Category Archives for "#amwritingromance"


They stared into each other’s eyes for several seconds. They never used to do this. It was all go at it, get to the sex or the argument. But tonight, they just looked at each other’s faces and absorbed what they saw. She saw a man damaged by his own hand and burdened by a past that wasn’t his fault. She saw a man who had one speed, and that was fast. On. Present. No daydreams or visions of greatness. He used to tell her he was just a man who was hired “to get ’er done” because he could. He did the things others couldn’t do, and for that, he’d paid a heavy price. But he also didn’t want anyone’s pity.
And she was a woman who couldn’t take the energy because it interfered with her own. He needed someone who could support him. She needed the same thing, and neither one could give the other what was needed. That was the long and the short of it.
Unmasked and without the emotional overtones, the angry upsets, and hurts, she could see better who this man really was. And he wasn’t so threatening. Or maybe he’d learned to couch some things, change his behavior in ways she’d not noticed. This could be the way he was all along, and she just never saw it.

Any way she served it up, she came to the same conclusion. She’d heard people say it on military blogs or at functions she used to attend. She’d seen it written on a plaque located on an island in the South Pacific, carved by men who knew what they were talking about and who’d just lost their best friends on a foreign beach. She stepped toward him without touching, inhaled, and said, “Thank you, Morgan for all you’ve done and continue to do to keep me safe. Thank you for my freedom. I appreciate you more than I’ve ever told you before.”
He was going to grab her and kiss her, but she pushed him away.
“Whoa! I didn’t mean that. I said ‘thank you’, not ‘come fuck me.’”
His smirk was so disarming, in spite of how wrong it was to love seeing it. He was forbidden fruit all the way. Every part of him. The way he looked, the imaginary way he made love to her in her dreams—full tilt without holding anything back. He made quick decisions just like she did, like it was ready, fire, and then aim. He’d always give his all and bear the consequences of the haunting afterward. He wouldn’t change for anyone or anything because being damaged looked good on him. Like a uniform that was perfectly tailored. His scars were his medals. He was a hurricane sometimes without a focus, and he’d never be tethered to anyone, no matter what the cost. But he could, and she honestly believed this with her whole heart, that he could save her from whomever was after her.

Just before he opened the door, he turned. “Darlin’, I’m revved and ready to go if and when you ever decide to drop that gate.”

Thought you also wouldn’t mind a couple of other shots of my San Francisco model, Justin Thomas (who is about as nice to meet as he looks). Just 2 more days. Ok ladies, start your engines!

You can order Bachelor SEAL here. Enjoy!
Source: Sharon’s Blog

Is It A Battle or A Marriage? Creative Brain vs. Logical Brain

She’s in the fantasy of the story. He eats cake.

I always told myself that I loved writing my stories so thoroughly that I would never experience burn-out, or need a break. I told myself that was what other authors did who perhaps had overwhelming things come up in their lives: family concerns, economic downturns or just life in general, and this somehow wouldn’t apply to me. Because none of these things would happen to me. I always thought of myself as bullet-proof. Unstoppable. I’m a great one for giving this kind of advice too. Just ask me.

And then June-July of this year happened. I can’t say what it was. I knew something was up (still in denial mode) when I knew I shouldn’t read my reviews and couldn’t stop from doing so, when friends who had phenomenal success suddenly made me feel like a loser, or when I made up stories about the significance of book sales, how fast people got back to me, and on and on and on it went. You know the drill. Your mind goes on a dribble like chasing oversized zucchinis down a hill. These lumpy thoughts felt like my brain was filled with busy little ants trying to make a kingdom of my gray matter.

Seeking vehicular meaning. Not.

Every one of my calendars was still on July, until last week. My desk looked like a hamster was nesting there. I hated to check social media, stayed off Facebook and especially Messenger, but a few got through. When people started thinking perhaps I was dead, I had to laugh. Even then I didn’t respond sometimes. I know. It was selfish, self-absorbed, poor manners. But I needed a break.

This December 15th it will be ten years since I started writing. It will be eight years since I published my first little novella, and five years since I published my biggest seller, Accidental SEAL, my first book to take off and begin to make some serious money. I’ve taken roughly sixty online writing classes, attended about a hundred RWA Chapter meetings, attended probably close to that number of book signings and online FB events. I have a huge following and newsletter list, and lots of adoring fans who fill me with delight. So, what’s the problem?

The emergency brainectomy of life.

At first I thought I’m boycotting social media because, after all, this last election cycle had to be one of the nastiest one in our history. I was so disappointed to read how my very good writer friends had positions I thought were crazy, or how they thought my positions were. I stopped talking politics except at home, but I should have stayed out of it there too. There was nothing redeeming on social media and I felt like a mouse in that enormous flywheel, running, running, running to catch up. I still missed things, deadlines snuck up on me, and others I had to just walk away from.

