Are you there, blog? It's me, Melissa.

Are you there, blog? It’s me Melissa. Who else is fangirling over Judy Blume’s Are you There God? It’s me, Margaret being turned into a movie?? Like so many others out there, Judy Blume helped me blossom into a voracious reader and inspired me as an author. 😊 While Judy Blume isn’t a romance writer, Forever... by Judy Blume was my first tiptoe into the world of love stories (swoon).

            Ms. Blume is responsible for fueling my love of reading and inspiring me in my wee-Melissa days to be a writer. I read Are you There God? It’s me, Margaret when I was in sixth grade, which incidentally was when I wrote my first book for a Language Arts assignment. It was a fairy tale called The Three Giants about three giants (clever name), who are ostracized by a village of humans, because they are assumed to be “scary”. After three adorable advocating children befriend the giants they help the village see the giants as unscary and welcome them into the village. Gee…as the only blind girl in a school where I was severely bullied this story was my first channeling of all those feelings into story. Something I still do now. Side note, the book won a red ribbon (second place) at the county fair and may be in a box in my garage to never see the light of day!

            Fast forward to 2023, and I am now writing my fourth manuscript. Two are with editors and I will be sending out queries to literary agents by end of May/start of June and pitching at RWA in July and the third is in self-editing right now. I am a passionate reader and writer because of the foundational authors in my childhood and teen years. Besides Ms. Blume I can count the following as earlier inspiration to a young Melissa:

·       Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

·       The Babysitters Club by Ann M. Martin

·       Double Love (Sweet Valley High, #1) by Francine Pascal

·       Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

I know there are so many more books and authors that were instrumental in stoking my fire for reading and in the long term led me to the path I am on now as a writer. I am so grateful for those writers and books in my past, present, and future reading life. Their stories are such a lovely gift. I only hope to share such a gift with you all very soon!

Pinkies up!

Crushing on You: Some of my Favorite Romance Writers

            I have a crush! In truth, I have MANY crushes. Yes, my husband knows all about them. As a writer I crush on many an author for their lyrical prose, poetic imagery, masterful wit, or ability to wring out every emotion from me in the hills and valleys of their story. As a reader I get crushes on some of the three-dimensional characters created by some of my favorite authors (aka crushes).

            I could spend hours listing my literary crushes and, frankly, who has the time. So, here are my top five and the book that clinched my scrawling their name on the cover of my notebook in glittery gel pen.

1.     The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy by Megan Bannen

a.     This genre-bending book has a rich cast of characters that jump off the page giving you all the feels. Hart and Mercy inhabit a world that is part-Western, part-Fantasy, and part-Zombie, but one hundred percent enthralling. This “not-quite enemies but not-quite chummy to lovers” story was one of my favorite books of 2022.

2.     Seven Days in June by Tia Williams

a.     This heartbreakingly and heartwarmingly beautiful story about first love and second chances will leave you sated but wanting more. Like all good romances, its more than just a love story about the couple. It explores issues of race, class, gender, and chronic disease.

3.     Behind the Scenes by Karelia Stetz-Waters

a.     There are two pugs named Muffin and Poundcake. Need I say more? This has been one of my early favs in 2023. This heartwarming and witty romance not only has a love story that steams off the page, but a cast of support characters that make you say, “I know that person” and want to read more about this world the author has created.

4.     The Fastest Way to Fall by Denise Williams

a.     This witty and swoony love story not only features one of the most adorable couplings of my fabulous fellow curvy sister-from-a-different-mister Britta and the diabetes-inducing and panty-dropping deliciously sweet Wes but offers a very real discussion about body image and the pressure placed on women, especially women of color, to mold into an image of what is beautiful that doesn’t embrace all types of beauty. (Yes, that was one run-on sentence! This is why nobody is crushing on me…YET.)

5.     Set on You (The Influencer, #1) by Amy Lea

a.     Ummm…a curvy social media influencer and a sexy firefighter? Has someone been sneaking around in my dreams Inception-style? Fess up, Amy Lea! This funny, heartwarming, and very steamy novel is the first of what has become one of my favorite series in the last year. Just like ALL of my literary crushes, this book not just offers the “Fan Yourself” moments we love as romance readers but delves into very real issues in a thoughtful and sensitive way.

This is just a snapshot of some of my MANY literary crushes I am currently nursing ,along with this cup of Chai tea sitting beside me. I love each of their style of writing for very different reasons, but the common theme weaving them together in a crush-worthy package is their ability to create characters that pull me into their story causing me to flip or tap to the next page or tack (fi you’re doing audio) to find out what happens next, to tear up with them, and to cheer on for them.

            Aa a fellow romance writer, I can only hope to create stories that my readers will fall in love with much like my list of crushes. If you haven’t checked these amazing crushes of mine, please do. Also, share your literary crush in the comments or via social media at @SteamingPlot81 (Twitter) or @melissa_whitneyauthor (Insta Gram).

            And remember nothing soothes a crusher’s heart like a steamy cup of tea!

            Pinkies Up!!

The GIft of Critique (Can I send it back?)

    Have you ever got a gift that you wanted to give back? Like that fuzzy sweater vest with a stack of books and an apple embossed on it that your grandma bought you for your thirteenth birthday, because vests were “cool”? Oh, grandma. We’ve all had that experience. There are gifts we want to exchange, ones we want to regift, ones we wish we could burn…etc. Just like critique.

     It is the toughest part about being a writer. Not the thinking of ideas. Not the writer’s block. It’s the critique. Now, some people thrive on it, but most writers do not. If they say they do, I smell someone boating down the river denial! This is why the review or query process of one’s works is the most nail-biting, chocolate-consuming, and curse word-inducing experience.

    I know it is for me. As a writer, I’ve spent a lot of time working on something. Weaving together all the words whirling around in me into what I hope is a good story. The stories I write are the babies that I have nurtured in my creative womb and pushed out into the world. So, it’s natural that I would be a little protective and emotional about them. However, despite what my mother may have thought about me, no baby is perfect. Babies poop, they are sticky, they whine, they put things in their mouth…etc. Just like our stories.

    Critique helps us guide our story (baby) into what it can become. Now, not all critique is value-added, but much is. Getting others to take a look at your work will only help you become a stronger writer. In the short time that I have been focused on my writing, I have found the critique from the editors I’ve worked with, the Read & Critique groups I’ve joined with other Romance Writers, my Beta Readers, fellow writers at conferences, and even that pesky literary agent, who will remain nameless, that made me (just for a minute) question my writing as a mere premature midlife crisis all helped develop me as a writer. Clearly I am still in development!

    Critique is a gift. We can choose to unwrap it, use it, toss it away, put it in a drawer, or hand it off to another person, but we should always accept it. Even if we don’t do anything with it. When someone takes the time to read your work and offer feedback, they are telling you that they believe in your ability and want to help support you on your journey. Even if their feedback doesn’t make sense to you, accept it in the spirit it was given to you. Just like I did with that hideous sweater from my grandma. That OG fugly sweater later came in handy for one of my high school’s homecoming dress up days, Nerd Day. If I hadn’t accepted that fantastically uncool sweater, I would have never been the Queen of the Nerds that day!

