Best Sellers
On January 31, 2010, the New York Times Book Review posted The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Shaffer and Barrows, as number eight on the Trade Fiction list of best sellers.
Olive Kitteridge, the debut novel by Elizabeth Strout, sat two slots above “Guernsey” at number six.
In third place was The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, by Stief Larsson, (a book that had me hooked from page one). Each novel had been on the NYT list for more than thirty weeks.
Meanwhile, back in my home town of Mequon, Wisconsin, Next Chapter Book Shop keeps track of its own list of best-selling fiction and non-fiction books. For Christmas I had given my grandchildren gift certificates to Next Chapter, knowing how much the little ones loved to make their own book choices.
When my daughter and grandaughters arrived at the shop last week, they had an extra surprise. “Look,” my daughter said to the girls, “There’s a sign about Nana’s book!”
Bless her, she took a photo of the arrangement, proof that Guernsey was in second place. Olive Kitteridge was in third place. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was in fourth place. And, Nana’s Book was in FIRST PLACE!
Can’t keep the smile off my face.
THANKS, MEQUON BOOK BUYERS! THANKS, NEXT CHAPTER BOOKSHOP!
Book Talks Update and Other Fun News
This published author gig keeps on going, and I LOVE it!
Another opportunity knocked one November afternoon while I was in line at the grocery store in Mequon, Wisconsin. Mary Kuester, whom I know from various volunteer activities, was checking out behind me and asked if I would speak to her book club in Naples, Florida. Of course I said yes.
A few weeks ago the group of ten or so women and I gathered in a lovely condo overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. They were curious about my research for the setting of Buried Heart and also asked how I thought of the plot and the characters. I appreciated their enthusiasm and hospitality. I have to mention that the sweets served afterwards were A-plus, particularly the carrot cake.
Coming up:
On February 6 I’ll be attending the Southwest Florida Romance Writers’ Workshop at Florida Gulf Coast University in Ft. Myers, FL. The hands-on workshop, “Getting into Character,” will be presented by Toni Andrews, a “book doctor” and author of many novels.
February 28, from 10 am to noon, I will be signing Buried Heart as part of the Fort Meyers’ Barnes & Noble “Author Celebration Weekend.” I will eagerly welcome friends, neighbors, relatives, perfect strangers and even imperfect strangers.
I picture hoards of people squealing with delight and begging me to autograph my book for them. (Barnes & Noble, 13751 S. Tamiami Trail, Fort Myers, Florida, 33912)
P.S. Truth is, I’ll be delighted if you just drop in and say hi.
March 13, from 10 am to 12 noon, members of the Southwest Florida Romance Writers, Linda Bilodeau, Karna Small Bodman, Renée Gardner, Lynette Hallberg, Anna Schmidt, A.Y. Stratton, Joyce Wells, and Tina Wainscott (writing as Jaime Rush), will be selling and signing our books as part of an event hosted by the Alliance for the Arts, 10091 McGregor Boulevard, Fort Myers, Florida.
Here’s your chance to meet women who write romances that thrill us, scare us, warm our hearts, make us cry and finally show us how to celebrate true love.
March 15 (AKA Julius Caesar’s no good, very bad day) I get to meet with Salli Peterson’s book club in Naples, Florida. They would like to hear about the process of getting a book published. Of course I’ll have to begin with the first step, in other words what it takes to be rejected, to rewrite (again and again) and to fire off that manuscript to another agent or publisher.
As I love to say, I am multiply-rejected, but poised to be an overnight success!
Excerpt Exchange
I was scrolling through the writers’ loop last week and came across an email from a woman name Tina Gayle. She was looking for other authors who might post an excerpt of their latest book on their web sites, and in exchange she would post theirs.
Hmm, I said to myself. Now there’s a clever way to reach a few more potential readers, i.e. book-buyers.
If I find a few others to exchange with next month, I think I’ll call them “Love Notes.”
To find my excerpt, visit Tina’s site at www.tinagayle.net on February 18.
Mating Rituals by Tina Gayle
ISBN: 978-1-935348-58-0
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Book Length: Novel
Heat Level: Spicy
Find at www.amirapress.com
Staring straight ahead, Marohka Taunton avoided eye contact with every man she passed. Moving along the edge of the dance floor, she wove her way back and forth across the assigned path. Her steps, jerky and clumsy, she hid her natural smooth gait. No man, in his right mind, craved an ungraceful wife. At least, she hoped not.
