Magic Moments`

Diabolical Baron--Larger ORIGINALby Mary Jo

I'm getting into Deep Writing Mode to try to finish the current book, which is waaaay behind.  So instead of writing a new blog, I decided to exercise Wench privilege by pulling out an old blog and buffing it up.

This blog dates back to the earliest days of the Word Wenches and was inspired by a regular reader who asked me when I knew I was meant to be a writer and suggested that it was a question worth blogging.  I agreed that the question is an intriguing one, but I’ll bet that others have a much more interesting answer than I do.

The bald fact is that I knew I was a writer when I was offered a contract for my first book.  Boringly mundane, no?  Yet it’s the truth.  I was always a daydreamer, spinning stories in my head when sitting bored in classes.  (And I was bored a lot.)  I even thought that being a writer would be Totally Cool, but it never occurred to me that I could ever occupy one of those pedestals in the sky where writers live.  (Feel free to laugh. <g>)

But with my horrid handwriting and rather dysgraphic typing, becoming a writer never Dearly Belovedseemed even remotely possible.  I just couldn’t get the words down in a clean, clear fashion.  Writing was in the vague dream category, along with being tall, thin, or fashionably dressed.

All that changed when I got my first computer to do copywriting and invoicing for my graphic design business.  (Ah, my darling Leading Edge!  We remember our first computers much as Regency fans remember their first Georgette Heyer.)  Once I learned the basics of word processing, it occurred to me that I’d always wanted to write a book, so let’s give it a try.

I charged into that first book with no expectations at all—I just wanted to see what I could do.  I marked the floppy disk (5 ¼” yet!) with RR for Regency Romance, since I wasn’t ready to admit what I was doing even to myself.

One scene flowed into another, the story seemed to be working, I joined RWA, got the name of an agent from the friend of a friend, the agent marked up my 88 pages and sent them back with suggestions, and a few weeks later, I was offered a three book contract.

Yes, Virginia, that is the moment that I knew I was a writer.  Having no expectations made the process easy in a lot of ways.  I didn’t fear rejection since I didn’t expect acceptance.


DownloadOf course, selling my first book changed everything.  I went from no expectations to behaving like a crazed lemming determined to learn everything I could about writing and publishing.  I also developed my first and most determined writing goal: to support myself as a writer. It took a few years, but I made it.  (The book covers illustrating this blog were the first books when I undertook a new subgenre.)

I think the process is much harder for someone who early develops a passionate desire to be a writer.  Though actually, the problem is not so much writing, which can be a great creative high, but getting published, which is hard.  Usually very hard indeed.

So maybe the real answer to the original question is that one knows one is a writer when one begins to write.  I have a little Post-It note on my monitor that says, “Writers write.”  Sometimes, when publishing is making me nuts, I need to remind myself of that.  I became a writer on the Saturday I sat down and started The Diabolical Baron.  I realized that I was a writer on the day someone offered actual money for my daydreams.

You are a writer when you are sitting down and producing words.  (I once heard a writer say that one can be a writer in one’s mind.  Sorry, I don’t agree.  That’s daydreaming.  Real writing is not only imagination, it’s making the serious effort of getting words down in a form that can communicate to others even if you never show your work to anyone.

The publishing paradigm has changed dramatically since I first wrote this blog.  With indie Dark Mirrorpublishing, anyone can be published if they're willing to put in the work, though finding an audience is still challenging. There are some writers who write only for their own creative satisfaction, and perhaps they are the happiest of us all. 

But there are other kinds of magic moments–those times when we have a sudden realization of a talent, a passion, a dream.

Was there a time when you decided, "I want to grow up and be a doctor?  Or a teacher. Or a rodeo barrel racer?"  

Or did you see a picture of a Celtic High Cross and think "I really, really want tol go to Ireland?"  

Or "I like growing things and must create a garden."  

Please share with us some of your magic moments!

Mary Jo, who always, always knew that I wanted to travel.

65 thoughts on “Magic Moments`”

  1. This is a terrific post. Thank you.
    I think your readers are all very grateful for your magic moment.
    I hope everyone is taking care and staying well.

    Reply
  2. This is a terrific post. Thank you.
    I think your readers are all very grateful for your magic moment.
    I hope everyone is taking care and staying well.

    Reply
  3. This is a terrific post. Thank you.
    I think your readers are all very grateful for your magic moment.
    I hope everyone is taking care and staying well.

    Reply
  4. This is a terrific post. Thank you.
    I think your readers are all very grateful for your magic moment.
    I hope everyone is taking care and staying well.