But social media wasn’t the reason for my situation. Amazon wasn’t the big bad monster interfering with discoverability and book sales. I wondered if my Red-White-and-Blue-Rah-Rah-Love-The-Military themes in my books were getting shoved down in the algorhithms. Was there too much competition? Or, did I not work hard enough? Did I believe in myself enough? Where was God, my family and my friends and how come they couldn’t fix me? Help me?

I expected to look 20 when I peeled this off.

Facials and massages didn’t work. The soapmaking classes, collage classes, walks in the park, gardening, starting a new business, traveling to Mexico, didn’t work. I dyed my hair red, and that made me laugh, but it didn’t put the fire in my soul. I listened to music, burned a ton of candles, stayed out in the sun as much as I could stand, and even tried to go vegan for awhile. I tried to read and couldn’t get through any of the first chapters. I got more sleep than I’ve had in years. I cancelled seven events, dealt with a blood clot to my leg and a minor stroke my husband had. Everything is fine. No life-threatening things on the horizon then or now.

So, what was it?

It was my logical mind trying to do a BDSM session with my creative mind. It took special glee in whipping and tying my creative self up with “that doesn’t works” and “you are so stupid” comments, humiliating that part of me where all the magic lives. And the longer it went, the more my logical mind tried to be in control. I was trying to figure it all out.

I love the story about the two dogs. One dog is the vicious, fearful one, and the other dog is the excited, loving and creative dog that loves affection, connection and that sense of coming home. That famous Native American story goes that we have to decide what dog we feed.


The only way through it is to give myself over to the Creative Brain. There is no real control, is there? We don’t know why music fills our soul, or why flowers make us happy, or why sun brings us some sort of divine energy from the Heavens. Our creative side has no limits, no borders, no barriers and no regrets.

And it’s a choice. That’s what I’ve chosen.

Will I go back to being a social butterfly? No. I’m going to be careful. I’m going to pace myself. I’m going to be careful who I hang around, who fills my day. But I’m going to make most of it filled with my characters from the books. I’ve been missing them.

And unlike real life, I can have as many lovers in my fantasy life as I choose. I guess what I found, after all this wandering is not my brain, but my heart. Writing stories is the most enjoyable activity in my life. That’s the dog I’m feeding.

What do you think? I’d really love to hear it…(kiss, kiss).

Source: Sharon’s Blog

Partnerships, Teamwork – Maintaining a High-Maintenance Life

I put everything on hold yesterday and attended a soap and lotion making class held through The Goat Farm. OMG I had so much fun. Was like a play day with several lady friends. My hairdresser told me about The Goat Farm, and I intended to schedule a meet and greet sometime soon with Mindy and her husband, who own the farm. Then I discovered she was having two classes on making soap and making salves and lotions – I got in and Ta Da! Another new world has opened up for me.

You already know I do paper collage. And I love to quilt. I have been an organic gardener for over 40 years now, and I have a big local family, a business to run, helping with the family business occasionally (my former career in Real Estate), and on and on and on. I’d always thought I would make a wonderful grandmother, staying home to knit, sew things, make collage art, decorate the house, make candles and soap, write romances and garden.

Well, my life is sort of like this. Today, I will be taking my expecting daughter on a little mother-daughter shopping. Her baby is due in October, and her shower is next week. Then I spend a week partially in Las Vegas for some real estate things, and then off to Ottawa for Romancing the Capital, Eve Langlois’s wonderful event, where I hope to see some great dedicated readers I’ve never met in person before…

So this week is about finishing, getting my instructions ready for the garden watering so that doesn’t turn into an epic fail, making sure everything I need to get done gets done this week. And so why not take a soap-making class? Meet some new friends and indulge myself in scents and beautiful soap and lotion art?

My long term plans are sort of turning out. The part that isn’t is I forgot to meditate and dream/look forward to the deadlines in my life. The trick, for me, is to float through life, doing all these things, and make it look artsy, effortless and soul-affirming, while making sure I keep to my commitments to others. After all, I am not independently wealthy. I didn’t marry Prince Charming who has a trust fund and unlimited resources. And I’m the primary bread-winner in our family. So I can’t piddle and dawdle too long. But I have to trick my brain into thinking I am living the life of ease and luxury, the life and soul-affirming things of my every day, so that the stress doesn’t get in the way of me actually doing anything.

