Summer Travel . . . Book It!

A lifelong reader, I've learned there are consistent key elements that make a novel an enjoyable experience for me. "Musts" that keep me reading and, in a few cases, cause me to re-read again and again. Primary is the author's use of dialogue. I want it natural, honest and full of emotion (the gamut from anger to painful despair to passion)--and, if at all possible, to offer some stress-relieving snippets of humor. I want a reason to care for the characters. And I need those characters flawed, unique, vulnerable, and over-challenged but so determined. I want pacing (whether depicting action or emotion) that dares me to stop turning pages; I want to lose that dare. And on top of all that (like frosting on a cupcake) I require a well-drawn setting. Please, take me somewhere!

I want to feel that I'm there, merging into the scene--to see, smell, taste, hear and touch where the story's action is taking place. Let me travel--no limits, no passport (no century or planet!). . . no cringe-worthy gas station fill ups, TSA patdowns, or jet lag! A book is memorable for me when I am transported. As I reader I crave that experience.

As an author, I'm doing my best to make that happen for my readers.

Travel with me, then, to Lake Tahoe, California in my medical drama CRITICAL CARE.

" . . . Claire laughed . . . glad she'd been able to freshen her makeup and pick the pine needles out of her hair.

Sunnyside Mountain Grill, a favorite with both locals and tourists, was casually upscale with men and women sporting trendy resort wear and sunglasses no doubt worth half a nurse’s biweekly paycheck. A jazz combo played at the edge of the deck, its bass-heavy music blending with soft laughter, tinkling glassware, and the crisp flutter of sails in the marina below. In the distance, the majestic Sierra Mountains, peaks white with snow, seemed to rise from the glassy blue surface of the lake itself.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm her face and inhaling the wonderful mix of scents: pine trees, oiled decking, coconut sunscreen . . . and sizzling orders of burgers and fries. Her stomach rumbled and she smiled. This was not her typical day, for sure. Claire opened her eyes as Logan spoke . . ."

***

And on to the Pacific Coast in DISASTER STATUS:

" . . . The Sunday surfers were out in force, at least a dozen straddling their boards in the cove below Arlo’s Bait & Moor. Kids scurried along the sand chasing skim boards, dodging an older man as he tossed a stick for his tireless black Lab. Alongside parked vans, groups of young people stood talking and listening to music, women wearing smocked dresses and skirts in hibiscus prints and tie-dye; men in sunglasses and neon-bright wetsuits over plaid shorts, sand clinging to their tanned legs . . . Sand. Erin sighed. She’d had sand in her shoes when she got home last night. Had shaken them out over her grandmother’s hollyhock bed, but she was having less success shaking the confusing tumble of emotions left in the wake of her day with Scott . . . "

***

Then to timeless San Francisco in the Mercy Hospital series' finale, CODE TRIAGE.

" . . . Nick left Lombard and drove south east on 11th toward Mission, then onto the Embarcadero, weaving in and out of traffic under the jumble of humming electric bus wires, passing a double-decker sightseeing bus and a group of helmeted tourists navigating the crowded sidewalk on Segways. Then drove downhill toward Beach Street, Fisherman’s Wharf and the view of the Bay beyond the marina that always made his breath catch.

He skirted Golden Gate Park on the loop back, breathing in the familiar scent from the huge, peeling and silvery green stands of eucalyptus that lined it—sweet, clean, sharp . . . a hint of camphor. The same scent, in subtle traces, was in Leigh’s favorite herbal shampoo and he’d teased her more than once that she smelled like his favorite city. Like home . . . He sneaked a glimpse of her, noticing that she’d closed her eyes and relaxed back against the headrest. Almost as if she was sleeping. He tried not to think that he’d never see her that way again . . . "

***

I loved giving my readers a "taste" of these colorful Northern California in the Mercy Hospital series. And I'm just as eager to paint memorable settings in my new book series that will debut in Spring of 2012.

Can you guess from the picture below where (working title) TRAUMA PLAN is set?

If you need more help, here's a little "taste":

". . . Riley stopped halfway down the steps from St. Mary’s Street, boggled by her first glimpse of the San Antonio Riverwalk. It felt like she’d been swept up in a Texas tornado and dropped into a South of the Border Oz-- below the streets of the seventh largest city in America. She held her breath, staring at a sultry and beckoning tangle of green: water, jungle-thick foliage, and a canopy of trees strung with colored lights and endless steamers. There were bright umbrellas, riverboats, tables on meandering sidewalks, neon signs, balloons, people everywhere. And a rich thrum of sounds: the chug-burble-splash of boat engines, childish squeals, ducks, sudden explosive cheers, the brass-and-string strains of Mariachi music, and—

'Smell that?' Jack asked, pressing close to allow a family in magenta sombreros to squeeze by. 'Every kind of food you can imagine . . . on a stick . . . ' "

***

I'm eager to share this story with you!

