Author Archives: Wendi Knape

Idea Spring

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shower

I had a thought about a story I’m working on, it just happened to be while I was in the shower. Of course, it was gone before I could write it down, which is as frustrating as an itch I just can’t quite reach. It’s the one place not conducive to paper, pencil, a computer, or recording device.

What’s funny is most authors have these moments. Kimberly Kincaid, author of the upcoming book Reckless, A Rescue Squad Novel, which you can pre-order at Amazon.com, recently shared one of her own on Facebook. She was in line at a big-box convenience store and saw they had double sided bra tape by the register and a great way to deal with a sex scene popped into her head and she had to record her musings. Messaging back and forth with her this morning, she clarified, “…it made me think how funny it would be if a heroine was taped into a dress when she really wanted it off…” In the checkout line, she started furiously whispering the scene into her phone. If you want to read how the scene turned out you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for the second book in A Rescue Squad Novel series, her current W.I.P.

Other places I’ve had ideas spark are in my car. I can use my phone to record the idea but only while at a red light, and I pray the idea doesn’t flit out of my head before that happens. The doctor’s office is another, which can be embarrassing, since it is usually pretty quiet and my ideas can be pretty steamy in the romance department. Most of my ideas spring open while I’m at the bookstore when I’m actually getting some quality ideas down.

Because I’ve been concentrating on my next W.I.P. I’ve not had time for anything else. Unfortunately, that means the piece, be it fiction or non-fiction, I would have written for this post is still up in my head. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a question instead:

What are the top five places, not including in front of your computer, where your writing ideas spring?

 

Writing Contests

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Writing Contest imageTiming is everything. When it comes to writing contests this is particularly true. One of my goals is to keep entering writing contests, but it always seems my timing is off or my short catalog of work is lacking when it comes to contest rules.

It’s frustrating because entering contests gives a different insight into my work and can lead to better things in the future: the notice of editors and publishers, because they might want to see more work, or because a critique that I received during a contest helped flesh out and improve the writing.

I’ve entered two contests, since my writing journey began in 2008, the Lone Star Writing Competition and the RWA’s Golden Heart Awards contest. Recently, I found the Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition, which I really want to submit to, but the problem is I don’t have a piece that is 4000 words or less and the deadline to have something done is May 1st.

Pushing my frustration away, I ask myself, what can I do to be ready for contests matching my goal to become a published romance author? The answer is simple. Research. To prepare, I have to think ahead a year. First, I need to find contests that are appropriate for my goal. Second, I need to read the rules. Third, I need to plan a strategy for the upcoming “contest circuit” in the following year. Finding contests for completed work is ideal, but I also want to expand my project list. In considering contests, I don’t want to sacrifice works in progress, I want to add titles that relate and meet contest criteria.

Usually when browsing the internet for contests, it is spur of the moment, which doesn’t help. Without planning, I’m just going to be racing to try to catch elusive deadlines that are already too close to meet.

Therefore, looking into the future, here’s what is on my agenda:

  1. Find contests that coincide with my goals.
  2. Prepare a schedule of writing and editing to meet the rules for each competition, without compromising what I’m currently working on.
  3. Submit to at least three contests each year.
  4. Make entering contests a habit.

Here are some reasons why writing contests are important to me. As with any type of business, I have to meet deadlines and contests have deadlines. Plus, judges in most contests, rate and/or critique work. So, if I have something to improve on, and I didn’t place, I can dig back into the work. I can make it shine with the proper luster, and resubmit to another contest or go the agent/publisher angle.

As luck would have it, I recently came across a contest whose deadline was on April 30: The Maggie Awards. I met the rule requirements, so submitted my manuscript. There will be a critique. I hope that something will come of it. In the event that it doesn’t I will keep moving forward with my writing, enjoying each story as it unfolds watching my hero’s and heroine’s come to life on each page.

What writing contests have you entered in the past year? If you need some help, finding what is right for you, just Google “writing contests 2015” or below you can hit the links of some I found while doing my own investigating:

 

Undressed

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In the past few weeks, I’ve been taking an hour out of my day to develop several meet-cutes. A meet-cute is a term used in the movie industry illustrating how the main characters in a romance meet for the first time in a funny way. You can see the full definition on dictionary.com under the idiom for cute.

