by Susanna Ives
A month ago when I agreed to write a blog post for January 11th, I was still floating in the soft glow of Christmas carols, candles, huge feasts, and packages tied up with big bows. Unfortunately, I suffer from this expectation versus reality problem. In my mind, I envision January as a month of resolutions, healthy living, and having large swaths of time to work while my children are happy in school. And inevitably, every January, some winter storm hits, schools are closed, children are sick, people send emails containing that cruel “it’s due” phrase, bills roll in, and the power goes out.
That brings me to this morning, when I’m was sitting in the pediatrician’s office with my sick daughter and wondering what the heck I was going to write for the post? My head was one big swirling bitch fest about how much I detest January. Nobody wants to hear that. Then I started doing that writer thing where I take aspects of my life and twist, bend, multiply them, turning them into stories. So rather than complain to you, I’ll offer these lovely story ideas very roughly based on my life in January. I’m a lousy contemporary writer, so I will spare the literary world and just leave these fabulous ideas in pitch form.
After her divorce from her psychotic, underground crime lord husband, Jane joined the FBI witness protection program. She changed her name, as well as the names of her five children, and moved to a quaint small town. She wasn't looking for love. She was just looking for the name of a good pediatrician.
Mark, a military MD and former special forces Delta Six officer, wanted to put the violence of war behind him. He moved to a rural town and began a general medicine practice, finally realizing his lifelong dream of being a peace loving country doctor. He wasn't looking to lose his heart when the stunning Jane walked into his waiting room with a screaming baby on either hip, her golden hair falling tangled and uncombed about her shoulders, her voluptuous body clad in tight, unmatched, and food-stained clothes. He knew from the way she said, “Do you think it might be strep” that she was trouble.
He tried to resist his powerful attraction for her, but it was hard when she turned up at his office every day. It was like one of her kids would get well and then another would get sick. Good Lord, could those kids ever be well at the same time. How many school sick days could one family accumulate? But when Jane’s children contracted a nasty rotavirus, he couldn't have them infecting his office. He tried to tell himself he was only making a patient call when he pulled into her driveway that night with a bottle of antibiotics and a dozen roses resting on the passenger seat of his Ferrari. But when he opened the door to find Jane and her vomiting kids held captive by her sadistic, crime lord, ex-husband, Mark put aside his prescription writing ways and reached back to his dangerously sexy past to save the woman he loves…and all her puking children.
Here's an erotic novella idea. What do you think?
Jennifer always dreamed of owning an old home with wooden floors, heavy French doors with glass knobs, and verandas with porch swings. After her boyfriend Chad confided that Stanley, the automotive parts associate sales manager, excited him in ways she never could, Jennifer decided that she didn't need a man to realize her dream of living in a quaint Victorian.
However, after one year into living her dream, she was cursing herself for giving up that easy, gated community, carefree, apartment lifestyle. Could another thing go wrong in her home? She had just finished repairing the roof where a massive oak had fallen on it, when the water heater broke. This, on top of the dishwasher blade breaking and that suspicious crack in the dining room wall growing bigger. Then there was the lack of insulation issue that caused her to move about the frigid high-ceiling rooms toting a space heater.
In January, the temperature sank well below freezing, and a tree fell on the power line down the street. Huddled in her bed, dressed in two layers of warm ups and thick wool socks, she listened to the drip, drip, drip of all the faucets and prayed, reminding the Lord that she was broke. Then there was a scary swishing sound. She bolted from her bed. Using the light from her smartphone, she ran downstairs to find water gushing from under the sink. Cat food bowls, roach motels, and the recycling were floating upon the tiny sea on her kitchen floor.
She screamed into her phone: “Give me the name of a plumber who is open!”
On the screen, flashed a website for Handy Randy, the midnight plumber. The page showed a muscled man in a body-building pose, hefting a massive wrench. The caption read, “Here for all your urgent late night needs.”
She took a deep breath, feeling a throb between her legs and temples, and dialed the number. A deep, rich, Barry White voice answered. “Handy Randy at your service.”
“Oh, Randy,” she said, her voice a hoarse, passion-laden whisper. “I need you. Bad.”
“I’ll get my tools.”
Wow, January seems so much better in fiction. And speaking of fiction, are you snowed in, huddled by your space heater, or surrounded by sick children? If so, seek some relief in my new book Wicked Little Secrets.
"To be able to meld the vivid characters and complex scheme as this author did earned her a Best Book in my eyes. If you love historical romances, then this book is a must!" -- Long and Short Reviews