    So, here’s my gift to you. Embrace critique. You don’t have to use it. As well, the critique says nothing about you as a person or your talent. What it does say is that someone believes enough in you to offer you feedback so you can continue to bloom!

Pinkies up!

Better Together: Fidning Your Community as a Writer

            When you close your eyes and picture a writer, what do you see? Often there is an image of a lone writer typing away in a room with wall-to-wall bookshelves overflowing with well-loved books. A glass half-filled with melting ice and amber-colored liquid or, in my case, a giant cup of steaming tea, beside them. However, you visualize the writer, there is a perception of writing being a solo sport.

            This is both true and untrue. True that many aspects of writing are done solo, but the entire process is very much a team sport and is enhanced through partnership. I’ve written in my blog about the phenomenal experience of working with Beta Readers and Editors. Today, I’d like to talk about finding community as a writer. No matter how individualistic anything appears on the surface, the experience is always deepened when it’s shared with someone else or a group of someone elses.

            I learned this a few months into my writing journey. It all started with my friend Meghan aka the BEST BETA READER EVER. I had only shared with a few select people that I was writing a book. This was often met with the “Awe, isn’t’ that sweet” expression on their faces. The same expression that we give to children with lemonade stands. Which I get! What do you say to your blind friend who has spent the last fifteen years working in healthcare when they say, “I’m writing a Romance Novel”?  Meghan’s response was “Can I be your copy editor?” Blinking, I said, “Sure.”

            My experience with Meghan reinforced the importance of not doing this alone. Meghan would review my chapters and provide valuable feedback. As well, I could bounce ideas against her big old sexy brain as a reader for my first manuscript Finding Home. This led to me running things by her for the subsequent next two manuscripts In the Hello and In the Goodbye and Coming Home. I’m currently tossing ideas at her for Love is Dead, my work in progress (WIP) which is a Contemporary Romance with a paranormal hue. Needless to say, Meghan will be a permanent fixture it all the Acknowledgement Sections of my published books. For you writers that want to borrow Meghan, find your own Meghan…I’m NOT sharing. 😊

            My professional relationship with Meghan pushed me to search for community with writers. I joined several Facebook groups allowing me to discuss ideas and ask questions both of published and unpublished writers. As well, I joined a Read & Critique group for Romance Writers allowing me to share and discuss both my and their work. I formed a little writer’s support group with two friends, one who is an AMAZING nonfiction writer and one who is a WONDERFUL YA writer. That group allows us to share our work, brainstorm ideas, encourage each other in the cutthroat publishing business, and guide each other. I’ve also joined several organizations for Romance Writers, participated in the Southern California Writers Conference, and will be attending a conference for Romance Writers in the summer.

            All of this is enriching my world as a writer. Community opens up an array of resources, guidance, ideas, encouragement, and support that wouldn’t be available to me if I typed away alone with just my pugs to keep me company (all their ideas involve bones and belly rubs, which actually works in Romance). None of us our alone in this or anything as long as we reach out. Now, I realize the idea of the woman that writes about love stories gushing about the importance of relationship isn’t unique, but it’s important. We are all better together and that includes we writers!

            Remember a tea party isn’t a party without at least one other person to join, so reach out and find your community…whatever it is. If you want some tips or suggestions on developing your writer’s network or want to join mine, comment below or DM me on Insta Gram at Melissa_WhitneyAuthor.

Pinkies up!

The Barstool: A Writing Exercise

Hey! Sorry for the lackluster posting while I was on travel. I am back, though. Here’s a vignette inspired by the word “barstool” that I wrote while I was stuck in the airport Friday. Hope you enjoy!

Pinkies up!

The Barstool

By: Melissa Whitney

Lucy sipped her glass of chardonnay. Its buttery liquid flushing her cheeks. Such a lightweight. She placed the glass back on the bar, the cool condensation coating her fingers.

            Drinking alone wasn’t normal for Lucy, but nothing about this week had been normal. It was supposed to be just your average work trip. Fly to Chicago, spend a week surveying a small cohort of outpatient clinics, and fly back home to San Diego. It was all standard for her.

            Foolish! She sighed to herself, the pads of her fingers skating across the smooth glass.

Leaning against the hardback of the barstool, she closed her eyes. The living Tablo of Murphy’s Law that had been the last four days played uninterrupted in her mind. The cancelled flight, followed by the rebooking, subsequent delay of that new flight, and the landing in Chicago fifteen hours after she’d left her house for the airport. The baggage claim conveyor belt filled with everyone else’s bags, but hers. The unapologetic airline worker explaining that her suitcase was still in San Diego and wouldn’t arrive in Chicago ‘til the next day. The fire alarm going off at three a.m., in the hotel where she slept naked because there was no place to buy clothes and toiletries near her hotel at one a.m., when she’d finally arrived. The ten-hour days of staff grumbling as they reviewed documents with her and their muttered not-quite under their breath insults at each of her questions.

This week sucked. She let out a heavy breath. At least, tonight was her last night here. If there wasn’t a repeat of Monday, this time tomorrow she’d sit on the well-loved couch in her living room, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, and Uncle Fester, her six-year-old pug, curled beside her.

            “Is this seat taken?” a deep rumble of a voice asked.

            Lucy blinked. “Ah?” It was part question and part gapping as she took in the man standing beside her, a duffle flung over his shoulder and his large hands resting on the barstool beside her.

            The corners of his lips raised in a charming smile, disarming her shock. “Mind if I sit with you?” he asked, a glint of mischievous daring sparked in his eyes.

            A tiny flip somersaulted in her belly. “Sure,” she said.

            His tall, lean body slipped into the chair beside her, slinging his green duffle onto the back of the chair. The blended aroma of ocean and fresh citrus wafting off him coiled around them as they sat.

            “So, what brings you to Chicago?” His words closing her mouth just as she was about to say something.

            What is he doing? Lucy’s head cocked to the side. A beat passed before she answered, “Business. Tonight’s my last night here.” Her gaze turned to the rows of alcohol bottles lining the mirrored shelf above the bar. 

            “What do you do?” He waved to get the bartender’s attention.

            Lucy’s manicured fingers tapped on the smooth surface of the bar top. “Healthcare.”

“Healthcare. Impressive.” His brows ticked up. “You give off boss energy, so I’d imagine you’re something important.” The heat of his gaze trailed down her body replacing the wine flush with a creeping blush crawling up her neck.

“I do quality control,” she said, twisting towards him, her red pencil skirt inching to her midthigh. It tingled where she knew his stare landed. She tugged her skirt down.

