Frankie's No Kiss Blogfest

Here are the Rules, straight from Frankie Writes:

1) Sometime between now and Jan 2, 2011 (Uh, yeah. I just found out about it this very minute!) write a post about the No Kiss Blogfest to let everyone know you are participating and that they should too. Why? Because it's awesome!

2) Sign up for No Kiss Blogfest by clicking over and filling in the Mr. Linky. Because Mr. Linky is awesome.

3)Tweet about No Kiss Blogfest, using the hash tag: #nokissblogfest because #hashtagsareawesome

4) After you've recovered from New Years Eve, write a blog sharing your Almost Kiss, No Kiss Blogfest entry (either one from your WIP, one you just wrote, one from a book, movie or tv show) and post on January 2, 2011!!! Because reading your posts are awesome!

For the blogfest I'm sharing an excerpt from Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's, my first in-process novel. It hasn't been edited in a bit so I hope it passes today's muster.

It was dark when Sammy stepped from the Boeing 767 at the gate in Atlanta. She was glad she’d told her father not to pick her up, she wanted him at the hospital with her mother. She needed the drive to Gainesville to gather her wits. She had slept a bit on the plane, just enough to ease the hangover from the night before. Of course, the two Bloody Mary’s had helped.

She was still angry at J.C. And even angrier at herself. There was thinking to be done, decisions to be made and a huge mess to clean up. But right now, the main thing was Mama.

Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was exactly what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

“Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag  over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?” The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. I don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. Please step away from the entrance. The doors are about to open.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.

Okay. So he did lay a little smackaroo on her, but she didn't kiss him back. And she didn't give in to her baser instincts, either. She didn't have that drink with him. So I'm hoping it qualifies.

Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. Then click on over to Frankie Writes to read all the other entries or to submit your own last-minute one.

Thank you so much for stopping by. For reading. For commenting. And, hopefully, for following as well. I'll be over to read your posts tonight!

~Olivia J. Herrell

Genre Hopping Crazy Lady?

"Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart - Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens." ~ Carl Gustav Jung

RaShelle at A No. 2 pencil stat! asked the question, "Where do you draw your inspiration?".

In Bridge Across Forever, Richard Bach (one of my favorite authors) shares the following :

What was the question? ...Oh. Where do I get my crazy ideas? Answer: sleep-fairy, walk-fairy, shower-fairy. Book-fairy. And in these last few years, from my wife. Now when I have questions I ask her and she tells me the answer. If you haven't already, I'd suggest you want to find your soulmate, as soon as you can. Next question?

I've always loved this answer, because it's pretty much true for me, too. (The fairy part, not the soulmate part, I'm mateless at the moment.) I just have to pay attention and listen.

The title for my current wip, Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's came to me while driving, from the car fairy, one word at a time. The day the third word fell in to place, I was driving home from a seminar and by the time I reached the house, I had the premise, the main character, several of the supporting characters and much of the storyline. Thank you, car fairy!

I'm now a third of the way through the first draft of that novel, a southern women's fiction with a big smattering of romance and some rauch. As I've mentioned a time or two, I don't multitask well, so when the idea for a new novel, in a totally different genre starting niggling at me a few days ago (during meditation), I told the meditation fairy, "thank you for sharing" and wrote the idea down for later. Later being when I'm done with this first draft.

Today, while sitting for meditation, lo and behold, instead of giving me more insight on where to take my current wip, little niggle insisted on being heard and handed me the premise, the main character, several of the supporting characters and much of the storyline for Novel Two. And it's SciFi. Go figure. Thank you, meditation fairy!

Which brings me to a post by Roland Yeomans at Writing in the Crosshairs a week or so ago. He said he writes in the genres that most influenced him as a child and asked what books we had read back then and whether we find that same corollary in our own writing.

At first, I had a hard time remembering what I'd read (after all, that was a long time ago and I was an avid reader from the time I first started putting sentences together). But his question engaged my rememberer, and I realized that my reads were all over the place. I genre-hopped like crazy. If it looked interesting, I would read it, even when the subject matter was way over my head.

But I was pretty sure I had not read any southern women's fiction or 'romance' back then (though every good novel has a smattering of romance).

Now I get it. Heaven help us. I started out reading all over the place so it's not unlikely that I would write all over the place. The trick will be to have some common thread because I'm pretty sure agents and publishers frown on genre-hopping.