Well then, in a span of moments we've journeyed to four great places . . . without leaving our computer chairs. Or air conditioning. Something to be said for that:

Summer travel--book it!

Where are you traveling with your current summer read?

On Father's Day . . .

In honor of fathers everywhere, I'm going to share an essay that I wrote many years ago. It was during a particularly tough time in my life . . . when the blessing of a father's love made all the difference.

Magnetic Energy

“It’s full of Magnetic Energy,” my father whispers as he spreads the thin sheet of gauzy fabric on my waterbed.

A fan of cure-alls, he proves it by lifting his trouser legs to show me that he has the same stuff wrapped around his knees. They are swollen and knobby like a camel’s and his lower legs are thin and wasted. When did that happen?

A photo album flips open in my mind, faded black and white Kodak snapshots held in place by tiny corner tabs. I see Mom’s handwriting, white ink on black paper.

“Orville 1955”: Dad, tanned and muscular, curly black hair, movie-star smile, holding a hunting bow. Our can’t-sit-still dog Caesar is half in-half out of the picture behind him. Across Dad’s shoulder is a quiver of handmade arrows. I smell singed feathers and see his fingers, wearing the black onyx ring, deftly glue them to the arrow’s shaft. “It’s called the fletching, sweetheart, and see: they must be exactly straight, or the arrow will not fly true.”

“Oak Lake 1958 ”: Dad in hip waders proudly hefting a big mouth bass, a little girl in seersucker shorts and a tee shirt and dark braids squatting on the bank beside him. I breathe the rich odor of moldy oak leaves, wood moss and algae. Summer sun warms my back. My bare toes squish into the mud of the lake’s edge as I struggle to form a ball of Rainbow Bread around a tiny brass hook to catch a sun perch with a twig pole. The tick- tick of a reel and the swish- whir of Dad’s fiberglass pole gives me confidence as he casts his line beside me.

“Girl Scout Father-Daughter Dance, 1961”: Dad in a suit and tie beside his chubby twelve-year-old daughter; too-big teeth, bushy eyebrows, tottery high heels, first time razor-nicks on her legs. “You are the prettiest girl here, Candy. Now I’ll teach you to fox-trot; it’s one two quick-step, one two quick-step…”

He leans close to me now as he talks, the way that puts some people off; tilting his head to avoid his deaf ear, his curly white hair wild like Einstein. He punctuates his words with little jabs of his fingers, dark eyes darting to see through paint specks on his glasses. Dad is telling me about the latest antics of his little dog, Teddy. His laugh hisses in and out between his teeth.

I suddenly remember the sound of him sucking kernels of corn from between his teeth while eating dinner. He wore a zip-front jumpsuit-- “My rompers,” he called them-- sitting in the living room with a TV tray in front of him. The tray was white metal with gold legs and had a fanciful line drawing of a rearing circus horse.

I’d huddled invisible beside the high rolled arm of our tweed couch, my back against a furnace register to soak up precious puffs of heat from our stingy furnace. I winced, rolled my eyes and covered my ears with every toothy hiss from that despicable corncob. I was a prickly teenager then and certain that my friends’ fathers ate only in dining rooms, never in front of the TV and laughing out loud at Jackie Gleason. The sucking sound made me crazy.

Today his laugh sucks corn from the air around me and I laugh too; the pain from the rib fractures searing my chest like a hot poker. It seems peculiar that I should remember the TV trays with the horses, since Daddy is here now because of a horse.

“Do you see, baby?” he asks me, as he smoothes the homeopathic fabric carefully under the spot where I will sleep. “You just lie on this thing and the Magnetic Energy will move into you; you’ll think nothing is happening, and then you’ll start to feel the warmth. I know it will heal you.”

He leans close to me and takes my hand a little gingerly, like I am a piece of delicate glass. “Good—God,” he whispers, separating the words, emphasizing the D’s at the end of each, “I still can’t believe that horse broke your neck.”

I can’t either except that in the past few weeks since the accident I have walked slower, my posture skewed a little sideways like a damaged crab released from a fisherman’s net, my right arm a dangling useless claw. I take a breath and feel the reality of the seven fractured ribs, the faint purring sensation of the blood absorbing around my lung. Dad is smiling now, his gaze somewhere beyond me, remembering.