Leaning against the bar, his toned forearms were on full display in his short sleeved pale gray button up shirt. “Quality control is very sexy,” he said, his voice reaching an even lower and more rumbly octave than what she thought was possible.

She snorted.

His grin deepened. “What, you don’t agree?”

The bartender appeared taking his drink order and buying her time to ponder his question. Of course, she didn’t agree. There was nothing attractive about the administrator that came in telling you all the things you weren’t doing right. The frowns of staff as she walked through the front door of each clinic this week solidified that. There was nothing sexy about quality control and nothing sexy about Lucy. The riding up pencil skirt aside, her boxy blazer hung on the back of her chair and boring white button up blouse with its tiny stain from where she’d dribbled her tea earlier today did not scream “sexy”.

He ordered an IPA. The foamy beer placed in front of him as the bartender walked away. Wrapping his hands around the pint glass, he swiveled in his chair facing her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Nobody finds the woman coming in and telling them everything they are doing is wrong, sexy.” She scrunched up her face.

“I do.” He arched his right brow. “The sexiness of a smart, confident woman guiding me in how to do things better is undeniable.”

What? A disbelieving smile popped on her face. Was this happening? Was he for real?

“You say that, but I’m sure if you had a woman like that you’d grumble and call her a nag.” She picked up her wine, sipping it before spinning back towards the bar.

Following her movement, he twisted facing forward. Their gazes meeting in the mirror in front of them.

Raising his glass, he halted midair, his smile slanted with defiance. “If I did do something as boneheaded as that, I’d like to think I’d realize how stupid I was and beg for forgiveness.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, what brings you to Chicago,” she inquired, deciding to play along with his little flirty game.

“Pleasure.”

Oh, dear! The langued pronunciation of his words vibrated through her. Lucy crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to fight the sensation spreading through her.

“That’s nice,” she almost gulped, the breathy quality of her voice seeming to steal her ability to speak.

The wickedness in his smirk broadened. “Indeed.”

Lucy tucked her dark hair behind her ears, crimson kissing her cheeks. When was the last time someone had hit on her like this at a bar? When was the last time the warmth of someone’s stare swept over her like this? When was the last time her temperature rose like this just at the timbre of someone’s voice? Not since Justin and her had first started dating two years ago.

Lifting her glass to her lips, she finished her drink.

“May I buy you another?” he offered as she placed her now empty glass down.

Looking between his grinning face and her empty glass, she shook her head. “No. Sorry. I have a boyfriend, but thanks.”

“A boyfriend?” He leaned back in his chair, fingers threading through his thick chestnut hair. “That’s disappointing.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find a single lady here to buy a drink for.” She motioned to the almost empty bar. The only other patrons a table of three suited men sitting in the corner with draft beers on their able.

“That’s not what’s disappointing.” He turned again angling his body to face her, his heat enveloping her. “What’s disappointing is that you have a boyfriend and didn’t realize how sexy you are. Sounds like he’s failing you.”

She gapped.

He went on, “If I was with a woman like you, I’d never want her to question how sexy she is for one minute. I’d never want her to question how I felt about her for a minute.”

The gapping was accompanied by the actual hitching of breath. Lucy thought that was only something in bad romance novels, not real life. Men didn’t say these things. They didn’t do these things.

Placing cash on the bar to tip the bartender, she got up. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” She grabbed her blazer and purse.

He touched her arm halting her steps. “I hope he realizes how lucky he is.”

Her eyes flicked to where his palm rested on her arm, goosebumps peppering her skin at his touch. “I think he does,” she assured with a smile.

Saying good night, she strode through the bar. Glancing over her shoulder, she took one last look at him. His mossy green eyes met hers from across the room. After the week she’d had, she allowed that moment to wash over her. The sensation of being wanted left her buzzed or, perhaps, it was the chardonnay. Either way, her cheeks reddened.

Walking from the hotel bar, she headed to the fifth floor and to her room. Opening the door, she kicked off her unfashionable but sensible black pumps. Her bare feet sinking into the sumptuous brown carpet. Tossing her blazer and purse onto the small sofa, the ring tone of her cell filled the room.

“Justin,” she greeted, seeing his name flash on her phone’s screen.

“How’s your week going?” he asked.

“It’s just got better.” She grinned, looking at herself in the mirror. Somehow the white blouse with its lingering tea spots seemed to hug the curves of her breasts and that pencil skirt made her butt pop in just the right way.

“How so?” His tone was playful.

Her mouth opened, but her words ceased with a gentle rapt at her door. “Wait, someone’s at the door.” She shuffled to the door, opening it.

Those mossy green eyes and charming smile that had sat beside her in the bar faced her, his duffle slung over his shoulder and cell phone pressed to his ear. “Lucy.”

“Justin,” she said, her lips quirked up. Yup, it was going to be a good night.

 

 

 

 

What about the Beta?

 

So many romance writers love a good Alpha. Yes, please! I’ll own that I enjoy some sexy Alpha energy in the romances I read. While the Alphas are yummy, let us not forget how important the Betas are. Specifically, the Beta Readers of the world.

            What is a Beta Reader, you ask? It’s a great question and something I didn’t know about ‘til a few months ago. After joining several Facebook groups supporting romance writers and women writers, I learned the term. In short it is an individual or a team of individuals that read your manuscript prior to sending it off to an editor. Their feedback provides valuable analysis on the plot, characters, and story format. They read it not from an editor’s perspective, but from that of a reader. They identify points in which the story drags, plot points that drop or are inconsistent, critique dialogue, and offer insight into your characters.

            For my first book Finding Home I was blessed enough to have several Beta Readers including members of my all-romance book club The Elizabeth Bennet Book Club. They were able to give me some valuable input that I’ve incorporated into the edits I’m making with my goddess of an editor Gemma Brocato (have you read her stuff yet!!?).

            The Beta Reader experience truly came alive with my second manuscript In the Hello and In the Goodbye, a second-chance romance about Colm Gallagher, a special education teacher on the Autism Spectrum, and his little chatterbox Evie Johnson. For this novel, I reached beyond my in-network readers getting Beta Readers who had ZERO relationship with me. While friends and family can be wonderful in providing you feedback, they are invested in your happiness and may pull their punches (although, my OG Beta Reader who still reads all my stuff has sucker punched me a few times with her constructive critique, but I am a better writer for it and adore her!).

            The Beta Reader process is such a wonderful yet terrifying experience. It’s something all writers should experience. Have people outside your bubble read your work. Have them give you feedback. The Beta Reader for In the Hello and In the Goodbye provided a formal report helping me see what I did well in the book, where I needed to move things along, and areas to strengthen. It helped me tighten things up, making it a stronger story before engaging in a formal editing process.

            So, now that I’ve gone all Lady Gaga over my love of the Beta Reader process, I am sure you are wondering how does one get a Beta Reader? There are some professional Beta Readers or editors that will provide this service at cost for you. You can find them online or through various writer networks. One trick I found was joining a Beta Readers group on Facebook, where writers and editors exchange their reading services for free with one another. It’s very quid pro quo. I read yours, you read mine. The Beta Reader group I belong to on Facebook is for all genres, but if you belong to genre-specific groups, you can often find folks familiar with your genre that would be open to doing this.