With the stairs a few steps ahead, she tasted victory and allowed herself a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness."
A masculine voice in front of her chuckled. "It’s not over yet, princess."
Marohka paused to inspect the stranger. The laughter reflected in his warm brown eyes—surprised, the intelligent focus—intrigued, and the dark spark of interest—captivated.
A foreign response slithered through her chest. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Her heartbeat rang in her ears. Her hands turned clammy. Awareness of the man claimed her senses.
His face, framed by dark brown hair, showed rough lines of strength and fortitude. A crooked nose, a square jaw, and a chiseled chin marked his unique personality. Added together, the sum indicated the man rarely backed down from a fight. He’d stand up for his beliefs and defeat his opponents. His lopsided grin with a dimple at the corner of his mouth teased her.
A silly feature on such a stern face. The little mark claimed her heart and spoke of a rare sense of humor, a trait absent in most men.
A tingle ran down her spine. Her toes curled. Either as an appealing partner or a worthy adversary, the man presented a dangerous combination. Right then, without question, Marohka decided never to cross paths with him again.
"It is for me," she responded to his comment. She lifted her chin a little higher and repaired the chip in her armor with a sassy comeback. "But you’re welcome to any of the girls behind me. I’m sure they’ll enjoy your charm."
Marohka lifted her skirt and swept up the stairs. The sound of his laughter spoiled her intended snub.
Upcoming book talks
Dec 9 I will be reviewing my debut novel Buried Heart to a book club in Mequon, WI.
On Dec 15 I'll be speaking about Buried Heart, at a luncheon at the University Club. (There's still plenty of time to sign up.)
That same evening, I am proud to announce that Casey Clifford, author of Black Ribbon Affair (aka Mary Jo Scheible), and I will be at BORDERS BOOKS in Fox Point (7805 N. Port Washington Road), 7 P.M., for a book-signing event. Casey is sure to keep everyone laughing, so please join us!
On December 16 I will be reviewing my book for another great group of book club members.
On December 17 at 11 a.m., I'll be a guest on a radio show called WRITE ON RADIO that airs on station KFAI, 90.3 fm in Minneapolis and 106.7 fm in St. Paul. Since we don't happen to live in either of the Twin Cities, we can go to the KFAI web site and access the interview by clicking on Write on Radio.
PS I am loving my new job as a debut author!!!
How I Got the Idea for Buried Heart
Sharing My Characters
Last week I had a wonderful chat with a friend who had stayed up late the night before to finish my debut novel. ("Debut novel!" Love that phrase.)
She said it was my fault she was groggy when she left for work that morning, because she stayed up so late reading my book.
How wonderful is that? She thought my book was so suspenseful that she couldn’t put it down. Of course I meant the book to read that way, but couldn’t be sure of the result until someone could actually buy Buried Heart and experience the peril and the adventure.
She said she was enjoying the romance between Luis and Lauren, but wanted to know why I had one of the characters do something that might hurt the other.
I felt guilty as charged. How could I let my dear character make such a mistake? How could I plan for that character to do something I myself would never do?
My defense was that an author isn’t supposed to fall so in love with her characters that she makes life easy for them. If everything goes well and the people in my story make no mistakes, there’s no conflict, no suffering the consequences, no discovery. No growth. No story.
My character made a serious mistake, discovered he or she had been fooling herself or himself and hurting another, and then paid for it.
After our discussion I realized something that surprised me. The characters who have been living secretly and privately in my head for a long time are now out in public. Other people know them too. Others have seen and felt Luis and Lauren when they kiss, tease and challenge each other; when they nearly get killed; and as they are falling in love.
I have to get used to sharing them.
Anne on UWUM NPR's "Lake Effect"
Appearance on Monday, October 19:
Click the "P" to play the streaming MP3.
Or "right click and save" to download the file here.
The Book is Here!
On Tuesday boxes of Buried Heart arrived at the local book store where I will have my first book talk and book-signing event. I am thrilled. Over the moon. Over the stars. Over the satellites and the black hole beyond.
I visited thewildrosepress.com, Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com, and there it was:
“Buried Heart by A. Y. Stratton.”
How cool is that>
I admit I had my doubts that this would never really happen. I thought the publisher might change her mind. Silly me, I worried The Wild Rose Press might drop the romantic suspense category. With the economy so bad, I even imagined the company could go out of business, leaving me with lovely dreams.
