Although it was inspired by friends of mine who have five daughters, one of whom is named Stephanie, and one of whom (the youngest) had a Christmas wedding, I’m not sure why I decided to write a romantic Christmas novella.
Joy left home at 18 with a boy her minister father didn’t approve of. Joy and Mike marry in Vegas and arrive in LA. Shortly thereafter Joy discovers she’s pregnant and before she gives birth Mike is killed in a motorcycle accident. Broke, pregnant and widowed, Joy calls home. Her father, Art, says, “You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.” He hangs up on her.
Seriously? Pizza and beer? Forget his feet. There was a lot to work with here. “Thomas L. Purdue. You’re about to make me swoon.” She picked up the beer and drank. Then took another bite of pizza, closed her eyes and savored.
Look, I fed you. I didn’t call the cops on you. And there’s a good chance that will come back to bite me on the ass. I presume you were wearing shoes when you arrived. So get them. Put them on and skedaddle.” He waved in the direction of the door.
Hallie crossed her arms. “No.”
He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table, his eyes boring into her. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been living under my bed. For two days.”
She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Well, I wasn’t under the bed the whole time. Only when you were here.”
It’s one thing for a publisher to undervalue an author, but it seems to me, it’s quite another for the author to undervalue his/herself and his/her work.
Ask anyone who’s tried to write a book. It is not an easy thing. Well, not an easy thing if you want to write a good book.