I have several partnerships. First, and foremost, I partner with myself. Am I getting healthier as I age? Am I doing what things I want to do while I can do them? Am I managing my finances and my time in such a way that there is more life at the end of the month instead of more stress? Do I live in a house of my design, a place where I enjoy being and where I can feel my soul growing? Or, does it limit me? And is the cost (time/emotional energy) worth the result?

I partner with my husband. Not everything is perfect all the time. After some 46 years of marriage, we’ve done a pretty good job of balancing the urgent and the necessary, with the folly, leaving time for creative endeavors and explorations. I think we do best at the explorations. For me, that’s travel. Part of being a good partner is learning and telling the truth on what we can and are willing to bring to the table. I’m no Cinderella either. But partnerships don’t do very well under stress or chaos, and a lot of our time is spent making sure these things happen only on a limited basis. Gardening, traveling, going on soap-binges or shopping (in moderation) helps with this, too.

I partner with my other family members. I am nearly the oldest woman member of my little tribe. That comes with it some responsibilities to pass on what I’ve learned in a way that doesn’t make my family feel like I’ve hit them between the eyes. I want to give them memories they can laugh about when I’m gone. And yes, I admit, I’d like there to be a big hole when I leave. I’d like to be missed.

Partnerships with others in my real estate or writing community, in other endeavors I’m involved with requires telling the truth and learning who and what I can trust. I have some partners I’d love to listen to but would never count on in a crisis. I have others who I can count on for different things, but not for all things. I sort and pick, and yes, occasionally dead-head my friends and associates. No sense trying to make or keep a friend who is drifting, or not wanting to reciprocate, or for whom I have to do all the heavy lifting. As I get older, I’ve been better and better about discerning those things. And I’ve made some major screw-ups along the way being too trusting. But the lessons have been massive, and the circumstances have taught me a lot about myself. Just like raising children, being long-term married, growing a garden or starting a successful business — failure is part of the story.

I guess I could sum up my life as a patchwork of things, some found, some discovered, some worked for, some gifted and some lost, or lost and re-found. It is a blend of highs and lows, colors and blandness, determination and creativity, art and science and a little magic thrown in along the way.

I guess these are all life skills I’ll need some day when I take my next great adventure into the unknown. I take that hole that hopefully will be made here and bring that value to wherever else I’m going. And then give it all away again.

Because, in the end, all of it is a series of giving everything away, in various stages of our lives. It’s not about receiving all day long. For me, it’s about watching how my gifts change the world around me. My gardens. My books. My loves. My family. My quilts. My spaces.

My heart.

What about you?

Source: Sharon’s Blog

Naughty Romance Novelist Waters Garden in her Nightie and Lives to Tell The Tale!

Oh yes, you think I’m joking? I did it this morning. Last night I needed something very light to wear because it was still near 100 degrees at bed time. So, I wore one of my black long lacy nighties worthy of any erotic Halloween. As I do these days, I get up and water my garden in whatever I’ve been wearing to bed. So, today I vamped in my black nightgown. I deadheaded like any good witch, picked replacement roses that had wilted last night beside my bed in the heat, checked my cucumbers and melons, pulled some bolted lettuce, clipped my coriopsis and daisies, and added extra sprinkler timers to the flower bed and part of the lawn that doesn’t catch water yet.

We have no neighbors so I can do this. My gown was muddy and wet, but refreshingly stuck to my body in cold ribbons in the hot breeze. Yes, I started about 6:30 AM and didn’t finish until nearly 10.

The story I’m finishing is a novella, and I’m in love with this couple. Yes, I know, I do say this every time, but I am in love with Trace and Gretchen, both second time arounders. Trace has just transferred to Kyle’s Team 3 from an east coast team, like Cooper did in the early books. Gretchen is Kate’s sister (of Kate and Tyler in SEAL Of My Heart that was just on a Book Bub special), Book 7 of the SEAL Brotherhood Series. She was married to a professional basketball player until he outed his womanizing on one of the tabloid TV shows and the marriage was over. So, Gretchen has some baggage, but nothing Trace can’t work out.

Many of you will remember that Tyler’s sister, Linda Gray, is a romance novelist, in her thirties, and Tyler modeled for the cover of her book. Linda has never married, but she’s one outrageous character. Like me, she wears red all the time and lives a life in her books she never gets to have in real life. So she and Gretchen are becoming acquainted and best friends. While they both go after Trace, from two different corners.

This is an unedited chapter I hope you’ll enjoy. This novella will be part of Tropical Tryst, an anthology of works from 25 of your favorite authors, releasing August l, and available for preorder now.

Enjoy the story. I plan on doing a full length book with this couple next year.

