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Close to Heaven: A Colorado High Country Christmas (Colorado High Country #5) —
Rain and Joe's story is out! Head back to Scarlet Springs for a very snowy Christmas story, complete with a look at the history of Scarlet Springs. There are sexy times, as well as a lot of humor. You can grab your copy here: Kindle Nook iBooks Kobo Smashwords Paperback

About Me

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I grew up in Colorado at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, then lived in Denmark and traveled throughout Europe before coming back to Colorado. I have two adult sons, whom I cherish. I started my writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor of two different papers. Along the way, my team and I won numerous state and several national awards, including the National Journalism Award for Public Service. In 2011, I was awarded the Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award for Journalism. Now I write historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense.

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Seductive Musings

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Happy Birthday to Me! Happy Contest to You!



I only get to celebrate my birthday once every four years. When I was little this was very upsetting because well-meaning (read: stupid) adults would say things like, "So you don't have a birthday this year, do you?" I would turn, lip quivering, and look up at my mother for some sign that, yes, I would get presents and a cake. And all the adults would laugh.

This is how chain-saw murderers are made.

Fortunately, I managed to get through it without going altogether mental, though an incident with a really horrid Sunday school teacher pisses me off to this day. She forgot my birthday when the February birthdays were celebrated, and when I pointed this out she told me that since I didn't really have one it didn't matter. She lumped me in with March birthdays, and I was terribly upset. I was 5 at the time.

As I got older, I really didn't care as much, though I do tend to celebrate the real ones. (Not this year because of my deadline.) If my birthday only comes every four years, I might as well make the most of it, right? Today is Leap Day and in honor of my special day — I turn 11 today, thanks very much for asking — I want to share something with one of you!

And that something would be an ARC of Unlawful Contact.



Given that we're only a month away from the release date, I thought I'd get rid of the extra ARC I have sitting here by sharing it with someone who hasn't read it already, someone perhaps who hasn't even posted on this blog out of fear of being eaten alive by blog aliens. So if you lurk or if you haven't already read the story — sorry FOPs, but then you get signed copies of the book — this is your chance.

All you have to do is post, and your name will be entered into the hat. It's that easy. You may say flattering things if you choose or feign interest in Leap Day birthdays. That's all good and fine. But the winner will be chosen randomly. And all you have to do is freakin' post.

I'll draw a winner on Sunday evening with the help of my son's fine fedora.

Starting next week: "Pamela's Prison Diaries, or Goldilocks Goes to Jail."

I'll share my hour-by-hour experience of being locked in the women's unit at the county jail, complete with my "arrest" mug shot. As Unlawful Contact grew out of my experiences covering prison issues, I thought it would be fun to share one of the inspirations behind the book — my own time behind bars.

That's right. I'm so hardcore. I'm just Pammy from the block, but the block ain't some city street. It's D-Seg — that's Disciplinary Segregation for those of you who haven't done time. Actually, though I did get yelled at by one guard, I did not get thrown into isolation. But I digress...

And because it's my birthday, I get to give myself a present, and here it is:

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Covers galore! Plus... an excerpt from Untamed


Cover art for Untamed, the next book in the MacKinnon's Rangers trilogy, slated for a November 2008 release.

Before I vanish back into Morgan and Amalie's world — I spent today having steroids injected into my spine at the hospital and, thanks, I'm doing fine — I wanted share some goodies with you! Here's a first glimpse of the unfinished cover for Untamed. My publisher is going for a new look for my books, and this is it. Today was the first I saw of it, and I really like it. Of course, you could put a sexy male torso on just about anything and I'd love it.

Right now, Untamed, which tells Morgan's story, is due out in November. But there's more at works with regard to my historicals than that...

In October, my entire historical backlist will be rereleased, and the books will have new material in them. So far I know for sure that Carnal Gift will have a guide to the Irish Gaelic in the story and that Ride the Fire will have its long-awaited sequel. What Sweet Release and Surrender end up with is beyond me at the moment.

But, the important thing here that I'm trying to say is that Ride the Fire, hands down my most popular book, and Surrender get new covers! The idea is to make them more like the new look, which is debuting with Untamed.


The new cover art for the rerelease of Ride the Fire, slated for October. Yeah, I'd ride his fire.

