Hi, everyone,

I’m just checking in from my desk at the newspaper to share links to a couple of reviews of Naked Edge.

Only 15 days till it’s out!

The first review went up at FreshFiction.com. Click here to read it.

The second was just posted today at Dear Author, which is also giving away five copies of the book. I wouldn't be a nice author if I didn't share that news with my FOPs. (That's "Friends of Pamela," in case you didn't know.) Click here to read Dear Author’s review or to learn about the giveaway.

Dear Author’s review is particularly satisfying because my reasons for being nervous about the book were the things that she enjoyed. Also, I know the reviewer by and large hasn’t cared for the I-Team stories for a variety of reasons that I understand. As I recall, Tessa from Hard Evidence earned a big TSTL for leaving the newspaper and almost getting killed.

(For those of you not up on romance jargon, TSTL means "too stupid to live.")

I would share with you some of the stupid things I've done as a journalist in real life. They're enough to earn me TSTL status, for sure, and enough to earn me five to a dime in Club Fed. Because I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is, I won't recount these escapades in public. We'll have to do that in a bar sometime.

OK, back to writing this week's cover story. My topic? Pregnant women in prison.

Have a great week, everyone.

Today I got home from work to find a big box and a padded envelope waiting on my front steps. I got very excited because I thought my author copies were in the box and the bookmarks that my publisher had made up for me were in the padded envelope.

Other way around!

I have a single lovely copy of Naked Edge that I shall be cuddling tonight and about a zillion sexy Naked Edge bookmarks. That’s just an estimate, of course. There could be more than a zillion.

Which means I’m giving bookmarks away!

Anybody want one? Yes?

Well, then all you need to do is complete one of the following I-Team hero quotes:

Reece: “You need a man, Kara. A man you can open up to. A man whose passion for life matches yours. A man who grabs your hair in big fistfuls and twists and pulls it when he’s fucking you. A man willing to .....”

Julian: “If you try to tell me next time I see you that you haven’t been thinking about fucking me, I’m going to....”

Marc: “It’s not so much where I want you, Sophie, as it is how. Nothing tastes quite like a woman, and no woman...”

Extra points for anyone who can complete this quote:

Will: “I agreed not to have sex until after the wedding. But I didn’t agree not to touch you, Lissy. I intend to touch you every day. Get ...”

Double extra points for this one:

Gabe: “If I can’t be man enough to keep my hands off you like I should, then at least let me be man enough to ...”

E-mail your answer to me at my e-mail address, together with your address. If you’re suspicious that “Pamela Clare” is just a cover for an international crime syndicate and don‘t want to give me your address, then just mail me a self-addressed stamped envelope to: PO Box 1582, Longmont, CO 80501.

Have fun!

I posted this excerpt to my Yahoo group, but I thought I would post it here as well. My last post was so serious, and I know how hot men cheer you all up.

These scenes take place in the first half of the story. The first scene shows when Gabe meets Marc. The second is their second meeting, but this time Julian is along for the ride. Since there are those of you who never, ever seem to get enough Julian and others who can't get enough Marc Hunter, I thought you might enjoy these little snippets.

When Gabe meets Marc...


“Kat!” Gabe was on his feet, blocking her path, drawing her into his arms,
relieved when she seemed to come willingly. He ran a finger over the curve
of her cheek. “It wouldn’t have been like that, not with you. If we’d had
sex—”

The doorbell rang, stopping him from saying God only knew what.

“That must be Marc.” She drew away and hurried off to get her things.

Gabe opened the door and found a man about his own age. With shoulder-length brown hair and wearing a faded denim jacket, the man stood tall enough to look Gabe straight in the eye, and Gabe was certain he’d seen him somewhere before.

“I’m guessing you’re here for Kat.” Gabe moved aside to let him in.

The man stomped the snow off his boots and stepped inside, sizing Gabe up like a big brother who’d found a stranger sniffing around his little sister. It made Gabe wonder whether Kat had mentioned their little make-out session when she’d spoken with her friend. And why did the bastard look so familiar?

The man held out his hand. “Marc Hunter, Denver PD.”

