The Slothful Blogger

For the past few months I have been a slothful blogger, neglecting to post even a sentence or two as the rest of my life has been so crazy and complicated that I literally haven't found a minute to spare---until tonight that is.

The house is quiet right now. Four are asleep, one is at work, one is at her first Homecoming Dance. While I wait up for her (and try to banish BYU's depressing score from my mind), I thought I'd do as Rob Wells suggested and blog twitter style. No doubt writing something so short will be a challenge for me, but as it seems to be the wave of the future as well as my only possibility for blogging at all, here goes . . .

Summer is officially over, and I'm not quite sure where it went. But I'll never forget one week that was spent at Lake Powell with my family. Best moment of the trip? When my nine-year-old said, "you were awesome Mom!" as I hauled myself back into the boat after skiing. After all, how often do we hear that from our children???

After Lake Powell I headed to California and had the privilege of witnessing love at its very best as I watched my grandmother's devotion to my grandfather, who is suffering through the last stages of Alzheimer's. This deserves much more than a twitter post, and I hope to write more later about the tender feelings I both saw and felt on this trip.

Love was also at its best in August when my husband worked incredibly hard to get our family moved. It was grueling, exhausting---a literal nightmare as we moved out of our home of 13 years and into a small rental house. Worst moment of the experience: When I returned alone to our empty home to clean. Thirteen years of memories---bringing babies home from the hosptial, first day of school pictures by the front door, family dinners, holidays, and all of the other precious moments of everyday living---assaulted me. I sat on the floor and bawled for a good, long time.

School started---too soon as usual. But this year not everyone went back. For the first time in a long time, I am not alone. Baby Andrew keeps me on my toes and by himself could easily entertain me all day. His older brother, graduated now and working nights, is also home during the day. And our fourth grader is here as well. After months of prayer and researching and more prayer and more researching, we made the difficult decision to remove her from her charter school and teach her at home. It is wonderful. It is hard. It is all consuming. It is what she really needs. I am throwing my whole heart and soul into this, and we are still praying---that it works.

Our rental house is a blessing. It is three blocks from our old home. Our children still ride the same buses. They go to the same schools and dance studio. Their friends can still come over---except that there is no room for them. Our rental house is a nightmare. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, no dishwasher, no air conditioning, and lots of mosquitos. Enough said.

Every morning, bright and early, we hear---through the same open windows that are letting both cooler air and mosquitos in---the sounds of construction. Backhoes, concrete trucks, hammers. It is the most wonderful sound to wake up to. We hear it all day long, and in the evening we go over to see what has progress has been made during the day. We take pictures. We walk through the rooms and dream about the day we will get to move into our new home. What a blessing it is, especially during these difficult economic times, to be able to build our dream home.

No one will have to share a room in our new home, and the timing couldn't be better. Andrew is now a twenty-pound force to be reckoned with. He moves---fast! He eats---everything! And he is one of the most curious babies I've ever had. Oh, for the day I can put up a gate and he can play safetly in his own room. Except that by then he may have learned how to climb over the gate. He is Mr. Mischief, and he is a ton of fun. We all don't know how we ever lived without him.

Thirteen is a difficult year. It's worse when your parents make you move to a little old house, when your room in this house is a cubicle made from office dividers, when you don't make the dance team you wanted to, and when the girl who bothered you at your old school transfers to your new one. As our oldest daughter approaches seventeen and leaves some of her teen angst behind, I've been dismayed these past few months to see our middle daughter moving into it. What's a mom to do except provide lots of chocolate and hugs.

Eighteen is a difficult time. Especially if you're a boy whose parents reallywant you to serve a mission. Especially if you have a girlfriend who is a great person. Especially if you are working full time and didn't head off to college in September. Life is full of huge decisions and responsibilities. Everything has changed and keeps changing. Friends are getting married. Friends are entering the military. A year ago our son was a kid. Now it seems he's expected to be an adult. What's a mom to do to help him through this strange and hard time of life? Our favorite four letter word. PRAY. A lot.

