Hello from the Cold!

Some years ago, a writer friend of mine – a fun blonde with surfer-mom waves in her hair and a smile that made everyone in the room feel like it was for them and them alone – was having a hell of a year. In a good way. She’s a Romance author who’d been writing in just about every Romance sub-genre, including erotica. This was back when “Fifty Shades of Grey” was all the rage, and my friend’s fairly obscure BDSM series suddenly took off like a rocket. Once readers discovered her work, they didn’t stop there. Within a couple of months, nearly all of her romances, regardless of genre, became bestsellers.

It’s such an inspiring story, isn’t it? My heart still goes pitter-pat, like I’m reading one of her romances, when I think about it.

This woman had put her heart and soul into her romances, only making a meh living until gold struck. Yet even during her barely making it years, giving up on her vision was a non-starter. She felt like she was making a difference in her readers’ lives. They told her so – often writing her long letters revealing not only how much joy she gave them, but how much hope. Many thanked her for relieving their loneliness.

When she wrote about people and fetishes that were so far from her own tastes and experiences, she did it with empathy, imagination, and authenticity. She infused her stories with meaning, and her readers picked up on that. It was why, in a crowded Romance market, they kept coming back to her novels. And why, given the right market forces, her books were able to find a broader audience.

Love at First Write

I've been asked to book coach a lot over the years, and I have done it for friends and fellow writers, but only in piecemeal. With three children and a lot of fiction to write, I just couldn't commit to expanding my writing business. But this year, with two of my children out of the house, I find things have opened up. That's why I decided to take the plunge and take on my very first book coaching client...and so far, I love it!

Whether you're thinking of hiring a book coach like me, or are considering becoming a book coach, you'll want to know exactly what that will entail. In this LAFW, I answer questions such as: What is the difference between a book coach and an editor? What can I expect a book coach to be able to do for me?

Larry's Music Box

Fall will be upon us by the time we next convene here in the Cold (at least in the northern hemisphere)! Since fall and winter, are my favorite times of year, I thought I'd celebrate the coming sweater weather with one of my favorite contemporary songs by The Neighbourhood called...wait for it...Sweater Weather! And yes, you guessed it, my daughters introduced me to this band!

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Daily Lines

Last, but not least, here's a taste of the noir detective series I've been working on. This excerpt is different from the one on my blog - and it's just for you.

Bombay, 1959

A cacophony of horns blared through the congested streets of Bombay, interposed by the cries of street vendors peddling their wares.

“Chai! Chai,” a skinny young man from one of the tea stalls called. He poured three steaming hot cups without even looking down. Next to him, sticky-fingered waifs offered syrupy fried dough and street sweets made of condensed milk spiced with saffron, cardamom and rose water. Other boys sold books and magazines, fruit juices and scarves dyed in sunset colors that bled all over each other. Most plentiful of all were the fresh flower stalls. Those were for religious offerings and going fast.

Mahashivratri, “The Night of the Great Shiva,” was about to begin and celebrants were preparing for their all-night vigils. Although the sun was already in descent, it was still high enough that the soot-covered buildings cast long shadows over this throng of people, all of whom seemed to move as one—an undulating sea of humanity with a purpose. There was a charge to the air, a spiritual jubilation that cut through the usual hustle and bustle. On days like this, it felt like good would triumph over evil.

But beneath these streets was another world; one impervious to the spirit of Mahashivatri. It was a world that invited a sparse population of lepers, lost children, and corpses. It tolerated clandestine meetings between illicit lovers, thieves, and killers if they conducted their business in whispers. Gamblers and opium addicts came and went, too, as did current and former spies. A labyrinth of rooms and tunnels of no particular design or function awaited them there. First come, first served.

Although he'd started out his day in the former, it was this latter underground world of Bombay that Rodki Semyonov awakened to on Mahashivatri. His skin was cold, covered with an oily sheen of sweat, and his head pounded worse than his most heroic hangover.

Until next time,

Victoria

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