“You were always so horse crazy. We couldn’t walk into your room without falling over the pile of plastic horses on the floor. Remember the time Mr. Dutton called you into his office because you took your stick horse to school? You and your friend Mary, trotting instead of walking, always holding those imaginary reins…” He looks directly at me now, like I am a little girl who’s crossed the street without checking both ways “Tell me you’re not going to ride anymore, Candy.”

“Sure, Daddy,” I tell him shaking my head a little at the still unbelievable events of the past eighteen months, “I promise you: no bucking horses, no unfaithful husbands, no houses in a flood zone…” Hot tears sting my eyes. “I sound like a bad country song.” Dad moves toward me and I use my left arm to raise my right arm, spreading my fingers to keep him at bay. “Don’t. Don’t hug me Dad, it might kill me,” I tell him and we both laugh again.

“Then let me tell my favorite daughter a little story,” he says and I think how his voice sounds the same as it did when I was a little girl.

We sit down on the edge of the waterbed, and he begins to talk in that amazing way he has. The words tumble out and take on a life of their own, becoming bigger, grander each moment like a side-show hawker; his arms wave in the air, sweeping aside some imaginary canvas curtain, do-you-want-to-see-the Bearded-Woman, little lady?

Suddenly I feel myself bouncing along the highway in the back seat of a blue 1957 Plymouth station wagon on the way home from Disneyland. Mom and Dad are in the front seat bickering with each other, Mom’s crimson painted nails drumming atop the seatback. We four kids are crowded in back, my sister Debbie asleep with her curly blonde head on my shoulder and her Indian Princess doll tucked to her chest. My brothers wear “shades,” and wave at girls in the passing cars, their hair leaving greasy smudges on the windows--- Dixie Peach Pomade.

“Tell us a story, Daddy.” I had asked him then.

“What do you want to hear?” he tantalized, “Bugs, spacemen, magic glow worms?”

“Oh please, magic glow worms!”

He talked nonstop all the way back to Sacramento.

Today I am 47 years old, have a broken neck, a broken marriage, a prickly teenage daughter, and a For Sale sign on my house. The horse I have raised from a foal is boarded in another town, awaiting decisions for his future. I have to wonder about my own future. Will I be able to continue in my career as a nurse?

I spend my days in physical therapy doing biceps curls with Campbell’s soup cans. “You’ll work up to the one-pound dumbbell, Candy.” And trying to identify objects with my numb right fingers while blindfolded. “It’s a marble?” “It’s a thumbtack, Candy, just try again.” And I sleep in a king-size waterbed alone. What kind of story can my Daddy tell me today? How can I tell him magic glowworms just aren’t magic enough?

But today he tells me real stories, not so grandiose and not stories I haven’t heard before. They are stories I haven’t heard as an adult, and that makes a difference. He talks to me about being a parent, an employee, a spouse, and a reluctant senior citizen. He shares regrets, disappointments and broken dreams, dwindling health, a failed marriage to my mother. He talks about starting over.

They are his stories; my family’s story, maybe everyone’s story, really. I see how he has come to accept change more gracefully now. How he remembers most vividly the happy times, less so the bad ones. His volatile anger has been gentled with time, but not his zeal.

At age seventy-four he teeters on a cane when he walks but still plays golf, and is planning to add a huge addition onto his home, doing all the work himself. “I’ll tie my self up there with a rope when I do the roof work,” he tells me. “Trish will yell at me,” he says of my stepmother, and his dark eyes sparkle, “but she’ll finallyget the big kitchen and dining room she’s always wanted.”

Dad points to my waterbed now. “Don’t forget to smooth out the wrinkles before you lie down,” he cautions me as he covers his magic fabric with my bedsheet. “I’ve got it pulled up so it can reach your whole spine.”

I walk him to the door and kiss his cheek and tell him goodbye.

“Be patient,” he tells me one last time. “Magnetic Energy takes time.”

***

It is somehow morning; early daylight awakens me and I gaze out my curtainless window toward the dawn, my favorite time of day. A fine mist rises over the alfalfa fields behind our property and a heron wings slowly across the quicksilver-orange sky, his long sticklegs trailing lazily behind.

I can see the stables, the Dutch door of a stall open wide. For a split second I wonder if I’ve forgotten to latch that door. I think of fixing my husband's coffee, the way he likes it: one spoon of sugar two of Coffee-Mate. Did I buy more Coffee-Mate?

Then sleep leaves my head and reality enters too abruptly. Somewhere in the distance I hear a tractor chug, a neighbor getting an early start. My heart cramps. I miss my horse. I miss my husband.

I pick up my journal, from a tall stack of journals lying beside my Bible, and realize how vital writing has become to me. It fills some need in the way food relieves hunger; the way balm soothes a blistered burn. I need to tell the story.