My daughter is home now. Her date came to the door and thanked me for the opportunity to take her out. Major bonus points for that boy :D Carissa looked beautiful tonight. She has always been beautiful, but this past summer between her sophomore and Junior years, she's really started to blossom---losing thirty pounds, getting her braces off, discovering things she likes and is good at. She's a different girl than she was a year ago. She's happy, self-confident. Delightful. I am happy for her and with her.

Being a wife and mother often takes every minute of my day and every ounce of energy and emotion I possess. Though I may be slothful with blogging, my days are a blur of activity from their very early start to their quite late finish. It seems there is no time for blogging, promoting my books, or lately, even writing. I am behind on my email, my checkbook, and my laundry. Yet my life is overflowing with blessings. I am never bored. Each day is full of challenges. And, as a wise character in my current work in progress explained . . .

"It's all about joy."

Heading to bed now, so I can cope with the joys tomorrow is sure to bring.

Halleluah!

Last night our baby slept from 8 pm to 3 am---SEVEN HOURS!
Finally.
Unfortunately I didn't sleep much, as I was worrying about Andrew's older brother, working his first night shift at the Sam's Club in South Jordan. Thankfully, he arrived home safely this morning and said it was cake to stay up all night (guess if I was 18 again, I might think so too).
The seven hour milestone---as opposed to the up-every-two-hours program we've done for the past six months---gives me hope that sleep may soon be in my future again.

Happy, happy. Joy, joy!

If you're bored tomorrow . . .

If you need a break from the kids, the heat, the rain---or all three---consider heading out to Seagull Book this weekend or next.

Tomorrow I'll be at the Spanish Fork Seagull from noon until two. Next Saturday, June 27th, I'll be at the Provo East Bay Seagull from 12-2 as well. So if you're in the area, stop by to visit and for another chance to win my new book.

Here's hoping for a whole day of sunshine.

A contest winner, thank you's, a book review, and the prologue---oh my.

As usual, I am behind on life. This time I'll blame it on my son's first ear infection :( and bronchitis. He needs to be held a lot right now, which means everything else must wait---and rightly so. As all mothers know, the stage where our children want to be held goes all too fast.

But while he is taken in a rare moment of sleep (may literally be a moment, we'll see) I thought I'd announce the winner of the book. My daughter pulled this name from the bowl this morning, and the winner is . . . Moddy! Many thanks to all who commented on my blog. I'll try to get creative and do more contests in the future. Moddy, please email me your address, and I'll send your book this week.

A couple of additional thank you's are in order as well. Once again, the amazing Tom and April Dalton team have provided their talents for this blogsite. On short notice they added the cover for All the Stars in Heaven and gave poor, computer-challenged Michele the help she needed. I so appreciate you guys. The cookies (and a book) are in the mail and should reach you by the end of the week. Remember---pace yourself on the Grannie B's. Too much pink frosting can make you sick!

Thank you also to Jennie Hansen who reviewed All the Stars in Heaven for Meridian Magazine. A good review from Jennie is like gold, so I'm feeling very rich right now.

And finally, for those who haven't read an earlier version of this prologue (as with the title, some things were changed during the editing process), you can enjoy it here. This comes before the first preview chapter in the back of Counting Stars. If you're on my email list, I'll be sending out the second chapter of the book later this week.

Enjoy!