Does Roland's theory hold true for you in your writing? Any words of wisdom out there for a genre-hopping crazy lady?

The Bickering Blogfest/Bratty Kids and Best Friends No More

The Bickering Blogfest is tomorrow, June 30th. That's my birthday, so I'm posting a little early. Kind of an advance celebration if you will. If you're not already following my blog, I'd love it if you would!

Thank you to Kristen, at Take It As It Comes, for hosting. When you're done reading and commenting here, please click over to read the other entries and to follow those guys, too.

Quick aside: I had set a goal for my manuscript of 22,000 words by tomorrow, which means, hmm, another 1,596 words to go. Almost there, yeeehaaa! I'll get a few more in the bag tonight, then the rest tomorrow morning. Which means I'll have the afternoon for a birthday lunch with friends at my new best fun place to eat, PicNic Cafe and Dessertery. Yep. You heard that right. DESSERTery! Bet they'll have some kind of yummy cake for the birthday girl! Then either a massage or a movie after. Or both. Why not. It's my birthday after all. :)


This entry is an short excerpt from my novel, Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's. (For those who asked, chichi's is another name for ta ta's or breasts.) The MC, Sammy, is just home from Hollywood after twelve years away to take care of her mother who's had a heart attack. 'Home' is a rural community in North Georgia. Gracie May was Sammy's best friend through school until they had a falling-out their Senior year.

Walmart was just as she remembered it; big, noisy and full of cheap stuff. Already Sammy had seen two of her classmates, Shonda Sparks, who was now Shonda Fitts and had five kids in tow, and Seth Ball, who was in charge of the Garden Department and had helped them reach a planter from the top shelf. Neither of them had left Piedmont, and neither of them saw any reason to. Thinking of it made Sammy shudder.

She found her mother in the freezer aisle of the grocery section, reaching in the case for frozen berries. Those would be for Sammy’s morning smoothies. She couldn’t eat bacon, eggs and biscuits every morning or she’d never get a part when she got back to L.A.

She waved the jumbo package of Northern tissue at her mother, “I found it over in the Health and Beauty aisle, though Lord knows why they keep it there, this stuff isn’t healthy. We’ll have to go to Kroger for the chlorine-free stuff. They don’t have it.”

Living in California had changed Sammy’s eating habits and made her aware of her health. She chose not to rub chlorine bleach in her coochie every time she peed, or support a practice that was so obviously bad for the planet.

“Well, I’ll be. If it isn’t Samantha Eubanks,” a voice drawled, dripping with venomous sarcasm. Sammy knew before turning who the voice belonged to, and sure enough, it was Gracie May.

“Why if it isn’t Gracie May Williams,” Sammy returned, mimicking Gracie May’s tone. “My, but haven’t we grown up.”

Out was more like it. Gracie May had put on fifty pounds if she’d put on an ounce. Her double chin rested on pendulous boobs and her hair boasted a jet-black dye job, a bad one that frizzed around her head.

Two snotty-nosed kids writhed behind her, slapping at each other and fighting over something the boy was holding. Just then the girl, the spitting image of Gracie May at eight, reached out and slapped the boy in the face. He squealed and attacked her, using his fists in retaliation.

“See ya later, Gracie May. Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Sammy said, grabbing the buggy and dragging her mother with her.

“Oh. My. God.” Sammy laughed when they were away from the ruckus. “Let’s get out of here, Mama. Whatever else you need we’ll get it at Kroger.”

“Come on,” she hissed when her mother hesitated to look back in the direction of Gracie May’s bellows.

Sammy pushed the cart to the far checkout lane and got her mother out of Walmart as quickly as possible. Gracie May and the terror twins were nowhere in sight as she bundled the groceries in the trunk and slammed the lid.

Making sure her mother was buckled in, she put the bug in reverse and skedaddled.

I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Please click on the comments below and leave your thoughts as a momento, uh, birthday present. Unless of course you hated it. And, yes, I want to know that, too.

Thanks for stopping by! Olivia
P.S. Don't forget to click over and read the rest of the entries.

Bad Boy Blogfest/Pretty Packages Don't Always Contain Pretty

During an afternoon of census work in the mountains of Dawsonville, I fell in love with a place called Eagle Ridge. When my bestseller hits, I'm buying a cabin there. It runs along a mountain top that's just wide enough for the road and the houses perched along either side. In both directions there is a view that makes my heart soar.