And then it clicked. This was the son of a bitch Gabe had spent three weeks chasing through the mountains in the dead of winter, the son of a bitch whose face had spent the better part of a month hanging on Gabe’s office wall — on a wanted poster.

“Gabe Rossiter, Boulder Mountain Parks.” Gabe shook Hunter’s hand, giving back as good as he got. “I busted my ass trying to bring you in.”

“It’s lucky for both of us that you didn’t find me.” Hunter glanced about, obviously looking for Kat, his gaze falling on a climbing harness that Gabe had overlooked on the hallway floor. “You’re a rock jock, huh? I bet that helps you out when it comes to scrambling up the east face of the Third Flatiron and shit.”

Third Flatiron above Boulder

<----East Face/West Face--->

“No, not the east face of the Third.” You prick. “But it did come in handy when a couple of guys got stuck in a freak blizzard climbing the Diamond on Longs Peak not too long ago.”

The Diamond

Hunter’s eyebrows rose a notch, and he nodded. “Thanks, by the way, for saving Kat’s life this past summer and for stopping that son of a bitch who pulled her hair. I’d like to kick his ass.”

“That makes two of us.”

And later in the story.....

You saved her life, man.

The thought struck Gabe right between the eyes, seeped through him, leaving him with a bone-deep sense of… satisfaction. He was used to saving lives, but not like this. To know that Kat was alive tonight because of something he’d done…

Maybe you don’t suck after all, Rossiter.

He turned the water in the shower and stepped under the warm spray, washing dirt, sweat, and blood from his skin, letting the water loosen his tense muscles. Then he got out, dried off, and dressed his wound, the sting of antiseptic making him cuss a blue streak. He’d just covered it with a large bandage when his doorbell rang.

He skipped the underwear and slipped into a pair of jeans. Taking no chances, he picked up his HK .40-cal semi-auto—he’d seen the last of the Glock, which belonged to Mountain Parks — and walked quietly to the door. He looked through the peephole — and felt his heart knock against his breastbone.

Kat.

She stood on his doorstep flanked by Hunter and someone else — a man in a black leather jacket whose face he couldn’t see. He tucked the firearm into the waistband of his jeans, unlocked the door and opened it. And for a moment all he could do was stand there, staring into her eyes. She looked exhausted, overwhelmed, beautiful.

Had she been crying?

“Good to see you in one piece, rock jock. I see you took a hit.”

Gabe tore his gaze from hers, gave Hunter a nod, rubbed his fingers over the bandage. “It’s just a graze. Hey, Darcangelo, how’s it going? You hang with this guy? That’s ironic.”

Julian Darcangelo, the best damn detective Gabe had ever met, shrugged then reached out and shook Gabe’s hand, a grin spreading over his face. “What can I say? Every superhero needs a sidekick. Plus, it’s a good way to keep an eye on him, keep him out of trouble.”

Hunter glared at Darcangelo, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck you.” Then he frowned, pointing back and forth between the two of them. “So, you two know each other?”

“Of course we know each other. We met chasing your sorry ass through the snow. Rossiter here is pure hell on a pair of skis.” Darcangelo shifted his gaze back to Gabe. “Is Kat going to be safe here with you tonight?”

Gabe met Kat’s gaze again. “Yeah, she will. Do you boys want to come in?”

Hunter’s gaze dropped to Kat, as if trying to gauge his response from her. “I think we’ll head home and let you two get some rest.” Then his gaze shifted to Gabe. He drew out a business card and held it out “Give me a call. Let us know what we can do.”

“Will do.” Gabe pocketed the card, watching as Kat thanked her friends and said her good-byes. Then he took her hand and drew her inside, the two men’s voices drifting back as they headed down his front walk.

“You didn’t tell me Kat’s rock jock was Gabe Rossiter. He’s not a rock jock, Hunter, he’s a rock god.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know you knew him?”

Gabe closed the door and locked out the night, while Kat hung her coat on the coat rack and slipped off her boots. They turned and faced one another, and for a moment neither of them moved or spoke, Gabe drinking in the sight of her, from the dirt smudge on her cheek to the shadows in her eyes. Then he did the only thing he could do. He drew her into his arms, and held her, just held her, his face pressed against her silky hair, the honey scent and soft feel of her a balm for all the rough edges inside him.