I force my clumsy right hand to form the loops and connecting lines, willing my fingers to feel the pen, feel the paper beneath the pen. I begin to write about Dad’s visit, about his stories, his stubborn zeal—his hope.

And then I feel it. I feel the warmth.

It starts at my feet and I curl my toes to test it. Yes. It’s really there and it spreads upward using my spine as its highway, until it radiates to my shoulders, my neck and into my chest. It fills my broken heart.

I raise the pen in a half-crazy salute and I laugh out loud. It’s all going to be okay.

Magnetic Energy. It’s not in any piece of fabric. It’s genetic. From Dad to me.

***

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I miss you.

If an Author Kisses the Blarney Stone . . .

o

Monday, June 6th 1PM Pacific Time: I placed your names in my crystal bowl, gave them a swirl, breathed a prayer. And our book winner is :

GLYNNA! Congratulations! I'll be sending you a signed, personalized copy of Code Triage!

And, again, thank you all for leaving comments. Stay tuned, as we'll be doing another book giveaway in the near future!

______________________

Yes, I am back from the cruise. And, yes, that is me kissing the famous stone at Blarney Castle in Ireland--and, well sure, I did have fleeting nurse-like thoughts of the sanitary factors involved in such an endeavor. So, afterward, I wiped my lips off with my fingers--obviously, I wasn't a surgical nurse. But still . . . I did it--climbed 100 steps to the lofty top of an Irish Castle and kissed the Blarney Stone! I even have a certificate to prove it, that reads in part:

"I, Sir Charles St. John Colthurst of Andrum, Inniscarra, in the County of Cork Baronet do hereby certify that Candace Calvert of California, USA . . . is now sent forth with the Gift of Eloquence."

Eloquence? Hmm. I had to wonder . . . will having kissed the Blarney Stone add 10,000 words to my newest novel in progress? Will my editors have to beg, "Enough . . . enough already!" ?

As I write this, I'm currently starting the final "polish" on TRAUMA PLAN, due to my Tyndale House editors on July 1st. So far, I have had no urges to insert additional passages of long and flowery prose . . . so perhaps I've escaped The Stone's "gift of gab." Or maybe . . . I'm already, at this very moment, writing the world's longest blog post . . . Egads, let's nip this in the bud and do a book giveaway, instead!

So here's the deal: leave a comment below, sharing a favorite place you've traveled to, OR a place you dream of traveling to one day. And I'll put your name in for a chance at an autographed and personalized copy of my most recent medical drama, Code Triage. Keep it for yourself, give it as a gift, or donate it to your library; I'm honored to share its story of hope!

I'll (randomly) draw the winning name on Monday, June 6th. Please leave an e-mail address so that I can notify you if your name is drawn. Good luck!

Meanwhile, here's a few lines of pre-Ireland blarney from the working draft of Trauma Plan.

Snipped from Chapter Twenty-Five--welcome to Lukenback, Texas:

***

. . . . “C’mon.” Jack slid an arm around Riley's waist. “Let’s get out of here.”

He guided her through the dancers, out the huge open-air dance hall, and back toward the outdoor theatre, a ramshackle stage embellished with thousands of license plates, under gigantic spreading oaks that gave roost to chickens. There was another boisterous crowd out there, every age and all attire; from biker leather and bandanas to designer linen. Hands hoisted old-fashioned sarsaparilla bottles and long neck beers, and laughter was the common language—along with music. This time it was an aging, bearded guitar picker wearing an “Everybody’s Somebody in Luckenbach” tee shirt. And Willie Nelson braids.

Riley shook her head. “I think we’ll have to stand,” she said, her voice already hoarse. “There’s no room.”

“Not staying.” Jack tugged her hand, pointing back toward the famous wooden post office and a chrome and leather sea of Harleys. “Back to the car. Sunset time . . .”

***

It's good to be home, friends--thanks for waiting for me.

Now post a comment . . . let's give a book away!

Whee . . . Free!

There's nothing like the feeling of FREE, whether that brings to mind a patriotic image of the American flag, a pulse-spiking leap from a skydiving plane, the soul-soothing peace of forgiveness, or . . . something as simple but rare as a no-strings-attached FREE GIFT! I'm delighted to say that my publisher, Tyndale House, is doing just that. They are offering everyone a free e-book! My second Mercy Hospital novel, DISASTER STATUS, will be a free download between May 1st and May 28th. Which means that right now, you can go to the Amazon Kindle page and download this exciting story--no need to own a Kindle or other e-reader device; you can download it to your computer, or to other options. The Amazon Kindle page offers several free applications to get you reading the book in mere minutes! I had a great time writing this drama set at the California coast, and I think you're going to enjoy it. Here's the story summary from the back cover of Disaster Status:

Charge nurse Erin Quinn escaped personal turmoil to work on the peaceful California coast. But when a hazardous material spill places Pacific Mercy Hospital on disaster status and stresses staff, she's puts to the test. And thrown into conflict with the fire department's handsome incident commander who thinks her strategy is out of line.