    Reply
  5. This is a terrific post. Thank you.
    I think your readers are all very grateful for your magic moment.
    I hope everyone is taking care and staying well.

    Reply
  6. I started writing my first book in third grade. It hit the shredder a few years ago in a spurt of spring purging. It was that bad. I saved some of my stories from then but, even though there are some nuggets I can work with they are tucked away in my closet to remind me where I started. I few years ago I started writing again and I feel as though I found a part of my soul that had been long ignored. Now I write 1500-2000 words a day. Some day my musings will find their way into a book (or several) that I can share with my friends and maybe the world. My file name for my romance is RR also. For Revolutionary Romance. It’s good enough for a working title, but it will be “This Soldier’s Heart” (after something my Hero said to the Heroine) eventually.

    Reply
  7. I started writing my first book in third grade. It hit the shredder a few years ago in a spurt of spring purging. It was that bad. I saved some of my stories from then but, even though there are some nuggets I can work with they are tucked away in my closet to remind me where I started. I few years ago I started writing again and I feel as though I found a part of my soul that had been long ignored. Now I write 1500-2000 words a day. Some day my musings will find their way into a book (or several) that I can share with my friends and maybe the world. My file name for my romance is RR also. For Revolutionary Romance. It’s good enough for a working title, but it will be “This Soldier’s Heart” (after something my Hero said to the Heroine) eventually.

    Reply
  8. I started writing my first book in third grade. It hit the shredder a few years ago in a spurt of spring purging. It was that bad. I saved some of my stories from then but, even though there are some nuggets I can work with they are tucked away in my closet to remind me where I started. I few years ago I started writing again and I feel as though I found a part of my soul that had been long ignored. Now I write 1500-2000 words a day. Some day my musings will find their way into a book (or several) that I can share with my friends and maybe the world. My file name for my romance is RR also. For Revolutionary Romance. It’s good enough for a working title, but it will be “This Soldier’s Heart” (after something my Hero said to the Heroine) eventually.

    Reply
  9. I started writing my first book in third grade. It hit the shredder a few years ago in a spurt of spring purging. It was that bad. I saved some of my stories from then but, even though there are some nuggets I can work with they are tucked away in my closet to remind me where I started. I few years ago I started writing again and I feel as though I found a part of my soul that had been long ignored. Now I write 1500-2000 words a day. Some day my musings will find their way into a book (or several) that I can share with my friends and maybe the world. My file name for my romance is RR also. For Revolutionary Romance. It’s good enough for a working title, but it will be “This Soldier’s Heart” (after something my Hero said to the Heroine) eventually.

    Reply
  10. I started writing my first book in third grade. It hit the shredder a few years ago in a spurt of spring purging. It was that bad. I saved some of my stories from then but, even though there are some nuggets I can work with they are tucked away in my closet to remind me where I started. I few years ago I started writing again and I feel as though I found a part of my soul that had been long ignored. Now I write 1500-2000 words a day. Some day my musings will find their way into a book (or several) that I can share with my friends and maybe the world. My file name for my romance is RR also. For Revolutionary Romance. It’s good enough for a working title, but it will be “This Soldier’s Heart” (after something my Hero said to the Heroine) eventually.

    Reply
  11. Pamela DG, what a wonderful Magic Moment when you started writing again! (I envy you your productivity.)
    THIS SOLDIER’S HEART is a good title. There aren’t many revolutionary war romances around. Maybe we need more!

    Reply
  12. Pamela DG, what a wonderful Magic Moment when you started writing again! (I envy you your productivity.)
    THIS SOLDIER’S HEART is a good title. There aren’t many revolutionary war romances around. Maybe we need more!

    Reply
  13. Pamela DG, what a wonderful Magic Moment when you started writing again! (I envy you your productivity.)
    THIS SOLDIER’S HEART is a good title. There aren’t many revolutionary war romances around. Maybe we need more!

    Reply
  14. Pamela DG, what a wonderful Magic Moment when you started writing again! (I envy you your productivity.)
    THIS SOLDIER’S HEART is a good title. There aren’t many revolutionary war romances around. Maybe we need more!

    Reply
  15. Pamela DG, what a wonderful Magic Moment when you started writing again! (I envy you your productivity.)
    THIS SOLDIER’S HEART is a good title. There aren’t many revolutionary war romances around. Maybe we need more!

