Romance writing

My friends, Mary and Barbara, decided to ask their book club to read my April book, An Unexpected Father. They also wanted me to speak at their monthly meeting. I was intrigued—and flattered—by the idea, and a date was set.

Afterward, I had an attack of “oh, what have I done.” This group tends towards the literary. Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence was their last read. How the heck was I going to stack up against him? So, I was a little nervous when I walked into Barbara’s apartment. There were about a dozen people there, apparently a bigger crowd than usual. Gulp! When it was time to start, I was pointed to a chair at one end of the room and the questions began.

From there, the evening went effortlessly. What struck me most was how interested they all were in the process of writing. We talked about the book and the characters, but more about how it got written, how all books get written. I realized that, if D.H. Lawrence had been sitting where I was, they would probably have asked him the same questions.

• Where do you get your ideas? Literally everywhere. From the newspaper, from the internet, from the bus driver, from the grocery-store clerk, from you.

• How long does it take to write a book? It depends on the length of the manuscript, but around five months for An Unexpected Father. I’m a slow writer compared to others I know, but what matters to me is how I feel about the results at the end of each day. If I’m happy with what I’ve written, even though it was only 500 words, then it was a good day.

• How much time do you spend writing each day? In the best of all worlds, six to seven hours. Of course, there are the distractions of life like laundry and cooking and exercise. I confess that I’m easily tempted away from the keyboard by the offer of coffee and a pastry, too.

• Who are your favorite authors? It’s a long list. I’m a voracious reader across all genres: Jane Austin, Mary Renault, Larry McMurtry, Robin McKinley, Dorothy Garlock, T.A. Pratt, David Lodge and soooo many others.

These were just a few of the questions the book club asked. I had nothing to fear and had a great time. I should have known: talking to people who love books is always a joy.

Tourist season has just barely begun here in Philadelphia, the “City of Brotherly Love,” but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the hordes of people jamming the sidewalks. With cameras glued to their faces (and earbuds blocking any outside noises), the gawkers are oblivious to those of us who live here. We edge around the posed photo-ops, trying to avoid being part of anyone’s ‘what I did on my summer vacation.’ We cross streets to avoid being sucked into the massive amoeba-like student groups. We plan our route so that we pass the minimal number of historic sites possible on the way to and from our destinations.

It never occurred to me, when we chose to live in this part of town, that the historic district also meant the tourist district. I just liked it because it’s vibrant with lots of shops and restaurants and many old warehouses renovated into condos. It’s within walking distant of the Reading Terminal Market and a couple of decent grocery stores. The subway is convenient to get to more far-flung parts of town. From my front door, I can walk in four directions and find interesting things to see in safe neighborhoods. Now, though, as summer begins, I’m beginning to rethink my decision.

Once upon a very long time ago, I visited Philadelphia with my parents. I saw Independence Hall and felt the crack in the Liberty Bell. I had lox and bagels at the Famous Fourth Street Diner.  I liked the city then, though it was much grittier than it is now. That vibe I mentioned earlier? I could feel it, then, too, even as a teenager. Maybe that’s what drew me back here all these years later. Maybe Philadelphia has been calling to me all along. It’s my place; I just didn’t know it until now. But the tourists are going to drive me crazy!

So, what am I going to do about it? I’m not going to beat them, that’s for sure. Trust me, there are waaay too many of them to battle. Instead, I’ve decided I’m going to join them. I’m going to take back a piece of my new city for me. I will gawk and stare and appreciate all the historic landmarks alongside the most dedicated tourist. Betsy Ross and Benjamin Franklin, look out: here I come.

An Unexpected Father

by Lisa Ruff

After a decade on the road, single mom Mimi Green gives up her rock star dreams and goes home to Crab Creek, Maryland. Her troubled son needs stability. Grandparents. A good school and friends his own age.

She’s not looking for a new father for Jack—but when she meets Ian Berzani she may need the handsome sailor for herself!

When Ian nabs a nine-year-old trespasser in the family boatyard, he thinks, miniature rebel without a clue. One look at the kid’s mother and Ian’s thoughts veer into dangerous, uncharted territory. Mimi was tempting him to stay.

The timing couldn’t be worse for a man three months, seven days and eleven hours from a lifelong dream of sailing around the world. He doesn’t want an instant family to change his plans, but how can he set sail and leave his heart behind?

I just got news that I have to share: An Unexpected Father, my April release, was chosen as one of Romantic Times Magazine’s ‘Top Picks’. They gave it four and a half stars, too! I am stunned and honored.

