The Bo’sun clued me in that tomorrow is the Captain’s birthday.  She’s all quiet about it, like she expected us not to notice.  But, she doesn't give us enough credit.

We may be a bit rowdy, we may drink and eat a bit of chocolate, we might even get a bit sassy now and again.  But we never miss a reason to celebrate.

Huzzah, Captain!  Happy 29^th Birthday!  Again.

So, in honor of the Captain, what would you bring to a party in honor of our Hellion? Anything you’d like, be creative.  (It’s virtual, so you don’t even have to worry about how heavy it is.)

And if you could get one birthday gift, what would it be? And let’s not pull that “health for all my loved ones” stuff.  I know we all want world peace and would use a real wish in some altruistic and selfless manner.  But today, let's just pretend.  Physical gifts only please!

*Sin rummages through a wooden chest and starts throwing things out over her head*

 

-Ter- “What the hell is she doing?”

 

-Marn- “I think she’s looking for the glitter.”

 

-Lis- *puts her hand over her eyes and grimaces* "Or she's looking for the missing part of her skirt. Full moon alert."

 

*Pirates are snorting with laughter*

 

-Hellion- *eye roll at the mess* “Maybe she lost Ranger in that mess.”

 

*Sin shoots Hellion the death stare from over her shoulder* “Don’t go there.”

 

The pile of junk grew higher and higher until it started to sway in the wind. Lightening cracked over the sky and Sin’s triumphant battle cry echoed over the sea. “Ah-ha! I found it.”

 

She held it in the air, almost like a scene right out of Lion King. It was solid black. Marabou feathers adorned the edges of wood, silver glitter puff paint on the top spelled out “Sin”. Sin brushed it off and blew on it until all traces of dust were gone.

 

“This,” Sin said, strutting away from the pile of junk in the middle of the top deck. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere. I can’t have a proper soapbox rant without my soapbox.”

 

I don’t need a microphone for what I’m about to say. In fact, if you’re past the point of listening to soapboxes, you might want to skip to the bold print below. It’s about to get ugly ‘round here.

 

I am a faithful reader. I have been since I was old enough to learn what I liked and disliked about books. The first time I realized I loved romance novels, it was an accident. Purely accidently. The historical was mixed in with the pre-teen books. I fell in love with the cover art of a castle on the cliff, a girl with black hair and gorgeous blue eyes being swept away into the sea. I picked it up and snuck it home. I poured over the pages of that book. The second time I got my hands on a romance novel, it was a contemporary (I didn’t know it at the time) and it bored the living socks off me. The difference between the two books was the writing. The author. The amount of feeling and passion and emotion put into the words behind every sentence.

 

I’m drawn to books that pull me in and make me feel like I’m there. Does that make me crazy? Maybe, but the jury’s been out on that a long time now.

 

Lately I find myself falling off the bandwagon of faithful readership. Why you might ask? Well, I love authors. I realize the more I meet regardless if it’s in person or through email or interaction online that they are people too. They are just like you, the reader, even though they are the author. They know how to appreciate their readers because they treat them HOW they’d want to be treated if the role was reversed. But it only takes one author to ruin the whole apple cart. One author to act like an ass and pretend like it’s okay to offend her readers because her readership is so vast, who cares if it upsets someone or a group of people who read her books.

 

I am NOT crazy. I’m offended that you, the author of the series about a character you created and the readers who happen to love this character you’ve created, deems them crazy. That seems a little redundant to me. Shouldn’t you be thrilled that you have readers who love anything you create?

 

Maybe that’s the problem. Yup, I’ve hit the nail on the head.

 

Now, I’m not going to name names. Trust me, I want to in the worst way. This author has been on my $*#T list for the past two years now. It’s okay to flaunt that you think you’re readers will pick up and read anything you put out. It’s okay to not give a flying @u*k about story integrity.  Where is the loyalty to your readers! The people who put money in your pocket and keep you an author! That’s right! An author !! That’s why you started writing in the first place, wasn’t it?! Have you forgotten already that it takes readers to keep you being an author? And if you don’t want it anymore- STOP writing.

 

I know I’ve stopped buying.

 

At this point, there is nothing this author can do to make me want to buy or read another one of her books. She has pushed me so far past my tolerance line that all I do now is hope and pray that other readers will eventually come to the conclusion she just doesn’t give a $*#T anymore.

 

And I don’t either. I’m done.