    Reply
  16. I daydream stories in my head. Sometimes days at a time but have never felt the urge to put them on paper. They are for my own amusement and luckily I don’t have to make the plot work for anyone but me. Grin.
    The closest I’ve come to deciding to be something was when I announced I wanted to grow up to be an eccentric old lady. It was very freeing…because it meant I didn’t have to conform if I didn’t want to.
    As for a place I want to go to… Cornwall. For some reason I want to go and see if the light is really as fantastic as they say it is for painting. Other than that Australia, England, Scotland, Wales. Plus about anywhere in the US.
    Actually…apple orchards. I’m fascinated by all the different kinds of apples and would like to go orchard hopping to compare FRESH apples. Not store bought apples which were mistreated during shipping and storage. Who cares about following fall color…I’d like to follow the apple ripening…grin.
    Oh and I’m very glad you revisited this blog post as I had never gone that far back in the archives. Good luck fighting with your book.

    Reply
  17. I daydream stories in my head. Sometimes days at a time but have never felt the urge to put them on paper. They are for my own amusement and luckily I don’t have to make the plot work for anyone but me. Grin.
    The closest I’ve come to deciding to be something was when I announced I wanted to grow up to be an eccentric old lady. It was very freeing…because it meant I didn’t have to conform if I didn’t want to.
    As for a place I want to go to… Cornwall. For some reason I want to go and see if the light is really as fantastic as they say it is for painting. Other than that Australia, England, Scotland, Wales. Plus about anywhere in the US.
    Actually…apple orchards. I’m fascinated by all the different kinds of apples and would like to go orchard hopping to compare FRESH apples. Not store bought apples which were mistreated during shipping and storage. Who cares about following fall color…I’d like to follow the apple ripening…grin.
    Oh and I’m very glad you revisited this blog post as I had never gone that far back in the archives. Good luck fighting with your book.

    Reply
  18. I daydream stories in my head. Sometimes days at a time but have never felt the urge to put them on paper. They are for my own amusement and luckily I don’t have to make the plot work for anyone but me. Grin.
    The closest I’ve come to deciding to be something was when I announced I wanted to grow up to be an eccentric old lady. It was very freeing…because it meant I didn’t have to conform if I didn’t want to.
    As for a place I want to go to… Cornwall. For some reason I want to go and see if the light is really as fantastic as they say it is for painting. Other than that Australia, England, Scotland, Wales. Plus about anywhere in the US.
    Actually…apple orchards. I’m fascinated by all the different kinds of apples and would like to go orchard hopping to compare FRESH apples. Not store bought apples which were mistreated during shipping and storage. Who cares about following fall color…I’d like to follow the apple ripening…grin.
    Oh and I’m very glad you revisited this blog post as I had never gone that far back in the archives. Good luck fighting with your book.

    Reply
  19. I daydream stories in my head. Sometimes days at a time but have never felt the urge to put them on paper. They are for my own amusement and luckily I don’t have to make the plot work for anyone but me. Grin.
    The closest I’ve come to deciding to be something was when I announced I wanted to grow up to be an eccentric old lady. It was very freeing…because it meant I didn’t have to conform if I didn’t want to.
    As for a place I want to go to… Cornwall. For some reason I want to go and see if the light is really as fantastic as they say it is for painting. Other than that Australia, England, Scotland, Wales. Plus about anywhere in the US.
    Actually…apple orchards. I’m fascinated by all the different kinds of apples and would like to go orchard hopping to compare FRESH apples. Not store bought apples which were mistreated during shipping and storage. Who cares about following fall color…I’d like to follow the apple ripening…grin.
    Oh and I’m very glad you revisited this blog post as I had never gone that far back in the archives. Good luck fighting with your book.

    Reply
  20. I daydream stories in my head. Sometimes days at a time but have never felt the urge to put them on paper. They are for my own amusement and luckily I don’t have to make the plot work for anyone but me. Grin.
    The closest I’ve come to deciding to be something was when I announced I wanted to grow up to be an eccentric old lady. It was very freeing…because it meant I didn’t have to conform if I didn’t want to.
    As for a place I want to go to… Cornwall. For some reason I want to go and see if the light is really as fantastic as they say it is for painting. Other than that Australia, England, Scotland, Wales. Plus about anywhere in the US.
    Actually…apple orchards. I’m fascinated by all the different kinds of apples and would like to go orchard hopping to compare FRESH apples. Not store bought apples which were mistreated during shipping and storage. Who cares about following fall color…I’d like to follow the apple ripening…grin.
    Oh and I’m very glad you revisited this blog post as I had never gone that far back in the archives. Good luck fighting with your book.