What lovely dreams they are! Friends, relatives and even people I don’t know very well are excited for me, which makes me feel incredibly fortunate.
Oh, how I wish I could call my parents and my brother right now and tell them all about it.
Buried Heart on Tour
Visit me on Skhye Moncrief's site
A prolific writer friend of mine invited me to be her guest blogger on Friday, August 14.
Her favorite topic this season has been how different authors do the research for their books. Please drop in to read, comment if you feel like it, and enjoy.
http://blog.skhyemoncrief.com/2009/08/13/anne-stratton-the-maya-2.aspx
RWA Conference Report
After dinner together one evening, a bunch of us from the Wisconsin branch of RWA were strolling back to the hotel, when somebody noticed Linda Howard, bless her heart, walking toward us. Of course, I had to shake her hand and thank her for making us laugh until we cried. She thanked me back and said every story she told was true.
Besides the scheduled sessions and my two appointments, I attended a casual gathering of other authors who have books published by The Wild Rose Press. TWRP Editor-in-Chief, Rhonda Penders, rounded us up so we could meet each other and share questions and comments about the book market, about the latest TWRP news and (of course) about our own books. Together we made up a happy bouquet of Roses.
Prologue from Buried Heart
Since it’s mid-July, and summer is poised to heat up, I’m heading for Washington, D.C. to attend the National Conference of the Romance Writers of America this week. This just has to be the right time to share a clip from my very first published novel, due out in October, 2009.
Buried Heart by A. Y. Stratton
Prologue: A village in the Yucatan, 1562
Deep inside the cave, Brother Guillermo stumbled on shards of clay and collapsed against the bottom step of the Temple of the Serpent. He let his eyes adjust from the unceasing glare of noon to the flickering light of smoking torches, glanced around him at the vast, conical chamber and shivered. The niche Guillermo sought must be high and out of sight. He must hurry, or his absence from the fires would be noted. Death would catch him.
With his dangerous prize tucked beneath his arm, he gripped the first ledge and clambered past the eyeless stone warrior with the bulbous lips and clenched teeth. Righteous fury drove him up the next wedge of stone past the blood-red fangs of the serpent and higher into the darkness, sweat blurring his eyes, torch smoke stinging his throat, decay polluting his lungs. He scaled the third stone step and paused to listen. Bats whirred and dipped at his head. That was all.
After a year of living so far from his home in Seville, Spain, Guillermo had befriended a local priest who helped him learn the native language. In secret, the priest had also shown Guillermo sacred documents. As Guillermo’s new friend narrated, the strange symbols painted on folds of tree bark disclosed astonishing scientific discoveries and violent, bloody battles.
The sessions ended abruptly after Bishop de Landa, representative of His Holiness the Pope, decreed the blasphemous works destroyed. Earlier that morning Guillermo had followed orders, flinging manuscripts into the torrid flames, his mind an angry sea. Was it the devil that made Guillermo’s hands rescue a scroll from the pile? No matter. Once he had slipped it beneath his cloak, his path was set. Perhaps his fate was too.
Feigning illness, he limped back to his cell and then veered toward the caves where the natives had worshipped their gods long before Spain arrived from across the sea.
A shout nearly caused Guillermo’s sweaty hand to slip off the ledge. His pounding heart muffled all sound as he shrank behind the mammoth head of a feathered monster and fumbled along the rough walls for an opening large enough to hold the precious folds of paper.
His fingers detected a cavity below the serpent’s claws, and Guillermo whispered his prayer. “Lord, help me do your will!” The folded parchment slid in so perfectly he knew the Lord had answered.
Below him, howls of fear ricocheted off cavern walls. Guillermo flattened himself against the temple step to keep from falling. Hosts of natives burst through the narrow passageway and spilled into the courtyard below. Behind them soldiers exploded into the cavern. Armor clanking and swords slashing, they skewered bodies and hacked off arms and legs, hands and heads, painting the ground with blood.
The soldiers roared into the next passageway. In the sickening silence, Guillermo sobbed and asked God to bless the dead and forgive his compatriots.
Spring, Sprang, Sprung
(Written the second week of May in Milwaukee, Wisconsin)
Have you ever noticed how seldom you hold still when you’re outside? I mean really still, so you can listen?
This soft, sunny morning I took a detour on my way to the mail box to get the newspaper. The grass looked as green as the paper stuffed in a kid’s Easter basket. Uncut since last fall, it had suddenly grown long and lush and glistened with dew, luring me to make an inspection circuit of our yard.