As I write this, there are only 25 days until Naked Edge is released, and I’m getting the butterflies in my stomach that I always get before a book is released. I know you other authors know what I mean when I say that a book’s release date feels a lot like the day you send your kindergartener out into the big, cruel world for the first time. Books are our babies, and no matter what we write and no matter how hard we try to write the perfect, engaging story, someone will tell us our baby is ugly and stupid.

I tell my family that writing novels is an act of will. From the story concept to filling yourself with the emotions of your own characters to seeing the story through page after grinding page, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, you must fight discouragement and frustration that threatens to psych you out and make you quit. That’s true for every novel I’ve ever written.

But before I sat down to write Naked Edge, I had to decide whether I really wanted to do this — whether I really wanted to write a romance with a traditional Native heroine and all that implies. I’d sworn at one point early in my career that I would never write Indian romance. Far too often the Indian romances I’ve read are filled with stereotypes and often include assumptions that many Indian people find offensive. And though I’m not concerned with political correctness, particularly in a historical setting where life was anything but politically correct, I am close to a number of Indian people who would expect me to produce something that was accurate and culturally sensitive.

I’ve been asked by three different Native leaders from three different nations — Diné (Navajo), Hopi and Lakota — to act as a bridge between the Indian world and mainstream America. It’s a responsibility I’ve taken seriously through more than a decade of reporting on Native issues, and it’s a responsibility I have to take seriously as an author, as well. It seemed to me that the best way to deal with the complexities and risks involved was simply not to write novels with Native heroes or heroines.

Except that, because my life is deeply entwined with those of several Indian people and because my work as a journalist has so often involved Native issues, my head kept filling up with ideas.

So here are the 5 reasons I almost didn’t write Naked Edge — and what led me to change my mind.

5. There is very little about contemporary American Indian life that isn’t highly political. That’s just a fact. I decided I would have to find a way to remove the politics to the best of my ability. This is a romance novel, after all.

4. Someone somewhere will use the word “half-breed” to describe the heroine. This word is roughly the same to Indian people as the “n-word” is to African Americans. It’s right up there with “redskin.” I would hate for anyone to use this word to describe Kat, but I decided that it would give me a chance to do what I just did — to explain to people that they shouldn’t use the word unless they’re trying to anger someone. (And while I’m at it, the word “thoroughbred” refers to horses, not people.)

3. Modern Indian life can be confusing, and I would want to depict it as accurately as possible. There is so much most people don’t know about contemporary Indians. The idea that most Indians have gotten rich off casino money is absurd. Some have; most have not. Most don’t live on reservations. Most don’t speak their ancestors’ languages. Many have little idea about the traditions and spiritual beliefs of their ancestors. Some have adopted the world view of mainstream culture and Christianized. In cities, it’s not uncommon for Indian people from many different nations to practice a sort of mix of traditions. So you’ll find people from many different backgrounds participating in Lakota ceremonies, and you’ll find Lakota who’ve never been to a sweat lodge (inipi) or Sun Dance (wiwang wacipi).

On the other end of the spectrum are families that live on reservations in extreme poverty in homes without electricity or running water. Some speak almost no English. The struggles of their daily lives are beyond the imaginings of most Americans.

Sifting through all of this — and much more that I won’t go into — would make writing this book very difficult. And, indeed, it took more than a year as I tried very hard to make the story reflective of this complex reality. Inevitably, someone whose great-great-grandmother was a third Cherokee (or whatever) is going to point to something that they believe is inaccurate. But everything in the story is based on things I have seen/done personally during my time on the Navajo and Lakota reservations.

2. In a society rife with stereotypical depictions of Indian people, I wasn’t certain that readers would be able to relate to a more realistic Native heroine. Too many books and films seem to present the Indian world as if it had been created by Disney. There are almost 600 federally recognized Indian nations — and there are many that for bureaucratic reasons are not recognized. Each nation has its own history and culture. It is impossible to generalize, and yet most depictions of Native people contain lots of generalities. I decided I would do my very best to avoid that.