    Reply
  21. Fab post, Mary Jo. I’ve written all my life — letters, silly poems (that I called pomes), short stories etc, and like you, it never occurred to me to write books, because that was for these strange, rare and wonderful creatures that lived in a magic land — or something. Until I started working with a guy who was a published writer, and I thought Huh! Not a unicorn. *g* So I started seriously writing for publication but I never called myself ‘a writer’ until I was published, because a writer is a job, not just an activity. After all, I clean and garden and cook, but I don’t call myself a cleaner or a gardener or a cook. And I still teach people things occasionally, but it’s no longer my job so I don’t call myself a teacher any more. But the description is a personal choice — I don’t care what other people call themselves.

    Reply
  22. Fab post, Mary Jo. I’ve written all my life — letters, silly poems (that I called pomes), short stories etc, and like you, it never occurred to me to write books, because that was for these strange, rare and wonderful creatures that lived in a magic land — or something. Until I started working with a guy who was a published writer, and I thought Huh! Not a unicorn. *g* So I started seriously writing for publication but I never called myself ‘a writer’ until I was published, because a writer is a job, not just an activity. After all, I clean and garden and cook, but I don’t call myself a cleaner or a gardener or a cook. And I still teach people things occasionally, but it’s no longer my job so I don’t call myself a teacher any more. But the description is a personal choice — I don’t care what other people call themselves.

    Reply
  23. Fab post, Mary Jo. I’ve written all my life — letters, silly poems (that I called pomes), short stories etc, and like you, it never occurred to me to write books, because that was for these strange, rare and wonderful creatures that lived in a magic land — or something. Until I started working with a guy who was a published writer, and I thought Huh! Not a unicorn. *g* So I started seriously writing for publication but I never called myself ‘a writer’ until I was published, because a writer is a job, not just an activity. After all, I clean and garden and cook, but I don’t call myself a cleaner or a gardener or a cook. And I still teach people things occasionally, but it’s no longer my job so I don’t call myself a teacher any more. But the description is a personal choice — I don’t care what other people call themselves.

    Reply
  24. Fab post, Mary Jo. I’ve written all my life — letters, silly poems (that I called pomes), short stories etc, and like you, it never occurred to me to write books, because that was for these strange, rare and wonderful creatures that lived in a magic land — or something. Until I started working with a guy who was a published writer, and I thought Huh! Not a unicorn. *g* So I started seriously writing for publication but I never called myself ‘a writer’ until I was published, because a writer is a job, not just an activity. After all, I clean and garden and cook, but I don’t call myself a cleaner or a gardener or a cook. And I still teach people things occasionally, but it’s no longer my job so I don’t call myself a teacher any more. But the description is a personal choice — I don’t care what other people call themselves.

    Reply
  25. Fab post, Mary Jo. I’ve written all my life — letters, silly poems (that I called pomes), short stories etc, and like you, it never occurred to me to write books, because that was for these strange, rare and wonderful creatures that lived in a magic land — or something. Until I started working with a guy who was a published writer, and I thought Huh! Not a unicorn. *g* So I started seriously writing for publication but I never called myself ‘a writer’ until I was published, because a writer is a job, not just an activity. After all, I clean and garden and cook, but I don’t call myself a cleaner or a gardener or a cook. And I still teach people things occasionally, but it’s no longer my job so I don’t call myself a teacher any more. But the description is a personal choice — I don’t care what other people call themselves.

