Penny McCall
Okay, so I have to write a new bio because, well, life happens whether you want it to or not. And while I was at it, I decided to answer that question everyone asks me: How did you start writing? The only answer I have is To keep the voices in my head from driving me crazy. Now, you probably think those voices mean I am crazy, except for a couple things. When I write down what they're saying, they leave me alone. And they never tell me to kill or maim anyone. Both of those are definite pluses in my book. So, where do the voices come from? That's a toughie, so I'll start at the beginning. I'm the seventh of nine children, and we are not chips off the old block. We all possess distinct, unique personalities. In the summer my mom would send us outdoors until lunch time (for her own sanity, I'm sure) and we'd amuse ourselves in the woods behind our house, catching tadpoles, sneaking into the orchard next door, tormenting each other. We used to take picnic lunches and I remember this one time we put ants in my brother's mustard sandwich. Not those puny little sugar ants, either, big, fat black ones. Another time we buried his watch in the sand pile behind our house. He's still holding a grudge. Hey, we were kids before cable and video games, we had to find some way to amuse ourselves.
So, the voices? Well, I turned out to be that kid who was painfully shy. I was only happy with my nose in a book (okay, and tormenting my brother, but it was my sister's idea, and really, he deserved it), and when I wasn't reading I made up stories in my head. If I'd had the courage and discipline to write them down I'd be the most prolific author ever. So, why didn't I? Life, that's why. Marriage, crafts, kids, crafts, gainful employment, crafts, divorce. And did I mention crafts? I've done it all, ceramics, knitting, macramé, origami, crocheting—I even sold a couple of original patterns. Yeah, I know, the voices weren't impressed either. The crafts didn't shut them up for long, so one day I exorcised them onto paper, and after writing at least a half dozen historicals, the you-sound-too-contemporary comments in all those rejection letters finally sank in and I tried my hand at writing contemporary romance. My first story, Happily Ever After, sold in exactly four days, followed by four more to the now discontinued Precious Gems series at Kensington Publishing. I wrote another four for Harlequin's American series, all nine under the name, Penny McCusker. And then the voices got sassy and took me into the world of life-or-death, car chases, gunfire, and sarcasm, and I'm happily chugging along in that vein as Penny McCall.
I realize after all this rambling that I haven't exactly answered the question of where the voices come from, but hey, you'll just have to accept that they exist. I have.
“She got to her knees, running her nails lightly along his chest, loving the way he groaned, loving how his breath wheezed out when she took him into her hands, loving him, even when he reared up and said, “Now,” and took her waist in his hands and pushed her onto her back. She didn’t object or take offense. Words were beyond her, too, as he surged into her, hard and fast, and she forgot how to breathe and how to think.”
“A bolt of lightning speared down into the lake, followed by a clap of thunder so loud Norah swore she felt the lighthouse quake.“Jeez,” she said, shrinking back against Trip and not feeling stupid about it because it was nice to have a strong man around at a time like this. “Did you feel that?”“Like the earth moved? That was nothing.” And he spun her around and took her mouth.”
“[Trip] “You’re a pain in the ass. A wordy pain in the ass.”“Here are two more words for you. Interfering jerk.”“Stubborn idiot.”“Government patsy.”“Bookworm,” Trip shot back, and then he had her up against her car, his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, taking as much of her as he could get. She came right back at him, curling her hands into his shirt, trying to drag him closer, which was impossible since the only thing between them was a couple of thin layers of clothing and enough heat to cause spontaneous combustion.”