            I can’t stress the importance of lots and lots and lots and lots (you get the point) of feedback in the writing process. As painful as it can be, it’s crucial in helping you craft a story that readers will want to read. Isn’t that the point of writing, after all? If you want to create a story that an audience will connect with, you need to have some of that audience participate in crafting the story.

            I would be lost in the darkness of solo creativity if it weren’t for my amazing army of Beta Readers. I am so grateful for those within my little bubble and outside that have agreed to support my writing journey with their time and feedback as a reader.

            Here’s to the Beta Readers of the world! We writers need you and we readers thank you. If you’re interested in serving as a Beta Reader for my forthcoming manuscripts, hit me up on IG at Melissa_WhitneyAuthor! I’m always open to adding to my roster to get even more feedback.

Pinkies Up!

 

The Hunt: A Writing Exercise

     As a special treat for Easter, today’s word was “hunt”. I used it to introduce Uncle Pete, who is an important character and pivotal relationship for Eleanor “Elle” Davidson in Finding Home. Everyone should have an Uncle Pete in their life. I know I do (although, he is an Uncle Mike). I hope you enjoy getting a chance to meet Pete and see a pintsize Elle. 😊

Pinkies Up!

The Hunt

By: Melissa Whiney

The still damp grass squished beneath Pete’s sneakers as he walked through the maze of egg hunting children and laughing parents. His two-year-old niece Eleanor’s little hand blanketed in his, as he guided her towards a bright pink egg. Its smooth plastic almost glittered in the sun. It was just an egg but looking down at Eleanor’s chipmunk-cheeked smile and bright hazel eyes it was suddenly the most important egg in the world. It would be the first time his niece would find an Easter Egg.

            At sixteen, he had experienced many first times for himself. Like three years ago, when he had had his first real kiss with Melanie Monroe, who became his first girlfriend and subsequent first breakup. There had been many more firsts for Pete, but nothing thrummed happiness through him like witnessing Eleanor’s firsts. Her first giggle, which he was convinced had happened when he played peek-a-boo at the hospital nursery window with his newborn niece. Her first taste of chocolate pudding, which he snuck her despite his sister telling him not to give her daughter any pudding. Her first steps, which happened on the shag carpet of his parents’ living room as Pete lounged on the floor with his niece. In Eleanor’s short two years, he cheered her on for all her firsts.

            “You got this!” he said, a goofy grin spread across his face as she stumbled towards the pink plastic egg.

            “Got it!” a sandy haired little boy chirped, scooping up the egg, and tossing it into his basket.

            Pete stood, dumbfounded. Eleanor’s little feet glued in place, her eyes darting between the little boy, a blue basket dangling from his left hand, and Pete who gapped. The little boy’s gray eyes looked at Eleanor and then back to another little boy with dark floppy hair.

            “Egg.” She pointed to the little boy’s basket.

            Pete wanted to rip the egg out of the basket and hand it to his niece, but the little boy did nothing wrong. Eleanor was still half a foot away when he reached the egg first. This was the dog-eat-dog world of the VFW’s Annual Easter Egg Hunt. Pete had lost countless eggs and stolen even more as a little boy.

            “There are more eggs to find,” Pete assured, squeezing Eleanor’s hand.

Her eyes remained fixed on that pink egg. The little boy, who was a year or so older than Pete’s niece, frowned looking between a sad faced Eleanor and his friend.

“Sorry.” The little boy plucked the egg out of his basket and held it out for Eleanor.

“Egg!” Eleanor squealed, taking the egg from the little boy. With a giggle she held it up to Pete.

“What do we say to the nice boy?” A warm smile fixed to Pete’s face. It may be cutthroat at the Easter Egg Hunt, but this was a nice boy and he liked that there were nice boys out there for his niece. All he wanted was a world full of nice for her.

“Thanks,” she said, her face lit with happiness.

The little boy grinned.

“Come on CJ, let’s go!” The other little boy dragged him away.

As the two boys scampered off, Pete continued his egg hunt with Eleanor. She may have that shiny pink egg in her basket, but that was the first egg given to her. There was still a mission to experience Eleanor finding her own egg. The idea of watching her zero in on a goal and achieve it seemed important to him. Not only did he want his niece to have a lifetime of niece, but a life full of reaching for things and getting them. A life of seeing what she wanted and taking it. All he wanted for her was everything. That was not too much to ask, was it?

“Purple!” Eleanor cried, glee seeming to vibrate through her as she waved frantically at a purple egg.

“Let’s get it,” Pete said, lifting her into his arms and running towards the egg. His gaze scanning around them to avoid trampling any children and to ensure nobody stole this egg. He could not count on another CJ to just give up their found egg.

Reaching the egg, he placed Eleanor on the grass. She trotted towards the egg that sat beside the root of a not-yet budding tree. Despite the above sunshine basking the morning in warmth, it was early April in Western, NY. The last snow had just melted. The bloom of spring was still weeks away.

“Egg!” she shrieked with joy, hoisting the egg into the air.

“Nice job!” he cheered holding her pink and purple basket in front of her. “Nothing but basket.” Prideful elation flooded every inch of him as she placed the egg into the basket.

Her big smile blasted as she lifted her arms in the air. “Uncle Pete!’

Placing the basket on the ground by his feet, he scooped her up into his arms. “That’s my girl,” he said, bending to grab the basket.

“So, she’s my competition,” a soft voice cooed causing Pete to turn around.

His heart stuttered as his gaze landed on Janet Michaels. Her long dark hair swept back in a braid revealing her sweet smile and big brown eyes. A bright yellow sweater swam on her petite frame, but fitted stonewash jeans accentuated her toned legs and small hips. These would things that he should not be noticing, while holding his niece. Things that made him feel like not being a nice boy.

Janet may not be his first kiss nor his first girlfriend, but she would be his last. His friends told him he was lovesick. His older sister rolled her eyes. His parents told him he was too young. He may be all those things, but above all he knew he was right. Just as he wanted Eleanor to have a lifetime of possibility, he wanted a lifetime with Janet.

“Janet!” Eleanor reached for her.

“I think you’re my completion,” he joked, handing Janet his niece.

“Come here squirt.” Janet took Eleanor, who nuzzled into her arms.

The three of them wandered through the VFW’s lawn. Eleanor’s little legs run towards different colored eggs hidden in the grass, beneath picnic tables, and beside trees. CJ appeared again, handing her another pink egg before running away with his little friend.

“I think he has a crush on Eleanor,” Janet said, pointing at CJ as he ran towards a man with a bowtie speckled with tiny pink bunnies.

Pete’s brow winkled. “She’s too young for that.”

