Pamela Clare talks Scots, her new release, UNTAMED and Never Before Seen Excerpts! Oh My!
*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!!!
Contest Winners from Pamela Clare's blog on Wednesday!!
I love to give them away even more (even if they are from someone else and in this case, I'm honored to do it for Pamela Clare!)
Now, without futher ado, I give to you the contest winners. May I have the envelope please?
*Pirate Wenches roll their eyes at the sight of Sin playing make believe again*
"There she goes again," Hellion said. "I tried to have her committed. But even they said they couldn't do anything for her."
Lisa, Marnee, and Ter all shook their head sadly.
Hellion sighed and sauntered over to Sin, flicking her red hair behind her shoulder before handing her a pretend envelope.
Sin cleared her throat as she cracked open the golden seal of the pirates. "And the winners are..."
T-Lee from Australia *crowd going wild*
Stef from France *men begging for a phone number*
Janga *English Lords falling all over themselves*
and last but not least, Kelly Krysten *RWR crew members drooling all over her*
I knew those RWR crew members were NOT to be trusted! Men! Ha!
Congrats!!! You've won an awesome prize! Pamela Clare will be sending you one of her wonderful books in the mail! Please send your snail mail address to me at magnificentsin @aol.com (without the space, if you would).
Thanks so much for making Wednesday an awesome day with Pamela Clare!
Pamela Clare on Romance, Writing, Her Next Release UNLAWFUL CONTACT, and Life in General.
Sin sauntered across the deck and into the storage chest Hellion presumably kept the gold and extra rum. There was nothing but the old loud speaker and moth balls. She held it up to her lips, waiting for it to click on. A loud, piercing whine screeched through the silence of the ship. “Hello?” Sin looked down at the speaker and scratched her head. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
Hellion, with her fingers stuck in her ears, said with a huff, “Yes, wench! Hold it further away from your mouth.” She muttered to herself while Capt’n Jack tried to smooth her ruffled feathers.
Lisa snorted and elbowed Marnee and Ter. “I don’t know why she bothers to use the loud speaker. Everyone knows you can hear her from Tortuga to Australia.”
Sin narrowed her eyes at Lisa. “I heard that.” Bickering ensued through the crew and Sin decided to toss the loud speaker overboard before clearing her throat. “Everyone gather ‘round. Gather ‘round.” Whipping the notebook from her lower back in sheer pirate fashion, “I have the long lost chronicles of one fierce and brave pirate. One that I’ve long admired. I thought I’d share them with y’all.”
The wenches position themselves on the deck in various seductive poses. All of the crew members stopped what they were doing to take notice of the wenches and Sin had to clear her throat once again. “Hello! I swear! You guys have the attention span of gnats! I have the Chronicles of Pamela Clare in my hand and one would think that would earn some respect!”
A hush settles over the deck. Our faithful readers take a pause. “Pamela Clare.” They all said in awe. “THE Pamela Clare?”
Sin grinned. “Well yes. THE Pamela Clare. I told you that I found get my hands on it and here it is! Voila! I’ve even got a verbal agreement that she’s going to come by the ship and have a little chat!”
Loud tittering erupts on the deck of the Romance Writer’s Revenge. “Open it! Open it!” They shout. Sin takes a seat and begins to read from the lost chronicles of Pamela Clare!
The Lost Chronicles of Pamela Clare: Act One, Scene Two: The Interview!
Page 1: What’s a normal day like in the life of Pamela Clare?
P. Clare: Monday through Thursday, I get up anywhere between 4 and 5:30 a.m., write, take a shower, grab some breakfast and head to the newspaper, where I am editor-in-chief. I work all day. No two days are alike. And then I come home around 5-6-ish, make dinner for myself and my son. He’s a senior in high school; my older son is already in college. Then I do whatever I need to do. On bad days, it’s pay bills. On good days, it’s spend more time writing. On Fridays and on the weekends, every spare moment I have goes into writing.
I don’t date. I don’t have television. I don’t go to movies except on the rarest of occasions. (OK, I saw “Fellowship of the Ring” 16 times in the theater…) I rarely party. It’s mostly work, work, work. And that’s okay. When you have a dream, you work for it.
I decided years ago that I could either sit on my butt watching other people live fake lives on TV, or I could live my own life. I cancelled my cable and that was it.
Page 2: What ultimately got you writing your first novel, Sweet Release and eventually moved you into writing your I-Team series?