 

*Sin saunters over to her wooden chest and places the soapbox neatly at the bottom. Then quietly closes the top, leaving the rest of the crap out*

 

We’re not going to name names today. In fact, I’ve probably manage to offend tons of people with this blog. I can’t say I’m sorry.  I want to know what you think about authors. Have you ever met an author (online or in person) who seemed very dismissive and it killed your desire to read their books?  Any really great author/reader stories to share today?

 

Remember NO NAMES!

Influenced by this week:  I don't give a f**k, Lil Jon and the Eastside Boys- Kings of Crunk

 

 

Word.

 

*Sin climbs the rigging to the crow’s nest with a mega phone* Wenches! Pirates!

 

*Hellion rolls her eyes and pushes Capt’n Jack into a dark corner*

*Terri grabs another glittery hooha and makes eyes at a deck hand*

*Marnee’s flirting with the new hottie of the week, fluttering her eyelashes*

*Readers are merrymaking with our previous hotties and pirates we’ve kidnapped*

 

*Sin yells into the mega phone*  The ship is on fire!

 

*chaos ensues and everyone swings around to give Sin the death eye*

 

*Sin grins* Now that I have your attention…

 

Hellion- You can’t be serious! 

 

Sin- As a deadly eyelash to the back of your neck.

 

*Ter moves closer to Hellion and looks over her shoulder* I told you not to provoke her.

 

*Marn grimaces but tries to smile* She’s only teasing.

 

*Hellie and Ter both roll their eyes* You sleep with one eye open.

 

*Marn grins* Someone has to watch the rations of men.

 

*Sin clears her throat* Yeesh! Pay attention! We have a guest on board!!

 

*Pamela Clare rises from the sea like a siren and steps off her magical wave and onto the deck*

 

*Everyone on deck instantly fan squeals*  Pamela!!

 

Pamela- “My thanks to you for havin’ me back aboard your fine ship. I return wi’ a new tale I’ve penned for you. But I’ll speak nary a word till my cup is brimmin’ wi’ rum…”

 

*Sin flips down from the crow’s nest and sneaks up behind the wenches* Boo!

 

*Ter and Marn squeal*

*Hellie tugs at her shirt sleeves- appearing unruffled*

 

Sin- Since I couldn’t wait to have Pamela Clare back on the ship and tell us another wonderful tale and corrupt her some more, I’ve kidnapped her!

 

*All wenches and pirates nodding by this wonderful feat!*

 

*Pamela saunters by Chance and Chance gives her a glittery hooha*

 

*Pam blinks and looks back at the pirates*  A glittery hooha?

 

*Pirates and Wenches holding up their drinks* Rum soaked goodness.

 

*Pam looks unsure and takes a drink. The smiling grows as she keeps drinking*

 

*Sin claps her hand and pirates and wenches part like the red sea and she steers Pamela to the bow of the ship* Now, let’s get her drunk and wind her up so she’ll spill all her secrets!

 

*Pam gives Sin the look*

 

*Sin whistles and looks innocent. She tips PC’s glass up further* I mean, let’s be nice and ask her questions about her greatness.

 

*Pam drinking her drink and looking suspicious*

 

Let’s get this show on the road! Without further ado- I give you the most wonderful, and bestestest (shut up, Hellion, it’s a word) Pamela Clare (THE author of I-Team series and five historical romances including her newest release UNTAMED!) She’s going to share with us a never before seen excerpt of UNTAMED that was cut in the final edits and a tale from the MacKinnon brothers.

 

****PC****

 

This tale I’ve put to words, ’tis about Morgan MacKinnon, a son of Scotland, exiled wi’ his da’ and mother and two brothers across the ocean sea to America. He was but a striplin’ lad when the Sassenach avenged themselves on the Highlanders for Culloden. They put his grandda’, laird of Clan MacKinnon, on a prison barge and forced his father, Lachlan MacKinnon, to take his wife, Elasaid, and his wee sons Iain, Morgan and Connor and leave Skye wi’ naught but the clothes upon their backs.

 

 They sailed westward beneath a troubled sky to the Colony of New Yorke and then journeyed over land upon roads long and weary until they came to Albany. So you’ve heard of Albany? Aye, ’tis that port on the river won from the Dutch, but you’re puttin’ a kinch in my tale, so sit back and hauld your whist, aye?

 

The brothers watched the wilderness claim first their gentle mother and then their da’. But it could not claim them, for they were young and hale and grew quickly seasoned to this harsh and wild land. In this none aided them more than the Mahican.  Some call them Mohican or Stockbridge Indians, but it matters no’ what you call them. ’Tis one and the same.