“I don’t know.” Janet lifted Eleanor up pointing to CJ who chased another little boy. “Do you like that boy?”

Eleanor’s face was pink and then she buried it in Janet’s chest.

“She’s too young,” Pete protested with a scowl.

“They say we’re too young but when you know, you know,” Janet sassed, winking at him.

Pete shook his head. “Let’s wait ‘til I am sixty before we marry her off. Come here kiddo.” He reached for Eleanor.

“NO!” Eleanor whined, her arms wrapping tighter around Janet. “Aunt Janet,” she pouted.

Aunt Janet? Pete’s eyes grew wide. His gaze flicked to Janet expecting her to be horrified with her mouth slack at being sixteen and dubbed “Aunt”.

He was used to it. Amanda, his sister, had Eleanor when he was fourteen. He had been an uncle when most of his friends were simply brothers. He liked being an uncle way better than being a brother. Uncle meant responsibility. It meant taking care of someone. Not someone, but Eleanor. Before his niece, he was just Pete. Now, he was Uncle Pete. How would Janet react to Eleanor proclaiming her “Aunt Janet”?

“Guess I am your completion, after all,” Janet said, a self-impressed smirk etched on her face. “Don’t worry Eleanor, you can stay with Aunt Janet while Uncle Pete carries the basket.”

Eleanor looked up, her face bright with a happy grin.

“Let’s go find more eggs,” Janet said, turning and carrying Eleanor towards the crowd of children still hunting.

Aunt Janet and Uncle Pete. His lips tugged up with that thought. It was another first and he knew there would be a lifetime of more to come.

 

I'm a Writer and I Love Editors

            So, you wrote a book. Now, what? That was the question I asked myself as I was finishing the first draft of my first manuscript Finding Home. This may shock you to know, but the first wasn’t good. Neither was the second draft, but it got better with editing. That’s the thing they don’t tell you when you start writing.

Even the greatest of writers need editing. Not even Jane Austen hammered out the perfection that is Sense & Sensibility on the first draft. It took many, many months of self-editing and then working with an actual editor before what we know as the story of the Dashwood Sisters found its way to us as readers.  This was one of my first and most valuable lessons as a writer, the importance of editing!

            Not just in my own editing, which is important but in bringing in a professional. I don’t color my own hair. I don’t pedicure my own feet. I don’t groom my own dog. I hire professions to help add the smile to those things, that’s why I hired an editor. Their technical skills and know-how help shape my story into the best that it can be. There are different types of editors. There are line editors that assist with the word choice/grammar/spelling/context of the story. There are continuity editors that help you shape the story itself. What’s missing. What doesn’t make sense…etc. There are proofreaders that go through a manuscript and pain-shakenly identify any typing, spelling, or grammar errors.

            I am, no doubt, oversimplifying the various types of editing available out there. That’s because this blog post is self-edited and not edited by a professional (hence my stance for their needed role in this process). Editors are critical in helping writers put out the best version of their story. The investment in time spent self-editing and developing a relationship with a professional editor is crucial in offering the reader a brilliant story.

            This has been such a wonderful experience for me. Even though it means that I need to let go of my control, just a little, and embrace constructive feedback. Let’s face it as storytellers we are sensitive little flowers, whose ego is easily crushed like a petal. However, with the right editor and the right relationship your petals will grow stronger. I’ve seen my writing blossom over the last eight months. There are many root causes to this, but the greatest is due to the guidance and constructive feedback from my editor Gemma Brocato, USA Today Best-Selling Author (Check out her fantastic books!!!). It can be painful at times, but it’s been such an amazing experience and at the end of the day my writing will only grow stronger through the power of editing. It’s like any muscle. It needs to be worked and it needs to be worked in the right ways. Editing helps stories be worked in the right way.

            So, I’ll type it and I’ll type it LOUD AND PROUD! I’m a writer and I LOVE editing and the amazing people taking on the role of editor.

Keeping Motivation Motivated

How do I stay motivated? It’s a question many writers ask themselves. Inspiration hits and the motivation zings! The next thing we know we’re writing away. Then we stop. At some point life happens. You must go to work. You must eat delicious Girl Scout Cookies. You need to pour another cup of tea. You must go on a date with your husband. Your pug wants to play. There’s a new episode of your favorite Bravo reality show. At least, these are the things that happen to me.

I know there are many of life’s little distractions that steal away our focus as writers. My writing friends and fellow writers on social media often ask how to keep the motivation going? This was something I wondered when I started my wiring journey back in August 2022. How to stay motivated? How to not just have this be something I said I was doing but didn’t do?

There are a few tricks I’ve used to keep my motivation…well motivated. It’s worked for me and may work for you. The proof is in the cookies, though. Since August, I’ve written three manuscripts and have a fourth one started, so those are some well baked cookies! Although, my editor may have opinions on their taste. 😊

Here’s what I do. First, I write for an hour a day no matter what. Even when I had a vicious viral infection in December that I thought was the new plague (it wasn’t), I stayed committed to this. In August, I started this by sitting my timer to ensure I was doing it. I built it into my agenda for the day and even set a reminder on my phone. Before I knew it, it became habit. Even when I went on vacation, I stuck with this. I’d get up an hour earlier or stay up an hour later than my husband to get my writing in before or after our vacation antics. Even if I had NO idea what to write or struggled working on one sentence (these things happen) I wrote or edited what I had written for an hour.

The other trick I use is music. A song can pull me into a story. I have songs for each of my couples in my stories. Each song captures them as a couple or how one of them feels about the other. For example, for Finding Home Forrest Blakk’s “When you Love Her” and “I saw Love” capture the love story of Elle and Clayton so perfectly. Once you read it, I hope you agree. Forrest Blakk was played a lot during the writing of this steamy smalltown romance helping me not just tap into but go deeper into Elle and Clayton’s story. If Hollywood options this book as a film, I may have to sweet talk Mr. Blakk to do the soundtrack.

I pepper other songs in during the writing process to feed different scenes. If it’s a steamy/sexy scene I may use some sexier songs. If it’s an angsty breakup scene I go to my girl T-Swift. I even have songs for different locations and other characters in the book that help me stay linked to their elements so I can pull them out onto the page. You get the gist.

Another trick is to create an environment perfect for writing. Some people like quiet. Some like sitting at a computer. Some like sprawling on a bed. Some like lounging on a couch. Some like typing away at a busy coffeeshop. Whatever your writing kink, you need to set the scene! When I’m spending my hour (or plus) editing I tend to do it sitting at the desk in my office, but when its creative time I either sit in my checkered wingback chair in my bedroom, a pug sharing the ottoman with me, or use every pillow on my bed to bolster me and my laptop as I type away from my bed (very handy for inspiration of those steamier scenes).

The last and final thing that keeps me motivated are my characters. They have a story that needs to be told. If I lose my motivation then nobody will know their story, not even me. Connecting with my characters allows me to champion them by writing their story.