Prologue

December 1986
“Hurry up, Sarah.” Grant Morgan lifted the collar of his overcoat as wind whipped through the cemetery, causing the twenty-eight degree temperature to feel even colder. Frowning, he looked down at the little girl—with thin sweater, short dress, and bare legs—standing three feet in front of him. The child wasn’t shivering, wasn’t moving at all, despite his attempts to get her going and this over with.
He looked around uneasily, wondering if the feeling that he was being watched was ever going to leave. He tried to shrug the worry away but, like the cold, it seemed to have seeped through his coat, through the pores of his skin, into his soul.
Another gust of near-arctic air swirled past them, stirring up the late-fallen leaves at their feet. The wind ruffled the back of the child’s dress, and Grant detected the slightest movement from her—an involuntary shiver as the cold danced around her legs.
So, she is human, he observed, feeling both relief and regret. He’d hated that in the few hours they’d been together he’d seen nothing of himself in her and no possibility of any connection between them, but he realized a child who displayed such little emotion would be that much easier to deal with.
A corner of the astro turf lifted, revealing the cavernous hole in the ground beneath the casket. Grant watched as Sarah leaned forward, then looked back at him, her blue eyes wide with fear and . . . questions.
“I said, hurry up.” He gave her a none-too-gentle push that sent her stumbling forward, her scuffed Mary-Janes barely stopping at the edge of the grave. Knees shaking, she continued to clutch the single flower in her hands as she caught her balance. Her small fists stacked over the slender stem, between two protruding thorns of the blood-red rose. She straightened and stood with natural grace and then remarkable stillness for a child of only five years.
“Please get her out.” Sarah’s voice, though tiny, was calm and surprisingly full of authority for someone so small. “Roses are her favorite.”
“I know,” Grant snapped.
“She’ll wake up when she smells this one.”
Grant felt a minuscule stirring of pity. A very dangerous feeling—for both of them. Stepping forward, he plucked the rose from Sarah’s hands.
“Ouch,” she gasped.
“No flower is going to wake her up,” Grant said as he tossed the rose on top of the casket. “Let’s go.” He looked down at Sarah and saw the shock on her face. She held her hands open, drops of blood welling on each, where the thorns had pricked her skin. A matching pair of tears gathered in her eyes.
He turned away and walked toward the car, feeling those hurt and betrayed eyes on him the whole time. Other eyes might be watching too, he reminded himself as he retrieved his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and climbed inside. A quick glance out the window told him Sarah still hadn’t moved.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and rolled down the passenger window to call to her. She didn’t come after him, and he watched with growing concern as Sarah turned away from the car and threw herself across the casket, tiny fingers trying to pry it open.
“Mommy! Mommy! Wake up, Mommy.”
“Sarah,” he barked. “Stop this nonsense and get in the car.”
Tears tumbled down her face as she looked at him, the imploring in her eyes reaching out across the twenty feet between them to sear his heart. The pity swelled. He fought it, taking his foot off the brake to let the car idle forward.
Sarah turned back to the casket. More anguished cries came from her throat. Grant pressed his lips into a thin line as the car nudged nearer the cemetery gates. The door to the caretaker’s shed was ajar, and Grant wondered if the man—or someone else—was inside watching him.
I can’t just leave her.
His glance strayed to the rearview mirror as he turned the dial on the stereo, pretending to be searching for a station, pretending that he didn’t care about his daughter.
The car rolled half-way through the open gate. Grant’s foot edged toward the brake. He was going to have to go back and get her. He’d be swift, stern. He’d spank her and show anger. But anyone watching would still know he cared enough not to leave her behind. Anyone watching would realize they’d found his new weak link. His hand went to the gear shift as Sarah began running toward the car. Relief washed over him.
Pasting an irritated, impatient look on his face, he put the window up and waited for her.
A second later he cringed as she slipped on the gravel and fell face first onto the road. His hand automatically gripped the door handle, but—remembering the open door of the caretaker’s shed—an inner restraint stopped him before he could get out and go after her. Returning his fist to his lap, he clenched his teeth and silently counted the seconds it took Sarah to get off the ground and begin walking again.
When his nerves had just about worn thin, she reached the car then spent several seconds fumbling with the handle before her little hands found enough strength to pull the heavy door open. Again, Grant resisted the urge to lean across the seat and help. But when she climbed inside and he took in her bedraggled appearance, he wavered, reaching into his suit pocket for a hanky so she could wipe away some of the bloodied gravel embedded in her knees. He tossed the white cloth at her.
“Clean yourself up,” he ordered in his sternest voice.