 

The Mahican taught the three brothers how to survive.  They showed them the secrets of the hunt so that they might fill their bellies and no’ starve.  They showed them how to move through the long reaches of the forest wi’out losin’ their way or fallin’ into enemy hands.  And they taught them to fight.

 

’Twas Iain as the oldest who first earnt his warrior marks, provin’ to the village that he could survive as a man.  Morgan was next, eager to show that he, too, was a warrior of worth.  And Connor?  Och, that lad!  A stubborn lad and full of piss and vinegar, he was!  (And still is if half the tales about him be true!) He earnt his marks a year after Morgan, and proud of them he was!

 

The three lads might have settled to a life of farmin’ on the land that had been their fathers had Lord William Wentworth no’ spied them comin’ to the aid of whore on the streets of Albany, savin’ her from the knife of a man who’d tupped her but didna wish to pay her fee. Wentworth saw how well the brothers fought, and he kent that ’twas men like them the British needed should they hope to win this war against the French and hold fast to their colonies. He had them placed in shackles and brought before him, and he told them he would see them hanged for murder if they didna take up their rifles and swords and fight for Britain. He tasked them with drummin’ up men who fought as they fought — in the Indian way — and trainin’ them as Rangers. And so the brothers fell under Wentworth’s yoke, chained to a war no’ of their makin’, leaders of a Ranger company.

 

Iain’s story is known to many of you — how he came to find Annie in the wild and save her from a war party of French and Abenaki, who would have slain first her spirit and then her body if he hadnae stopped them. He chanced his life and those of his brothers and his men to spare her that cruel fate — and paid in pain and blood. But though his back was bloodied by the lash at Wentworth’s command, he gained for his sufferin’ a true wife in bonnie, sweet Annie.

 

But Morgan’s tale you have no’ heard. It begins in the spring wi’ the trees well budded out and the birds singin’ in the sky.

 

Morgan bad Iain farewell and led the Rangers northward to Ticonderoga — what the French call Carillon. There they spied upon the French as Wentworth had ordered and made preparations to raid the pier, where a wealth of gunpowder sat in hogsheads, waitin’ to be loaded into French rifles…

 

Morgan and his Rangers waited.  Until the sun had set and sky was darkened by night, they waited. And then they crept by stealth to pier and fired their muskets at those hogsheads, ready to set the pier aflame! But when they fired those fateful shots, they saw that they had been deceived. For ’twas no’ powder in those casks, but sand! ’Twas a trap!

 

Morgan ordered his men to fall back, and fall back they did, but no’ as cowards who drop their swords and flee! Nay, those Rangers returned shot for shot as they drew back amongst the trees, laughin’ at the French canon balls and cryin’ out wi’ the Mahican war cry. (’Tis enough to raise the hair on the back of a dead man’s neck, I’d warrant!)

 

But then Dougie, one of Morgan’s men, fell, pierced through the leg by cruel lead, and Morgan would no’ leave him to be taken captive or killed.  He braved a hail of musket fire, drew Dougie onto his back and ran wi’ him to the safety of the riverbank, sendin’ him on wi’ his men and stayin’ behind to cover the retreat.

 

He didna see the French soldier in the riggin’.  The first shot caught him in the chest near his right shoulder so that he couldna hold his musket.  Still, he raised his pistol and shot that soldier dead.  But then others came and saw him wounded, a second shot piercin’ his thigh and drivin’ him to the ground.

 

His strength spent, he consigned himself to death, savin’ his last words for Connor.

“Beannachd leat!” he cried. Blessings go with you, brother!

 

The last thing he heard afore darkness claimed him was Connor’s anguished cry.

 

My tale doesna end here, for ’tis near death’s door that Morgan meets his angel, Amalie, whose love will save him from the cruelest of fates, even as it tests his loyalty to his brothers and his men.

 

Now, keep the rum flowin’ and I’ll be happy to bide shipboard a wee and chat wi’ you.

 

 

 

 

(The following scene was cut to comply with the publisher’s maximum page count.)

 

April 19, 1759

Ticonderoga

New York frontier

 

Major Morgan MacKinnon lay on his belly, looking down from the summit of Rattlesnake Mountain to the French fort at Ticonderoga below.  He held up his brother Iain’s spying glass—nay, it was now his spying glass—and watched as French soldiers unloaded kegs of gunpowder from the hold of a small ship.  Clearly, Bourlamaque was preparing to defend the fort again.  But if Morgan and his men succeeded in their mission tonight, that powder would never see the inside of a French musket. 

Connor stretched out beside him and spoke in a whisper.  “I cannae look down upon this place without thinkin’ of that bastard Abercrombie and the good men we lost.”