This is what works for me. It may or may not work for you as a writer. This is just one recipe. There are so many others out there that help storytellers create their stories. If this works for you or if you have other tricks of the trade, please let me know!

Pinkies up!

"Hello": A Writing Exercise

    Happy Monday! Today’s word was “Hello”. In my second manuscript In the Hello and in the Goodbye, a sconed chance romance, the story spans the falling in, out of, and trying to fight for the love of Evie Johnson and Colm Gallagher. The book starts with their meeting at a coffeeshop told through Colm’s perspective. I used today’s word to give a glimpse into Evie’s reaction when she first sees Colm. The manuscript is currently in editing but here’s a sneak peek. 😊

Hello

By: Melissa Whitney

The sweet aroma of cinnamon danced through the coffeeshop making the sensation of Christmas almost hug Evie. It wasn’t Christmas, though. It was August twenty-seventh, the heat of summer still held court, but Autumn whispered into the room with the laminated sign announcing Pumpkin Spiced Lattes. Giddiness wiggled through Evie as she scooted through the crowded coffeeshop towards the bathroom. Despite the disappointment of last night’s failed first date, the promise of her beloved PSLs rallied her.

            Last night’s date was with a thirty-year-old surgeon from the hospital she worked at. It had been nice enough. He was polite. Said all the right things. He’d bought their drinks. It all seemed okay. Just okay ‘til he’d left their table to use the restroom. Evie’s blue eyes followed him as he cut through the packed bar. An older woman headed towards the same unisex bathroom. Just as he reached the entryway to the single bathroom, he slipped in front of the woman and hurried into the open door. As the older woman waited, tapping on her cell phone, Evie’s blood boiled. It was such a small thing to rule out a perspective boyfriend, but it spoke volumes of who he was, and he wasn’t for her.

            There’d be no second date. Even if he texted, Evie would decline with several smiley face emojis to soften the blow. Although, it was likely not much of a blow. It had only been drinks.

            Washing her hands in the coffeeshop’s bathroom, she rinsed off the memory of last night’s bad first date with the foamy strawberry scented soap. No need to dwell on it. Bad dates were part of the plight of a twenty-six-year-old looking for love. Blinking as she looked at her image in the smudged mirror, she hoped love was looking for her. The right love, not just any old everyday love. The kind that stuttered her heart. The kind that tethered her to a sense of belonging, not to but with someone…the right someone. It may be too greedy, but Evie was okay with being greedy.

            Tossing the crumbled paper towel into the tall silver cylinder trash bin, she stepped out the bathroom door. Making her way through the coffeeshop teaming with waiting patrons, she took her spot in line. Her stare darting around the room soaking in customers hunched over laptops at tables, shelves filled with for sale coffee and travel mugs, and staff wiping tables. Inhaling the coffee’s invigorating aroma promising the first taste of Pumpkin Spice Season, her eyes landed on the entrance. A tall man, laptop bag flung over his shoulder, and a tight firm line severing his strong jaw strode towards the glass door. There was almost a teasing glimpse of his muscular bulky frame hidden beneath gray slacks and a pale blue button up shirt. Where most men would have their top button undone and sleeves rolled up offering peaks of corded forearms and sexy throat columns, he was utterly buttoned up. Even his steps were stiff and purposeful. There was nothing lite nor casual about him. Although, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

            Stop staring! Evie chided herself, turning her gaze towards the back of the head of the person in front of her in line.

            Seconds later, her gaze was again pulled towards the entrance. The business version of Thor God of Thunder stood holding the door as a woman with a stroller pushed through the entrance. Evie’s eyes narrowed. Had he been waiting for her all along? Was that his little girl, her little face lit in a giggle, who kicked her legs in the stroller? Was the woman with warm brown eyes tipping her head towards him, his?

            Evie bristled and then bristled at her bristle. This wasn’t like her. She shook her head in self-reproach but remained looking at the tall man. His severe face softened in the tiniest of smiles as the woman with the stroller thanked him as she moved deeper into the coffeeshop. Instead of following, he remained holding the door for an older man in a checkered fedora, then a group of young women, and so on. As people walked up to the door, he stood as if it was his job. As if he had no other mission but to ensure their safe entrance through the door. As if their needs were just as, if not more, important as his.

            Evie placed her hand on her chest. The increased thumping of her heart vibrated against her small hand. Its beat quickened and almost stumbled, as the tall man turned walking through the door. His green eyes, as lush as a field of clovers after a rainstorm, looked her way. There was no spark of recognition in them that he looked at her. That he’d even noticed her. The desire to be noticed pulsed through her. Evie watched as the man’s eyes scanned the coffeeshop.

            Without thinking or second guessing, Evie slipped out of the line. She apologized as she pushed passed fellow customers ‘til she reached the old man with the checkered fedora standing in the back of the line. His gray eyes crinkled in a smile as she joined him.

            “Buying time to decide what you want to order?” the old man’s raspy voice asked, a warm smile swept across his wrinkled face.

            “Something like that,” Evie said, the corner of her eyes watching as the boy next door version of a sexy Viking stepped behind her in line. Goosebumps bloomed across her body at the mere notion of the heat of his body near hers.

She didn’t know how she’d do it, but before she reached the barista, she would talk to him. She’d be brave, because something swam in her belly telling her that he was that someone she’d been waiting for. She just didn’t know how she’d do it, but she had eight people ahead of her in line. That should be enough time to figure out how to say, “Hello”.

"Just my Luck": A Writing Exercise

Hey! Sorry it’s been a few days. I was in Prescott, AZ for the last week for my day job. I did get a chance to do some writing, but only one blog posts ☹. I finished Coming Home, my third manuscript and second book in the Home series. Yay! I’ll start edits on that next week.

 

In the meantime, I’ve started by fourth manuscript entitled Love is Dead, a contemporary romance with a paranormal twist.

 

Someone told me “Good Luck,” this week knowing it was going to be a long week. I used the word “luck” to inspire this vignette where you meet the main characters Nora and August for my work in progress (WIP) manuscript. This may or may not end up in the book. I’ve started chapter one already, which takes place two years after this initial meeting. We’ll see!

 

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy and feel free to let me know what you think!

 

Pinkies Up!

Just my Luck

By: Melissa Whitney

There was no better sound in the world than the click clacking of a cute pair of heels against marble, hardwood, tiled, or any hard surface. It almost sang in Nora’s ears as she walked across the terracotta floor of the lobby. Waiting for the elevator, she tapped the point of her red shoes against the floor. Some may consider red shoes worn for a job interview to be too bold. Perhaps, but wasn’t bold what one wanted in a producer? At least she hoped as her gaze dropped to her feet, the red color popping a little too loud against the floor.

“Nice shoes,” a deep voice drawled.

Nora’s head twisted facing a big pair of brown eyes that reminded her of creamy hot cholate. “Thank you,” she said.