I've been up there twice and both times a thunderstorm rolled in. The first time I drove only a third of the way down and found it lovely. Today I went all the way to the end. And fell in love.

One day I will have a house there. This I know.

Now, down to business. It's Blogfest time again. This one is hosted by Tina Sandoval, of Sweet Niblets and it's a Bad Boy Blogfest, so go check it out!

Tina Sandoval's Bad Boy Blogfest

I recently introduced a real bad boy to my manuscript and needed to develop his badness, so entering Tina's blogfest gave me a deadline. I wrote this a few nights ago and edited it tonight. I hope it conveys the badness to come. If not, I probably didn't do my job as a writer and will need to tweak it a little.

Bad boys come in all shapes and sizes. Some monsters don't kill or maim. If you don't normally read or watch R-ratings, please don't read this. Consider yourself forewarned.

This excerpt is from my in-process novel, Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's. The main character, Sammy, recently returned to North Georgia to help take care of her mother. She just met this guy in the local grocery.

William watched in his rearview mirror as Sammy Starr exited the store with her mother. She was much hotter in person than she was on screen. This babe was seriously scorching and smacked of Hollywood, even dressed down for Piedmont.


What luck that he’d run in to her already, without any effort on his part. Even better that she was attracted to him.

When Alistair had mentioned she was coming home, he had immediately started planning. He couldn’t wait to get her clothes off. And seeing wasn’t the only thing he wanted to do to that body.

The timing was perfect; his latest lover had turned out to be boring and predictable, as they all invariably did. He preferred them married, there were less strings attached. But Sammy was different.

He watched the petite blond as she sashayed across the parking lot with her jeans hugging her butt and her breasts pushing the limits of her sweater. He felt his pants get tighter as she bent over to help her mother in to a convertible VW and her derriere kissed the air.

She closed the door and opened the trunk to deposit a bag of groceries. Returning the cart to the receptacle, she turned and shook shoulder-length hair from her face. Every move seemed sensuous and deliberate. And he was salivating.

A shiver ran through him when she crossed back to her car and eyed his jag appreciatively. His 2009 XK convertible was definitely a chick magnet and had been a damn good investment. From the looks of her own ride, Sammy appreciated a convertible. He’d find a way to get her in to his soon enough.

Though her eyes were hidden by Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, he saw the telltale start of recognition. She had read his license plate and realized the jag belonged to him. She saluted, as he had done in the store, and then climbed in to her car. The heat in his loins was unbearable.

Oh yeah, Sammy Starr was one helluva woman. He had been fantasizing about her for years. But he sensed the real thing would be far better. Soon, very soon, she’d be his.

He waited until the VW had pulled out of the parking lot before starting his jag. He sat there for a minute listening to the purr of its motor, then rubbed a wet palm on his crotch, repositioning.

Patience, he thought. Patience. Good things come to those who wait.

In the meantime, he’d call Raylene. It had been a few days and he was beyond bursting after running in to Sammy. They would swing by that hot tub party the colonel was having tonight. His hot tub parties meant wet, naked women, all drinking and uninhibited. And that always made for a lusty combination, more fuel for the fire in his belly.

There you have it. Please leave me a comment so I know what's on your mind. Your opinion matters.

Don't forget to click over to Tina's blog to read the posts from the other entrants to the Bad Boy Blogfest. I'll be doing that myself. See y'all tomorrow!

Flirt Fest Blogfest, I Had To!

The gals over at Critique This WIP are hosting a Flirt Fest Blogfest today. I had decided not to participate in another blogfest until I get this manuscript rolling forward again, but here I am, unable to resist. After all, it's a Flirt Fest!!!





Make sure and click over to Critique This and read all the other entries in the Flirt Fest, there are some truly amazing writers over there.

I'm posting another scene from my current WIP (work in progress for my non-writer readers). In this one our main character, Sammy, just stepped off a plane and is feeling particularly vulnerable.

Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was just what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

“Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?”

The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. Don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. The doors are opening. Please exit the tram.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.

A big thanks to Merissa, Julie, Margaret and Courtney, the aspiring romance authors who fuel Critique This, for hosting this blogfest. Don't forget to click over to read the other entries to their Flirt Fest Blogfest.