Yummy.


Iain MacKinnon gets a second chance at cover glory with this new art for the rerelease of Surrender. Note: No tipis!

More yummy!

So what do y'all think, my friends?

Also a favor: Anyone have time to help me get my book trailer up in other places. SueZAY and Ronlyn popped it up on YouTube, for which I was very grateful. There are other book-related places I'd love it to go, and not only am I techno idiot (this blog is my greatest EVER achievement), but I'm swamped trying to write. Let me know via email if you have time to help.

Now, for something more fun: Imagine those hard, sexy man bodies and enjoy this excerpt from my work-in-progress, Untamed... This is dedicated with love from me to radgie lass in every one of you.

From Untamed

Morgan stepped down from the sill and closed the windows lest someone see or hear her. “For the love of God, lass, what are you doin’ here?”

He took a step toward her, about to tell her to get back to her own room, when she stepped into the moonlight. His mouth went dry.

She wore only her nightgown, her dark hair hanging almost to her knees, her little toes peeking out from beneath her lacy hem. The thin cloth did little to conceal her form, the pale light revealing shadowed hints of her nipples, the curve of her hips, the dark triangle of her sex.

She walked slowly toward him. “It is hot tonight. I.. I cannot sleep.”

Some part of him that had not gone witless watched the play of emotions on her face—uncertainty, shyness, hopefulness. Then her gaze skimmed over his bare arms and chest and belly, and he saw something else—longing.

And who put that longin’ in her, laddie? ’Twas you wi’ your kisses, aye? She was utterly untouched afore you came along.

She stood before him now, her soft scent filling his head, heating his blood. “I am sorry about your friend, about what Lieutenant Rillieux did today. I worry for you, Morgan. I pray that Bourlamaque will not punish you too harshly.”

’Twas the absurdity of her words that brought him back to himself. She’d snuck into his room in the middle of the night to tell him she hoped he’d not be punished too harshly? “If Bourlamaque finds you here, lass, he’ll cut off my cods.”

For a moment, she looked confused, then her eyes went wide and her gaze flickered to his groin. She looked away. “Bourlamaque was upset and drank too much brandy. I could hear him snore through the wall. He will not wake before morning.”

Morgan fought the urge to touch her, crossed his arms over his chest. “You have no’ answered my question, lass. Why are you here? And dinnae tell me it’s summer’s heat that brings you, for ’tis hot in my bed, too.”

She looked away again, distress on her face. “I… I needed… ”

“Needed what?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.

When she spoke her words were but a whisper. “I needed to be… near you.”

So vulnerable, so innocent. She stood there brimming with unspent desire and didn’t know what to do about it—leastways not well enough to ask for it.

His hand betrayed him, reached out, and tucked a silky strand of hair behind her ear, the simple touch not nearly enough to satisfy him. “Och, Amalie, you are so bonnie! You tempt a man to his soul. But you dinnae ken what you’re wantin’, do you?”

Her head snapped up, uncertainty replaced with a look of feminine defiance. And then she did something he did not expect. She rested her palms against his bare chest, stood on her toes—and kissed him.

Both shocked and roused by her boldness, Morgan willed himself to remain passive, letting her shape the kiss, her lips hot against his, her tongue exploring his mouth with sweet strokes, the heat of it shooting straight to his groin. She was a fast learner, his Amalie, she was.

He knew he was a bloody fool to let this go on, and it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her she must leave. But now his tongue had other ideas. Besides, how could he send her away when he wanted her so badly, when even his bones ached for her, when she was the only thing that felt right and true in the midst of the lies and deceptions that had become his life?

Aye, he knew he could not claim her, knew he could not take her. He was still a prisoner of the French, still an involuntary
guest in Bourlamaque’s home, still caught up in a dangerous game of spying and survival. He might not live another fortnight, let alone survive this accursed war. She deserved more than a man who would love her and then forsake her. But here she was, in his room, an angel come to him in the dark of night, kissing him with all the fire in her soul.

Yet weren’t there many ways for a man to pleasure a woman? Aye, there were. He could make love to her with his hands, with his lips, with his tongue. He could ease her longing, show her the fullness of her own response—and leave her maidenhead intact. He could be the first man to give her pleasure.