    Reply
  26. This is the scene where the title came to me. I wrote it for RideThePen.com, which helps me learn aspects about the writing process. This is a rough draft.
    The storm raged as Philippa stumbled down the steps into the colonade, tears fell from her eyes and her nose ran. The glass appeared to be liquid as the rain flowed down it in sheets, lightning flashing and thunder rolled around her. The storm was nothing to what was tearing her apart. She had to clear her head; she had to find the rational part of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember that simple little tune and words that brought comfort to her daughter? It had been five long years since Thomas died and the lullaby with him. She only remembered the Scottish tunes her mother and father sang to her when she was a wee babe, the ones she sang to Sarah. Her heart broke anew as William tenderly picked up her little girl. He crooned the simple melody she had forgotten as he slow marched up and down the hall, her daughter’s cries subsiding as she lay down upon the soldier’s wide uninjured shoulder and fell asleep her favorite doll, Miss Bessie, layed limply over his well-muscled bicep.
    Not long after she sought refuge, she heard William lightly trod down the steps into the colonade walking toward her his boot heel ringing across the pavers. “Your father took Sarah up to bed. She’s resting peacefully now.” Stepping closer he saw Philippa’s tears, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve with his good hand he touched it to her cheeks carefully dabbing the tears away. “I’ll never hurt a child,” he assured her. “If you think I’m a threat, I’ll leave.”
    “No, don’t leave, Sarah’s fond of you,” she paused, “As am I.” His smile reached his amber eyes and stretched his arms out to her. She stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her head on the shoulder that comforted her daughter. She hadn’t been comforted by a man since her husband and son died. “How do you know that song?”
    “It’s an old English lullaby. My grandfather was a don at Oxford before he came into his title. He studied Classics and Olde English. He sang it to my father in turn my father sang it to me. It was the first tune to come to my mind to comfort Sarah.” William slowly rubbed his hand over her back feeling the strength of the woman in his arms.
    “It was one my husband sand to her. She’s forgotten nearly everything about him.”
    “That’s a shame; I’m certain he had cherished her. She is a darling little moppet.”
    Philippa smiled, “That she is.” She listened to the strong rhythm of his heart beating. Only a week ago his troop had been attacked and captured by the Continentals, leaving him behind believing him to be dead. She and her father struggled hard to save him from his wounds and the fever that followed.
    She felt him tightened his hold on her pressing her against his hard body and his response. She shifted to face him. He looked into her stormy gray eyes the lightning reflected in them. “I came here to talk to your father about the thefts going on in the area and the rumors about a company raised but never mustered in with the Continentals. But seeing you again, this soldier’s heart…” he bent his head over her and kissed her.
    Philippa raised her arms, from his waist over his chest to his neck drawing him in allowing him to deepen the kiss their tongues sliding together as if in a dance. She ran her hands over his wavy brown hair to his queue pulling it loose allowing the hair to flow over his shoulders. She broke the kiss with gentle pressure on his chest. The storm was subsiding outside, and the temperature was beginning to fall, “Let’s go back inside.” She tucked herself under his injured arm and led him through the parlor to his room, closing the door behind her.

    Reply
  27. This is the scene where the title came to me. I wrote it for RideThePen.com, which helps me learn aspects about the writing process. This is a rough draft.
    The storm raged as Philippa stumbled down the steps into the colonade, tears fell from her eyes and her nose ran. The glass appeared to be liquid as the rain flowed down it in sheets, lightning flashing and thunder rolled around her. The storm was nothing to what was tearing her apart. She had to clear her head; she had to find the rational part of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember that simple little tune and words that brought comfort to her daughter? It had been five long years since Thomas died and the lullaby with him. She only remembered the Scottish tunes her mother and father sang to her when she was a wee babe, the ones she sang to Sarah. Her heart broke anew as William tenderly picked up her little girl. He crooned the simple melody she had forgotten as he slow marched up and down the hall, her daughter’s cries subsiding as she lay down upon the soldier’s wide uninjured shoulder and fell asleep her favorite doll, Miss Bessie, layed limply over his well-muscled bicep.
    Not long after she sought refuge, she heard William lightly trod down the steps into the colonade walking toward her his boot heel ringing across the pavers. “Your father took Sarah up to bed. She’s resting peacefully now.” Stepping closer he saw Philippa’s tears, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve with his good hand he touched it to her cheeks carefully dabbing the tears away. “I’ll never hurt a child,” he assured her. “If you think I’m a threat, I’ll leave.”
    “No, don’t leave, Sarah’s fond of you,” she paused, “As am I.” His smile reached his amber eyes and stretched his arms out to her. She stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her head on the shoulder that comforted her daughter. She hadn’t been comforted by a man since her husband and son died. “How do you know that song?”
    “It’s an old English lullaby. My grandfather was a don at Oxford before he came into his title. He studied Classics and Olde English. He sang it to my father in turn my father sang it to me. It was the first tune to come to my mind to comfort Sarah.” William slowly rubbed his hand over her back feeling the strength of the woman in his arms.
    “It was one my husband sand to her. She’s forgotten nearly everything about him.”
    “That’s a shame; I’m certain he had cherished her. She is a darling little moppet.”
    Philippa smiled, “That she is.” She listened to the strong rhythm of his heart beating. Only a week ago his troop had been attacked and captured by the Continentals, leaving him behind believing him to be dead. She and her father struggled hard to save him from his wounds and the fever that followed.
    She felt him tightened his hold on her pressing her against his hard body and his response. She shifted to face him. He looked into her stormy gray eyes the lightning reflected in them. “I came here to talk to your father about the thefts going on in the area and the rumors about a company raised but never mustered in with the Continentals. But seeing you again, this soldier’s heart…” he bent his head over her and kissed her.
    Philippa raised her arms, from his waist over his chest to his neck drawing him in allowing him to deepen the kiss their tongues sliding together as if in a dance. She ran her hands over his wavy brown hair to his queue pulling it loose allowing the hair to flow over his shoulders. She broke the kiss with gentle pressure on his chest. The storm was subsiding outside, and the temperature was beginning to fall, “Let’s go back inside.” She tucked herself under his injured arm and led him through the parlor to his room, closing the door behind her.