The peonies are up two feet, the hollyhocks even more. The hosta spikes and lilies of the valley are still furled, and the iris leaves are thick and thriving. My various ground covers are mingling with each other and invading new territories. Already leafy red and green bushes, most of the roses seemed to have survived the ice and snow.
Oh! As I wrote that last sentence, a turkey just ambled, geek-like, across the rose bed and is now pecking at something under the window beyond to my desk! I can tell he’s a young Tom by the tassel hanging from his neck, and by the blend of subtle browns of his back feathers.
When I stood to ogle him better, he scurried toward the neighbor’s thicket, his head jerking forward and backward, his boat-shaped body balancing gracefully on those stick legs, reminding me of a woman in spike heels I saw at the airport.
Back to my backyard inspection—
As I walked through the brush beneath the half-naked trees, a movement caught my eye and I stopped. About ten feet away, a squirrel sat on a fallen birch limb and scratched his ear with his back foot, just like a dog. In an instant the squirrel stopped scratching and disappeared into the brush.
For the first time in all my squirrel watching I noticed how the graceful arc of the squirrel’s tail matches the flowing leap of his body, over and over like waves as he covers the ground. He stopped again and scratched his side violently with that tiny back foot, his tail jerking and swirling with each jab.
What, I wondered, would make a squirrel itch? An insect? A thistle? A sliver from a tree?
I continued to stand still, and soon new sounds reached my ears. A chickadee called from below me in the ravine that borders our property. Another answered, and then completed his jerky flight to my bird feeder.
I watched him and three other chickadees take turns looping between a nearby tree branch and the feeder. I wondered which of them had been born in the tiny bird house I place in a tree each spring and reminded myself to retrieve it from the garage.
Who taught the chickadees, I wondered, not to bully each other over the seeds? Who taught them the timing and coordination of each flight, each takeoff and landing?
I shifted my gaze in time to spy a bee the size of my thumbnail tasting forsythia blooms next to the house. Just then a gust of wind lifted my hair. I inhaled the dampness and wondered how far the air had traveled to my nose. Had it hovered over Lake Michigan? Why not from farther away, like the Pacific Ocean, the Panama Canal or the Nile?
I inhaled again and realized I’d been standing still for a long time, enjoying the action around me, letting the world go by, and appreciating God’s wonders.
P.S. Let me know if you find out what makes a squirrel scratch.
Finding the Joy - Anywhere but in the Kitchen
I confess I’ve never loved to cook. This fault may very well be genetic, since the kitchen muse never kissed my mom or her mom either, but they did it anyway, of course. We all have done it anyway, day in, day out. Otherwise our families would starve.
Since I’ve never been shy about my lack of enthusiasm for thinking up, shopping for or actually preparing meals, my pals assume (rightly) that I’m not interested in cooking classes. I should pay to spend six hours straight, on my feet, barricaded in a kitchen with nothing to do but mix, simmer, boil, reduce, blend, freeze, melt or whip fluids and solids? (Did I forget sautee?)
When these pals get to chatting about fish coddling, lamb braising, chicken stock storage and (my favorite) the correct hammer for flattening filets, I try to pay attention for a little while, nodding as if that new tomato knife were the most stimulating thing I’ve thought about since I saw the movie trailer for Australia.
I finally figured out how to end the discussion: I say two words.
“Tuna Casserole.” Then I add, “Don’t you just love that timeless favorite?” I beam at them. “A dietary delight. Cuisine that enhances your palate.” Tolerant smiles quiver on my friends’ lips. “Where would I be without cream of mushroom soup?” I offer, confidently closing out the food topic.
It turns out that if you don’t learn to cook at your mother’s knee, you miss a lot. For example, the first time I tried to bake cookies from scratch, I was a newly-wed, my husband was out of town and it was late in the evening--well past the hour when you can call a trusty friend and ask a stupid question, like, “What does ‘cream the butter’ mean?” Cream as a verb, wasn’t listed in my dictionary, and Google didn’t exist back in those deep dark ages.
So I melted it and mixed it with the other ingredients. If I’d known what cookie dough was supposed to look like, I might have halted my project right then.
The result? Anorexic amoebas that tasted like singed toast.
It turns out there are a few other things you don’t understand if you haven’t learned to cook at your mother’s knee, like when to throw things out.
