Good morning my friends! I'm hosting a Goddess Fish tour today. Rebecca is a new author to me but from what I've read with regard to her blurb and excerpts her book sounds very interesting! And look at that gorgeous book cover! Please take a moment to say hi.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Rebecca lives with her husband in the beautiful, misty mountains of East Tennessee, where the people are charming, soulful, and just a little bit crazy. She’s been everything from a tax collector to a stay-at-home-mom to a house painter to a professional actress and director. Her two grown sons live nearby, still have the power to make her laugh until she cries, and will always be the best things she’s given back to the world. It took her a lot of years to realize that writing was her true passion. When she’s not churning out sensual romantic mysteries with snappy dialogue and happy endings, she loves to travel the world, go to the Outer Banks for her ocean fix, watch old movies, hang out at the local pub, and make her day complete by correctly answering the Final Jeopardy! Question.
The main obstacle I’ve had to overcome in regard to writing is...ME.
My writing life has been full of stops and starts. In the span of twenty-five years, I’ve dealt with kids, dogs, health problems, work, an elderly parent in need of care, moving, moving again. You know...life. And if that sounds like an excuse, it is. Just not a very good one.
My kids are grown now, the dogs have all crossed the rainbow bridge, my husband is close to retirement, and I’m lucky enough to have the luxury of writing whenever I want. I have the utmost admiration for writers who are in the trenches raising kids and working full time, and still have the dedication and energy to get those pages done each day. As much as I wanted to, I could never pull that off with any regularity.
Time management has never been one of my strong suits, and wasting it has always been one of my biggest regrets. Now that my romantic mystery/suspense novel, A Dance to Die For, has been published, I wish I’d tried harder and worked longer to make it happen sooner. I should have spent more time writing and learning the craft instead of watching TV. Spent less time shrugging off the last brutal round of rejections and throw myself back into the game without waiting three months for the sting to wear off. I wish I had made writing more of a priority, as I do now. I should have done less laundry, cooked less dinners, and pushed myself to finish more books. Because unless you’re Nicholas Sparks (The Notebook) or Kathryn Stockett (The Help) or all the other lucky, gifted writers who hit it big their first time out of the gate, cranking out manuscripts is how you learn to write. And that takes time.
I’m always looking for a magic formula, some special nugget of information or inspiration that will cement my butt to the chair and keep my hands on the keys. I love reading self-help articles that tell you step by step how to actively incorporate the discipline of writing into your life—set daily page goals, chart your time, write every day, stop checking your email and Facebook page every five minutes. Not all of these suggestions work for everyone—except maybe stepping away from the Internet—but they make me feel that if I only had the right motivation, I could really be productive. After you sign your first publishing contract, you’ll experience the ultimate in writing incentives firsthand. But until you do, you’re on your own.
I spent years working in theater—acting, directing, building sets, running tech—and I never had a problem getting things done on time. I woke up in the morning, got the kids off to school, and knew exactly what my priorities were for the rest of the day. Why couldn’t I do that with writing? Writing was my secret passion, something that stirred my heart and fed my soul. If I was serious about wanting to get published, why didn’t I put in the time to making it happen?
Maybe it’s because I’m bit older now, or maybe it’s because I finally know the sweet, triumphant feeling of holding a book I wrote in my hands. But I’ve discovered that the things that are most important to me are the things I’ve worked hardest to achieve. I just wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out how to get busy, stay busy, and hit my stride.
This all looks great on paper, doesn’t it? Putting it into practice is another set of wheels. But that’s okay. I’m not going to waste anymore precious time yakking about it; I’m going downstairs to my office and get back to work revising my current manuscript. Right now. I promise. Just as soon as Grey’s Anatomy is over.
Annabel Maitland believes in destiny and following her heart—Trent Sheffield realizes his destiny is to believe in her.
Annabel destroyed her Broadway dancing career trying to save her friend Quinn's life. Convinced Quinn’s death was no accident, Annabel follows a clue to a North Carolina mountain inn and discovers that everyone who knew Quinn—the real Quinn—wanted her out of their lives, including the sexy innkeeper whose laid-back charm and megawatt grin take Annabel's breath away. The physical attraction between them is undeniable, the cerebral attraction irresistible. But trusting her heart means ignoring evidence that plants him firmly on the list of suspects.
Determined to keep his family’s financially strapped inn afloat, the last person Trent needs working for him is a stubborn, impossibly long-legged dancer whose sharp wit and silver eyes keep him scrambling to stay on his toes. He's falling hard, and he wants to trust her, but Annabel's connection to his ex-fiancée makes him question her motives at every turn. When a string of mysterious accidents threaten Annabel’s life, they must unearth Quinn's killer before it's too late. But what if Annabel was the target all along?
Something zinged past Annabel.
It cut and ruffled the new growth of hickory leaves beside her shoulder, like a bird soaring through the trees at warp speed. Her head jerked around. Trent was running toward her with his arms airborne, his beige raincoat ballooned behind him like a cape.
He pushed her off the path, then hit the ground sideways. He slid into the underbrush, shoulder first, and roughly pulled her down on top of him.
Another high-pitched crack echoed across the meadow.
Trent's hard body jolted beneath her.
He enveloped her in his arms and rolled her to the side, pressing her head into his broad chest. The musky scent of his aftershave mingled with the pungent tang of dried weeds and earth sent her senses into overload. The weight of his muscular thighs pushing against her equally muscular thighs sent a shudder pulsing through her. “It's okay,” he whispered. “I've got you.”
They lay motionless in the tall warm grass, side by side, for what seemed an eternity. Until the only sounds she could hear were the soft, protesting whir of insects and the rapid, steady thumping of his heart.
Annabel lifted her head and stared at the line of dark stubble along his chin. “What the hell was that?”
“Probably a poacher.”
“A poacher? Are you serious? Here?”
He loosened his grip on her shoulders. “The forest across the road belongs to the inn. There's no fence. All we can do is post No Hunting signs and hope for the best.”
“So, how do your guests feel about dodging bullets? I bet this place stays packed.”