems so long since I’ve had a new book on the horizon! This one’s a novella, but I’ll take it!)

Enjoy the following excerpt!

* * * * * * * * * *

Wyatt looked into her eyes. He had to know, had to be sure she knew what her answer meant. He wasn’t going to hurt her or frighten her or force her to do anything except to face the truth of his wanting her. Anything that might happen between them because of it would be her call.

He started slowly. “I would be thinking about walking over to you and offering you my hand.”

“And if I took it?”

“I’d pull you to your feet. What happened next would depend on whether or not we’re really in public or whether we’ve moved into my fantasies.”

“What if it’s the here and now?” she asked, her voice breathless and husky, as if her anticipation of his response had taken her into a fantasy world of her own.

Ah, hell, he thought, realizing she’d just given him the go-ahead he’d wanted. She was smart and sexy and easy to talk to, and the minute they took things any further, he’d be in over his head.

And after all he’d done to protect himself and his privacy, to keep from getting involved and ending up plastered face first in the dirt . . . after all of it, he was falling for a woman who wasn’t going to be around but for days.

Four days.

And he’d been worried about her wanting more time.

He reached across the table for her hand, and once her palm was flat to his, he closed his fingers and got to his feet, holding her while he circled around to her side and drew her up against him.

She didn’t resist when he moved his hands to her waist and lifted her to sit on the table’s edge, but instead parted her legs, invited him between, and hooked her heels behind his thighs to make sure he stayed.

He had no intention of going anywhere unless he dragged her out of the kitchen and took her to bed. But he didn’t mind at all that she wanted him close. Or that she slipped her fingers through his belt loops, refusing to let him go.

“For being all about the here and now, I gotta say this is a hell of a fantasy,” he said, his voice tight and raspy, an ache in his throat. He rested his hands on her thighs just shy of the crease at her hip.

“I’d say it’s a hell of a reality,” she told him, doing that thing with her lip and her teeth and her tongue, that thing that made him ache. “You’re certainly not what I was expecting to find during my visit.”

He let her words settle, surprised that his first reaction wasn’t to close down, that his second wasn’t to bolt. Still, he had to know . . . “What do you think you’ve found?”

“I don’t know. A kindred spirit, maybe? You get what it’s like not to trust easily, to wonder what’s behind someone’s interest, whether their motives for being with you have anything to do with who you really are, or if it’s only about what you can give them.”

It was the truth, all of it. He appreciated that she understood. “You know you haven’t once questioned mine. I told you I’d looked into you. Aren’t you worried that I might be after more than getting you into bed?”

“No,” she said, tugging his belt loops. “You agreed to let me come before you knew any of that. And you have no reason to need my family’s name and social connections.”

“What about your money?”

She knew he was teasing her. He saw it in her quirky smile. “I’m only guessing here, but I doubt you have need of that either.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“With the rest of today, tomorrow, and Monday to enjoy this fantasy,” she said, suddenly pragmatic.

He frowned. “I thought you said it was reality.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because if it was real, we wouldn’t be dealing with a time limit.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Even though you set it?”

“I changed my mind.” Four days wasn’t going to be enough time no matter all his wariness of yesterday.

“Maybe you should wait and see if I’m any good in bed before you do that.”

“No need,” he said, shaking his head and sliding his hands beneath her sweatshirt, settling his palms on her rib cage just beneath her breasts. “A man doesn’t have to get a woman into bed to know if she’ll be a good time. At least the kind of good time worth having. One that’s about more than a handy warm-and-willing body.”

She sighed, shivered. “The best sex really is between the ears?”

“Like I said. The kind that’s worth having.”

“And you like what goes on in my head?”

More so that she could possibly imagine. Talking to her had given him more pleasure than any exchange – physical or otherwise – he’d had with a woman in awhile. He nodded, dropped his head close to her shoulder, his mouth to her neck at the band of her shirt.

She moaned, tilted her head to the side as he nuzzled, giving him more access and more reason to go on. “I’m not sure we have much in common. I don’t know a thing about rodeo.”

“I can teach you.” He nibbled her skin, bathed the spot with his tongue. She tasted like early morning mist and water clear and pure.

She moved her hands from his belt loops to his waist, gathering the fabric of his shirt in her fists. “What if I don’t really care about rodeo?”

“I know enough for both of us.”

“It won’t work. My practice is in Houston.”

“You can commute.”

“It’s too far. And I love my condo.”

“I can commute.”

“No you can’t. You live and breathe this place.”

“Right now, I want to live and breathe you.”

* * * * * * * * * *

I will be back at the end of the month. I’ll be sure and post any reviews that come in from the review copies won here on the blog, and I’ll be doing another review giveaway in about a week. Other than that, I’m going to be fairly absent until Finn and Olivia’s book is done. I might do a couple of Friday Snippets and share some of their book or Simon’s. But that’s going to be about all I’ll have time for, so just wanted you to know!

“I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each, it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes, in some area, an athlete of God. Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.”
~ Martha Graham

I ran across that quote when flipping through and old O Magazine this week. I pulled out two ads as I’m using the models as character pics, and I tore out that bit of inspiration from Martha Graham as well. It truly made me stop and think, to wonder how often we rightfully consider our daily pages, our unsold manuscripts, as practice. How often, instead, we think of all that work as something we must get right and if we don’t, that we must give up, that we don’t have it in us, that we’ll never perfect our craft.

Read again what Graham says: The performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit.

We take our children to practice. Football, gymnastics, soccer, dance. We practice yoga for our physical and mental health. Meditation, too. At one point, we were required to practice penmanship in school. We practice speeches or lectures we’ve been tapped (or volunteered) to give.

We do these things over and over because we know that practice makes perfect. That the more we work at a task, the closer we’ll get to the perfection desired. So why is it often so hard to apply that same principle to our writing, to have the patience and dedication to practice?

Was the first loaf of bread we baked perfect? The first cake we frosted, the first meatloaf for which we meticulously measured ingredients? Our first, second, or even third effort at flower arranging or growing vegetables or sewing clothes we weren’t embarrassed to wear? Didn’t we practice to get better, and keep working toward perfection, inviting it?

Read again what Graham says: Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of visions, of faith, of desire.

I’ve talked more than once about obstacles, excuses, reasons we give ourselves and others for not sticking to a schedule or a project. I’m the world’s worst about not doing so, about doing something else because it’s not so hard, or because of the instant gratification. There is no instant gratification in writing except seeing the page count rise.

HelenKay mentioned on her blog that writing is a marathon, not a sprint. And marathoners, yeah, they practice. They run when there’s no finish line to cross. They run when their only competition comes from within. They run when conditions are uncomfortable, in the heat, the rain, practicing for the race that will require them to be as ready, as perfect, as they can.

What about you? Are you performing again and again in the face of all obstacles? Are you gaining shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit? Of course you are! You’re practicing, page after page after page! You are inviting the perfection desired. How do I know?

Because for weeks now I’ve watched you share your rising word count, listened to you talk about the problems you’ve had and how you’ve performed. Whether or not you reach your goal, you’re practicing. You’re inviting the perfection desired. And that makes you a champion.