Fire Captain Scott McKenna has felt the toxic effects of tragedy; he's learned to go strictly by the book to advance his career, heal his family, and protect his wounded heart. When he's forced to team with the passionately determined ER charge nurse, sparks fly. As they work to save lives, can they handle the attraction kindled between them . . . without getting burned?

Sound exciting? Fun? You betcha! I'm excited to share this story with you. And with your family and friends--please DO let them know about this free gift.

I would like to ask a favor during these upcoming weeks: if you enjoy reading Disaster Status, will you please consider posting a positive book review on Amazon?A few minutes of your time would be a huge blessing to me. One reason that publishers offer free books, is to introduce readers to authors. Your positive, star-studded reviews go a long way in encouraging folks to "scrub in" for my stories of hope. And inspiring and encouraging people is at the very heart of why I show up at the keyboard each morning. Your enthusiastic comments can welcome thousands of readers to take a chance on a new author--me. If you've read (and enjoyed) Disaster Status in the past, but haven't had a chance to post a review, I hope you'll do that now. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you in advance for your time and kindness!

And now, on a personal note, I'll offer another definition of FREE: this author on vacation.

On April 4th I finished the first draft of Trauma Plan, the first book in my newly contracted series. Though there is "polishing" to do before my official deadline, this is the time that I let my story sit in a drawer (okay, in a computer file) and "steep." So that I can pick it up with fresh eyes, read it, and make some necessary changes before sending it to my editors. Having the bulk of the work finished early is the consummate definition of FREE for an author. To celebrate this (and so many beautiful recent blessings), I'll be climbing hand-in-hand with my wonderful husband up the gangway of a cruise ship. Yes! So excited! As I write this, we are packing up, compiling instructions for the house-sitter, and counting the scant days until sailing: from Florida across the Atlantic to the Azores, and on to ports in Ireland, Scotland, Wales . . . and then France, to celebrate our 12th wedding anniversary in Paris (yes, my knees are weak at the thought). We'll spend a few extra days in London before flying back home--all in all, nearly 3 weeks. I'm. Jazzed. Big time!

I will to try to post photos on Facebook, to give you a bit of the flavor of our journey--pretending that I've tucked you along in my luggage (ouch, sorry about the shoes!) Wouldn't that be cool?

So, yes, FREE. Please enjoy my publisher's book gift to you. And bear with me if my response to your e-mails is slow. Rest assured that I'm missing you and that I'm percolating a sequel to Trauma Plan. Really. Even if it appears that I'm dressed in evening wear and standing at a ship's rail. In a romantic Atlantic crossing, with a handsome silvery-haired man dressed in a tuxedo and toasting me with a glass of champagne. Ah, yes . . .

Bon Voyage, my friends!

Author Richard Mabry M.D. ~ Cover My Shift #3

Weds. April 27th: Congratulations to our book winners Vanessa, Carol Moncado, and Marjorie!!

I'm delighted to have Dr. Richard Mabry "cover my shift" today! A bit later, he's going to explain the circumstances under which we met, but let me tell you that it's been wonderful to have my Mercy Hospital series released along the same timeline as Dr. Mabry's Prescription for Trouble series. And, from our mail and reviews, it seems that our readers heartily agree! Though we both write medical fiction, sometimes I smile to myself about our differences--it's kind of like when Marie Osmond would tease her brother, "I'm a little bit country . . . he's a little bit rock and roll." Only with us, Richard's emphasis is on suspense and mine tends toward romance. Yet we each include both elements in our books, along with plenty of exciting medical detail . . . just for you.

Before we meet Richard, here's a brief bio:

Richard L. Mabry, M.D., is a retired physician and medical school professor who achieved worldwide recognition as a writer, speaker, and teacher before turning his talents to non-medical writing after his retirement. He is the author of one non-fiction book, and his inspirational pieces have appeared in numerous periodicals. He and his wife, Kay, live in North Texas.

