Category Archives: Fun Bits

A Duke-a-licious Sample

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On April 16 (next Tuesday, woo hoo!) DUKES BY THE DOZEN will be live! And to whet your appetite, I’ve got a little sneak peek from of one of the novellas in the anthology. I’ve been sharing on them on my Facebook Page, and playing along in our Dukes By The Dozen Facebook group as well. If you haven’t, be sure to join us for information on giveaways coming up in the next few days!

In the meantime, read below for an excerpt from DEAR DUKE, by Anna Harrington!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2GdQPHB

Barnes & Noble: https://bit.ly/2RUkaPQ

Kobo: https://bit.ly/2Gp6SVs

iBooks: https://apple.co/2TSGiLi

Dear Duke

Anna Harrington

October

John, Duke of Monmouth, has no idea that the anonymous pen pal who has stolen his heart is the same woman standing between him and his new canal…

 

Good God, he was nervous! Surrounded by a sea of masked guests inside Bishopswood’s ballroom, John tugged once more at the sleeves of his black kerseymere jacket.

He nearly laughed at himself. When had he ever been nervous about a woman before in his life? In his younger days, he’d bedded more women than he could remember, sharing in all kinds of pleasures with down-to-earth women from the markets, inns, and villages. In more recent years, he’d been too busy with his business to spend much time in pursuit of the women of the gentility that his new money brought him into contact with. Since he’d inherited, though, it was society ladies who vied to capture his attention, those women who were more than eager to raise their skirts for a wealthy duke. He rejected those ladies outright, knowing he’d find no pleasure in them, because they wanted to be with the title and not with the man.

But the woman who pinned those notes to the tree knew nothing about his title or his status as one of England’s most powerful men. He suspected that she wouldn’t care even if she did. At least he hoped she wouldn’t, preferring the true man he was. God knew how much he liked her.

If she were half as beautiful in person as she was in her letters, he feared that she might also capture his heart.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, more so he could continue to take glances toward the top of the stairs over the rim than for the drink itself. His eyes hadn’t strayed far from the landing all night, although how he would know her when she arrived, costumed and hidden behind her mask, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would. And that she would come at all. When he’d returned to the tree to seek her response, the invitation was gone, but she’d left no reply. Nor did she write even once during the past week.

Since then, he’d kicked himself repeatedly that he’d pressed her to meet, fearing he’d gone too far. Would he ever hear from her again?

Quashing his worry, he watched as the parade of new arrivals appeared on the landing and handed their invitations to the Master of Ceremonies, who announced them based upon their costume. Tonight was a true masquerade, with all identities hidden until the midnight unmasking. He’d insisted on it. For a few precious hours he wanted to be nothing more than one of the crowd, so that he could enjoy the party himself before they set upon him like locusts in their rush to curry his favor. Most of all, he wanted time to enjoy the company of the woman who had written all those letters.

He had no idea what his secret authoress would look like or what costume she’d wear. If she’d appear at all. But he knew he’d feel her presence when she arrived, the way old sailors felt oncoming storms.

White flashed at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to the landing—

Her.

A low tingle rose inside him as he watched her give her invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. His breath hitched with nervous anticipation despite a soft chuckle to himself as her name was announced. Lady Swan. A graceful, gliding vision in white silk and feathers, one in perfect opposition to the black clothes of his panther, of her softness and elegance to his hardness.

Meeting her gaze across the room, he held out his hand toward her in invitation, as if she were only a few feet from him rather than across the grand ballroom. The party faded away around them until it was only the two of them. No one else in the room mattered.

She drew in a nervous breath, her slender shoulders stiff. Then a smile spread beneath her white satin half-mask, and she moved on, gliding down the remaining stairs and into the crowd which parted around her as she came to him.

Wordlessly, she slipped her trembling hand into his. He raised it to his lips, unable to resist this small kiss, then led her forward to the dance floor, to take her into his arms and twirl her into the waltz.

The Truths I Have Yet To Learn

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I recently turned forty. It’s made me suddenly aware of time and age and maturity (or immaturity).

I certainly don’t mean that I am mature. Heaven forbid.

But I am suddenly aware of the passage of time in a way I was not before, even more so as I just attended a retirement party for friends I could not believe were old enough to retire. That places me just that much closer to retirement as well—a revelation I was unprepared for. Time runs away from you, I suppose.

In my twenties I barely noticed time. I married, played, worked, traveled, played more. Every day was like the next—a cacophony of fun and work and pleasure.

My thirties were concerned with diapers and bottles, daycare and elementary schools, homework and the inevitable chauffeuring to sports events. And writing. I was on maternity leave when I turned thirty, and decided it was time to be a writer or let the dream die. In the words of my wonderful mother, “Shit or get off the pot.”

Now I am forty. “The days are long,” they say. “The years are short.” I look back and wonder what happened to both.

Here I am, wondering what I’ve learned between the ages of twenty and forty. Part of me says nothing.

My awful temper still runs away from me, wreaking verbal havoc. I still have infinite patience for those in need, but none for those who are blinded by hatred or too stupid to look beyond the end of their nose. I have some of the same insecurities—though I have thankfully graduated from others. I still like to have the last word in an argument, which I am trying hard to overcome.

And, dammit, I’m still scared of the dark. Too much imagination for me to get over that one!

What have I learned, then?

Enjoy every single day. Because you don’t know if you have 20,000 days gifted to you, or 30,000 days. And that’s a 27 year difference.

Family is the base of your life, but friends will fulfill you.

Children bring joy and sorrow in equal measure.

Dreams can, and do, come true—if you apply a lot of elbow grease.