The scene takes place as Gretchen is getting situated in the room she’s sharing with Linda, in an old plantation-style Hawaiian home built in the 1800’s. It is up in the hills, with views of several of the Hawaiian islands and the beach and ocean several miles away. Linda thinks she going to use this as the location for her next novel, about a Hawaiian girl of royal lineage who falls in love with a Navy SEAL.

So, here’s a chapter (unedited) from SEAL My Love:

           Gretchen avoided Trace’s eyes, but she could tell he was watching her every chance he had. She’d not had that much attention since the TV reporters who hounded her after her husband’s very public display of indecency. In that case, these heartless reporters even ramped it up when she was with her daughters. Clover even ran after one of them, and, thank goodness, didn’t catch up with the cameraman, or they’d have had a lawsuit for sure.
            Even that landed on the tabloid TV show and her ex had the gall to call Gretchen up and ream her about not getting better control of their girls.
            What an asshole.
            But this kind of attention made her nipples knot, made her knees wobble a little, made her want to run her fingers through her hair and reposition her clip several times, always leaving a wisp or two of curls lapping down the back of her neck because it made her feel wanted and desired. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her panties were in a constant state of wet and cool, depending on if she was sitting or standing on the porch, hanging on to the pale yellow wooden pillar and marveling at the view below. She knew wood, especially painted wood, was not the way of the islands now. This house had obviously been built during the old plantation days, when the monarchy was in its glory. The old Queen was gone now for nearly a hundred years, but her legacy of grace, raising beautiful tropical flowers and her love of singing and watching the young dancers swing their hips and call to each other with their graceful arms and hands, was legendary. She herself had once been a beauty and had been an expert Polynesian dancer.
            Maybe there was something to what Linda said, because the story of the Hawaiian princess and the Navy SEAL started fanning the flames of her heart, making the hairs on the back of her neck desire to be kissed.
            She could tell he was staring at her, and that he knew she was aware of it, too. She gave him a smile and did not dare look for his reaction. All she could do was fan herself with the folder she was holding, and then take down and re-clip her hair again, for the tenth time in the past hour as they had been setting things up in the house.
            They’d given her a room with Linda, one of the smaller ones, with twin beds. But she loved the privacy, and the little marble-topped writing desk in front of the gabled window. The flush of cool ocean breeze was something she was looking forward to inhaling all night long as she slept.
            Trace was standing at the doorway, and of course, like a gentleman, would not come into the room without an invitation. She could imagine herself as the island princess and he, a pirate sea captain, not daring to touch her, for fear of losing his life. The tension was there, just the same in this century as it could have been way back over a hundred years ago.
            “I think I’ve just found a prettier view. Too bad you can’t see it,” he said, casually, in a near-whisper. But she heard every word.
            Turning, she snickered at his lack of uniform, no hat tucked under his arm, because he wore flip flops and shorts that came just to the tops of his knees. His well-developed calf muscles were covered withy dark hair. His white v-neck tee shirt was so bright she nearly needed shades, and he had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the bottom of the V. His day plus old stubble was distracting, as was the drip of sweat that trickled from under his chin, down between his collar bone to parts unknown. Part of the tee shirt had stuck to his chest and abdomen below.
            He uncrossed his arms and angled his head, waiting for a response. “You think I look funny?”
            She gave him a graceful smile worthy of an island princess of great lineage. “No, Trace. I was thinking about—“
            “How nice it would be to go down to the beach.” Linda interrupted, pushing the big hulking SEAL aside. “Are you game, or do my stories of sex on the white sand make you itch?” She wiggled her eyebrows, oblivious of the scene she’d just crashed. “I’m in the mood for an umbrella drink and some bare bodies to go gaze at.” She opened her red suitcase up and pulled out a red beach bag. “I’m changing into my bikini now,” she said as she removed her top and revealed a red bra with pink lipstick kisses on it.
            Trace was out of there so fast Gretchen wasn’t sure he even got a glimpse of the bra.
            “You like?” Linda fondled the satin cups of her bra.
            Gretchen laughed. “You’re the only person I know who matches her luggage with her underwear. Very clever.”
            “You have no idea, dear. I had to hunt and hunt. But thank God for Amazon. Now they show me everything pink and red with hearts and kisses.”