Generating story ideas for future projects can be daunting. A meet-cute is a fun way to jumpstart the creative process. What follows is one of the ideas that came out of this brainstorming.

 

"Die Geheimnisse Der Liebe", Harper’s Bazaar Germany, October 1996 Photographer : Pamela Hanson Models : Valeria Mazza & Jason lewis

“Die Geheimnisse Der Liebe”, Harper’s Bazaar Germany, October 1996
Photographer : Pamela Hanson
Models : Valeria Mazza & Jason lewis

“You’re not going to school dressed like that!” Sierra Pierson couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. She blinked a few times, trying to clear the vision of her 15-year-old daughter baring more skin then a whore in a heat wave. Penelope, her sweet, innocent daughter, the daughter that still sleeps cuddling her Teddy, who still asks for a kiss good night, stood in the hallway wearing a skirt so high and tight that if she sat down the action would expose her to all of the free world. And the top…Sierra didn’t even want to think about the image burned on the back of her eyelids.

A curse upon her family was early onset Boobitis, and unfortunately, Penelope had grown into said curse in the last year.

“Penelope Olivia Pierson,” Sierra said, pointing to her daughter’s room. “Go change right now.”

Poppy stiffened. Her mouth just started to open as a knock sounded at the front door. They both looked down the stairs.

“Go!” Sierra said. She wondered who would come knocking so early in the morning.

“Mom!”

“No Poppy. I don’t have time for this.” Sierra shook her head and pointed to her daughter. She could tell Poppy was eager for a fight. “I’m late. Why did this have to happen on the first day at the new office? She thought. Dammit!  She huffed in exasperation. “Please go change.”

Sierra started to turn for the stairs. The knocking got louder.

“Just a minute!” she yelled. Poppy hadn’t budged.

“Can I at least wear the shirt?” she whined.

Sierra rubbed her temple where a headache started tap dancing, looked up at the cracked ceiling and sighed. The house needed a lot of work and so did Poppy’s sense of decency. Eyes back on Poppy, she gave her her best evil eye that would melt the paint off an icy flagpole. “Only if you keep on your hoody.”

Sierra watched Poppy smirk. Oh, she thought she could get away with something. Not this time.

“You better keep it zipped. I’ll know if you don’t. I have eyes and ears all over this town, even at your school.” She crossed her arms under her own ample breasts.

Her daughter squinted, gave her the lip-curl and looked like she was going to snarl her displeasure, but decided against it. Good thing otherwise Sierra would have to remind her, what a crazy mother could do to embarrass said daughter. In a swirl of thwarted slutdom, Poppy left Sierra to answer the persistent knocking. Sierra ran down the stairs and yanked the door open as her mind whirled with all she had yet to do to get ready for her new job. “What!”

****

Detective Lawrence (Low) Renicki rolled up to the two-story prairie style house in his pick-up truck and pulled to a stop.  Why his best friend, Burk, couldn’t deliver a package to his sister himself, he would never know. But he owed him, and this was the payoff.

Low reached over, grabbed the small brown box and winced.  He slowly sat back up and took a couple deep breaths controlling the pain that snuck up on him. It wasn’t as bad as a couple days ago; it was enough to dampen the line of his brow and upper lip though. He’d be dead if it hadn’t for his best friend and partner, Burk, tackling a suspect who’d pulled a weapon and got off a shot.

Low had been recovering for a few weeks now, but it would be a few more before he got back to work. He’d rather be sitting watching a ball game then out running errands, but he owed his friend big time. And this was easy compared to what Burk could have asked for. Walking with a shortened gate, he knocked on the front door.  There was no immediate answer but he did hear some yelling. He looked to the side through the narrow window but couldn’t see much through the thin curtain. It sounded like an argument. He lifted his fist and knocked again, his side throbbing with each bang. Low thought he should just go. He needed to get this done and get back home. Before he could knock again, the door opened in a flourish and he almost dropped the small package but his jaw dropped open instead.

“What!”