The first two books in the Prescription for Trouble series are Code Blue and Medical Error. The third book in this series, Diagnosis Death, has just released:

From the back Cover:

The threatening midnight calls followed Dr. Elena Gardner from one city to another, prolonging her grief. Even worse, they are echoed by the whispers of her own colleagues. Whispers that started after her comatose husband died in the ICU . . . then another mysterious death during her training. When a third happens at her new hospital, the whispers turn into a shout: “Mercy killer!”

Why doesn’t she defend herself? What is the dark secret that keeps Elena’s lips sealed?

Two physicians, widowers themselves, offer support, telling Elena they know what she is going through after the death of her husband. But do they? And is it safe to trust either of them with her secret? Soon Elena will find that even when the world seems to be against her, God is for her, if she'll only trust him.

***

For more information, and to connect with Dr. Richard Mabry, check out these links:

Website

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

And now here's his message just for you:

Nurse Candace Calvert and Doctor Richard Mabry first met as they kneeled across from each other, ministering to a member of ACFW who’d crumpled from her chair at lunch during the annual meeting. Thankfully, her problem wasn’t serious, but it brought together two people who were members of the medical profession and enjoyed writing about it.Since then, Candace and I have been cyber-friends, even though shortly after that time she traitorously left Texas for the California territories. For a while, Amazon was packaging books from Candace’s Code Triage series with those my Prescription For Trouble books. And now she’s asked me to “take her shift.” This may be the first time in history that a doctor has stepped in to cover the shift of a nurse, and I hope I can handle it. After all, doctors and nurses, although both are important members of the health care team, are trained differently. We’re used to doing different jobs. And that’s a good thing.

You can draw a parallel with the professions Candace and I have moved into from our medical careers: the publishing industry. When an editor accepted my first novel, I figured I’d done all the work necessary for its publication. Oh, someone would have to see to the mechanics, but the writing was obviously so good that it could go right to the printed page. Wrong! There was the macro-edit, the line edit, editing the galley proofs, designing the cover art… You get the picture. I was no more the most important member of the publishing team than a doctor is the most important part of the health care team. The novel needed more than I could give it, and the work was best done by people skilled in that area.

Two of Candace’s readers will win ARC’s (advance reading copies) of my novels. ARC’s are generally printed from the author’s first revisions, the version of the book that incorporates changes suggested by the macro-edit. But there are still more edits to come, so what appears in an ARC may not be what the consumer eventually purchases. That comes after others add their magic touch. It’s a team effort. And I’m glad it’s that way…in medicine and in publishing.

Candace, thanks for letting me cover your shift. Now I think I’ll put my feet up and have some coffee. This is tough duty.

***

Richard, wise words on all counts! I SO appreciate your "covering my shift,"--even though (giggle) you turned down my offer of matching red scrubs. Seriously, it's been a complete pleasure to have you here, and I'm very much looking forward to seeing you again at the ACFW conference in St. Louis this fall.

Meanwhile, I can hardly wait to share your exciting medical mysteries with my readers!

To be entered for the book giveaway drawing, please leave a comment and e-mail address below. I'll draw three names randomly on Wednesday April 27th. I'll post the names here as well as contact winners by e-mail.

Good luck to you all. And have a wonderful Easter celebration!

Cue the Leading Lady . . .

Sunday March 20th, 1:56 PM ~ congratulations to our giveaway winner:

AMBER! I'll be sending her a signed copy of Disaster Status. Thank you all for stopping by the blog and leaving such nice comments. And stay tuned to see who "covers my shift" next.

_____________________________

As with the heroes, I think it's important that my readers' first glimpse of the book's heroine is a strong one. Usually she's involved in some physical action (whether at work or play)--and always, I strive to show her determination and passion. This, of course, will translate equally into her struggle toward her main goal for the story. If you've read Disaster Status, you may remember that our first sighting of nurse Erin Quinn involved boxing gloves:

Muscle it. Punch through it. Control it. Be bigger than the bag.

Erin Quinn’s fist connected in one last spectacular, round-winning right hook, slamming the vinyl speed bag against the adjacent wall. And causing a tsunami in her grandmother’s goldfish tank. Water sluiced over the side.

“Whoa! Hang on, buddy. I’ve got you.” She dropped to her knees, steadying the tank with her red leather gloves. Everything she’d done in the last six months was focused on keeping Iris Quinn safe, secure, and happy, and now she’d nearly KO’d the woman’s only pet.

Erin watched the bug-eyed goldfish’s attempts to ride out the wave action. She knew exactly how he felt. Her own situation was equally unsettling: thirty-one and living with her grandmother and a geriatric goldfish named Elmer Fudd in a five-hundred-square-foot beach house. With two mortgages and a stubborn case of shower mold. She caught a whiff of her latest futile bout with bleach and grimaced.