For me, writing a book and sending it out for publication feels a little like sending my children off to school. How are they going to do? Will the other kids like them? Will they behave? Will anyone understand the effort I put in to raising them right? I know that you have to just send it off and hope for the best, but it’s difficult mothering such an unruly child. When a review and kudos like this comes along, they can bring grateful tears to the most jaded eyes.

When I was a teenager, my dad came home one night from work and hugged me. Just out of the blue. Now, my dad’s not really a demonstrative guy. I’d never had any doubt that he loved me, but hugs were for special occasions: birthdays, injuries, good report cards. If you’d away on a trip—not just a weekend sleepover—yeah, a hug was due. He was glad to see me and I was glad to see him. But his return home from just another day at the office was not a ‘huggable’ event. A kiss from my mom was enough of a greeting for him.

On this particular evening, as far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything spectacular. I was a teenager; no one expected spectacular from me. Getting through those teen years was sometimes all anyone hoped for really, me included. Mostly, I think I was a relatively easy kid to raise—especially after my older brother. My parents didn’t pull their hair out too much over my moodiness, I paid attention in school, I was popular enough. You know, normal. So, I had no idea why my dad hugged me. When I asked, I was embarrassed by his answer. In a good way, though.

I had just spent the weekend with a close friend and gone out on a hike with her family. I didn’t know it, but my dad, a forester, was managing a timber sale with my friend’s father. At work that day, this father asked my dad if I was his daughter. After my dad admitted it was so, the guy shook my dad’s hand and congratulated him on having a good kid. He was impressed because I had picked up some trash on our hike and carried it back out of the woods.

This wasn’t a special thing to me; it was the way I had been raised. But it sure was to my dad. He got to find out—from a complete stranger—that all the hard work of being a parent had paid off. I feel that way about my book. The characters I loved writing went out into the world and did good something good. It’s a small thing, like picking up a piece of trash, but they made me proud.

Of course, after I read the review from Romantic Times, I hugged the little darlings, too. Just like my dad had once hugged me.

Do you love flowers? I do. This time of the year is bliss, especially after such a long, snowy winter. The bloom in Philadelphia has begun: daffodils, tulips, crocus, hyacinth. Even the trees are getting into the act as the cherry blossoms begin to cast a cotton-candy-pink haze over the neighborhood. Soon there will be little wind-blown eddies of delicate petals all over the sidewalk, drifting out into the street.

I recently went to the Philadelphia Flower Show. This year’s theme was Passport to the World and there were some truly amazing displays. I saw a hot-air balloon completely covered in flowers. A giraffe stretched its long orange-orchid-bedecked neck over the festivities. There was an elephant, too! The scents were exquisite, sometimes almost overpowering. A convention hall full of flowers is pretty potent. The skill and artistry of the floral designers was delicious.

All this bounty of color and beauty sparked a discussion among my friends. We debated various favorite flowers. (Mine: tulips and grape hyacinth. I love how succulent they look and the vibrant colors.) Then we got talking about cut flowers. Do you send them? I used to send my husband flowers after a deal had gone well, or if I knew he’d had a particularly bad week. The secretaries in his office loved it. Now he works from home, so I can buy flowers that brighten both our days. I used to send my mother sheaves of spring flowers on May Day. Now she wants blooming plants and thinks cut flowers are a waste. I bow to her wishes; my goal is to bring color into her life, not argue about thrift.

I buy cut flowers for myself, especially in the spring. When it’s dreary, I can’t resist the cheerful colors. I like to bring flowers to hostesses, along with a bottle of wine, when we dine out. Often, I’m struck by how surprised and delighted people are to receive flowers. I wonder if flower-giving has fallen out of fashion. Still, I love to get them. Why shouldn’t I give them, too?

A young friend of mine asked me what he should get his mother for Mother’s Day. I said: flowers. He argued, saying it was lame, cliché, too impersonal, and besides, they die. A week later, I had dinner with this mother and she spent thirty minutes telling me about the flowers her son had given her—he had taken my advice after all. How she had found them waiting for her in the morning with a card. How lovely the colors were. How good they made the house smell. How some of the flowers had wilted quicker than others, so she got a different vase and rearranged the remaining blooms for a different effect. There was absolutely nothing ‘lame’ in her joy and I relayed the story to my young friend, her son. He conceded that he had learned a lesson and thanked me.

To me, flowers show appreciation, love, affection, regret. Heartfelt, simple and just plain pretty.

What about you? Do you give flowers? How often do you get them? Is it for a special occasion or ‘just because?’ Do you prefer cut flowers or blooming plants? Bouquets or sheaves of flowers you can arrange yourself?