Morgan lowered the spying glass and met his younger brother’s gaze.  “Nor can I, but we didna come here to grieve.”

“Nay.”  Connor’s gaze hardened.  “We’ve come for vengeance.”

Last summer, they’d had no choice but to follow Abercrombie—or Nanny Crombie as the men had called him—to a terrible defeat.  An arrogant bastard who paid no heed to the counsel of mere provincials, Abercrombie had ignored their warnings that Ticonderoga could not be taken without artillery.  He hadn’t believed that the hastily built abatis—the barrier of felled trees and branches that had been piled afore the walls—could hinder trained British Regulars and had ordered his men against the French breastworks with naught but muskets.  Soldiers had become ensnared like rabbits, cut down by French marksmen afore they could reach the walls, victims of their own loyalty and Abercrombie’s overweening pride.

On that terrible day, the Rangers, then under the command of Morgan’s older brother Iain, had taken position to the northwest together with Captain Joseph’s Muhheconneok warriors and had fired endlessly at the French marksmen, trying to dislodge them.  But the French had turned cannon upon them and pounded them into the ground.  So many had been lost—good men and true, men with families, men who’d fought beside them from the beginning. 

’Twas here they’d lost Cam—and dozens more. 

Dead for naught.

When Abercrombie had finally sounded the retreat and the smoke had cleared, the fort had stood just as it had afore.

Never had Morgan seen such senseless death—and at the age of seven-and-twenty he’d seen death enough to sicken a man’s soul.  For nigh on four years, he and his brothers had lived and breathed war.  Forced by that whoreson Wentworth to choose between fighting for Britain or being hanged for a crime they had not committed, they’d taken up arms against the French and their Indian allies, harrying them with ambuscades, seizing their supplies, fighting them in forest and fen.  They’d slain fellow Catholic and heathen alike, burying their own dead along the way.

Morgan had never imagined that he, as a MacKinnon, would fight the French, traditional allies of all Scotsmen still faithful to Church and Crown.  During the Forty-Five, the French had aided the Highland clans, including Morgan’s grandfather—Iain Og MacKinnon, laird of Clan MacKinnon—in their vain struggle to drive the German Protestant from the throne.  Then, after the disastrous defeat at Culloden, the French had given refuge to many an exiled Scot, saving countless lives from the wrath of Cumberland.  Even now France sheltered the rightful heir to the throne, bonnie Charles Stuart.  Every true Scotsman owed the French a debt.

Aye, it was a devil’s bargain that had spared Morgan and his brothers the gallows.  Father Delavay, the French priest Iain had kidnapped last year when he’d had need of a priest to marry Annie, said the sin was not theirs but Wentworth’s.  And yet absolution stuck in Morgan’s throat, for it was not bloody Wentworth who pulled the trigger on his rifle, but he himself.

If anything gave him peace, it was knowing that Iain was now out of the fray, settled on the MacKinnon farm with Annie and little Iain, the firstborn of a new generation of MacKinnons.  Wentworth had released Iain from service, not because he’d wished to spare Iain, but because he was besotted with Annie.  Whatever the cause for Wentworth’s mercy, Morgan was grateful.  He’d never have found the courage to face Annie had Iain been slain in battle—or worse—taken captive.

Morgan saw something move in the dark forest below, heard the slow click of rifles being cocked around him, and felt a warm swell of pride.  He rarely needed to give orders.  Having fought side by side for so long, the Rangers thought and moved as one.  There were no better fighters in the Colonies, no men better suited to the hardship of this war.  ’Twas an honor to lead them, as Iain had done afore him.

Morgan closed the spying glass, raised his rifle, cocked it.  But it was not French scouts who emerged from the green wall of forest, but Captain Joseph’s warriors, eighty men in black and white war paint moving swiftly and silently through the shadows.  They’d been watching the Rangers’ west flank on the long march northward and had gone on to scout out the French sentries while Morgan and his men surveyed the fort from above. 

Morgan lowered his rifle and whispered to Joseph in the Muhheconneok tongue.  “You thrash about like a randy bull moose.  We heard you coming from a league away.   You might have been shot.”

Joseph grinned.  “There is more to fear in a bee’s sting than in your muskets.  My blind granny has better aim.”

Bonded by blood to Morgan and his brothers, Joseph Aupauteunk was the son of a Muhheconneok chief and a fearsome warrior.  He and his father had come to the MacKinnon farm, bringing gifts of dried corn and venison that had helped Morgan and his family survive their first bitter winter of exile in the colonies.  Though Morgan’s mother—God rest her soul—had at first been terrified of Indians, a lasting friendship had grown between Morgan’s family and the Mahicans of Stockbridge.  ’Twas Joseph and his uncles who’d taught Morgan and his brothers to track, to fight, to survive in the wild.  As for what Joseph’s sisters had taught them, Morgan was too much of a gentleman to say—without a gill or two of whisky in his belly.

