Susan Johnson
And it all began rather serendipitously. Long ago, as they say, in another time, when fast food hadn't reached our area and the only shopping was what the feed mill offered, I was reading a book that annoyed me .
My husband was lying beside me in bed, watching TV. Turning to him, I sort of petulantly said, "How the hell did this book get published?"
"If you think you're so smart," he replied, with one eye still on the TV, "why don't you write a book?"
So I did. And very badly.
I've since learned how to do, he said, she said, and a great variety of other adverb heavy, sometimes lengthy explanations of why my characters are saying what they're saying, along with finally coming to an understanding of what things like POV means. Point of View for you non-writers}.
Although, I still don't fully comprehend why it matters if you switch POV and I cavalierly disregard it as much as possible. So while my technical skills have hopefully improved, what hasn't changed is my great joy in writing. There's as much pleasure today in listening to my characters talk while I type as fast as I can, as there was the first time I put dialogue to paper--in long-hand, then, in my leather bound sketch-book.
“Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said still breathing hard, his heated body sleek with sweat, his smile angelic. “We … try.”
“You Mademoiselle are hardly in a position to remonstrate. The entire world has no doubt been at your feet from the cradle.”“Would you care to join them?” She was teasing but testing her powers too in a feminine display of vanity.She was too perfect he thought, as she stood provocatively nude before him, too exotic, too tempting, too assured of her extravagant beauty. “Perhaps some other time,” his gaze having shuttered slightly, the familiar sardonic half-lidded gaze of the Duc de Vec once again regarding her…”
“She writhed helplessly against his steely grip, her frantic movement only furthering the progress of his softly caressing tongue. In moments, Hazard forced a shuddering moan from her and quivering she gasped in shallow rapturous sighs.”
“…she sipped her drink and tried not to stare at Dalgliesh. But he was murderously handsome, dark as a gypsy, with sleepy, bedroom eyes, his hunter’s gaze shuttered now that he was lounging relaxed in his chair, his brandy glass resting on his chest. His legs were stretched out before him…”
“…‘I haven’t seen you before.’ His voice was velvet soft, lazy with provocation. But his gaze wasn’t lazy; it was predatory, like an animal on the scent. ‘My father and I are down from Scotland’ Zelda replied, half breathless under the unmistakable lust in his eyes, the warmth of his hand still tingling on her skin; her heart suddenly pounding. Their eyes held for a moment-pale blue and amethyst-and a flurry of ripe unguarded expectation shimmered in the air. Hotspur and graphic. Alec recovered first because he wasn’t given to blind impetuosity.”
“He should have left long ago. He actually did once – or nearly did, but Zelda pulled him back. Not that he needed any persuasion with her warm, welcoming body the ultimate Nirvana and his libido operating within the very narrow range of sex, sex, and more sex.”
“One of my favorite quotes is from a local hairdresser who went off to live in Rome. Lucky guy. Anyway, he used to sign off his TV program each day by saying: Live it up, girls. You're dead a long time. Good advice I thought.”