One summer afternoon, I was making my kids some sandwiches (PB and J, of course) and pulled out a stack of bread. “Hey, kids,” I announced as I gazed at the bread, “Is this St. Patrick’s Day?” All three of them looked at me as if I was crazy. “No!”
“Then why,” I asked with a giggle, “Is this bread green?”
(My kids are really good at yelling “EEEEUUU!” after I hold up a shimmering green slice of bread.)
Ever notice how you can’t scrutinize canned parmesan cheese until you shake it out? The St. Patrick’s Day comment works well in that situation too. “Hey, guys,” I say as I point at my pasta, “Look at these lovely bits of Ireland!”
These experiences help explain why my husband has assumed the role of “the-use-before- date inspector.”
His primary targets are eggs, frozen foods and even beer left after a party (long after a party).
We have this regular exchange:
He: Are these eggs still good?
Me: Sure.
He: But it says December 10, and this is January 15.”
Me, shifting into defensive mode: That’s not even a month past. Eggs last six weeks, at least.
He: It’s a ‘use by’ deadline.
Me: It’s a ‘recommended’ date.
He, searching for further evidence of my cavalier attitude (which is to say “neglect”): How long have we had this sour cream?
Me: Are you planning to have sour cream right now?
He shakes head.
Me, in retaliation mode: Your jar of salsa’s been on the bottom shelf since Labor Day weekend.
He who loves his tacos: Salsa keeps.
He returns to the kitchen table and his newspaper.
Of course my husband is correct, as I eventually learned from Peg Bracken (R.I.P.), the very funny lady who wrote my all-time favorite, I Hate to Cook Book. “When in doubt, throw it out.”
If you happen to think of it.
Latest Blog
I grew up in Glenview, Illinois, in a family that loved books and baseball. My father, a mechanical engineer, was a salesman who traveled a lot, but when he was home he’d read to me and my big brother Billy before we went to bed.
Dad also made up stories featuring a talking cloud who stopped by the bedroom window of two children named Anne and Billy at night and flew them to places like Alaska or the Amazon, where they had exciting and dangerous adventures.
Just as Billy and Anne were about to be captured by a pirate, by the guardian of an Egyptian temple or by a charging bull, the “Cloud Car” would appear and glide them back home to bed.
In the morning Billy and Anne would wake up thinking they’d had a dream, until they discovered a remnant from their trip, like a pair of Alaskan mukluks or a carving of an Egyptian asp.
My father, a lifelong subscriber to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, was also the one who got me started reading mysteries, which led to writing them.
In the first short story I ever put on paper, a man has been convicted of a serious crime and condemned to death in the electric chair. On the day he’s to be electrocuted, he expects to have his innocence proven and his conviction overturned. In his cell he hears footsteps and the clank of the prison doors.
Hopeful that the footsteps are the messenger’s who will arrive with the release order, but fearful that the visitor might be the guard who will lead him to the death chamber, the prisoner decides to wash his hands and face to keep cool. With his dripping hand he reaches for the light switch, and ZAP! He is electrocuted.
Pretty harsh plotting for a skinny little pre-teen. I can honestly say it’s the only short story I have written that has not been rejected by someone somewhere—because I never submitted it to anyone but my father.
Pub Date
I have NEWS! My very first published novel, BURIED HEART, will be released by The Wild Rose Press on October 16, 2009.
In the mean time you can check out the list of all the latest books on TWRP’s website at
(By the way, a “Pub Date,” in this case, has nothing to do with going to a bar with someone.)
A Random Thought From Yoga Class
(Though One That Has a Chance of Being Semi-Brilliant)
During Yoga class this morning we moved through several poses, beginning with tree pose (standing on one leg, with the other leg bent so the toes rest on the standing thigh--or below the knee if your foot won’t reach-- and our arms “branched” gracefully above our heads). Next we moved into airplane (arms akimbo, body and head thrust forward, one leg lifted backward, ballerina-like). We flowed into half moon by tipping nearly upside-down, one hand on the floor, opposing leg lifted up, body opened, similar to the beginning of a cartwheel. When my body cooperates, I feel exalted in this pose, strong, elegant, feminine, and complete. I feel the way I did when I was seven, turning cartwheels in the dewy spring grass of my childhood home. More often than not, however, I wobble even before my hand reaches the floor, and struggle to keep from tipping over. The trick to keeping my balance, I am beginning to learn, is to pull my body straight up as if I had a string attached to the exact middle of my scalp, to tuck my chin and unhunch my shoulders, and to focus on one spot without wavering or blinking until that tiny spot becomes a blur. Today my body responded and let itself be both relaxed and under control. The string idea worked. My breathing was regular. My hand settled, my arm stayed strong, and I held the pose. As usual, we ended the class with our relaxation time. As my thoughts floated, I realized what had helped me achieve that balance. I had kept my focus on one tiny red leaf on an otherwise deep green bush outside the Yoga classroom, and had never wavered. Like most deep thoughts put in print often do, this may sound silly. But here’s my conclusion from a moment of perfect balance: Life is like the half moon pose. It’s tough to stay balanced, to make my body and mind adjust and change in a way that helps me accomplish my goals. However, now and then, with practice, thought and quiet time, I can find a way to focus on one tiny red leaf on an otherwise deep green tree. And succeed.