    Reply
  28. This is the scene where the title came to me. I wrote it for RideThePen.com, which helps me learn aspects about the writing process. This is a rough draft.
    The storm raged as Philippa stumbled down the steps into the colonade, tears fell from her eyes and her nose ran. The glass appeared to be liquid as the rain flowed down it in sheets, lightning flashing and thunder rolled around her. The storm was nothing to what was tearing her apart. She had to clear her head; she had to find the rational part of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember that simple little tune and words that brought comfort to her daughter? It had been five long years since Thomas died and the lullaby with him. She only remembered the Scottish tunes her mother and father sang to her when she was a wee babe, the ones she sang to Sarah. Her heart broke anew as William tenderly picked up her little girl. He crooned the simple melody she had forgotten as he slow marched up and down the hall, her daughter’s cries subsiding as she lay down upon the soldier’s wide uninjured shoulder and fell asleep her favorite doll, Miss Bessie, layed limply over his well-muscled bicep.
    Not long after she sought refuge, she heard William lightly trod down the steps into the colonade walking toward her his boot heel ringing across the pavers. “Your father took Sarah up to bed. She’s resting peacefully now.” Stepping closer he saw Philippa’s tears, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve with his good hand he touched it to her cheeks carefully dabbing the tears away. “I’ll never hurt a child,” he assured her. “If you think I’m a threat, I’ll leave.”
    “No, don’t leave, Sarah’s fond of you,” she paused, “As am I.” His smile reached his amber eyes and stretched his arms out to her. She stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her head on the shoulder that comforted her daughter. She hadn’t been comforted by a man since her husband and son died. “How do you know that song?”
    “It’s an old English lullaby. My grandfather was a don at Oxford before he came into his title. He studied Classics and Olde English. He sang it to my father in turn my father sang it to me. It was the first tune to come to my mind to comfort Sarah.” William slowly rubbed his hand over her back feeling the strength of the woman in his arms.
    “It was one my husband sand to her. She’s forgotten nearly everything about him.”
    “That’s a shame; I’m certain he had cherished her. She is a darling little moppet.”
    Philippa smiled, “That she is.” She listened to the strong rhythm of his heart beating. Only a week ago his troop had been attacked and captured by the Continentals, leaving him behind believing him to be dead. She and her father struggled hard to save him from his wounds and the fever that followed.
    She felt him tightened his hold on her pressing her against his hard body and his response. She shifted to face him. He looked into her stormy gray eyes the lightning reflected in them. “I came here to talk to your father about the thefts going on in the area and the rumors about a company raised but never mustered in with the Continentals. But seeing you again, this soldier’s heart…” he bent his head over her and kissed her.
    Philippa raised her arms, from his waist over his chest to his neck drawing him in allowing him to deepen the kiss their tongues sliding together as if in a dance. She ran her hands over his wavy brown hair to his queue pulling it loose allowing the hair to flow over his shoulders. She broke the kiss with gentle pressure on his chest. The storm was subsiding outside, and the temperature was beginning to fall, “Let’s go back inside.” She tucked herself under his injured arm and led him through the parlor to his room, closing the door behind her.