Without looking at him, she snatched the hanky and swiped it across her face. Tugging at her thin, too-short dress, she managed to cover one of her knees. Then she realized blood was also dripping from her chin, and she pressed the handkerchief to the wound. Staying well on her side of the seat, she turned away from him and looked out the window.
The car started forward, and from the corner of his eye Grant studied Sarah’s reflection in the glass. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, though she didn’t make so much as a whimper. Her hair was in need of a good brushing, and it hung long and wispy half-way down her back. He thought perhaps tomorrow he would take her to get it cut short; it would certainly be easier to care for. But then he thought of Rachel and reconsidered. Sarah’s golden hair, when washed and brushed, would no doubt be as beautiful as her mother’s had been. It was comforting to know there was something in her to remind him of Rachel.
Sarah shifted on the seat, tugged her dress down again, then removed the handkerchief from her chin and placed it carefully across a four-inch tear down the front of her dress. She wiped a dirty hand across her cheeks, drying the last of her tears, and turned to her father with a positively mutinous expression.
Grant nearly smiled. “Yes?”
“I’m hungry, and I want my kitty.”
“I’ll feed you shortly, but there will be no kittens at my house.”
“Kitty—isn’t real.” Her eyes were hopeful.
“Hmm.”
“I can’t sleep without her.”
“Too bad.” Grant stopped at a light and caught the driver in the car beside them looking at him.
Unnerved once more, Grant eased the car into the intersection when the light turned green. The car in the other lane moved ahead and turned three streets later. Grant headed toward the Boston University Bridge, thick now with rush hour traffic leaving the city.
“Kitty is at Mommy’s house,” Sarah said.
Grant heard the desperation in her voice. “We can’t ever go back there,” he said with a note of finality.
“Why not?” Sarah demanded. “That’s where I live.”
“Not anymore it isn’t.”
“I don’t want to live with you,” she said.
“Yeah? Well I don’t particularly want to live with you either,” Grant lied. He’d wanted nothing more for the past two years than to have his wife and daughter back in his life. Every time he and Rachel had tried to patch things up their differences became more apparent, but he’d never stopped loving her.
And now she was dead.
“Then take me home.” Sarah’s voice was quieter.
He glanced across the seat and saw her blue eyes filling with tears again. He suddenly felt helpless. “Listen, Sarah. We can’t go back there because the police won’t let us. They have to look at everything in the house and see if they can find out why Mommy died. How about you tell me what your kitten looked like, and we’ll see if we can find you another one.”
“No.” Sarah shook her head and turned away from him. Her shoulders lifted up and down in a dramatic sigh.
Grant thought he saw her lip quiver again, but she remained silent. His daughter had his wife’s coloring and features, but she wasn’t schooled in how to use them to her advantage. And she never will be, he vowed. Sarah need never know how beautiful she was—and would certainly be when she grew older. She would never learn what could happen to a man when she tossed that halo of hair over her shoulder and looked up at him with those baby blues filled with tears.
He would keep her away from men. He’d raise her to be strong and sensible.
What am I thinking? The safest, most practical thing would be to ship her off to a secure boarding school—as far away from him as possible. As he drove, he mulled this over—the pros heavily outweighing the cons—and made up his mind to do just that. For the remainder of the drive he ignored her, thinking instead about his recent job change to the small police department in Summerfield. It was his chance to start over. To keep things honest, simple.
Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were closed, and she was curled up in a ball on the seat. Grant got out of the car, made a point of slamming his door, and walked to the box at the curb to retrieve his mail. He shuffled through the envelopes as he came back up the drive, then rapped his knuckles against the car window. Sarah didn’t stir.
So much for not being able to sleep without Kitty.
He stuck the mail in his coat pocket, opened the door, and carefully lifted Sarah in his arms. She stirred for a second, turning her face into his chest.
He froze, a sudden deja vu overtaking his senses. She weighed next to nothing and still had that same little girl smell he remembered. It seemed just yesterday he’d cradled her like this when she was a baby.
Walking toward the house, his lips were set in a stern line. He opened the front door, kicked it shut behind him, and carried her to the couch. He placed a pillow beneath her head and covered her with a blanket, tucking her slender arms inside.
Stepping back, he watched as her tiny chest rose in a shuddering breath. Her lips puckered for a brief moment, and Grant wondered if she was having a bad dream. Something much more than pity stirred deep inside, causing his throat to constrict. Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“It’ll be all right, Sarah,” he whispered, praying it would because he suddenly knew he couldn’t send her away—just as he knew he already loved his little girl even more than he had once loved her mother.