All Low could do was stare.

Burk’s sister leaned on the solid wood doorframe, one arm above her head, the other fisted on her hip, the fabric of her very tight, very sheer white camisole, stretched to within an inch of its life. Barely hiding her lace bra, also white, it left little to the imagination. And thank the fashion gods for that, he thought, because they had blessed this woman with the most luscious breasts he’d had ever seen.

“Uh, uh?” Low stammered.

“Well? What do you want?” Sierra questioned with an irritated snap.

Clomping of shoes snapped his eyes to the sound coming down from the second floor. What was her name? Poppy, that was it, Low thought, she was the exact duplicate of her mother, blond hair, blue eyes, a little less curve in the hips, still growing into herself. He guessed, just getting a good hold on her teenage years, maybe.

The girl smiled, looked to her mother and he couldn’t help but look back at Sierra, caught again by all her curves. His fingers twitched to smooth them under the hem of the slick pencil skirt that she had paired with the camisole. He would wrinkle it up as he peeled back the fabric that hugged her hips. Low licked his lips.

When the daughter started laughing, his head snapped up. The woman’s eyes glanced over her shoulder, and then quickly down at where Poppy pointed and laughed. Sierra’s eyes came back up to his and he smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“Oh, shit!” Faster than a cheetah, Sierra disappeared up the stairs. “Just a minute,” she yelled down.

Low chuckled.

As Poppy turned away and walked through an open doorway toward the back of the house, Low thought he heard her say, “Well, that was fun.” And for the life of him he couldn’t remember why he even stopped by. Oh right, he remembered, the package, and laughed again, waiting for the very sexy Sierra to come back down.

His morning just got a whole lot better.

Witchy Woman

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Crows circled the house as my footfalls cracked branches and dirt sank between my toes. The old house was my safe haven, the darkness my hiding place when the light seemed too oppressive. Weeds clung to the worn slats of siding, vines crept up the walls, their small fingerless leaves reaching for the light and overgrown trees and foliage blocked the sun like living gravestones. I looked up to the ominous birds again, and asked, “Why do you circle crows? You shouldn’t be here.”

I walked faster, my steps uncharacteristically thoughtless. My worries were my own here in the dense woods, as I wandered outside the walls of my secret world. Then a tinkle of laughter filled my ears. I turned my head to listen closer. The delightful but abrupt sound echoed inside the abandoned house off its walls as I drew closer. I stopped, my throat closing in anger. This was my place. Unsheathing my dagger, strapped to my chest, I prepared to defend what was mine.

I listened for the sound again. Not hearing anything, I moved up onto the back concrete porch where the backdoor was wide open, broken from its hinges long ago. This time, I entered without a sound, my eyes scanning for any disturbance in the familiar landscape. I wondered what the humans were like who had lived here. Did they eat their meals together and talk about their day, or did they find the nearest pub to paw up the skirt of a wench. My long hardened fingers clenched and released.

I heard the laughter again, and sucked in a painful breath. I would have to find another place to go to for solitude. My shoulders slumped low, my fists clenched and my chin fell nearly to my chest, my mood slowly moving onto rage. I didn’t get very far. My name seemed to come to me on the wind from the next room, making my skin prickle and shiver with need.

“Silas Anastad,” the voice said joined by her tinkling laugh. “Do not leave.” The feminine timber singed my body. I turned to the voice unwilling to leave but my feet carried me closer.

“I’ve waited too long to meet you.” I smiled again as she spoke. “Come to me, male of the Sidhe.” That got my attention even more. How did the female know I was of the Fae?

“Because silly, I’m special.” She continued to laugh, the wonderful sound finally dropping off as I walked through the grand archway into the core of the dilapidated home. I held my weapon firm.

What greeted me was nothing less than astounding, the most beautiful human woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her warmth radiating onto my dark, flesh, like a soft caress from her lips. I closed my eyes and felt it sink into my soul, opening a part of me that had been stuck in an abyss of hate. My body swayed forward.