But moving back to Pacific Point was the best option for her widowed grandmother, emotionally as well as financially. Erin was convinced of that, even if her grandmother was still skeptical . . . and the rest of the family dead set against it. Regardless, Erin was determined to put the feisty spark back in Nana’s eyes, and she had found the change surprisingly good for herself as well. After last year’s frustrating heartaches, being back in a house filled with warm memories felt a lot like coming home. She needed that more than she’d known.

***

In my newest medical drama (working title) Trauma Plan, the heroine is Nurse-Chaplain Riley Hale. Many of you will remember her from Code Triage, an ER nurse sidelined after an assault left her with serious injuries. In this new series, she's moved back home to Texas, but has no intention of letting her prominent family fuss over her. She's determined to re-claim her career and her life. Here is where we meet her in Chapter One:

“Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three . . .” Trauma chaplain Riley Hale straightened her elbows and leaned over her patient’s bare chest, using her left hand to sink her right palm as deeply as she could into his pliable breastbone. Her long hair swung across her shoulders with each focused effort. She pushed again, counting cardiac compressions while visualizing the patient’s failing heart squeezed between sternum and spine, her rescue efforts delivering essential blood to his brain and vital organs. “Twenty four, twenty five, twenty six . . .”

Riley compressed again, felt sweat trickle beneath her tailored shirt, then glanced at her patient’s pale, waxen face. She told herself that she was saving his life with her bare hands. My own two very capable hands. A registered nurse performing exactly what she’d been trained to do, had done a hundred times during her years in the ER. Nothing had changed, except . . .

“Argh!” Riley yanked her hands away and whirled to face ER charge nurse, Kate McCord. Her right hand cramped mercilessly, fingers curling inward beyond her control. “I’m working on a dead body, right? He’s dead because I’m doing a pathetic job trying to save him. Tell me the truth, Kate.”

“Well . . .” The petite brunette took a long swig from her vitamin water, then leaned back in the conference room chair. “It’s not looking good for Mrs. CPR Training Manikin—she should probably buy a nice black dress.” Her nose wrinkled. “On the bright side . . . the chaplain’s already here?”

Riley tried to smile . . . and failed.

Kate nudged her lunch plate aside. “Look, you have spinal cord damage that affects your arm--it’s weak; you can’t help that. That sick maniac broke your neck! You could have ended up in a wheelchair. The truth is that I’m amazed you’re doing as well as you are . . . ” {scene snipped for excerpt}

Riley traced her index finger slowly across the training manikin’s plastic shoe, and felt nothing. Dull as wood, completely numb. Her heart—her life--had begun to feel that same way. Numb, except for unrelenting frustration and the miserable jabs of guilt that came every time people applauded her “brave” journey to recovery. “You could have ended up in a wheelchair.” Was she selfish and ungrateful to want to be healed completely? Was she supposed to be happy that a horrifying assault left her with “only” a permanently weakened arm?

“Riley?”

“It’s been a year now.” Riley's gaze connected with Kate’s. “Physical therapy, occupational therapy . . . every kind of therapy. I want to be back in the ER”-- she glanced at her suit jacket draped over a chair—“in scrubs. I want to be a real part of the team. I have to make that happen.”

***

And I promise you, our new heroine is going to throw herself into that goal heart and soul.

I'm typing as fast as I can to bring you this exciting new story--in fact, those of you who follow me on Twitter and Facebook probably heard that I've completely worn the "L" off my keyboard! The "E" and "D" aren't far behind. So . . .

To celebrate this progress AND to applaud real life heroines everywhere, let's have a book giveaway!

Leave a comment below to have your name entered for a (random drawing) chance at a signed copy of Disaster Status. Keep it for your personal library, gift it to a friend, or donate it to a worthy cause. I so appreciate your encouragement and support as I continue this journey!

Be sure to leave an e-mail address so that I can contact you if your name is chosen.

I'll draw the giveaway winner on Sunday, March 20th.

Good luck to you all!

*** As mentioned before, Trauma Plan is a work in progress, and this scene excerpt will very likely change (several times!) in the editing revisions required to get this book to press ***

Author Leanna Ellis ~ Cover My Shift #2

SUNDAY March 6 89:13 AM ~ Congratulations to our giveaway winner: Lelia!

And, once again, thank you Leanna for "covering my shift," and to all of my readers for leaving comments.

_______________________

Today, I'm excited to have fabulous women's fiction author Leanna Ellis "cover my shift." Even if we didn't share an agent and a mutual tendency toward giggle-fits, I'd be nuts about Leanna because of her work: funny, quirky, imaginative, and heart-tugging stories . . . how can you not love the title of her debut inspirational novel: Elvis Takes a Back Seat? I was hooked! And then she reeled me in with Lookin' Back Texas, Ruby Slippers, Once in a Blue Moon, and today's giveaway book: Facelift:

In life and love, we could all stand a few nips and tucks . . .