P. Clare: I love historicals. They’re my first love and that’s what I read. So I knew I wanted to write historical romance. I spent seven years writing Sweet Release as a newly divorced mom working full time with two little kids. Fun. I was thrilled when it sold. Then I wrote Carnal Gift and my personal favorite Ride the Fire. While I was in the midst of writing Carnal, I was talking to my agent about an investigation I was doing of a local cement plant and of the warning I’d gotten from a state official that my life/safety might be in danger. And my agent said, “Why don’t you write romantic suspense because you live it?” And I said, “Sure, all except the romantic part.” And from that conversation the I-Team series eventually came into being. (There’s a Facebook group that I created called The I-Team that includes some of my journalistic colleagues from the real I-Team.)
I had never read romantic suspense before so writing Extreme Exposure was an experiment. I think it went pretty well. J
Page 3: How has your day job, reporter, changed or helped your writing career?
P. Clare: It absolutely helped my writing career. I left academia (archaeology) to write as a journalist, because I knew I wanted to write novels. I thought journalism would give me practice writing. Well, it did more than that. It taught me discipline, and it connected me with a wealth of truly unique, bizarre, scary, incredible, exciting experiences that you just can’t get in a normal life. From interviewing rock stars to being flown around the world to really terrible stuff like seeing horrid acts of violence — it’s been priceless for filling my well as a writer. Grist for the mill, so to speak.
Here’s my bit of advice for this interview: If you want to write, you must experience life. If you don’t push yourself and experience as much as you can, you will have very little upon which to draw. I call it “living at full throttle.” Yep, sometimes you crash (I have done that literally), but sometimes there’s a transcendence to the experience that reveals to you something about the human condition that you never understood before. Those are moments of bliss for me.
Page 4: Tell us a little about your research habits?
P. Clare: My college degree and graduate work is in archaeology, and my career has been in journalism. Both are very research intensive and involve lots of “digging.” I’m a fact addict, and though I would never claim that any book I write is free from any kind of research error, I do work very hard to be accurate, taking only the occasional liberty. Most of the research for my I-Team series has been done on the job as a journalist. There aren’t a lot of women in investigative journalism because it’s confrontational and sometimes dangerous. I’ve had a lot of really unique experiences as a result of my career, and I can probably say with some degree of certainty that I’m one of very few romance novelists who’s had a gun held on her, seen someone get his head shot off, gotten dozens of death threats, had her home broken into by knife-wielding thugs, and had a couple of stalkers.
Page 5: What does it take to go undercover as a reporter?
P. Clare: A sense that you’re a crusader. Journalism is the only constitutionally protected profession in our country. The Founders felt that a free press was essential to guarantee freedom from oppression. Journalists are supposed to act as a voice for the voiceless. We’re supposed to watch those in power. We’re supposed to shine lights into the dark corners and turn over rocks so that we can expose all the wriggling worms — corruption, abuses of power, silent suffering. I believe in that mission with my heart and soul. Not many journalists partake in journalism on that level these days; for many it’s just a day job.
To go undercover, you really have to believe that you can make a difference and change the world for the better through what you’re doing. I suppose that sounds grandiose and naïve, but when you find something unjust and are able to change what’s happening, it’s an incredible feeling. To bring justice into someone’s life is such a blessing. I could tell you stories…
Page 6: I know that you played on your experience of going undercover in a prison to write UNLAWFUL, did that make the book harder to write in the sense that you had an understanding what happened behind closed doors? And how will it affect future books in this series?
P. Clare: Actually, this book is full of experiences gleaned not only from my 24-hour stay behind bars, but also my long focus on reporting prison issues. There are a few topics I’ve specialized in as an investigative reporter, and women in prison is one of them. That experience — both covering stories and being behind bars myself — really make this book easy in terms of filling it with authentic detail. A couple of the cases mentioned in the book are stories I broke — a heroin overdose behind bars and an inmate’s stillbirth due to neglect on the part of the prison guards. In fact, the book is dedicated to the stillborn baby. I definitely feel like my own experience gave me a very real understanding of the issues.
I don’t think it will have an impact on future books because I don’t plan to set any others in the same sort of prison milieu. But I always draw from my own reporting background for the I-Team stories. One other topic I’ve reported on extensively is issues faced by contemporary American Indians, and that’s what’s going to underpin Naked Edge, the next book in the I-Team series.