Blinking my eyes open, I couldn’t help but stare. Her cerulean colored eyes were luminous. They glowed as if they were jewels filled with laughter. Soft plump lips, painted a glossy crimson, curled up in a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair lay in soft curls winding down and over her full pale breasts that a black lace and blood red satin corset hugged so lovingly. Her lush hips flared out draped with more red satin accentuating her full figure so well, I wanted to grip those curves bring her hips flush with mine. When I trained my eyes on her feet, they were bare, her small delicate toes adorned with black paint on her nails, just as she’d done to her fingernails.

I cleared my dry throat, but the word stuck. I tried again. “Hello.”

She waved and looked at me coyly from under her lashes, her skirt twirling back and forth.

“Hello, Silas.” She stopped moving, her stature growing as she straightened to her full height, which was still much shorter than my six foot four frame, but no less commanding. She seemed luminous in her confidence, her age somewhere in her twenties, belying the number. It was amazing to watch the transformation from the shy but excited female to this more regal woman who stood before me.

I cleared my throat again, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you,” she tapped her temple, “up here, since I was very young.”

She was so beautiful, I lost track of what I was going to say. I shook my head to clear the confusion of her appearance, and finally asked, “But how? You’re human. How do you know about my kind?”

Her lips twisted up at one corner and her head tilted to the side, as if to tell me I was an idiot. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I returned my dagger to my harness. She seemed so excited to see me, but I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.

She started to twirl in a circle and hummed to a tune I couldn’t hear. I finally had had enough and quickly moved toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, bringing her to a standstill, or so I thought. But she swept me up in her joy and my arms easily wrapped around her, one hand going to her little waist and the other gripping her nape at her hair, and we started to dance around the grand room. The music I hadn’t heard suddenly flit across the room as it transformed into something wild. The chandelier above us sparkled anew and the floor became a polished marble, the walls a rich tapestry of  fabric, as the magic emanating from her touched us both, carrying us in the dance. Her head went back, she smiled through her laughter, and all I could do was hold on.

“Finally,” she kept saying, “Finally.”

When the music dwindled and we came to a stop, she looked up at me and the world came to a sudden halt as our heads came closer together. She lifted a hand to my face and brushed her slight fingers against my cheek, up, over my pointed ear, and down my jaw, stopping on my lips. Her fingers touched me, where her eyes focused on my lips, in a lazy back and forth motion. Her tiny pink tongue swept across her own lips making them wet and I groaned. My head bent down to hers and…

I snapped my head up, but still held her close, my hand twining in her soft hair, tipping her head further back, not loosening my controlled grip. “You’re a witch.” It was a statement of fact and she gave another one of her tiny coy smiles. But there was nothing really coy about her. Her eyes flared with sexual heat and power that made my body stir as only a males could. I leaned in again, her lips parting, her breath hot, and my blood pumping hard as I leaned in once again. “What’s your name?” I whispered so close I could almost taste her.

“Analise,” she said, her voice a shiver across my skin, as her body started to tremble with a need as strong as mine, her scent sharpening as I breathed her in.

“Who are you?”

“I am yours.”

Black Wings

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The sun lit fire to the still and quiet water as it set. It was the exact opposite of how Melanie felt. Her insides boiled like an acid stew, her shame the meat of it. What she’d ended had poisoned her so deep that she would never be clean again. Beholden to her creator, she’d done even worse to herself. Time had stopped, holding its breath to see what she would do next as she sat on the black beach, the place was not familiar, but there was nowhere to go. All she knew was she was dead.

Callum had made promises, promises that had held Melanie together for a long time. To find out they were all lies…

The picture of his lean and muscular body came to her mind. He always got out of bed without a care about his nakedness. She lay sated after a forceful and wild coupling. He had marked her skin, making it red, his grip tight and unforgiving, just how she liked it. When she stared at him as he dressed, she had become quite aware of what he was doing when, with a satisfied and smug smile, he pulled out a gold band and slid it on his ring finger, slicing apart her heart as if he held the knife himself.

The one word, “married,” echoed throughout the small one room cabin that they had been coming to for over six months, bitten out through her swollen pink lips, as she lost all control.