The elevator dinged and the doors swung open. An absurd number of people in suits filed out. Nora stepped to the side allowing people to bump her as they passed. Some with apologies. Others with annoyed pinched faces almost seeming to say, “How dare you!” as they knocked by.

The current of departing people thinned allowing her to slip onto the elevator. Hitting the thirteenth floor she then tucked herself into the corner preparing for the oncoming of her own elevator clown car. Big buildings like this always had too many people crammed into elevators.

The handsome man with those chocolate eyes stepped onto the elevator and turned to the buttons, thirteen already lit up. “Lucky thirteen,” he said, stepping to the corner opposite of her.

Nora’s gaze flicked between the only selected floor and the man. His lips curved up in an easy smile as he leaned against the metal rail wrapped around the elevator walls. An untucked black button up shirt stretched across a broad chest, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and hands pushed into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. There was a casualness to his dress and demeanor that countered the formalness of the building.

“Nice sneakers,” Nora said, looking at his black converses.

“I have a pair in red,” he boasted.

The winking nature of his voice caused a tiny flip in her tummy. Men like this weren’t Nora’s type. She liked men in suits. Men with ties. Men that didn’t wear sneakers to fancy office buildings.

“So, Dorothy what are the red shoes for? Are they magic? Can you click them three times, say there’s no place like home, and get out of a terrible meeting?” he asked, a teasing shade to his voice.

Nora’s brows wrinkled. “My name isn’t Dorothy.” She knew he was teasing her with the Wizard of Oz reference. It wasn’t mean. There was a good matureness to his tone, but Nora didn’t do teasing. Bold shoes or colorful clothes were as playful as she got. She was the gray suit of people.

“Well, what is your name not Dorothy?” he inquired, his low voice dripped with flirtation.

The elevator doors shut; Nora’s green eyes scanned the enclosed space filled only with just them. “Nora,” she replied, adjusting her purse. It wasn’t needed, but it sufficed the fidgeting jitter cascading through her.

“August,” he said, reaching his hand out to her.

Nora took his hand, the pulsating anxiety subsiding with the strange calmness that zinged through her at his touch.

“So, why the red shoes?”

She looked at the points of her shoes and back to him. “Job interview.”

“Nice.” His smile got bigger. “You make me wish I had worn my red converses for my interview.”

Her eyes wide. “You have a job interview? Who wears that to an interview?” She gestured to his outfit.

August shrugged. His lopsided grin appeared almost boyish. It should be cute. In movies or novels, it would melt the icy blonde’s heart. In this elevator it made this icy blonde’s brows knit in annoyance. There were only two reasons someone would dress like that for an interview. One, they were an entitled privileged case of nepotism. Two, there were a moron. Either was unappealing.

Nora crossed her arms over her body, realization washing over her. “Are you here for the onset producer interviews for the new Travel Channel show?”

The new show centered on brothers Derrick and Gus Chandler touring historical locations throughout the United States. The name was still in development and currently referred to as The Untitled Two Brothers Touring Historical Locations Project. It needed a better name. It needed Nora, at least that’s what she wanted the Executive Producer and Co-creator brother team to think.

“I am,” he said, his eyes almost sparkled with excitement.

One syllable said it all. He was the first option. No doubt some executive’s son or nephew, who spent most of film school drinking beer, while Nora studied. Someone that called in favors for jobs, while she worked her way up from a lowly production assistant to this opportunity.

Nora’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, you are.”

“Are you here for the interview?”

“Yes.” Her gaze moved forward fixating on the illuminated floor numbers.

“That’s wonderful!” His cheerfulness grating her.

Nora’s pulse picked up with his happy-go-lucky timbre. Was he just that confident that he’d get the job or was it something about her? Did he assess that she wasn’t a threat? Nora looked down at her red shoes and sighed. Raising her head, she smoothed down her sleek low ponytail.

As twelve flashed on the tiny screen above the rows of elevator buttons, Nora shifted foot-to-foot. Her feet already ready to depart, to click clack across the hard floor regaining her confidence through their melanic tap.

The twelve disappeared indicating they were between floors. Nora sucked in a deep breath readying to jump off the moment the doors swung open. When those doors opened, her head raised, shoes stomping she’d leave him in her badass diva dust. He was no competition to her. No matter what his connections. No matter his casual confidence. She’d beaten men like this before and she will do it again.

“Oh, I think we are stuck,” he said.

“What?” She blinked at the blank screen, the elevator not moving. “Nope. That’s not right.” Her heartbeat pulsed as her fingers pressed against the thirteen. Nothing. She tapped again. Nothing. Her fingers slammed against other buttons. Nothing.

Nora’s frantic gaze moved around the elevator. It had seemed larger than this when they were moving, but the walls crept in on her. Nora placed her hands against the wall as if she could hold them back. Her breath growing shallow. Sweat peppering her hairline.

Breath, Nora. She closed her eyes, envisioning an open field and not the closing in walls of the stuck elevator.

“Well, at least this building isn’t haunted,” he said.

Nora’s eyes shut open. “Excuse me?” Her response breathless as if jogging the last leg of a race.

August leaned against the elevator wall as if this was nothing. As if they weren’t stuck somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth floor with the approaching walls ready to crush them.

“The building isn’t haunted, so we know it’s just mechanical and not a mischievous ghost, so it should be fixed quickly. If a ghost was involved, we may have been stuck here for a while. They do like their tricks.” There was a sincere twinkle in his brown eyes.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” she said, her breath settling.

“Ghosts are real.”

She turned her entire body toward him placing her hands on her hips. “Ghosts are the result of an overactive imagination.”

“I can imagine lots of benefits of an overactive imagination.” The low timbre of his voice almost flirtatious.

Nora’s breath shallowed again, but not out of the walls closing in on her. Suddenly the wall that August leaned against was too far away.

What? No! He’s the appropriate distance away. She shook her head.

“A skeptic.” There was a glint of daring challenge in his eyes, as if they played a game. “Why don’t you believe?”

“Why do you believe?” she countered. As far as Nora was concerned there was no need for her to justify her belief. The only ghosts that existed were the metaphorical kind that one exterminated during many sessions with a therapist.

“There’s so much evidence. Documented cases. Photographs. Video footage. EVPs…”

She rolled her eyes causing him to stop speaking. “Like those terrible ghost hunting TV shows? Those are just entertainment, not science.”

“So, you’re not a fan of paranormal docuseries?”

“Docuseries!” she guffawed. “They document nothing except people who run around in the dark hyped up on fear and delusion. There’s nothing scientific about those shows.” Nora leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, staring at him.

August nodded, not in agreement but seeming to consider her argument. It wasn’t much of an argument. She knew that, but most people didn’t believe in ghosts. It was the one-time Nora was fine with following the herd.

“So, what would make one of those shows a docuseries to you? Make it more sciencey?”

“Sciencey?” she barked.

“Yeah.” He straightened his broad chest puffed up. “Sciencey.”