Page 7: What was your favorite part about writing UNLAWFUL?P. Clare: I loved getting lost in Marc and Sophie. Marc was a really fun person to inhabit, if I can use that word. I loved his inner dialogue.
I also loved getting to use my prison slang. I’d waited years to do that!
I loved writing about two people who are so attracted to one another that it’s almost a force of nature for them.
I also loved showing the stuff that happens behind bars and opening that up in a fictional context.
Page 8: I feel like the relationship that Sophie and Marc share is a little more special (they share a past, which I’m super excited about!) than the bonds between Kara and Reece and Tessa and Julian. Can you tell us a little bit about what it took to write each relationship and how they all differ?
P. Clare: Sophie and Marc, as you point out, have known each other since high school. When people connect during those really vulnerable years, the bonds can be very strong. Neither Marc nor Sophie has forgotten the night Marc took Sophie’s virginity. And although the present very much intrudes into their relationship, there’s always that deep affection, that remembrance, underlying their feelings for one another. There’s one scene in particular that betrays what they mean to each other — the scene in which Sophie recognizes Marc. He’s holding her down, with her wrists pinned. And gradually their hands shift until their fingers are interlaced.
For me as a writer, it was very emotionally rich stuff to draw on. I really feel my characters are real when I’m writing. So when they’ve got interesting stuff in their minds and personal histories, it because a fun thing for me to experience along with them.
Kara’s issue was an inability to trust men, so Reece came along and managed to heal that wound. Tessa didn’t really trust men, either, at least not sexually. She was very cautious. Then along comes Julian, and he turns her world upside down, at the same time proving himself to be the one man she can trust. But the relationship between Sophie and Marc is much more complicated because of past associations and what those meant to each of them.
Page 9: What was the most difficult scene/situation/relationship to write in UNLAWFUL CONTACT?
P. Clare: I spent three very difficult weeks writing the scene were Marc confronts the primary villain (no spoilers here). THREE WEEKS. Getting the flow of the action right from the moment Marc appears on the scene to the moment when the final shot is fired and keeping the emotions intact was very tricky for some reason. Usually action scenes are the easiest ones for me to write.
I also cried my eyeballs out at the climax of the story. I spent probably eight hours writing and crying and went through an entire box of Puffs.
And, of course, the sex scenes. Sex is very difficult to write, in my opinion. Drives me nuts, and not in a good way.
Page 10: What’s one thing that each Sophie and Marc would ultimately change about their past?
P. Clare: For both of them it’s one thing: Don’t lose touch with each other. Marc thinks in the story that if that one thing were different — if he’d kept Sophie in his life — everything would have gone differently, and I think he’s right.
Page 11: How does Marc Hunter compare to your previous heroes- The Senator, Reece Sheridan and über-bad boy turned FBI Special Agent, Julian Darcangelo?
P. Clare: Marc is an über-bad boy in his own way. Convicted of first-degree murder, he’s serving life without parole when the story opens. But there’s more to him than even he is willing to admit. But whereas Julian was very dark inside and out, having grown up without love in his life, Marc at least had a mother and a little sister who loved him. He might seem like more of a bad boy than Julian at first, but inside he’s not quite as dark as Julian. Reece is just the all around Perfect Man. Got to find me one of those.
Sin: Amen Pamela! *making notes to find Julian later on and have my wicked way with him*
The Lost Chronicles of Pamela Clare: Act One, Scene Three: Questions?!
Alright wenches and pirates of the Romance Writer’s Revenge!! Time to get to know Pamela Clare! She’s in the house today to talk about and answer any and all questions. No question is too tough for this pirate!! Make sure to ask LOTS of questions about her next release in the I-Team Series, UNLAWFUL CONTACT, to be released on April 01, 2008!! Inquiring minds are dying for spoilers!
Comment, Comment, Comment! There will be rewards for lucky commenters! (To be announced later today!)
Show Me
For some of us emotion is not easily said aloud but easier shown in small gestures that are often overlooked. It’s easy to say the words, “I love you” if you don’t really mean it. Words are often regaled as the emotion behind the person but without these gestures behind the meaning, it truly isn’t worth the last turnip on the turnip truck.