Young At Heart

Saturday afternoon I received this letter in the mail. As it is only the second fan mail I've ever received via the postal service
(reader emails are equally thrilling, I assure you), it was a very big deal. It arrived at the end of a couple of hectic, stressful days---days I had literally no time to write anything at all, days I wondered why I put the stress of one more thing (my looming deadline) on my already full life plate. Bonnie Jones' letter was the uplift I needed, all the reward a writer can ever hope for, and I thank her for taking the time to send it to me.

More on Ms. Jones in a minute, but first a few random thoughts that I hope to tie together by the end of this post.

First . . . One of my very favorite pictures of my maternal grandmother was taken shortly after her marriage. In this tiny, black and white photo, I can tell she is wearing something black and very sheer. She's leaning against the wall in a striking, seductive pose. No doubt my grandfather took this photo, and no doubt---when I someday see her again on the other side of the veil---my grandmother will give me a good talking to about describing this picture to you readers :D But I love this picture. In it I see a young, healthy, vibrant woman. She is happy, confident, romantic . . . sexy. This is my grandmother long before I knew her. Before the hardships of life---divorce, poverty, cancer---had grayed her hair, wrinkled her face, and stolen her breast.

Though taken years before I was born, it is also a picture of the grandmother I did know. The one who sent me boxes of Christian romance novels. The one who stroked my hair and let me cry my heart out the weekend of my senior prom, just days after the love of my life (now my husband) left for his two year mission. This is the grandmother who could ill afford the phone bills she ran up, listening to me drone on and on about castles and knights and damsels in distress as I told her, week after week, about the romance novels I was writing and would someday publish. This grandmother, though physically weakened by age, still held onto---in at least a corner of her heart---the young woman she was in that picture.

Taking after my grandmother, and being a true romantic, I loved the movie, Titanic. One of my favorite scenes is toward the beginning of the film, when the older Rose sees a mirror that once belonged to her. She picks it up and looks in it, remarking that the image staring back at her is somewhat different than she recalls. When she says this, it is almost as if she's startled to find she has changed so much. It's as if inside she is still the young girl who boarded the Titanic for its maiden voyage so many years before. Much like my grandmother, she may have aged physically, but her feelings and emotions are still that of a young woman. Her heart loves just as deeply.

Last week Annette Lyon wrote a great post about being "Kicked out of the Young Club." After reading it, I took a second to reflect on my own age---a whopping 40 years old now---and how I felt about that. I have to admit 40 was a difficult birthday, but only because I was nine months pregnant and totally miserable! I fully expect 41-49 and beyond to be much, much better. Now that I am healthy and wearing jeans with zippers again, I am not at all bothered by my age. I know the numbers say I've hit the middle-aged mark, but in my heart I only feel about twenty-five---and on some days it's more like seventeen. When my sixteen-year-old daughter and I shop for prom dresses, I still get very excited at the prospect of finding the perfect lovely, floor-length, take-your-breath away dress, though now it's for my daughter instead of me. I still love dancing and get that delirious, so-in-love feeling on those rare occasions my husband holds me in his arms and leads me around a dance floor. I'll never feel like I can kiss my husband, or have him kiss me, enough. There's nothing quite so wonderful as curling up with a good love story on a rainy day, as I did last week. Last night I smiled as I heard "The Happiest Millionaire" playing downstairs as my daughters and their cousins munched popcorn and giggled while watching that fun, classic, Disney romance. Why was I upstairs washing dishes? Instead I wanted to join them before I missed the really good part. In short, I don't feel forty. Nor, I am guessing, does Bonnie Jones feel like she's in her seventies.