1. The book is bound to anger some Indian people who justifiably wonder what a chick with blond hair and blue eyes is doing writing about Native issues. Some might see the book as exploitation. This, more than anything, gave me pause. I decided that there really was no way to avoid this. I’ve tried to act with integrity during my years of reporting on Indian issues. I’ve never gone anywhere I wasn’t invited to go. I’ve never participated in a ceremony that I wasn’t invited to attend, nor have I ever participated in New Age copycat ceremonies run by non-Indians. There’s nothing I’ve done as a journalist that I wasn’t asked to do. Because I know this, and because the Indian people who are my friends know this, I won’t be hurt by what might be said in this regard.

But there’s something else: I participated in the events that inspired this story, so, although the story deals with contemporary American Indian issues, the kernel of real life that the story contains reflects my own life as a journalist. In that way, aspects of this story are my story, too.

In addition, I have committed to donating a portion of the proceeds from the book to programs on the Navajo reservation that serve women and children.

I wanted to go on the record with all of this before the book comes out. That way, my response to these things, should they arise, can’t be dismissed as “sour grapes.”

Ultimately, this book produced more anxiety for me than most of my other novels because it required me to take more risks. I felt a enormous sense of responsibility. I have done my best to address the problems and potential pitfalls that come with wading into these waters, and I’ve done so as respectfully as I know how.

The result will be on bookstore shelves in just 25 days. I hope people will enjoy Kat and Gabe’s story, and I hope they’ll learn a few things about the Native world they didn’t know. I hope that the book will act as the bridge I’ve been asked to be, fulfilling the expectations of the elders who trust me.

I did my best to tell a sensual love story between a contemporary Navajo woman and a white Park Ranger. He saves her life; she saves his soul.

Judging the story is up to you.

I got a very touching letter recently from a young woman who was inspired in part by reading Hard Evidence to take on the issue of human trafficking through her college chapter of Amnesty International. It’s a huge issue, a terrible problem, and, for those tragically caught up in it, a nightmare. It means so much to me that reading one of my novels helped to inspire this.

I’ve tried hard to include real issues and real topics in my novels. Yes, I know that many women turn to romance novels to escape, but I’ve always felt that there’s room for substance in romantic fiction. I don’t read fluff, and I try not to write fluff. Readers who want lighter stories probably don’t read my books, and that’s okay. To each her own, I say.

How fun it would be to share this letter with the people here in Colorado who know me only as a journalist. Repeatedly I am asked, “Why do you want to leave journalism to write romance novels?” The tone of their voices makes it clear that they find my choice unbelievable and strange, as if I were tossing aside the Holy Grail to drink from a paper cup.

One of them summed it up this way: “But if you write romance novels, you’ll no longer be contributing anything to the world.”

Oh, really?

At the time, I laughed. I told this person of the letters and e-mails I had received from people who’d gotten hours of enjoyment from my books. I told her of the recent e-mail from a woman who’d read through my historicals while caring for her dying mother and how my books had offered this woman a reprieve from grief and worry.

But, hey, I’m contributing nothing, right?

I’ve always believed that each of us has a role to play. I think of human history as a tapestry with each person being a thread in the overall picture. Each of us is called to do something, and if we follow that calling, the big picture is much richer for it. Whether you’re a nurse, a receptionist, a flight attendant, a stay-at-home mom, a lawyer, a journalist or an author, you have the chance, as each of us does, to make the world a better place.

I’ve been in journalism for... 17 years? I’ve tried to make those years count for something by taking on issues that other journalists ignore. But I have always wanted to write romantic fiction, that’s what I'm going to do. I firmly believe that a person can make as much of a difference writing fiction as she can reporting the news. I try to make each book about something, but I don’t try to ram my views down anyone’s throat. It’s enough to explore the problem in the story. Readers reach their own conclusions.

So to that college chapter of Amnesty International in Louisiana, I say thanks and hats off to you! And to those who say romantic fiction doesn’t contribute in a meaningful way to our world, I say only this: Obviously, you’ve never read a romance novel.