Thinking about love and flowers—Lisa

My mother has a tradition at Thanksgiving. We all hold hands, the meal spread before us on the table, and tell everyone assembled what we’re thankful for this year. When I was a kid, this made me cringe. First, the tradition made sure everyone was staring at me—horrifying when I was a self-conscious teenager. Second, what the heck was I going to say? I would obsess for days ahead of time to come up with the perfect short, thoughtful phrase. Inevitably, I would flub it and a slight titter (or out-right guffaw from my brother) would circle the table. Eventually, as I matured, I learned to play to the crowd, keep it simple and the moments eased on by.

These days, it’s so easy to focus on the worst. Crisis after crisis hits the headlines and pops out of every mouth, TV, blog or tweet. The stories are frightening and devastating. Every-day life is full of small calamities, too: the car breaks down, the toilet backs up, the cat throws up on the new sofa, bad hair, really bad dust-bunnies. Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing to be grateful for. Then Thanksgiving arrives and I remember my mother’s tradition. I spend a few days thinking about all the great things in my life and I re-focus on what’s important: family, love, laughter.

This Thanksgiving, I won’t be sharing a meal with my family, but maybe that’s a good thing. The turkey would need a sweater to keep from catching a chill while I list all the things I’m thankful for this year. I have a wonderful husband. I have terrific friends, some of whom just helped us move. You have to be grateful for people who help you haul an eight-foot sofa up five flights of stairs. I get to write every day. I have romance readers who enjoy my stories. The list goes on and on.

Now I’m going to pass this wonderful tradition on to you. Join hands, everyone. What are you thankful for this year?

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Do you get nervous? I do. Public speaking, flying, and being in a gale on my sailboat: all moments when my pulse speeds up. Lucky for me, I don’t have too many outward signs of my inward trepidation. To an innocent bystander, I can seem perfectly calm, cool and collected. Inside, an 8.2 earthquake shakes me. And my hands get cold. Really cold. It takes about an hour for them to warm up after the episode of nerves has passed.

I spent the weekend at the New Jersey Romance Writers Convention, “Put Your Heart in a Book,” and my nerves were right there with me. You see, talking about my writing makes me nervous, too. It is immensely important to me. It’s part of who I am. I am afraid that when I talk to others about my writing, especially agents and publishers, I am not doing justice to my written words. My audience will dismiss what I say, because I’m not saying what I ought. Have you ever had someone excitedly describe the plot of a book or a movie you haven’t read or seen? How long did it take before your eyes glazed over? I’m afraid that’s exactly what happens to anyone who hears me talk about my most cherished characters and stories.

At any convention, I try to meet as many people as I can. I ask a lot of questions. I am amazed by what others are doing, how prolific and creative they all are. Invariably, the people I meet ask me questions, too. My nervousness kicks in, but I answer as clearly as I can. I want them to understand what I’m writing, what I’m thinking and the delight I find in the writing process.

So, in a lot of these conversations, my hands go vampire cold while the rest of my body stays warmly mortal. I know when I say goodbye and shake that person’s hand, she’s going to shiver and wonder if she’s been unwittingly discussing romance with the undead. But that’s okay. I’m glad I’m having an attack of nerves. Because if my stories matter so much to me, then maybe—just maybe, at least when I write—I can make them that important to my reader.

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Last Friday I moved my sailboat into a small marina in Annapolis, Maryland. It’s one of a dozen or more marinas that crowd the shores of Back Creek. When you step off the docks, you are in the Eastport neighborhood—known locally as the Maritime Republic of Eastport. A less-touristy area than Annapolis proper, Eastport has none of the bustle that accompanies the capitol of a state. If you didn’t know the State House was just a short walk across the Spa Creek bridge, you’d never guess it. The streets are lined with small charming houses. Trees arch out to form a canopy of green overhead. From around every corner you catch a glimpse of water and, of course, boats.

Walking out of the marina parking lot to look around, you find the Leeward coffee shop two blocks to the east. About a half-block west is Davis’s Tavern, a former mercantile store in the 1930’s, converted to a local watering hole. Really, this is about as perfect as it gets for a writer: libations for either end of the day all within walking distance.

The evening after we tied up, we decided to go see what was happening at the tavern, see what the locals do for fun after the long work-week. To our surprise, Davis’s was crowded. Outside, people stood in clusters under the green awnings or sat at the tables. Inside, the barstools were full. We took a table nearby and overheard several lies . . . I mean sea stories being told. Most of the patrons had houses nearby, or boats at the marinas across the street, or both. It was a happy, convivial atmosphere that made you want to stay and mingle.

