Secret Ways : Character Building

I lived in the �hood growing up, so my mom didn�t allow me to go anywhere by myself. Ever. One morning I was in the front yard playing by myself. A school bus pulled up to the curb and the driver swung open the door. He said, �Hey, little girl, do you want to go to Sunday school?� I didn�t know what that was but it sounded better than pushing my baby doll around in a stroller. I ran in the house and asked if I could go, and lo and behold . . . my mom said yes. Reflecting back on this event, that was a miracle of Red Sea proportion because that woman seriously never let me go anywhere. I attended Sunday school that day and every week thereafter, hearing about Jesus, and never doubting a word of it.

Carl Sandburg, which may be tricky since he�s dead. But his poetry blows me away. His rhythm. His perspective. Awesome.

Okay, back to the living. I kind of have a literary crush on Travis Thrasher. He has a way of describing everyday things we take for granted in a fresh, new way. I want to learn how to do that.

MaryLu Tyndall is one of my favorite historical romance writers. I�d invite her because she�s one of the sweetest, most gracious people I�ve ever met. She�s such an encouragement.

Anne Voskamp, while not a fiction writer, is an amazingly creative inspirational author. The way she puts words together is amazing.

I try to avoid public speaking as much as possible. It gives me hives. No, really. Super itchy welts because it�s so terrifying. That being said, I have been known to speak to writers groups.

Really? I really have to answer this? Sheesh. Okay, let�s get this over with quickly. I was tubing down the Apple River in Wisconsinwith my husband-to-be. We went over some rapids and I lost something. Or part of something. The top part. Moral of the story: Always wear a one-piece bathing suit with snug shoulder straps. My fianc�s eyes widened and he quickly pulled me off the tube and into the water so that I could fix the wardrobe malfunction in private.

I�d say someday never comes, so quit talking about it and just do it. There�s never a �right� time to write a book. Life never slows down. Stop using busy as an excuse.

The wild American wilderness is no place for an elegant English governess.

On the run from a cruel British aristocratic employer, Eleanor Morgan escapes to America, the land of the free, for the opportunity to serve an upstanding Charles Town family. But freedom is hard to come by as an indentured servant, and downright impossible when she�s forced to agree to an even harsher contract�marriage to a man she�s never met.

Backwoodsman Samuel Heath doesn�t care what others think of him�but his young daughter�s upbringing matters very much. The life of a trapper in the Carolina backcountry is no life for a small girl, but neither is abandoning his child to another family. He decides it�s time to marry again, but that proves to be an impossible task. Who wants to wed a murderer?

Both Samuel and Eleanor are survivors, facing down the threat of war, betrayal, and divided loyalties that could cost them everything, but this time they must face their biggest challenge ever ... Love.

Eleanor Morgan repeated the words, over and over, scrubbing her fingernails more vigorously with each repetition. Prayer was always better than blood. Perhaps if she focused on the simple child�s verse she taught her charges, she wouldn�t feel like heaving. She bit her lip, trapping a scream behind her teeth. A merciless idea. Better had she cried out at the unfairness of it all, for now blood wasn�t merely under her nails. Saltiness warmed the tip of her tongue.

A rap on her chamber door stopped her scrubbing. The nailbrush clattered into the basin, her heart into her stomach. Before she could think, she turned and snatched one of the brass candlesticks off the bureau. Hot wax spilled onto her skin, the pain barely registering. Duke or not, this time she�d do more than scratch the man�s face. Lecher. Beast. She raised the makeshift weapon, the flame extinguishing as the door swung open.

A tiny woman in a lace wrap entered. Eleanor choked. The candlestick slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.

Duchess Brougham�s gaze darted to the rolling candlestick, then back to Eleanor�s face. One of her brows lifted.

Eleanor rushed forward and sank to her knees in front of the woman, not caring to grab a dressing gown to cover her shift. Why bother? Humiliation was cloak enough. �Your Grace, I swear I did not encourage your husband�s advances. Please, you must believe me. I would never��

�Rise, Miss Morgan.� The lady waited until Eleanor stood on shaky legs, a single furrow marring her forehead. Was that compassion on her face. . .or resentment?

Duchess Brougham sighed, long and loud, as if she might expel whatever demon anguished her soul.

Eleanor knew she ought say something, but all her words dried up and blew away like the last leaf of autumn.

Slowly, the lady�s mouth curved into a fragile smile. �Did you not wonder, Miss Morgan, why we have had four governesses in the space of a year?�

Eleanor grimaced. She would have inquired had not pride muddled her thinking. The position of governess in a duke�s household didn�t seem nearly as prestigious anymore. La, what a foolish dolt she�d become.

The sting of her father�s prophecy slapped her with more brutal force than she�d dealt her employer. She lifted fingertips to her own cheek, coaxing out a whispered confession. �I assumed lack on the part of the other women, Your Grace, and for that I am woefully repentant.�

Duchess Brougham�s eyes glinted with an odd intensity. �The lack is in my husband. I had hoped that this time. . .for you see, the children dearly love you�� Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. �It is a sorry business, but there is nothing to be done for it. For your sake, Miss Morgan, you should leave. Now. Walk out the door and do not come back.�

Forgiveness and compassion are two of my favorite themes, probably because those are my favorite attributes of Jesus.