The Incident
I’m planning to attend the Romance Writers of America Conference this summer, because it’s the perfect opportunity to learn from dozens of talented writers, publishers and literary agents. (And, OF COURSE, because I will have a new attachment on my nametag: “published author.”)
This time I am hoping to avoid the “little incident” that occurred at the conference I attended a few years ago in Atlanta.
In the late afternoon of my third day there, my legs grew twitchy and my eyelids drooped, so I picked up a slice of pizza and an unnecessarily large bottle of Diet Coke and baled to my quiet room at the dead-end of a corridor.
After my evening snack, I steamed my achy limbs in the tub, slipped into my nightie and lounged on the bed to read about the next day’s sessions.
By then my half-full bottle of Coke was getting warm. I didn’t have a fridge to stick it in, and I hated to waste it. I figured I could fill the ice bucket and then be able to keep the bottle cold until the next day.
I hadn’t packed a robe, and with the ice machine barely ten steps from my door, I shrugged off the thought of getting dressed as a bother. I grabbed my keycard and the plastic liner for the ice bucket and stepped into the empty hall.
Women’s voices bubbled up from the open atrium below. By the magnitude of the cacophony, I realized I must be the only one going to bed early.
Right away I had a problem. With the keycard in one hand, I couldn’t hold the ice bag wide enough to catch the cubes as they tumbled out.
I adjusted my keycard hand so I could brace the bag better and tried again. Again cubes bounced off the edge of the bag and onto the grill.
And then---so did my keycard.
Stunned, I watched it slip through the grill and out of sight.
I did not panic. I want everyone who knows me to try to picture me NOT PANICKING. Instead, I stood there in my nightie, limp bag in hand, and considered my options.
Option one: Take the elevator to the lobby, where all the people who weren’t going to bed were gathering, and wait in line to speak to a clerk about a new room key.
Option two: Wait in the hall outside my door until someone appeared on my floor, and then beg for help.
I chose option 3. I shoved my hand into the grill of the ice machine as far as it would go. To my surprise, I felt the card beneath my fingers. Millimeter by millimeter, I shifted the card until I could grasp it.
But if I grasped tightly, I couldn’t retract my hand from the grill. I released it slightly, and the card slipped out of my fingers.
I shoved my hand deeper into the grill, letting my fingers do the walking, until they gripped the keycard again.
By then my hand was numb, cold and stuck. I pictured the first person to come across my almost-naked body, collapsed awkwardly on the carpet, feet angled toward the soda machine, one hand wedged in the ice machine’s grasp, the other still clutching the ice bag.
Dressed in her elegant black dinner dress, flushed with champagne and the knowledge she’d just sold her thirtieth book, my rescuer would muffle her guffaw at my predicament as she punched the number for the hotel security on her cell phone.
And then I tugged my hand free.
To complete my mission, I gripped the keycard safely between my knees, clutched the ice bag in two hands, punched the button and watched the ice clunk into the bag.
I realize now that I may have missed a chance for fame that night. Below me was a truly star-studded audience. Just think, if I had managed to appear in the hotel lobby that evening, just as Nora Roberts and Linda Howard were going out with their publishers, they’d always remember me in a very special way.
A blurb from 'Buried Heart'...
Public relations expert Lauren Richmond believes her family has been jinxed in the love department. To avoid the chaos she suffered as a child, she has built a grammatically-perfect, passion-free life, which crumbles shortly after she rescues a man from muggers. The victim is Luis Hernandez, an ambitious, yet unconventional archeology professor who is on a quest to locate a Mayan document that survived the Spanish Inquisition. When strange men threaten Lauren, sweet and seductive Luis insists the mysterious map he inherited from his grandfather has nothing to do with the incidents. Deep in the Mexican rain forest at a Mayan dig site, Luis and Lauren must outsmart ruthless grave robbers and battle phantoms from their past to rescue a treasure that could destroy their love.