Kaye Redmond, a "can do" kind of woman, has the magical touch when it comes to staging houses to attract buyers. Her ability to make things "perfect" has served her well in her career. If only it could transform her personal life as well. With a failed marriage, an angry teenage daughter, and an ex-mother-in-law who is no fairy godmother, Kaye's life is about as imperfect as it gets.

But sometimes blessings come in the strangest packages. Like her ex-mother-in-law landing on Kaye's doorstep after a botched facelift. Could caring for the impossible woman help Kaye get what she wants most: her husband back? Isn't that what God would want? And what her daughter needs? But no fairy princess ever faced such obstacles: an ex-husband's surgically enhanced mistress, hormonal teenagers, and--worst of all--an extra handsome prince! How's a woman supposed to find happily-ever-after with all that going on?

Check this Amazon page to see a wonderful book trailer for Facelift.

And you're more than welcome to visit Leanna at her Facebook Page as well--always something fun happening there!

Here's Leanna's brief biography from the back of the book:

"Leanna Ellis, formerly known as Leanna Wilson, has sold more than one million books and been published in more than twenty countries. A recipient of the Reader's Choice Award, she lives with her family in Texas."

And now, here's a note from my friend Leanna, just for you:

What an honor to step in for Candace today! Thanks, Candace, for trusting and inviting me here and thanks to her readers for giving me a precious moment of their time. Thankfully, this duty doesn’t require knowledge of stethoscopes, I.V.’s or surgical procedures, because the sight of blood, the smell of antiseptic and the sound of others in pain are things I try to avoid. I can tell you that Candace is wonderful and nurturing and she would be my first choice for a nurse, but if you’re sick you really don’t want me around.

So, what do Candace and I have in common besides writing? When I think of Candace and the times we have spent together, I always think of laughter. We love to laugh. Charlie Chaplin said, “A day without laughter is a day wasted.” When I’m with Candace I get my monthly quota of laughter. Although Candace usually writes with drama and angst, I often have humor infused in my writing. Even when I write about deep, serious subjects, I just can’t seem to go for too long without some sort of humor. Right now, I’m writing an Amish/vampire book. Yes, you read that correctly. Okay, I’ll wait while you stop laughing. Go ahead get it all out. Finished? Yes, it’s true, I really am writing an Amish/vampire book called Forsaken and a publisher has even bought it. It’s actually a serious book in that it’s a story about good versus evil and it’s a bit darker than my last few books but I totally loved writing it. Still, I couldn’t help but add touches of humor, and since I have one major character that is Cajun it was easy for him to see things in his own unique way.

Another thing Candace and I have in common is food. We love food. She loves to cook, and I love to eat. Even though I have learned to make Paula Deen’s beef stroganoff, which I must say is yummy, I am not much of a cook. But Candace… oh boy! She writes on her Facebook page what she’s cooking each night, and she has a knack for making it sound delicious. One night, I’m gonna show up on her doorstep in time for dinner!

One last thing Candace and I have in common is our love for animals. Last year I interviewed Candace on my blog and also interviewed her horse! I often write about my personal adventures with my crazy labradoodle, which we have affectionately named the Hilo Monster. Hilo was very helpful in the days after my father’s death when I could not write and was needing to put words on the page for my book Facelift. Those were dark days for me. But Hilo was not quite a year old and she was into everything. This dog has eaten over eight pairs of eyeglasses, so many pens I lost count, nine spicy chicken wings (bones included), half a turkey, a bunch of grapes, a chocolate Easter bunny (foil wrapper included) and who knows what else. She regularly jumps on my dining room table. Obviously she does not obey well, but quite frankly she makes me laugh. So I began writing about her and she burrowed her way into my novel and not only helped me write Facelift but also helped my heroine loosen up a bit. Proverbs 17:22 says, “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” And maybe that laughter and healing is what Candace and I have in common the most. May you find some laughter today and true healing through our Lord and savior.

Thanks for joining me here today, and thanks, Candace, for not making me don scrubs or a stethoscope because I much prefer my writing outfit: pjs and houseshoes.

Ah, thank you, Leanna--and you are welcome at my table any time.

And, now: Let's have book giveaway!

Leave a comment below, for a chance at a signed copy of FaceLift. Be sure to leave an e-mail address so that I can contact you.

I'll draw the winning name on Sunday, March 6th.

Good luck to everyone!