I’ve often thought about those gestures behind my characters. What makes them act the way they do? What makes you engage the character? Visualization of the scene, gestures that seem real and not overbearing. You really have to analyze every day life and those around you in order to get an understanding of this. To me this is one of the most important jobs of a writer. I want you to feel like you are in that scene. Like you can feel the motivation behind my character’s actions. If you can’t physically feel that emotion draped between the words, sentences, paragraphs, then I’m obviously not conveying it the right way.
I can think of a few writers that do this and do this well. Janet Evanovich (Yes, I am obsessed) and Pamela Clare (Here is me on my knees worshiping the fiction ground they both walk on) just to name two of them. I adore dark heroes. The darker the better. But that’s what makes their redemption so much sweeter in the end. The dark heroes know how to do the gestures behind their actions. For them, it’s the only way they can truly express their feelings without feeling overpowered by the moment.
It’s the small gestures that, to the reader, tell you everything you need to know about the relationship between two characters. There is no telling of these emotions, there is no need. As a reader, you sense that connection between the hero and heroine. Without that connection, I wouldn’t be a reader of their fiction. Plain and simple. I don’t need to be told of the emotion. Seriously, any schmuck can say the words “I love you” and grin like an idiot and that still doesn’t mean, to me, that they actually care or genuinely love. They are saying the words. There can be all the basis in the world behind them, and they still might not mean anything without the gesture of love behind it.
What do I mean by gesture, you might ask? To me, the gesture of love and emotion is showing me you mean it. By not just saying it, you truly feel it. Nothing will separate us. Not obsessi
ve or overbearing; but that one true deep emotion that happens once in a million years. To me, P. Clare and J. Evanovich do this in spades. P. Clare just has this wonderful way of writing the emotional gestures behind the action. My favorite example of P. Clare’s gestures is *spoiler for Hard Evidence* when Julian steps into the line of fire and takes several bullets in the back for Tessa. Yes, he’s a FBI agent, but it’s the moments afterwards. The way Julian reacts. The tenderness between them when Tessa cries for him that truly shows you the gestures behind the motivation and emotion. It’s complex. It’s raw. And it’s truly awe-inspiring.Julian is a different breed of dark hero. A man who truly doesn’t know his worth because he was never taught. There was no trust in his heart. No love in his life. My heart pitter-patters at the thought of Julian, dark sunglasses, 5 o’clock shadow, lean hips swaggering towards me. You can just tell that Julian is all action, no talk.
Not to mention J. Evanovich’s character Ranger (R. Carlos Manoso). All of the words that come out of Ranger’s mouth contradict his actions. The way he unabashedly tells the truth no matter how painful it is to hear it. He tells it straight. He makes no apologies. He’s hard and unforgiving. And it takes a special sort of love to understand him. If you hear the words come out of Ranger’s mouth you can take it to heart. He thinks about what he says before he speaks. Every word is weighed carefully. Don’t say things you don’t mean. But there is a sneakiness about Ranger as well. Qualifiers. Contradictions. Keeping at arm’s length.
Looks that tell a different story. Actions that show exactly what he feels.
Take for an example: In Twelve Sharp *spoilers for Twelve Sharp* the book is about Ranger’s daughter with whom he has little contact with. When asked about it, he speaks of her clinically, without emotion, detached. But his actions tell a different story. He exudes his every resource to find her. Spends countless hours awake, searching, hunting, tracking down leads. He enlists Stephanie to help him. And when he sees his little girl’s smiling face on the TV and a picture of him, listed as armed and dangerous, you see his mask slip and the emotion becomes very raw and painful. And even then, Stephanie knows that his daughter is just not another expense in his budget, but a real emotion he keep close to his heart and never shows to anyone.There are a thousand examples I could use of J. Evanovich’s Ranger character. She’s the perfect manipulator of the actions speak louder than words scene writer.
So, in your opinion, who is the master of these sorts of gestures? What sort of characters suck you in and never let you go? Has there ever been a scene that just stuck out for you and stayed with you long after you sat the book down?
And I know that I told Hellion that this was going to be Eric Bana week, but I got stuck on Julian and Ranger. I get sidetracked very easily.
PS. Eric Bana I adore you. You are so hot with your 5 o’clock shadow and wicked bedroom ways. I am the pirate wench of your dreams. Not to be confused with a siren who will cause your ship to steer off course and crash. As Quartermaster it is my duty to guide you with my ultra fabulous sense of direction, which may or may not include getting you out of your trousers and into my private quarters.
Sincerely, Q. Sin.
Books by the Crew