You are never as smart (or beautiful or wonderful or talented) as you think you are.

If you blink, a decade will pass.

Listen to your spouse so that when they are gone, you have their voice in your head.

Take joy in the sunny days, as they are few in the winter.

Just because you don’t love your job every day, doesn’t mean it’s a bad job.

Your children will leave you before you are ready.

A spouse is not a crutch or a person to lose yourself in. A spouse is a partner.

Sometimes, life just plain old sucks, so make lemonade out of those lemons.

Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming and annoying.

It’s a lot easier to lose weight at twenty than it is at forty.

Wrinkles just happen. I don’t know how, but one day, you just wake up with them.

Loved ones leave you before you are ready, so appreciate them while they are here.

There is more of course. More life lessons that I can’t even put into words. And I wonder, how much more will I know at sixty? Or eighty? What other truths will I discover going forward?

I also wonder what lessons others have learned. No two lives are the same, and we can never fully understand what other people have lived through, as we cannot be in their shoes.

So I ask you, what have you learned in your life?

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Photo: newleaf01 [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)]

Finding My Tribe

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Tribe (n): a social division in a traditional society consisting of families or communities linked by social, economic, religious, or blood ties, with a common culture and dialect, typically having a recognized leader.

 

I remember the first time I went to a writers meeting. It was in the fall, circa 2007, at a sweet little restaurant about an hour from my house.

I was terrified. Sick-to-my-stomach, close-to-hyperventilating, certain-I-was-going-to-make-an-ass-of-myself, TERRIFIED. These women were writers. Real, honest-to-goodness writers. I was just a wannabe, with one not-so-good book under my belt. I wasn’t published, had yet to have even query an agent, and knew nothing about the industry. Or even how to properly format a manuscript. Certainly, I had no business being there.

But I screwed up my courage and went to a monthly MMRWA meeting, because I desperately wanted to be a writer.

They welcomed me with open arms. And when I say open, I mean it. Pretty sure I got a hug that day.

Discovering other people heard voices in their heads—which meant I wasn’t alone in my particular brand of crazy—was a gift and a miracle.

I found my tribe.

Now, over a decade later, that tribe meets once a year for a special Retreat From Harsh Reality. I’ve attended every year but one (when I was in Paris for a romance festival—they forgave me, lol). From 2008 when I was six months pregnant, to 2009 when my baby wasn’t even a year old and I had to cart around a breast pump all weekend, to 2014 when my first book came out and I received a plaque from the group in celebration, to 2015 when I received an Angel Award for service to the chapter, to this very weekend. April 2018.

The Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America chapter is my home away from home. My tribe. A small “social division” of romance writers in Michigan, who are part of a larger “traditional society consisting of [a] communit[y]” of worldwide romance writers.

We come from all walks of life and are at all stages of our careers. Some of us are pre-pubbed, some are querying. Some have self-pubbed their tenth book, some have sold their first. We write contemporary, historical, suspense, cozy mystery, sci-fi romance, and everything else you can think of.

Everyone is welcome. Everyone is appreciated.

And there are a ton of laughs.

At the Toot Your Own Horn ceremony, where everyone gets a chance to celebrate an accomplishment from the past year.

This year, our speaker was the incomparable Jennifer Probst. She’s funny, brilliantly intelligent, a wonderful writer, and slipped right into our tribe as if she belonged there. I picked up her craft book, WRITE NAKED, and then a romance novel, SEARCHING FOR DISASTER, because I simply couldn’t resist.

 

Jennifer, speaking on craft.

 

 

My roommate was a long time friend and critique partner, my fav-fav-fav Tracy Brogan, who I have known since those way back pre-pub years. We brainstormed current books, laughed over (fixed) plot holes in HIGHLAND SURRENDER and (fixed) character problems in A DANCE WITH SEDUCTION, snickered into wine glasses, and ate Doritos. (She politely shared the nacho cheese flavor. I hoarded and ate an entire bag of cool ranch flavor…Is that even a real flavor?!)

Our weekend snack table, courtesy of Tracy, because I was busy eating.

 

Meika Usher, my almost-weekly coffee shop compadre, received a first book plaque for SOMETHING SO SWEET, and we celebrated the May 2 release of her second book. I knew a few weeks in advance she would be receiving it, and it was the hardest thing to keep secret.

Courtesy Meika, cuz I forgot.

The Angel Award nominee was Diana Stout, who is professor, friend, don’t-forget-to-write heckler, cookbook author, chapter website guru, and all around deserved of the award.

Words abounded in the write-ins. Craft was discussed in depth during Jennifer’s presentation on WRITE NAKED. Raffles were won and lost and won again. Ideas were exchanged during the industry talk.

And many, many laughs happened around bowls of chocolate, glasses of wine, mugs of coffee, and pads of paper.

Sometimes life gifts you with a place you can belong without working at it. A place that sees you, in all your crazy glory. A place that pulls you up when you’re falling down, lifts you higher when you’re already on cloud nine, and most importantly, speaks your language.

MMRWA is my tribe.

 

 

Apologies, Dearest

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My Dearest Blog:

I must apologize. I have neglected you.

I could offer reasons, such as I spent a few days in the hospital in January, and another ten days quite ill. I spent Christmas in the Keys. There is also the book I am writing, and the family I’ve been loving, and the workshop I taught, and the taxes I’ve been working on, and the new chemo I started. (PS Dear Readers, this goes back to the Franken-Foot issue, which I wrote about here.)

However, all of those are really just excuses for my poor attention to your lovely blogness. I promise, I shall do better in the coming days.

Please forgive this writer!

Your Favorite Blogger,

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