Melanie had screamed her rage making her throat raw, attacking him with fists, teeth and nails, making him bleed for what he had done to her. His grunts joined their struggle until he grabbed her by her arms and threw her away onto the bed. Melanie looked around, her eyes wild, until they lit on the knives in small kitchen. Before Callum knew what she was doing, as he drew on his coat and headed for the door, she grabbed the biggest blade and launched herself at him, the knife coming down and into his chest over and over as she kept yelling, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each strike of the knife.

She yelled the word now at the still water, the scream so powerful, if she had had super powers the water would have rippled as if hit by shockwave after shockwave of sound. She looked down at the blood congealed on her wrists, hers and Callum’s blood mixed as one. The tears that came did not wash away her sin.

“Melanie,” the male voice boomed all around her, behind her, inside her. She froze, her hands digging into the sand as if she could hide the gaping wounds she had cut into her skin. Afraid to move, afraid to speak she waited for her punishment.

“Melly. Stand up.” Her entire being, down to her soul, jerked with the word. She stood instantly, her body not in her control. Fear raced up her spine. The only person who had ever called her Melly was her mother. Social workers had taken Melanie away from her. She was only six.

“Turn to me, Melly.”

Her body shook as she complied with his command. The choice to turn was her own as she stamped down her fear of what might happen.

Melanie’s mouth went dry as a surge of heat, so strong, went straight to her core, almost causing her to fall to her knees. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen. His chest bare, the muscles forming like he were a god, his skin tone glowing bronze to the suns red, the black designer slacks he wore fitting as if born to him, and his eyes hot as he took her in from her polished toes to unruly golden hair. She shook her head back and forth. Melanie shouldn’t be feeling anything for anyone. She didn’t deserve to feel good.

“You turn to me freely?” She shrugged her shoulders, not willing to show how much he unnerved her. There was nothing really to say anyway. Melanie was ready to accept whatever punishment she deserved.

His gaze bored into hers as if he was reading her soul. Maybe he was. Eyes firing brighter than the sun, she couldn’t cover her own as invisible arms came around her holding her body still. There was no need. It was as if the light was coming into her, filling, pressing to every corner of her mind; peeling away all her layers, her secrets. Everything.

She sobbed.

“I know what you have done to your lover.” She said nothing. He came closer lifting one of her wrists. “You dare take your own life.” His words reverberated through her making her shiver.

“There will be an agreement between you and me,” he said, his arms wrapping around her in truth, his light surrounding them both. The light was cold and fractious. It wasn’t warm, as she would have thought, making her bones ache and her want to wrench herself from his arms. His grip tightened. “The agreement is really no agreement at all. You are mine, one of many in my army, but special nonetheless. Your sins demand it.” His hand reached out as he looked down on her, as his fingers stroked her cheek and came down to her neck and back to her nape. He gripped hard and she sucked in a breath. “For taking your own life you are mine to command and do with as I will it.” She thought about what she had done to Callum.

With a piercing tear, Melanie’s body arched as his fingers became claws tearing through her skin and bones, just below her shoulder blades, reaching in and taking hold. She screamed and screamed. The pain was so great she couldn’t see and collapsed, but his arms still held her until he drew his claws out, his hold now onto something else that felt foreign yet a part of her. Her breaths bellowed from her chest and out of her mouth, her distress searing his skin. Her heart beat frantically banging against his chest as he held her with one arm, when suddenly, she saw lustrous black wings, spread so wide behind him, she stopped breathing. And when he let her go raising his arms behind her back she tried to step away but then he yanked hard on something that was…attached…to her.

“Oh, God!”

She wrenched her neck around and gasped. Mirroring his wings, were a pair of wings so black, so grand, they sucked up all the light. She had no words.

Melanie looked up into this being eyes, not a man at all. “What are you?” she whispered grabbing onto the taut skin of his shoulders, her balance unexpectedly shifting.

“I am what you are.” He paused, taking her shoulders and bringing her up so her lips were an inch from his. “I am vengeance!”

She licked her lips as her eyes dropped to his.

“And you are mine.”

His lips came down hard on hers and somehow she knew that the promise in his kiss was more than anything she had ever known, the warmth that starved the original chill suffusing them both, sealing something between them forevermore.