On a surge of pure lust, he drew her hard against him, wrested control of the kiss from her, answering the caress of her tongue with the bold thrust of his own, the rightness of it singing through him. Aye, she could not be his, but for tonight—just for tonight—he could be hers.

Amalie felt something inside Morgan snap, strong arms drawing her against the hard wall of his chest as he gave in to her kiss and began to kiss her back. But this was not a sweet kiss, not the sort of gentle kiss they’d shared in the garden. It was fierce, wild, almost violent, making her knees go weak and her heart trip.

She knew it had been wrong of her to come here. Chaste women did not sneak into men’s sleeping chambers in the middle of the night. But she’d lain awake tonight as she had so many nights of late, consumed by thoughts of him, wanting the gnawing hunger inside her to go away, and she’d known only that she had to be with him. She’d feared he might send her away, feared he might see her as wanton and her actions as shameful. And at first he had seemed angry with her, but now…

O, mon dieu, this is what she’d needed!

“Amalie, mo luaidh!” He whispered her name, whispered words she didn’t know, his voice gruff, then he lifted her into his arms, carried her a few short steps to his bed, and followed her down onto the sheets, settling his weight beside her. “Tell me, lass, what is it you want from me?”

She shivered, looked up at him, knowing he awaited some kind of answer from her but uncertain what it was. “Kiss me.”

He ducked down, nipped her lower lip, soothed it with his tongue, then sucked it. “Is it just a kiss you’re wantin’, or is it more? What do you ken of men and women, lassie? What did they teach you at the abbey?”

Unsettled by his question and yet hungry for the feel of him, she slid her hands over the hard curves of his shoulders. “I… I know that it is a wife’s duty to lie near her husband and to bear his children in pain.”

“Duty? Pain?” He brushed his lips over hers, kissed the corners of her mouth, making her lips tingle. “Did they teach you nothin’ else? Did they say nothin’ of pleasure?”

Pleasure? None of the Sisters had ever spoken of pleasure.

Feeling strangely exposed, she looked away, unable to bear his gaze. “Sister Marie Louise told me that men… that men… ”

She could not talk of this! It was too private, and he was too much, surrounding her with his strength, his heat, his scent, his little kisses making it so hard to think.

He nipped her lips. “Tell me, lass.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, heat rushing into her cheeks. “That men mount their wives… as a ram mounts a ewe—o, mon dieu!—and that they find this pleasurable, while women do not.”

“She told you that?” He chuckled, nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath her ear, nipped her earlobe.

A cascade of shivers spread through her. “Oui.”

He swirled his tongue against the whorl of her ear. “And what if I told you that the poor Sister was wrong? What if I told you that a woman can feel every bit as much pleasure from love play as a man?”

She gaped at him, astonished. “Can that be true?”

“Aye, ’tis the truth. Haven’t you enjoyed my kisses, lass?” Not giving her time to answer, he kissed her, slow and deep, kissed her until they were both breathless, until she couldn’t help but arch against him, naught between their naked skin but the thin cotton of her shift and his drawers. Then he raised his head and looked down at her through dark eyes. “I ken why you cannae sleep. I ken what your feelin’, for I feel it, too. If you let me, I can ease the longin’ inside you, Amalie. I can give you pleasure and leave you still a virgin.”

A bolt of heat shot through her, made her belly tighten, a thousand questions darting through her mind, distilling into one. “Will you get me with child?”

He shook his head, gave a little nudge with his hips, and she felt a hard ridge press against her thigh. “For me to get you wi’ child, I would have to join my body—this part of me—with yours and spend my seed. And that I willna do upon my word.”

Every thing he said was new to Amalie, and she hesitated, feeling as though she stood upon a precipice. Could it be as he said it was? She wanted to know, wanted to go with him wherever he could take her, wanted to let the joy she felt with him carry her where it would. And yet never in her life had anyone bid her to seek her own pleasure in anything. At the convent, and even with her father, her life had been about duty—a Catholic girl’s duty, a daughter’s duty, a Frenchwoman’s duty.

Even as she let his suggestion tempt her, Morgan nudged his nose into her hair, his breath hot on her ear, one callused hand sliding up her bare arm, his touch making her skin tingle. “Let me free you from this need, Amalie.”