As I mentioned in a previous post, one of my very favorite lines was nearly cut from All the Stars in Heaven. I literally begged to keep it, citing it as one of the most romantic lines of the entire story. My editor and I went back and forth on this a few times. There were some concerns with this section of the story, as one of the readers for Covenant had remarked (in her review of my manuscript) that my writing could, "turn an eighty-year-old woman on." At the time this really made me laugh (though the editors at Covenant did not find this particularly funny). I assured them this was not at all my intent. There is only one person on the planet I am interested in turning on, and that most definitely does not happen through anything I write! However, I am interested as an author, in reaching my readers, in touching them some way, evoking emotion that whisks them away for a short while, then returns them to their lives relaxed, uplifted---and hopefully better for having experienced a little romance.

To me this seems an incredibly tall order, a daunting task---one I surely cannot do on my own. Fortunately, I don't have to. Bonnie Jones, my grandmother, and numerous other readers already have that spark of romance in them. Perhaps something I write reminds them, but it's what is inside that allows that to happen. It's because through all their seasons of life, and no matter what stage they are in, they've remained young at heart. I thank them for that and hope, with all my heart, that I stay the same too.

Line upon Line

Since the birth of our son about five months ago (five months already!! Why does time have to go so fast?), I've had very little time to write. It isn't just that having a baby again---after so long--- has thrown me for a loop. Though yes, it certainly has. Rather, it's the combination of all my children and their various ages and needs, which it seems I can never quite meet. The result has been that my new writing pattern is to start at about 9:30 in the evening and write until 11:00. It isn't much time each day, but I can't seem to get started earlier and I can't seem to stay up later, as I'm still getting up with our baby a time or two in the middle of the night.

During these short sessions the most I'm able to get on paper is about 5 pages worth of story. If you do the math, at this rate it'll take me about 100 days to complete my usual 500 page length manuscript. Factor in editing with my critique group, and I'll be working at least a month beyond that. But that's not too bad, so long as those five pages I draft each night keep taking the story where it needs to go. And, for the most part, they do. I have to admit that it's still always a little bit thrilling to open up that document the next night and reread the pages I wrote the previous night---and find that they make sense! They entertain me. The characters are talking to each other like real people; the story is speaking to me. What a blessing this continues to be in my life. There are plenty of talents I lack, but my imagination is still alive and functioning. And for that I am grateful.

During the crafting of each story I write, there are always a few sentences I come to love. Maybe it's that they made me laugh as I wrote them, or they tugged at my heartstrings the way I hope they tug at readers. Or maybe it's that I had to beg my editor to keep them---as is the case with one of my very favorite sentences in All the Stars in Heaven. Why, some may wonder, would I beg to keep a sentence? After all, it's just one line out of the thousands in each book. Because each is important, as they are the details that make the story and characters ring true and form the tempo of my writer's voice. That voice is a little different in All the Stars in Heaven than it was in Counting Stars but I hope readers enjoy it as well. Here's a sampling of some of my favorite lines from the story.

Her father had said they were always watching, and she wasn't taking any chances.

"Hey, whatcha doing? That's my moose."

"I'm a beached boy. You know, like the band, except old and all washed up."

"You're just that kind of guy--the kind that does things like clean out the fridge, help friends with their homework, and babysit."

This was new and dangerous and . . . she could hardly bear to think of giving it up.

I do what I have to to keep her alive, and you'd better remember it keeps you alive too."

"Get your shirt on Jay, This is a G-rated house."