The Captive Heartcomes out in October, but you can pre-order now at Amazon. Here�s a short blurb:

Governess ELEANOR MORGAN flees to America, but the family she�s to serve never arrives to collect her. She must settle for what�s left�an offer of marriage. Backwoodsman SAMUEL HEATH is a survivor. He will find a mother for his young daughter. The trouble is who would marry a murderer?

Wow. Tough question. There are so many! I�m going to go with Ann Voskamp, the author of One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. Her outlook on things, her perspective of grace, continually blows me away.

Charlotte Bronte. Yes, another author, and my all-time favorite. How much of Jane Eyre is in her? That�s what I�d want to discuss.

Keep writing, whether you think you�ll get published or not. It�s always God�s timing, not yours.

Out of the Frying Pan is a zany romantic mystery with a few older main characters. The American population is aging, so why not include a few seniors? Here�s a blurb:

Murder in Paradise whips life into a froth for FERN and ZULA HOPKINS. When the retirement center�s chef is found dead, the two ladies get folded in with the case. Their zany attempts to track down the killer land them in hot water with Detective JARED FLYNN. Should he be concerned about their safety�or the criminal�s?

But there are deadly ingredients none of them expect. Drugs. Extortion. International cartels. And worst of all�broken hearts, especially when the Hopkinssisters� niece KC arrives on the scene.

Life at Sunset Paradise Retirement Village will never be the same.

It always surprised Zula Hopkins when her eyelids opened to another day. She should be dead by now. She�d outlived four presidents, a beloved husband, and even her son. But she hadn�t outlasted Fern. Fern had her beat by two years.

Probably for spite.

She rubbed away the negativity along with the sleep from her lashes. Pre-dawn light filtered through the open bedroom blinds, and she blinked. Would it be cool enough to wear her leopard print cardigan today or�wait a minute. What day was it, anyway? Flipping through the pages on her mental calendar, she landed on Tuesday, end of May.

           

She flung the iris-print comforter off her body with such force, Fifi rolled to the floor and yelped. Poor old girl. Hopefully the little dog hadn�t broken a bone�no time for a vet visit on the day after Memorial Weekend.

           

�Mama�s sorry, baby, but today�s special.� Humming her own rendition of �Born Free,� she snatched her robe and crossed the room at a good clip. Fifi followed, bumping and re-bumping against her lower calves like a crazed ball-bearing in a pinball game. Evidently, the poor little dear forgave her for the rude awakening.

           

The bedroom door rubbed against the frame as she yanked it open, creaking worse than an arthritic joint. Hmm�it�d be a humid one today, then.

           

Pausing, she shifted her gaze from Fern�s closed door to the bathroom, then back. What to do first�begin her morning routine or awaken her roommate?

           

Expedience mattered, though she�d never tell her sister-in-law. Fern would for sure put a damper on her plans to hop the senior shuttle into Ocala. The day after Memorial Day was historically the best opportunity to browse the discarded silk and plastic flowers that didn�t sell for the holiday. Her heart raced just thinking of the booty in the dumpster behind Flowerama Gifts. No, she couldn�t tell Fern.

           

But she would not be late and miss that shuttle, either.

           

�Oh, Fern,� she crooned.

Even with the shades drawn, the barren beige walls of her sister-in-law�s bedroom glared at her. She clamped her lips against the decorating advice bubbling up in her mouth like an Alka Seltzer gone bad. A simple pair of floral-print valances would add so much color. She could whip up this monochrome bear�s den into a swirling vortex of color in no time at all, if only Fern would let her.

Which she wouldn�t.

           

No matter. She�d soon be up to her elbows in plastic gardenias and silk fuchsias. Her lips unfurled into song. �Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping, sister Fern? Sister Fern? Morning bells are ringing�� she ducked a pillow projectile and whirled for the window ��Morning bells are ringing. Ding, ding, dong��

           

The second pillow nailed her in the behind, and she let loose the shade she�d been opening to flip-flap a slap dance on the roller. �I declare, Fern, you�re getting as mean as Irma Benton. Now, let�s uncover our sunny dispositions and greet the day, shall we?�

           

Her sister-in-law grasped the blanket�s satin edging and plastered it over her head. No matter how hard Zula yanked, the earth-toned covering refused to budge from Fern�s skinny form.

Muffled words rumbled from beneath the barrier. �The sun�s not even up yet, so why should I be?�

           

Zula straightened, weighing her options. Fight or flight? At least if she flew to the bathroom, she could begin her beauty regimen. Careful to sidestep Fifi, she retreated and finished her serenade, ��Ding, ding, dong.�   

           

She scooted out the door to the whap! of Fern�s last pillow smacking the oak veneer.

If you�d like to keep up with Michelle�s escapades, find her at www.michellegriep.com or www.writerofftheleash.blogspot.comor stalk her on Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.