Bad Girl Blogfest

Once again, I've agonized about turning another piece of my baby loose for public inspection. This time, the venue is the Bad Girl Blogfest hosted by Andrew Rosenberg over at The WriteRunner. I have decided what the hay. This excerpt is taken from a women's fiction novel I'm currently working on. Mine seems tame after reading some of the other submissions, but, good, bad or indifferent, here she is.

It was dark when she reached Manuel’s, a juke joint blues club in Santa Monica. There were other places J.C. might go, but Manuel’s was a pretty safe bet. J.C. was a regular on stage and he liked the adulation the crowd there showered on him. Especially the skanks. He never could get over his liking for strange.

It was her misfortune that Sammy couldn’t get over her liking for J.C. Maybe this time would be the charm.

The studly valet opened her door and almost dripped drool before wrenching his eyes from her decollete.

“Evening, Ms. Starr. I’ll take care of her for you.”

“Thanks, Beau, is J.C. inside?”

“Umm, not sure,” the valet lied.

Squaring her shoulders, ready for a fight, Sammy flounced in to the bar, high-beams flashing. He was there, at a table, drinking with his musician buddies.

Ignoring him, she detoured to the bar and ordered her usual, a Budweiser.

“Cuervo shooter?” Brandy, the bartender, asked, raising her eyebrows toward the table of men in the corner. Sammy hesitated for a fraction of a second. She didn’t want to get snockered tonight, and tequila tended to do that to her.

“Ohh. Why not.” She needed liquid courage. After all, she wasn’t exactly Laura Croft. Though, she did have her moments. She hoped tonight would be one of them.

Downing the shot and sucking on the sliver of lime, Sammy shuddered. Then she turned the frosted mug up and gulped half of its contents. And belched.

“So ladylike,” Brandy giggled.

At that, Sammy wrinkled her nose and chugged the rest. Slamming the mug on the bar beside her purse, she winked at Brandy and stalked over to J.C.’s table.

“Hello, boys, J.C.” Fists planted on come-hither hips, Sammy pinned J.C. with her eyes. “Got a minute? We have some unfinished business.”

Not intimidated, J.C. shrugged.

“No, I think we pretty much finished. Me and you? We are through.”

“We’re not through till I say so,” Sammy hissed. “Get up asshole and fight.”

J.C. chuckled. The rest of the table was silent. They’d all seen Sammy in action and weren’t about to get in the middle. One had even been the recipient of a well-placed jab in the not too far distant past. They were all staying out of it.

“Get up from this table, now!”

“Or what, princess?” J.C. scowled. Looking at the other guys, he snickered. “Did you know that Sammy was once Chicken Queen of the South?”

“That does it!” Quick as lightning, Sammy reached under the table and flipped it. Drinks flew and the musicians scattered. All but J.C., who was drenched and mad as a banty rooster.

“You cunt!” he growled, wiping the front of his shirt, murder in his eyes.

“That’s more like it, punk,” Sammy purred. Taking advantage of his rage, Sammy struck, stamping a stilettoed heel in to his sneakered instep.

J.C. roared. Grabbing her by the pony tail, he yanked her around so they were nose-to-nose. He wanted to deck her, but he couldn’t. He knew he'd had it coming.

“It’s over bitch,” he ground out through clinched teeth. “Over. Done. Fini. No more. Why can't you get that through your head?” Shoving her away to keep from hurting her, he turned to right the table and gain his composure.

Sammy was on him like a banshee on crack. She locked her legs around his, toppling them over on the sticky, liquor-drenched floor. A glass exploded as they landed, with Sammy on top, peppering J.C. with her deadly jabs.

“Stop it, Sammy. Stop!” He commanded. “Stop. It. Now.” Wrapping his arms around her, J.C. pinned her flailing arms to her side. She was still on top of him, her body molded to his, that clingy top molded to hers. God, she was sexy and she still turned him on, even when she was hopped up crazy.

“Why, why, why?” Sammy wailed against his chest, the anger oozing out of her as she sobbed.

J.C. wanted to stay mad at her. It would make everything so much easier. But he couldn’t. His guilt and her tears undid him. And he knew the make-up sex would be worth it.

“Come on princess, let’s go home. We’ve given these boys enough of a show for one night.”

Ashamed, and somewhat mollified, Sammy complied. After all, her intent was to get him home again. And on that, she had won.

Yeehaaa! Olivia Herrell