But she had one last question. “Is this… a sin?”

“Aye, I’m certain there are many who would say that it is. And yet holdin’ you in my arms like this—all I ken is how right it feels.”

Amalie drew in a breath at his words—words that spoke fully her own feelings—and knew her own mind. “Oui, Morgan. Show me.”

She closed her eyes, waited, uncertain what he would do next, her body beginning to tremble. But all he did was slide his hand to her cheek and kiss her, a deep, open-mouthed kiss, his lips hot, so hot, his tongue teasing out her secrets, making her forget her uncertainty and fear.

Without taking his mouth from hers, he slid his hand slowly down her throat, his fingers pausing to caress the indentation between her collarbones before tracing a line of heat between her breasts.

‘“Easy, Amalie.” The words brushed over her lips, a flutter of breath.

His hand flared across her ribcage, smoothed circles over her belly, stroked the curve of her hip, a strange awareness spreading wherever he touched her, as if his hands had the power to call her body to wakefulness. But that was nothing compared to the scorching trail his lips left on her skin, as he kissed his way down her throat, following the path his fingers had just taken. By the time his lips reached the valley between her breasts, she could scarcely breath, her heart leaping against her breastbone as if to greet him. And then his hand skimmed over her breast, his fingers catching her nipple through the cloth of her gown, and she heard herself moan.

He moaned, too, as if touching her like this gave him just as much pleasure as it gave her. Then his hand slid beneath the straps of her nightgown, pushing the cloth down to her belly, leaving her breasts bare to his perusal. She watched his eyes darken and felt a shiver of excitement, her nipples drawing tight.

No man had ever seen this part of her.

“Och, Amalie, you’re far lovelier than I e’er could have imagined.” He cupped the full weight of one breast in his hand, his thumb drawing circles over its bare crest, sending hot shards skittering through her belly.

“Oh!” She reacted on instinct, arching, pressing more of herself into his callused palm, wanting more, needing more.

And he obliged her, molding her breasts, caressing her nipples, stretching them, plucking them, until she whimpered with frustration, her breasts swollen and heavy, the heat in her belly spreading between her thighs. But he wasn’t finished.

With a groan, he lowered his head, drew one aching nipple into the heat of his mouth and suckled her, the shock of it making her gasp. Each tug of his lips, each flick of his tongue was a sweet torment, her breath coming in pants, the heat between her thighs now a throbbing ache. Then one hand reached down and drew up the cloth of her nightgown, his fingers caressing the skin of one thigh, urging her legs apart.

Amalie gasped, caught his wrist and squeezed her thighs together. She hadn’t imagined he would try to touch her there. “Non!”

“Shhh, mo luaidh.” He nuzzled her ear. “Let me touch you where you burn the hottest. Let me bring you release.”

She stared into his eyes, saw an intensity there that almost frightened her, and yet her body was on fire, her nipples still wet from his kisses, her belly tight, the ache between her thighs both precious and unbearable. Slowly, she relaxed her legs, surrendering her will to his.

His gaze still locked with hers, he slid his hand down to the bend in her knee and lifted her leg, resting it over his hip, parting her, leaving her exposed. Then his hand closed over her sex, the heel of it grinding in deep, slow circles against her.

She drew in a shuddering breath, astonished at the staggering pleasure, his touch somehow appeasing that aching need—appeasing it or provoking it. Oh, what was he doing to her? “Morgan!”

“So beautiful,” he said in a husky whisper. Then his mouth returned to her breast, his tongue teasing her nipples, sucking, licking, tasting, each motion of lips, tongue and teeth sending spirals of pleasure through her belly.

Amalie was lost, her skin damp with perspiration, her body trembling. Something was happening inside her—something miraculous and primal and more than a little alarming. She clenched her fingers in his long hair, her breathing reduced to ragged whimpers, her body taking on a rhythm of its own.

“Amalie, my angel!” He sounded breathless, his voice strained.

But if she thought he’d run out of new ways to tempt and torment her, she was mistaken, for in the next instant she felt his finger slide between her slick folds, parting her, stroking some secret part of her. The delight of it stunned her, frightened her, and she couldn’t help but cry out. “O, mon dieu!”