"I'm going to have nightmares down here. The Jolly Green Giant attacking on one side, and Charlie the Tuna on the other."

Let-me-run-my-fingers-through-those-curls-and-taste-that-flavor-on-your-lips---yeah, that's it.

There had been times of discouragement certainly, but a glimpse of the night sky sprinkled with stars or of the full moon was all it took to remind her to stay on course. After all, if man could walk on the moon, so far away, she could someday walk away from the life she hated.

Surprise! All the Stars in Heaven . . . is here.

A few days ago my middle daughter hollered up the stairs to me that we had a package on our porch. Assuming it was church related (we get everything from bulk tithing slips to sacrament cups delivered to our home), I told her to put it on her dad's side of our bedroom (which, I've decided, will never be neat until he is released from being a bishop).

"But it's really heavy," she said. "It's books or something."

I thought it an odd time of year for lesson manuals to be arriving, but I went to help her out. And . . . books indeed! It was a box of my books---the ones I wasn't expecting for another 3-4 weeks.

How wonderful. How exciting. How quickly panic set in! How was it possible they were arriving in stores already when I hadn't even blogged about the release yet, hadn't put the cover on my webpage, hadn't sent out teaser chapters to my mailing list? Suddenly I was several days late--which would likely result in being many dollars short when my royalty check arrives. After all, no one is going to purchase a book when they don't even know it's in stores.

So, for all those I've given the June 28th release date to---I take it back. There have been confirmed sightings of All the Stars in Heaven on actual bookshelves in real stores. The need to wait is over. It's finally time to find out what happened to Jay.

If, by chance, you are confused, let me clarify a couple of things. First, All the Stars in Heaven was previously titled Beneath a Canopy of Stars. It is a sequel---of sorts---to Counting Stars, and the first chapter can be found in the back of that book.

Though it is about one of the characters from Counting Stars, I hope readers are prepared for a completely different kind of story. It takes place on the opposite coast, and while Counting Stars made many readers cry, All the Stars in Heaven may have you biting your nails instead. It's what I call a suspenseful romance---not to be confused with romantic suspense, as the romance element is definitely the focus. Though you can tell, simply from reading the back cover (below), that Jay and Sarah find themselves in a few stressful situations as well.


Ever since the woman he once adored told Jay Kendrich he was a chivalrous hero, he has tried to live up to the praise. But when things don't work out with Jane, moving on and dating other girls proves to be a chore. That is until he meets fellow Harvard student Sarah Morgan. Although Sarah is a freshman studying music and Jay is in his third year of law school, he discovers they have much in common. He has also discovered that getting to know the shy pianist is painful. The last thing Jay expected from his friendly advances was to be assaulted by a brawny stranger. It is abundantly clear that someone wants him to stay away from Sarah. If only he could.

As long as she can remember, Sarah has lived under a watchful eye. While her father insists it's for her own protection, Sarah feels imprisoned. As she begins to believe that those she has trusted most don't have her best interest at heart, she is driven further from her respected father and closer to Jay. But their love will come at a high price as the pair edges closer toward a truth that is darker than either of them could have imagined.


So yes, there is a bit of a suspense element to this story, and I have to say to all those authors who write mysteries and suspense---hats off to you. As I've discovered, it's a difficult genre to write. Now that I've tried it? Give me a good, old kissing scene any day :) That's much more my style, but this was a lot of fun too (I can say that now that it's over).

Lest you think this story is all seriousness, there are some fun (and funny) moments and characters as well. I'll be highlighting some of those this week, posting some of my favorite lines from the book, reposting the prologue, and sending out the second chapter to all those on my mailing list. It'll be the condensed version of what I'd planned to do over the next three weeks.

And because it wouldn't be a book release without a contest, I'll be pulling a name from all those who comment over the next week, and he/she will win a free copy of All the Stars in Heaven. So post a comment and keep checking in. I'll have more tidbits in a day or two.