    Reply
  29. This is the scene where the title came to me. I wrote it for RideThePen.com, which helps me learn aspects about the writing process. This is a rough draft.
    The storm raged as Philippa stumbled down the steps into the colonade, tears fell from her eyes and her nose ran. The glass appeared to be liquid as the rain flowed down it in sheets, lightning flashing and thunder rolled around her. The storm was nothing to what was tearing her apart. She had to clear her head; she had to find the rational part of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember that simple little tune and words that brought comfort to her daughter? It had been five long years since Thomas died and the lullaby with him. She only remembered the Scottish tunes her mother and father sang to her when she was a wee babe, the ones she sang to Sarah. Her heart broke anew as William tenderly picked up her little girl. He crooned the simple melody she had forgotten as he slow marched up and down the hall, her daughter’s cries subsiding as she lay down upon the soldier’s wide uninjured shoulder and fell asleep her favorite doll, Miss Bessie, layed limply over his well-muscled bicep.
    Not long after she sought refuge, she heard William lightly trod down the steps into the colonade walking toward her his boot heel ringing across the pavers. “Your father took Sarah up to bed. She’s resting peacefully now.” Stepping closer he saw Philippa’s tears, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve with his good hand he touched it to her cheeks carefully dabbing the tears away. “I’ll never hurt a child,” he assured her. “If you think I’m a threat, I’ll leave.”
    “No, don’t leave, Sarah’s fond of you,” she paused, “As am I.” His smile reached his amber eyes and stretched his arms out to her. She stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her head on the shoulder that comforted her daughter. She hadn’t been comforted by a man since her husband and son died. “How do you know that song?”
    “It’s an old English lullaby. My grandfather was a don at Oxford before he came into his title. He studied Classics and Olde English. He sang it to my father in turn my father sang it to me. It was the first tune to come to my mind to comfort Sarah.” William slowly rubbed his hand over her back feeling the strength of the woman in his arms.
    “It was one my husband sand to her. She’s forgotten nearly everything about him.”
    “That’s a shame; I’m certain he had cherished her. She is a darling little moppet.”
    Philippa smiled, “That she is.” She listened to the strong rhythm of his heart beating. Only a week ago his troop had been attacked and captured by the Continentals, leaving him behind believing him to be dead. She and her father struggled hard to save him from his wounds and the fever that followed.
    She felt him tightened his hold on her pressing her against his hard body and his response. She shifted to face him. He looked into her stormy gray eyes the lightning reflected in them. “I came here to talk to your father about the thefts going on in the area and the rumors about a company raised but never mustered in with the Continentals. But seeing you again, this soldier’s heart…” he bent his head over her and kissed her.
    Philippa raised her arms, from his waist over his chest to his neck drawing him in allowing him to deepen the kiss their tongues sliding together as if in a dance. She ran her hands over his wavy brown hair to his queue pulling it loose allowing the hair to flow over his shoulders. She broke the kiss with gentle pressure on his chest. The storm was subsiding outside, and the temperature was beginning to fall, “Let’s go back inside.” She tucked herself under his injured arm and led him through the parlor to his room, closing the door behind her.

    Reply
  30. This is the scene where the title came to me. I wrote it for RideThePen.com, which helps me learn aspects about the writing process. This is a rough draft.
    The storm raged as Philippa stumbled down the steps into the colonade, tears fell from her eyes and her nose ran. The glass appeared to be liquid as the rain flowed down it in sheets, lightning flashing and thunder rolled around her. The storm was nothing to what was tearing her apart. She had to clear her head; she had to find the rational part of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember that simple little tune and words that brought comfort to her daughter? It had been five long years since Thomas died and the lullaby with him. She only remembered the Scottish tunes her mother and father sang to her when she was a wee babe, the ones she sang to Sarah. Her heart broke anew as William tenderly picked up her little girl. He crooned the simple melody she had forgotten as he slow marched up and down the hall, her daughter’s cries subsiding as she lay down upon the soldier’s wide uninjured shoulder and fell asleep her favorite doll, Miss Bessie, layed limply over his well-muscled bicep.
    Not long after she sought refuge, she heard William lightly trod down the steps into the colonade walking toward her his boot heel ringing across the pavers. “Your father took Sarah up to bed. She’s resting peacefully now.” Stepping closer he saw Philippa’s tears, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve with his good hand he touched it to her cheeks carefully dabbing the tears away. “I’ll never hurt a child,” he assured her. “If you think I’m a threat, I’ll leave.”
    “No, don’t leave, Sarah’s fond of you,” she paused, “As am I.” His smile reached his amber eyes and stretched his arms out to her. She stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her head on the shoulder that comforted her daughter. She hadn’t been comforted by a man since her husband and son died. “How do you know that song?”
    “It’s an old English lullaby. My grandfather was a don at Oxford before he came into his title. He studied Classics and Olde English. He sang it to my father in turn my father sang it to me. It was the first tune to come to my mind to comfort Sarah.” William slowly rubbed his hand over her back feeling the strength of the woman in his arms.
    “It was one my husband sand to her. She’s forgotten nearly everything about him.”
    “That’s a shame; I’m certain he had cherished her. She is a darling little moppet.”
    Philippa smiled, “That she is.” She listened to the strong rhythm of his heart beating. Only a week ago his troop had been attacked and captured by the Continentals, leaving him behind believing him to be dead. She and her father struggled hard to save him from his wounds and the fever that followed.
    She felt him tightened his hold on her pressing her against his hard body and his response. She shifted to face him. He looked into her stormy gray eyes the lightning reflected in them. “I came here to talk to your father about the thefts going on in the area and the rumors about a company raised but never mustered in with the Continentals. But seeing you again, this soldier’s heart…” he bent his head over her and kissed her.
    Philippa raised her arms, from his waist over his chest to his neck drawing him in allowing him to deepen the kiss their tongues sliding together as if in a dance. She ran her hands over his wavy brown hair to his queue pulling it loose allowing the hair to flow over his shoulders. She broke the kiss with gentle pressure on his chest. The storm was subsiding outside, and the temperature was beginning to fall, “Let’s go back inside.” She tucked herself under his injured arm and led him through the parlor to his room, closing the door behind her.