That’s when my first attack of déjà vu hit: I had been there before. No, I don’t mean that I had ever been in Davis’s Tavern. Before that evening, I didn’t even know it existed. But there was a feel to the place that was very familiar, except I couldn’t figure out the connection. The next morning, writing away on my latest book, I realize that Davis’s shared some striking resemblances to the bar I had created for my characters. My bar—The Laughing Gull—is in an old, historic building on the waterfront. You can see boats from its windows. The vibe I get from the bar I created is a lot like the real one: warm, welcoming and boisterous.

A few days later we stopped into the tavern again. It wasn’t so busy on a weeknight, so we pulled up a stool. As I was sipping my wine, a man walked up to the bar next to me, smiled and ordered a drink. He had a thick accent that sounded Italian. After the bartender served him, he took his beer outside to a table. Through the windows, I could see him sit down with several other older men who all seemed to be talking at once and having a great time. Forgetting my manners, I started to stare. He looked very like my image of Antonio Berzani, patriarch of the Berzani clan and father to my hero, Ian. Did he have an Italian accent? Yes. Did he talk with his hands? Yes. Was he tall, have silver hair and dark eyes with a twinkle lurking in their depths? Yes, yes, yes.

Whoa.

Did one of my characters just come to life? And was he in a bar that came out of my imagination? The universe isn’t supposed to work that way, but what if this is one of those mysterious anomalies? What I love most of all about this “déjà vu” experience (I’m sure there’s a better psychological term for experiencing something you imagined beforehand) is that it shows I’ve successfully translated my experiences on the Chesapeake Bay extracted from a myriad of small communities—Chestertown, Deltaville, Oxford, Easton—into a “real” fictional place, somewhere my characters really would live, laugh and love.

So far, none of my other characters has made an appearance at Davis’s or around the neighborhood, but I’m not giving up. Any day, I expect to see Kate and Patrick with their baby, strolling along Chester Avenue, or Ian lugging his tool box into a boatyard, or Mimi strumming her guitar and singing at a local hangout. I believe that there’s a thin spot in the fabric of the universe somewhere around here and through it, my stories are entering this reality.

How cool would that be?

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I love Fall.

I can feel it coming, though here on the Chesapeake Bay, Summer is far from over. The days are still hot and sticky. Most evenings, wild thunderstorms generated by all the land-heat push out to sea and crash over the boat. The storms are like grand temper tantrums staged by Mother Nature herself: rumbling thunder flaring to a wild pitch of rain, wind and lightning, then over quickly, leaving calm. The waters are filled with jellyfish galore—a product of the higher salinity this time of year—all the way to the northern end of the Bay. Still, Fall is on its way.

The first harbinger is all the “back-to-school” sales. Advertisements for everything from Notebook computers to notebook paper everywhere you look. Pencils, erasures, backpacks, sweaters: all necessities of the new school year. Though I am long out of school, it makes me want to go out and buy shoes; a new pair to celebrate the new year. Because, for me, Fall is—and always has been—the start of the New Year.

Soon the weather will match my mood. The air will lose this humidity and become crisp. The skies will be a crystal blue, all haze swept away in the northerly winds. Leaves will turn brilliant colors and slowly fall to the ground to be shuffled under our feet and raked into piles. The season I love the most will truly arrive and—here in the mid-Atlantic—linger and laze its way into Winter.

So, I’m sending you all a bouquet of No. 2 pencils, to celebrate Fall. I hope you enjoy their heady aroma of new beginnings. Perhaps they will inspire you to sharpen one, pull out that new notebook, open the cover and write a few words. As for me, I think I’ll go look at shoes.

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My fabulous editor, Johanna Raisanen, called me Friday and told me Harlequin is going to buy my fourth book.  Yea!

For those of you paying attention (and I know you all are, lol ) this is the third book in the “Berzani Tirlogy.”  Book one was Baby On Board (January 2009), which told the story of Patrick Berzani and Kate Taylor.  It is the tale of an unexpected baby and a mother who wants the best for her child. Unfortunately, the best does not include the child’s father. Somehow, he must convince her she’s wrong and that he is the only father for her child! 

The second book, An Unexpected Father (April 2010), tells the story of Ian, Patrick’s older brother, and the bond that grows between him and nine-year-old Jack Green–and Jack’s lovely mother, Mimi.

This new book is all about Patrick’s best friend, Evan McKenzie.  Evan is a playboy who will never settle down. At least, that’s what he thinks!  Stay tuned to see what happens when he and Anna Berzani spend a passionate night together with unexpected consequences.  Look for it later in 2010.

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