            Gretchen watched through the window as another van pulled up to the front porch and several people piled out. Trace was greeting several of the guys and was introduced to a pair of very cute twenty-somethings and instantly she was disappointed seeing his wide smile and ready hug.
            Linda peered over her shoulder.
            “Oh, Gretchen. Here I was jealous of you, since you’ve obviously attracted Trace’s attention. And now we both have competition from those little sweet tarts.”
            “Gretchen looked away from the window and walked to her bed. “No worries. I’m looking for a superrich investment mogul who owns his own island, and only likes women over thirty.”
            “Good idea, Gretchen. SEAL’s don’t make that much, but I understand the sex is worth it.” She was examining her clothes, trying to pick out a combination. Most everything in her suitcase was red.
            Gretchen was slightly irritated. “Is everything about sex with you?”
            “Yup. Sex sells.” She held up a red and pink flowered sarong and examined herself in the mirror, holding the fabric under her chin. “You like this on me?”
            “How do you feel wearing it?”
            “Positively a cougar waiting to pounce. But the answer to your question is, yes, maybe. It’s called the law of attraction.” Her beautiful brown eyes sparkled. Gretchen knew she was about to get a lesson she hadn’t asked for.
            “So let’s have it,” Gretchen said as she sat on the bed, rummaging through her own clothes.
            “Everything is sales. We are selling each other right now.”
            “Come again?” She was seriously concerned for Linda’s state of mind.
            “We don’t know each other very well, just met today, right?”
            “Yes. On the plane.”
            “Exactly. Tyler and Kate met on the plane. They fell in love on that plane that day, remember?”
            Gretchen frowned. “Linda, I hope you haven’t gotten the wrong message here.”
            “Oh, silly. I love women, but not in bed. But I love getting silly drunk with my women friends. Just the best thing in the world. The funny banter and gossip. I can tell you and I could do a serious drunk together and wind up feeling like we’ve been sisters our whole lives.”
            “You are close to Kate that way now?”
            “No, silly. She has the kids, she has Tyler, and she’s not the same as me, temperament wise. Now Tyler? If he wasn’t my brother, OMG, OMG, he would be so much fun. And we did have fun in high school. He helped fix me up big time.”
            “Not the other way around?”
            “He never liked any of my slutty friends.” She gave Gretchen a smirk. “His loss, if you ask me. Those girls would have treated him fine, and worshiped the ground he walked on, too. But he fixed me up with tamer guys and I got what I could out of them. I mean, drop dead gorgeous, gentlemen, you know. Wouldn’t touch me until they thought it was right. Nice guys. Oh man, I bolloxed them up something good.”
            “Messed with their brains. You know, stroked their ego, and then I just stroked them and I loved blowing their minds.”
            “And they never called you back.”
            Linda dropped another piece of lingerie and stared back at Gretchen. “Sadly, no. How did you know that?”
            “Because I don’t think men like to be chased. They like to do the hunting.”
            “But so do I.”
            “Then hunt for something else. Don’t hunt a man. At least, if I did it, it wouldn’t work. You have to just be there, and you hope that they get the message. Nice guys are worth it.”
            “I have no patience. But you see, that’s why we’re going to be great friends. You can teach me a lot about men. Have you had a lot of them?”
            Gretchen looked at her hands folded in her lap. She would have to tell Linda the truth.
            “I only had sex with one man, and I married him.”
            “Gretchen!” Linda ran over to the bed, pulled her up to standing position and gave her a big hug. “You poor thing! Starved, absolutely starved! That’s so unfair, sweetie.” She raised Gretchen’s chin and looked at her sorrowfully. “My heart is breaking for you, Gretchen.” She actually produced tears, which Gretchen thought was miraculous.
            Grabbing Linda’s hands, which still held her and pushing her away slightly, Gretchen got her composure back. “I’ve been raising three beautiful daughters. I’ve had boyfriends, and we’ve done some things, you know, but no sex. I just don’t want to have sex with someone I couldn’t marry. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the way I was brought up. Or, at least, that’s the way I thought I was.”
            Linda stepped back. “There’s a story there,” she said, pointing to Gretchen.
            “Oh yes, there really is. Sometime when we’re having those umbrella drinks, I’ll tell you the tale my mother told me about the time Tyler and Kate had decided to get married.”
            “I’m not going to right now. But Kate and I have different fathers.”
            “So your mother slept around.”
            “Linda, I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” Gretchen was getting irritated with her again. “But no, it wasn’t anything like that. If you could get your mind out of the gutter, you might actually learn there are some really decent and cool love stories out there, and they’re way more about love than sex.”