    Reply
  31. Vicki, you have great taste in dreams and goals! When I bought this house 27 years ago, my realton, who was a close friend, said that neighborhood would be good for an eccentric old lady, which is what I’d sure become. *G*

    Reply
  32. Vicki, you have great taste in dreams and goals! When I bought this house 27 years ago, my realton, who was a close friend, said that neighborhood would be good for an eccentric old lady, which is what I’d sure become. *G*

    Reply
  33. Vicki, you have great taste in dreams and goals! When I bought this house 27 years ago, my realton, who was a close friend, said that neighborhood would be good for an eccentric old lady, which is what I’d sure become. *G*

    Reply
  34. Vicki, you have great taste in dreams and goals! When I bought this house 27 years ago, my realton, who was a close friend, said that neighborhood would be good for an eccentric old lady, which is what I’d sure become. *G*

    Reply
  35. Vicki, you have great taste in dreams and goals! When I bought this house 27 years ago, my realton, who was a close friend, said that neighborhood would be good for an eccentric old lady, which is what I’d sure become. *G*

    Reply
  36. Great post, Mary Jo! I don’t think I felt like a real writer until the moment I held my first published book in my hand. I needed the reality of touching the pages to realise it was actually happening. As a child, I was always daydreaming, but never thought of trying to write until I needed an occupation I could do from home. Even then, I wasn’t sure I could ever do it and it took me more than ten years to get there.
    First word processor – yes, what a relief compared to bashing away at a typewriter! I definitely remember the first one I learned on, it was called an Exxon Vydec (not sure I spelled that right).

    Reply
  37. Great post, Mary Jo! I don’t think I felt like a real writer until the moment I held my first published book in my hand. I needed the reality of touching the pages to realise it was actually happening. As a child, I was always daydreaming, but never thought of trying to write until I needed an occupation I could do from home. Even then, I wasn’t sure I could ever do it and it took me more than ten years to get there.
    First word processor – yes, what a relief compared to bashing away at a typewriter! I definitely remember the first one I learned on, it was called an Exxon Vydec (not sure I spelled that right).

    Reply
  38. Great post, Mary Jo! I don’t think I felt like a real writer until the moment I held my first published book in my hand. I needed the reality of touching the pages to realise it was actually happening. As a child, I was always daydreaming, but never thought of trying to write until I needed an occupation I could do from home. Even then, I wasn’t sure I could ever do it and it took me more than ten years to get there.
    First word processor – yes, what a relief compared to bashing away at a typewriter! I definitely remember the first one I learned on, it was called an Exxon Vydec (not sure I spelled that right).

    Reply
  39. Great post, Mary Jo! I don’t think I felt like a real writer until the moment I held my first published book in my hand. I needed the reality of touching the pages to realise it was actually happening. As a child, I was always daydreaming, but never thought of trying to write until I needed an occupation I could do from home. Even then, I wasn’t sure I could ever do it and it took me more than ten years to get there.
    First word processor – yes, what a relief compared to bashing away at a typewriter! I definitely remember the first one I learned on, it was called an Exxon Vydec (not sure I spelled that right).

    Reply
  40. Great post, Mary Jo! I don’t think I felt like a real writer until the moment I held my first published book in my hand. I needed the reality of touching the pages to realise it was actually happening. As a child, I was always daydreaming, but never thought of trying to write until I needed an occupation I could do from home. Even then, I wasn’t sure I could ever do it and it took me more than ten years to get there.
    First word processor – yes, what a relief compared to bashing away at a typewriter! I definitely remember the first one I learned on, it was called an Exxon Vydec (not sure I spelled that right).

    Reply
  41. Thank you so much. I’m drawn to the older H/H trope. I hope I can pull it all together into something marketable…someday.

    Reply
  42. Thank you so much. I’m drawn to the older H/H trope. I hope I can pull it all together into something marketable…someday.

    Reply
  43. Thank you so much. I’m drawn to the older H/H trope. I hope I can pull it all together into something marketable…someday.

    Reply
  44. Thank you so much. I’m drawn to the older H/H trope. I hope I can pull it all together into something marketable…someday.

    Reply
  45. Thank you so much. I’m drawn to the older H/H trope. I hope I can pull it all together into something marketable…someday.

    Reply

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