He chuckled, a deep warm sound, his mouth shifting to the side of her throat. “There’s naugh’ to fear, lass.”

With her next breath, she found herself hovering on some sharp and shimmering edge. She bit her lip, held her breath, fought not to fall, but he was relentless. His finger slid over her again and again, slick and wet, forcing her closer to that unfamiliar brink. And for a moment, the fire inside her blazed bright white and blinding—then it exploded.

Ecstasy seared through her, molten and exquisite, almost terrifying in its intensity. She arched in his arms and cried out, her cries captured by his deep, thrusting kiss, as bliss lifted her up into the night, carrying her beyond the moon and the stars to a glittering place near heaven and leaving her to drift. Slowly, the night took shape around her—the beating of two hearts, sheets soaked with sweat, the sounds of mingled breathing—and she found herself lying, astonished and trembling, in Morgan’s arms.
Friday, February 15, 2008

We Rocked the Rockies


The Pump House may never be the same...

Every once in a while, life provides us with a moment so special that we know it's special even when it's happening. You know you want to savor it because it means so much to you. You don't want it to end, and yet it does, as all things in life must.

These past two weeks were one of those special times. And damn was it ever fun!

It started when Libby and I hopped in her Tony Soprano Wagon and drove through the strangest storm either of us had ever seen — snow with thunder and lightning — to the airport to pick up Joanie. Joanie had been on a plane for something like 24 hours straight and somehow managed to smile and be cheerful and fun. I swear it's an Aussie trait.


Joanie and Ben became "mates," with Ben mimicking Joanie's accent quite well.

Libby dropped us off at my place, and we spent a fairly quiet weekend, heading to Libby's once for dinner, where Joanie made a scrumptious feast and almost got knocked on her butt by Libby's lemoncello, and visiting one of my all-time favorite restaurants, The Med, where Joanie and I sat for 5.5 hours talking over tapas, wine, dinner and champagne. In fact, I don't think she and I ever ran out of things to talk about — ever.


Feasting and talking at The Med

On Monday, Ben and I got home from a hard day at work and school to find that Joanie had made some delicious chicken soup. I walked through the door and said, "Honey, I'm home!" which made Joanie smile because she'd figured I was going to do that. Part of the reason she was smiling was that she'd read an ARC of Unlawful Contact while I'd been at work and liked the story. YAY!

Aimee flew in on Tuesday, and this time Libby couldn't make it. So Joanie and I drove back to the airport to pick up Aimee, which resulted in a big group hug in the middle of baggage claim. Aimee and I have known each other online and via phone conversations for a few years now, and finally we met in person. Woohoo!

Then we drove to Libby's for another scrumptious feast, this one prepared by Liberty herself. The mango salsa was so good it defies description. Let's just say we snarfed that shit.

I had to work the next day, so Aimee and Joanie hung out at my place. That night we drove to the Pump House, the best restaurant in my town. It's a brewpub that makes awesome food and serves fantastic mixed drinks — like the Grey Goose Cosmos we drank several of. Ben came with us. There were some shenanigans and much laughing, but I've always believed in discretion, so I'll leave it at that... (That guy SO totally heard what was said... LOL!)


My favorite photo from their visit... I miss you all so much!

Or maybe that was Thursday night. Yes, I think it was. What did we do Wednesday night?!?

Thursday was supposed to be a shopping day, but ended up being largely a sleeping day. Which was great. I was tired. And then we went to the Pump House.

On Friday, we packed more crap than you can possibly imagine — four women do not need that much stuff unless they're heading off for a permanent trip to the Moon — and drove over the mountains through snow to a sweet condo that Libby had secured for us. It came with a sauna, a wine cellar (full of booze), three bedrooms, lots of bathrooms, surround sound (even in the bathrooms), and fireplaces in every bedroom. Total luxury!



Thanks to Libby, we all enjoyed a weekend of luxury in Breck — that's Colorado slang for "Breckenridge," yo.

I had what I called the Antler Suite up on the third floor, where I was in my own little world, if you don't count the bear plastered to the wall or the stuffed fox and all. And those moose antlers gave new meaning to the phrase, "What a rack!" I had my own bathroom with heated tiles, a fire place, a view of the beautiful, untrammeled forest and big, fat bed. I managed to get a bit of writing done. A bit.