A strange tingling filled her cheeks. Nora raised her right hand to her face, realizing a giant grin was fixed to it.

“That’s not a word.” Nora bit her lip trying to stop her smile from getting bigger.

“How do words become words? Someone says them, someone else uses them, and before you know it there in the dictionary.”

She had to bit harder on her lip. There was something sweet and charming about this man.

Tapping her shoes, she considered his question. “Ok. Here’s how you make it more sciencey.” She made air quotes eliciting a silent chuckle from August. “One, if they interviewed actual scientists and experts that weren’t all paranormal believers. Two, they stayed at the location for a week shooting round the clock versus just a single night. Three, if they ran legitimate experiments.” Nora counted off each suggestion on one finger.

“Interesting. An entire week, why?”

“Right now, they only do a single night. A week would give them more time to acclimate to the environment ruling out psychological reactions versus paranormal happenings. Also, it gives them more time to see if the things they capture have a different explanation or if they happen again.”

August’s stare linked with hers, causing a tiny flip in her belly. Nora’s right hand pressed against her stomach as if trying to control those rogue butterflies. How dare they flutter at his warm gaze.

“I like it,” he said, an impressed glint in his eyes.

“Thanks.” She wasn’t sure why warmth spread through her at his praise. Maybe it was just praise in general. You can take the teacher’s pet out of school but not being the teacher’s pet out of the girl.

Fiddling with the button of her black blazer, she looked at the elevator screen. Somehow, she had forgotten about the elevator…About being stuck. The once closing in walls seemed to have settled.

Because of him. Her eyes dropped to August. Had he noticed her fidgeting when the elevator had first got stuck? Had he distracted her with his talk of ghosts? Just as she opened her mouth to ask, the elevator shook to life.

“Looks like we’re moving,” he said, stepping towards the middle.

Nora stepped beside him. “Yup.”

The smell of pine and mint wafted off him ushering her into the sensation of walking through the woods on the first winter snow, a hot peppermint mocha in hand. The elevator dinged and the doors eased open. For just a moment they stood, inches apart, their matching stares fixed forward towards the lobby on the other side of the threshold.

“Good luck on the interview,” he said.

There was a bristling impact to her body at the word “luck”. Like ghosts, luck wasn’t something Nora believed in. If she’d bet on the cards dealt to her rather than finding her own cards, she’d not be here.

Nora peered down at her red shoes and back to the quiet lobby in front of her. “You’re the one that will need the luck,” she said, stepping off the elevator.

A deep laugh lingered from behind her as she made her way through the lobby towards the long hall leading to the office. Head held high her confidence surged with each click of her heels as she walked towards the glass doors for the Travel Channel offices. Once there, she checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in a cushy leather chair opposite the reception desk. She scanned the room. Besides the receptionist tapping on a computer, she was the only one there.

After twenty minutes, a bearded man in a gray suit entered from the cream-colored door separating the waiting area and back offices. “Ms. Scott?” he asked, looking around the empty seating area as if confirming she was, indeed, her or perhaps, looking for someone else to be her.

Nodding, she followed him through the door and down another long narrow hall. Framed posters of different TV shows lined the beige walls. At the end of the hall, the man opened a glass door ushering her into a small conference room. Instructing her to take a seat at the oversized dark wood oval table, he explained that the team would be in shortly.

Nora sat, crossing her legs at her ankles, and ensuring her pencil skirt did not ride up. She knew this game very well. Make perspective candidates wait. Make them sweat. Remind them you have the power.

Tapping her shoes against the carpet she frowned. Her eyes closed remembering the song of her clacking shoes as she’d made her way here. You are here. You deserve to be here.

“Ms. Scott.” Another suited man waltzed into the room.

The fabric of his navy suit almost luxuriated over his tall, lean form. A hint of green glinted in his dark brown eyes. This was a more appropriate man for her butterflies to flip over. They merely yawned.

“So sorry for keeping you waiting,” he apologized.

She stood up. “That’s okay.”

“I’m Derrick Chandler, one of the Executive Producers, show creators, and hosts,” he chuckled with self-deprecation at his many titles as he reached across the table shaking her outstretched hand.

“Glad to meet you.”

“Glad to have you part of the team,” he said, his angled face crinkled in a warm smile.

“Oh yes, I am…” She paused, her head tilting to the right. “…wait joining the team?” Had she blocked out the interview?

“My brother loved your pitch.” He went on as if she knew what he was speaking of.

She blinked. What was happening?

“Oh, good you’ve met.” August entered the room, holding a half-eaten pink sprinkled donut in one hand and bottle of Coke Zero in the other.

“I believe you’ve already met Gus,” Derrick motioned to his brother, who bit into his donut.

“You said your name was August,” she said, pointing her manicured finger at him.

“It is.” He licked crumbs from the corner of his lips.

Stop it butterflies. She bit her lip.

“Gus is short for August,” Derrick explained. “The only one that calls him August is our mother when he’s in trouble, which is a lot.”

Both men took seats at the table. She sat, sitting across from August…no Gus. He wasn’t an interviewee, but the interviewer. She wouldn’t be competing against him, but rather competing for him.

Not in that way. She bit the inside of her mouth as she took her seat. Also, she’d gotten the job.

“Gus walked me through your pitch to him regarding Haunted Hideaway. It’s unique and will help us separate ourselves from the other similar shows out there,” Derrick said, tapping on his phone as he talked.

“Haunted Hideaway?” Nora’s brows wrinkled. A fuzziness settled on her as if waking up from a nap in the car to everyone else in mid-conversation.

August’s warm smile beamed. “I forgot to tell you that’s what we’re calling the show.”

Haunted Hideaway! Embarrassed heat crawled up her back. It was a ghost show. Her first opportunity to be a producer would be for a ghost show with a man that secretly interviewed her while being stuck in an elevator. Embarrassed. Bamboozled. Frustrated. Lucky? So many emotions collided in her. The one thought that dove to the surface was this was her chance and she’d let nothing get in her way. No ghosts. No men in converses. Nothing.

After the meeting wrapped, August…now Gus walked Nora towards the elevator. “I’m excited to work with you.”

“You should have told me who you were,” she said, her tone curt.

He pushed the down button for her. “But I did. I told you I was August. I’m August. I told you I was here for the interview, and I was.”

Her finger pointed and mouth opened and then shut. He’d not lied. She’d gotten the job. In the grand scheme of things, it all worked in her favor, but there was still an annoyed heat creeping up her body.

With a loud ding, the elevator opened. Nora stepped on turning to face August, who remained on the lobby side of the threshold, hands pushed into his pockets, and crooked smile painted on his face.

“Goodbye August,” she said, deciding he would remain August to her and not Gus.

“I can’t wait to convert you to a believer in ghosts,” he said.

“Well, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

“Good thing I have a very overactive imagination to help me pass the time,” he winked as the elevator doors shut.