++++++++
Lauren felt her cheeks flush. “I couldn’t remember where I parked. I was wandering around furious at myself for being an airhead. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me swearing.”
“You can go now—the light’s green. I thought you were drunk. Wait a minute. Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody. I pretended there was a whole crowd of us to scare off those ruffians. Shoot! I almost went through the stoplight.” She braked, and the car lurched.
“Ruffians?” He turned to look at her, and his crooked smile showed off his full lips and his white teeth. “It worked,” he said as the smile spread. “I never would have thought of it.”
“When I was a kid I used to imagine I could save someone. I can’t believe I actually did it. It was horrible watching them beat you up. God, my hands are still shaking.”
“Whoa, turn here! This is my building. You can let me off at the next corner.”
She stopped the car in front of a fire hydrant.
“Thanks,” he said as his huge hand engulfed hers. His thick fingers were surprisingly warm. “I’m extremely glad you showed up.” His eyes sparkled in the glow from the streetlights.
“You’re welcome.”
“I hope to find a way to show my appreciation,” he said, still cradling her hand.
The smile was intimate, as if he had been saving it just for her. Before she could react, he touched his lips to hers. Astonished, she didn’t think to push him away, and the kiss went on, sweet and soft like summertime on the beach. No pressure, simply a waft of pleasure radiating from her lips all the way through her body. Stopping her breath. Stopping time.
“Merry Christmas, Lauren,” he whispered to her cheek. “Thanks for scaring off the bad guys.”
+++++++
Book Babble
In September an editor from The Wild Rose Press sent me an email announcing she would like to publish the romantic suspense novel I had sent her in July. Zowee! I exploded, hooting and yelping. (I never learned to whistle.) This was it! Unless I messed things up, I was finally going to have one of my ten or so manuscripts magically become a book, something I had dreamed about since I was a kid. (My first dream was to become a cowboy, but that fizzled after I discovered horses were scary, there wasn't much work for cowboys in the suburbs of Chicago, and, of course, because I was a girl, I would have to be a cowgirl, one of those useless people on television who never were allowed to rescue anyone.)
This morning my email was full of congratulations from friends, cousins, classmates from high school and college buddies. They all said they were excited to read my romantic suspense story, Buried Heart. Just writing this makes me laugh out loud. I wonder if I'll ever get used to being a published author.
I really like the cover with the pyramid in the background and the man and woman in the foreground, their lips poised for a kiss. The lighting suggests mystery and danger, and there's plenty of that in the story.
I got hooked on ancient ruins the moment I stood among the spirits of the sacrificed virgins at the top of the pyramid at Teotihuacan near Mexico City. Eventually, my husband and I visited Mayan ruins in Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, and Honduras, where I conceived the idea for Buried Heart. I had thought the people who were already living in the Americas when Columbus and Cortez arrived had no written documents, besides the glyphs on their monuments. However, a professor from Yale University who was our resource in the Yucatan, told us about codices, or codexes, that survived the fires of the Inquisition.
Codexes? Fires of the inquisition? I'd never studied that in history class. Then I recalled a book I loved in sixth or seventh grade, Captain From Castile, about a young man who joins Cortez to avoid being punished by the Inquisition for crimes he didn't commit.
In Buried Heart, archeology professor Luis Hernandez (handsome, sexy, sweet, but elusive), hopes to locate a legendary codex, a remnant that might have survived the fires of the Conquistadores. He hopes the mysterious map he inherited from his Mexican grandfather might lead him to it, but so far he's had no luck. Others try to steal the map, and frighten, kidnap and kill a few people before they succeed.
The story begins as two muggers get the drop on Luis in a parking garage. In a rare moment of audacity, Lauren Richmond (funny, feisty, quietly lovely) frightens them off. Before they part, Luis astonishes her with a kiss, as if he's tossing a cigarette into a dry forest, igniting her heart and demolishing her plan to avoid even a spark of love.
Besides romance, I also write about baseball, my favorite sport, for the Milwaukee Brewers. You can read my columns at http://milwaukee.brewers.mlb.com/mil/news/anne_in_the_stands.jsp
Thanks for dropping by,
A. Y. Stratton
>