The Antler Suite. Notice the bear on the wall and the fox and such. A great place to write about Colonial Rangers, no?

But only a bit because it's too damned hard to write when you really want to hang. We feasted on cheeses and wine and shit and watched movies and talked and talked and talked. Some of us had a bit too much, but I'm not naming names because we all agreed: "What happens in Breck stays in Breck."

Poor Joanie never made it to the ski slopes, While carrying luggage up the stairs, she nearly fainted from the altitude, which was almost 10,000 feet. So it was a total indoor weekend, which is cool.


Libby models the proper use of flannel.

Aimee and Libby made supper our last night there — steaks, asparagus and portabello thingy, and more mango salsa! Joanie and I sat on our butts while they cooked, watching the Transformers movie, which gave me nightmares. (Clearly, I am not old enough to watch scary movies like that.) No one really wanted to go to bed because we knew we'd be leaving the next day.


I love home cooking, as long as I'm not the one home cooking. This time, Libby and Aimee blew our taste buds away.

On the drive back, I got busted for speeding. While I cursed the cop, Aimee, who was stuck in the car with me at the time, reminded me that he was doing his job. Wish I could pay the $77 fine in pennies. Grrrr! I think Aimee took a picture of the State Patrol vehicle. LOL!

I had to work on Monday and Tuesday, but I did manage to get Aimee and Joanie to some outlet stores for a shopping extravaganza and dinner at another scrumptious brew pub.

And then Aimee tried to set my house on fire. Well, not really. She lit a big fire in my wood stove and it really made the house warm. I was just afraid it was going to burn the house down. But it didn't. She and Joanie teased me for freaking out about it, but remember last February my fire place did catch my chimney on fire... OK, so I hadn't cleaned the chimney in eight years. I'm really not at my best in the real world. I do much better in fiction or in a newsroom when the shit is goin' down.


I sneak in a hug. Gotta love this kid while I can. He'll be off to college soon. He loved our guests and did his best to make their stay comfortable.

As the hours ticked away, I was trying really hard not to think of the fact that Joanie and Aimee would be leaving on Tuesday. When it came time to say good-bye, I did my best to act like an Aussie and smile. I teared up a little bit, but I was trying hard for their sake not to act like myself (Sue and KrisTAY know what I'm saying here...). So instead of blubbering when Libby packed them up and drove them off to the airport, I bawled after they'd gone. *sniff*

What fun times!

I so enjoyed getting to meet both Joanie and Aimee, and of course hanging with my gangsta bitch LibBAY is always a treat. I love the heck out of her.

Now the house is cold and quiet and I have a book deadline that's about to bite my ass. So it's back to work. I've got two weeks off from the paper to write, so I probably won't be blogging or answering much email. Pray that the Muse stays with me! I need to write like the wind!

BUT, the solution to missing everyone is to... do it again! Next stop Hong-freaking-Kong, baby!

Coming soon... An excerpt from Untamed and contests galore for Unlawful Contact
Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Book Trailer for Unlawful Contact




After much effort, here it finally is! Enjoy!

Many, many thanks to Mike Hupfer of Millennium Productions and to Chris and Libby and Olivia and Gary at the Dog House for their hard work and help in making this a reality.

And doesn't Libby look snaxy? And she didn't even get collagen shots in her lips. Move over, Angelina, Libby can out-lip you any day!

Sorry I've been away, but life has been running at full-throttle lately and I'm the lucky recipient of guests. Joanie is here from Hong Kong and she's been an absolute joy to spend time with. Aimee arrived last night and we had a blast together, all four of us, at Libby's house eating some fine homemade cuisine.

OK, back to work....

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Favorite Writing Quotes


"I am an artist. I am here to live out loud."
—Emile Zola

"I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day."
—James Joyce

"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery."
—Jane Austen

"Writers are those for whom writing is more difficult that it is for others."
—Ernest Hemingway

"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth."
—Kurt Vonnegut

"The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar is the test of their power."
—Toni Morrison

"No tears in the author, no tears in the reader."
—Robert Frost.

"I'm a writer. I give the truth scope."
—the character of Chaucer in
A Knight's Tale