            Gretchen made a bee line for the hallway so she could hit the rest room before she was going to erupt into tears, and ran smack into Trace Bennett’s chest.
            “Hold on there, darlin’” he said in that low growl. “I had no idea you wanted to dance so bad. You need to wait until I get my dancin’ shoes on. These don’t move.”
            He looked down at his toes and they both watched him wiggle them. But while they were watching, he’d slipped his arms around her waist and her palms had spread out on his wet tee shirt. Her lips were close to his Adam’s apple and the dark scruffiness of his jawline. And they were so very close to his lips if she’d just raise her chin up, which she did. He was whispering something soft and she didn’t dare listen because her spine had gone all tingly and if she wasn’t imagining things, something was taking firm shape between them as he pressed her to him until their thighs touched through fabric.
            “You smell like heaven, Gretchen. Like a starlit night on a beach.”
            “I didn’t think stars smelled like anything,” she said as she waited, and let him angle down toward her mouth. She was hungry for him, but, just before he could cover her lips, the hallway was filled with chatty newcomers.
            “Well, I can see some people are deep into their vacation already,” said Ollie. He was overflowing with suitcases and he dropped one, which was quickly picked up by one of the twenty-somethings accompanying him.
            Gretchen immediately pulled away and she and Trace left a wide gap for the entourage to pass. The “twins” gave her a smile that hinted at warmth but was laced with something else. Ollie gave her a wink and sashayed between them all, one case above his head.
            Trace had his hands in his shorts, checking out his wiggling toes. When their eyes finally connected, Gretchen saw the fire was still there and her pulse quickened. When he gave her a lopsided smile and rubbed his chin, she nearly fainted.
            More people were coming up the stairs. Trace gracefully hopped across the hallway to stand next to Gretchen. He bent down and whispered, “To be continued, my dear.”
            She watched him maneuver around suitcase-carrying well-built men and young women as he made his way down the stairs. Gretchen retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, leaned against it and closed her eyes.
            “Well done.”
            She’d forgotten Linda was still in the room. With her breathing ragged and her embarrassment stabbing her stomach lining with little pitchforks, she felt exposed, and without defenses.
            “You’ve got it bad, sweetie.”
            She knew Linda was right. But she had to attempt to show she was casual about the whole thing—if she could. “Just not used to the guy flirting with me before I’m ready. I’m way out of practice.” She saw Linda nodding in response. Gretchen was proud of herself. Her comment was nearly 100% truthful.
            “He’s a babe magnet all right. I’ll grant you that. I’m going to honor your territory.”
            “Linda, no need for that. I’m a big girl. Just rusty.” Then she stopped herself. “Actually, that was a fib. I never was any good at it.”
            “Well, make sure you have a case of condoms because I have a feeling you’re going to get all the practice you need, plus a little extra for desert. You’ll do fine. He looks like he wants to lead, so let him. Holy hell I wish I was in your shoes.”
            “Might make it into you book, then?”
            “Could be. Most my friends are in my books—not that they’d recognize themselves. I take a kernel of the truth and explode it into something they’d never think of. My guilty pleasure. But, if you want to share any details, I’m your gal. You sure you two have never met before?” Linda quickly slipped on a red polka dot bikini, turning her back so Gretchen could tie the spaghetti straps together at her shoulder blades.
            “Just like the song, Linda.”
            “Who was that who sang it?” she asked.
            “Beats me.”
            “Bryan something. Except it was a Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.”
            “You think they’ll notice? That’s the smallest thing I’ve seen. Mine’s a one-piece.”
            “You’re kidding?”
            “I like a little tummy help after three girls.”
            “Yes, and my little tummy is all mine. No children to blame it on. A little lazy, I guess.”
            “Well, I tried. But in the end, all I wanted to be was just a good mom. Not a movie star, or a celebrity like you.”
            “Oh nonsense, Gretchen. You’re gorgeous. And you married a celebrity, so you know what that’s all about. What a total jerk, if you ask me.”
            “I didn’t ask you.” She had tied and re-tied the strings together, and was finally satisfied the bow was straight. “There. I think that meets my high standards. And I double tied it, so in case you get the sudden need to flash your boobs on the beach, just understand your top may not fall to the sand gracefully when you pull the strings.” Gretchen fluttered her eyelashes for extra effect.
            “You should be a romance writer,” said Linda. “You’re a natural. Flashing boobs and having things fall delicately to the sand. Oh my, what an imagination you have!”
            “Don’t lie to me. I have none.”
            “And you’re a very good liar too.”