Morgan switched to English so that those among his men who did not speak Muhheconneok could understand.  “What does Bourlamaque have waitin’ for us?”

It was time to plan their strategy.

 

****PC****

 

Okay, readers and writers of the Romance Writer’s Revenge it’s your turn! Since we’ve kidnapped Pamela Clare and we’re not giving her back no matter what they offer for her, let’s talk to her about craft! Ask, ask, ask! Ask her lots of questions and you have a chance to win the signed book of your choice from among her eight titles!!!

Just a quick note to wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving Day.   We are incredibly thankful for you, our gentle readers, because you stop by faithfully.  Your unbending support keeps us afloat here.

So thank you, from your pirates.

I watched it all float in front of my eyes. Memories not so distant and years ago, reminding me of where I’d been and where I was yet to go. Stuck with you just like a shadow, following you wherever you may roam. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t run fast enough. Hide away until they floated by. I couldn’t deny them. No matter how far I tried to shove them down in that deep dark corner of my heart, they're always lurking. Haunting you like your long lost conscience. Whispering. Taunting. Making you out of your mind as you try to lie down to sleep. There was no rest to be found. Closure was something of a dream- an afterthought, something I wanted to obtain but never found a way.

There is no denying it. Memories are your own. You can’t run. You have to face them. Eventually.

There's nothing like reminiscing about days passed. I mean, memories are what keep you going when you're stuck in a rut. They make you laugh. They make you cry. They bring back feelings you wish you could forget and the emotions you wished you still had. There is something about memories that if you didn't have them, you'd be empty inside even when you think you’d be better off.

I’m sure this comes as no surprise to most of you, that I wasn't always a pirate. Being a pirate is just something that happens. I didn't fall off the turnip truck as one. I didn't thumb my way across the world. I didn't swim across the seven seas and come out of the water all Bond girl-ish with perfect hair and in a white swimsuit with no nipples showing. (Because let's face it wenches and pirates, you wear white in the water and it turns see-through. And yes I know this to be a fact.) It's all the experiences along the way that turn you into a pirate. A pirate of your own life.

I use memories in my writing. Sometimes it’s just a glimmer of things that have happened, conversations gone haywire, situations gone bad. Fun times. Crazy times. Use rough outlines of my favorite girlfriends for secondary characters. For me, it makes it fun to write. Besides, who hasn't thought about the time someone burned you and you couldn't think of something to say until two days after? It's all about rewriting it to get your revenge. It's about reliving a dream you always wanted to share. A life you always wanted but could never have. Taking the chances through a character and forgoing the consequences. Seeing how much they can take before they break. Or you. Depends on the memory.

Memory writing can be tough. It can also be like therapy. We’ve talked about that on the ship before so I’m not going into it again. A good example of writing from memories can be writing high school scenes with your characters. Everyone has a high school memory they’d like to tweak. Rewrite. Fix for the better. But for me, it's like writing sex. Sex is hard to write. Hands down. I can write torture. I can write blood dripping from the edge of a bathtub. I can write evil bad guys- murder in their eyes, cruel smiles twisted on their lips, without a problem. But writing a sex scene is sheer agony. I spend most of my time while writing a sex scene running through my head (this goes here, that goes there, insert here, do this, touch that) it’s completely nerve wracking. I suppose for me, it’s like that first time together. It’s supposed to be this beautiful moment, and really it ends up being this massive clus-- *ahem* mess where you bump heads right as your about to have that sweet moment. It ruins it.

I have no problem with people reading what I write. No. I couldn’t care less if someone reads a sex scene I wrote where it’s reverse cowgirl and she’s waving the cowboy hat in the air like she’s in the rodeo. It's the intimacy of the scene between me and my reader. It's like being a voyeur in my own world. Mostly because you write what you know. So when I write sex, it feels like I'm spilling the dirty details of my bedroom romps. I’m not… really. To me, writing certain things reminds me of memories whether they are or not. And sex happens to be one of those memory things that no matter how hard you try to stray from experience, you end up writing exactly how it goes in your mind. Except you make it a little more… perfect.

So I can’t be the only one. Spill it pirates and wenches. Have you ever had a memory that you put into book form? For readers, have you ever read a book that mirrored something that happened in your life or something like it? Care to share?