So, tell me dear reader, do you water your garden in your nightgown and dream of love stories? I think for this book, reality imitates art, don’t you think? Am I Linda Gray?

Source: Sharon’s Blog

Story of the 2 Jakes

Thank you, readers, for my great launch week for Jake2. I truly appreciate your feedback and support! Loved writing this book!

Sometimes you get into a story, and it becomes deeper than you’d planned, or you get caught up in a secondary character who makes his/her appearance on stage and completely takes over the storyline for a time.

With Band of Bachelors: Jake, I had one of those occurrences.  I loved writing about this dysfunctional family and all their problems. Jake, based on a real SEAL I knew briefly, had fathered four children with three different women, not because he was a bad person, but because he couldn’t say no, and wasn’t careful. It didn’t matter to him if sex brought him more children because he loved his children.

I know there are “norms” and I get hit with occasional comments from the Reader Police, informing me about how I’ve bended or broken the rules. In the words of one of my delightful writer friends, “You don’t have to worry about breaking the rules, just understand the rules you are breaking.” She breaks them all the time, and so do I. I think that gives variety and spice to the romance genre, and we also get to try out things that perhaps we wouldn’t have been able to if we all subscribed to the same lock-step rules.

So my guy is one of those who doesn’t pay attention to the seed he spawns. Okay. That still doesn’t disqualify him as a hero, because he makes good on his intentions – just learns the lesson later than most. And that happens in real life, right?

So, at the end of Band of Bachelors: Jake, I already knew there had to be a Book 2. I also am aiming more toward things that could be made into TV or movie pilots, and, from talking to screenwriters and others who produce TV pilots, they usually want the same character in each episode, not different couples, like I have in the beginning of my SEAL Brotherhood Series. So, I’ve been testing how I could do this, and have done it now three times: with Jameson in Nashville SEALs, Fredo in Fredo’s Dream, and now with Jake2.

As a writer, I try to look for new projects for me, experiments that tickle my fancy (maybe some other things too, but I won’t mention them!) and keep the creative part, well, creative! In Paradise, I wrote that book in first person. In SEAL Of Time, I created a paranormal Navy SEAL, son of Poseidon, who is an immortal healer.

As a reader, you like that, right? I know as a reader of some of my favorite authors, I sure do. I love seeing new things my favorite authors can accomplish. It’s like opening a new chapter on a familiar book, and discovering something you hadn’t read before. Thanks for taking the journey with me!
Source: Sharon’s Blog


There are lots of things that satisfy me about gardening. Here are some of my favorites.

Preparing the Soil:

Yesterday afternoon we were weeding the garden. I’ve planted carrots, Swiss chard, Chinese cabbage and lettuce in long rows, along with onions and potatoes. Every year for nearly twenty years I’d get a 10-yard dump truck load of mushroom manure from the Mushroom Farm in Petaluma. In case you don’t know how much that is, it’s a pile that would nearly touch the second story of a house! I’d work this into the dark clay soil one wheelbarrow at a time (and yes, my arms got sore). I usually got a sunburn on that day, and for a week afterwards, the whole yard smelled like a manure pile.

To me, it smelled like Heaven! Really! So, last night, as I was pulling these weeds, they came out so clean, the soil was so balanced and lovely, with just the right amount of moistness and nutrients, it was pure pleasure. My remaining little plants are standing straight and tall this morning. A great garden takes years in the making, because it has to start with wonderful soil.

Watering the Garden:

I’ve hired gardeners to help with some of the heavy labor, and help set up irrigation systems, something I’ve not taken the time to learn. Some day. All of them remark how they’d like to put in this system and that, to help with the watering. And they’d look at me strange when I’d tell them, “But I like the two hours a day it takes to water.”

I really do. I look over the leaves as the wand spreads the wet goodness and washes away the dirt and grit, I watch as it sinks into the soil. I snip the heads off flowers while I water (I wear an apron with clippers, a small shovel, mosquito repellant, some assorted seeds for in-filling, a couple plastic plant identifiers and a permanent marker, along with some string). I replant seeds that didn’t come up, or replace a plant that won’t grow properly with a new seed, or bury the seeds I’m dead-heading back into the soil to create volunteers. It’s the tending it takes to notice, adjust and gently coax and guide my garden into a thing of beauty.

And it very much is like writing a book.


Small shoots of cabbage and lettuces are plucked for salads. Othertimes I just thin the plants so that the ones remaining have room to grow. When your fingers work the soil so carefully and closely, you see things you would miss otherwise. Last night I discovered one of my baby praying mantis bugs. I put a larvae of them on each of two rose bushes in my garden out back. Each is supposed to harvest about 500 little mantis, who are voracious eaters of aphids and other non-beneficial bugs. Since he was crawling over the little pile of weeds, I carefully cupped my hands around his little 1/2″ body and placed him back in the roses where he could find the best food. Unless I’d been on my knees doing this job, I’d have missed getting introduced to him!

Every year my garden takes on a new personality, like the books I write. Working on my hands and knees, or watching from above carefully, helps me get to know the garden that wants to reveal itself to me. Yes, I don’t grow the garden. The garden grows all by itself. I just place the order of things, set the stage for the play they create all their own. It is a very magical experience for me. It’s like discovering characters that fall in love, or experience hurt or happiness in my books.

Taking the Bounty:

Harvesting comes along with the changing of the seasons. Like in the Bible, the time to sow and time to harvest. When I remove something, I can replant, or put something else in its place. Or, I can let the ground rest. Like one of my favorite signs over my desk states, “My garden isn’t dead. It’s sleeping.” Letting a garden rest is a good thing.

Eating the first fruits of my labor is always a joy. I’ve now had my first sunflower. My first handful of sugar peas, flat French beans and we’ve juiced lots of baby Chinese cabbage and bok choi plants as we’ve thinned the mounds. I’ve had a half dozen cherry tomatoes already and am on my second cycle of lettuce. We had enough small patty pan squash for dinner last night too.

And that reminds me, time to get the refrigerator cleaned out, because I’m about to become inundated with good, healthy food!

As you see, I could go on and on. There is one mindset for a flower garden. Another for a food garden. And I like to mix them together as well. I think lettuce grows well at the base of a trellis of sweet pea blossoms. Calendulas help with the moths that bring aphids and also discourage gophers. The garden changes every day, and each day it emotes different emotions as I tend, watch and enjoy seeing it transform before my eyes.

It is truly a living work of art. Hopelessly addicted. In love forever.

Source: Sharon’s Blog

What We Learn From Fathers

My father is gone, and every Father’s Day I get over to his grave to leave some roses from my garden, and at Christmas I like to bring him drumsticks so he can keep playing. Dad was an engineer, and looked about as wrong as wrong could be as a drummer, with his hair fringe, and jerky motions, and the fact that he had to bite his lip and frown because he concentrated so hard on keeping up with the beat. Like everything he did, even making music was hard work. But he loved hard work. Always did and I’m sure he’s working hard now.

What I learned from my father was how to survive. He was a very smart man. He did very well in school, but his childhood was marred by the fact that his own father suffered severely in World War I in battles in France, and basically came home mentally broken and eventually was sent to a state hospital until he could fight his way out. He never talked about his Dad’s trials, or the fact that he had to get up at one or two in the morning to sing hymns or those Tennessee Ernie Ford songs, and that his mother got up and played piano for him. It was just a fact of life.

His father wore pajamas all day long after he came home, and wore an apron, was the chief housekeeper and cook for the family, and Dad had many tales about those days. He’d come home, throw his books in the corner, and not return until dinner, then after dinner he studied into the night. It was his way of dealing with the unknowns of living with a parent who was mentally ill for most of his life, in an environment where he didn’t feel safe.

But Dad was never bitter. He loved his Dad. And as I was the oldest granddaughter, I loved him as well. Quirks, crying jags, days in the bedroom with the shades drawn and the arguments at the dinner table or the early morning songs my brother and I heard when we stayed there for a week at summer time, all seemed part of life. We took it just like my Dad did.

We were opposites in personality style. He would prepare and take copious notes. He hated to not know everything and so spent hours and hours researching thing. He once took apart our television set just because he wanted to see how it was made. He went to the dentist one time without novacaine so he could experience what that felt like. He was the perfect grandfather for my kids, even sliding down brown hills on our property on a cardboard refrigerator carton with the kids, and hitting a tree. He had to go to work the next day with a black eye. His commitment to the family was 100%.

As my mother was getting weaker from the ravages of cancer, he cut a fresh rose for her every day and brought it into her room. He took it as his job to take care of her those last 14 years of her life, and when she passed over, he was left without a job in life. Though my mother had gone, he was not ready to stop being a husband. So, at 80, my dad remarried, something none of us ever thought would happen and lived another ten years. I credit some of this to my new mom, Eunice, whom he loved with everything in his being, another testament, and another lesson to us all.

But the funniest thing I remember about Dad was a conversation we had at one of my son’s soccer tournaments in Davis. He’d gotten married the previous year. My mother had been buried in a plot in the lawn of our local Memorial Park. He’d bought the plot next to her, but now that he was married again, his priorities had changed.

He asked my permission to have my mother moved to the mausoleum, where he had a spot next to her, but the two of them would rest beneath his current new wife and her deceased husband. “Sharon, when I die, I’d like to be buried next to both my wives.”

I thought about it for a minute or two and then answered him this way, “I’m okay with it, Dad. But let me ask you this. Are you planning on getting married a third time?”

Forgive the use of some of these promo pictures, but they are some of my favorite father/daughter images and I thought you wouldn’t mind.

Happy Fathers’ Day. Hope you spoil him, or spoil him in your dreams.

Source: Sharon’s Blog