A "paws" in the action

Pardon the pun, readers, but it was irrestible given the title of this blog...


Things are getting busy here -- way busy. I've in the home stretch with my novel and need to let something go. Work itself not being an option, this blog is now on hiatus. (Now I can lose the guilt for not keeping this up-to-date and not fret about the six half-finished blogs I have sitting in the archives!)

The March 29 deadline is really far away yet fast approaching -- in the last four days, I rewrote the entire "a-ha!" moment where my protagonist sovles the murder, deleted an entire supporting character, and decided to move one scene to the other end of the state.

For those who are wondering just WHAT the novel's about, I'm going to let the title give you a hint: Killing Julie.

For those who want more, two excerpts:

From Chapter 4 (enter the love interest)

“Nice scarf.”

“Excuse me?” The chill in her voice was expected, and she didn’t even bother to glance up. Rory
Shanguessy Brooks was not known for her willingness to tolerate interruptions, particularly when under the gun for a deadline. The article before her was due in two hours and the man they hired barely two weeks ago had quit after one week – after Rory had rewritten his work and called it trite, banal, and insipid. In that order.

”I was just admiring your scarf. Not a lot of women wear them nowadays.”

She finally looked up, peering over the wire rims of her glasses and studying the intruder.

”Cayden Ransome, at your service.”

“Rory Cullers,” she said, giving her pen name.

“I know.”

She wasn’t making this easy for him, but – then again – from everything he’d heard, this was classic Rory. A few other staffers had been more then willing to tell him about the woman he was about to share space with. She’s the office ice princess. Comes to work and goes right home. Don’t expect her to be social unless it’s work-related and she can get something out of it. Sorry to hear your desk is next to hers. She’s acerbic, to say the least, and she’ll tear your work to shreds – the problem is that she’s always right. Everything she touches turns to gold. Why the hell is she working here, anyway?

Rory was – justly or unjustly – rumored to be as temperamental as they came when it came to writing. She didn’t tolerate games or suffer fools. There were a dozen stories of her sharp tongue and right-to-the-point remarks, and Cade heard several of those stories within the first few hours of his hire and before he met her.

She was openly studying him now, taking in his dark eyes and the laugh lines the surrounded them. He was six feet easily and was, without a doubt, well-defined. He looked like he spent sunny days on the greens and the rainy ones in the gym. He probably wintered at Seven Springs on the slopes. Probably another jock who majored in communications because it wouldn’t interfere with sports.

“And you’re here because...?” He was taking too long to get to the point, and she had work to do.

“Oh, yeah, forgive me. Seems that I’m you’re new desk-mate,” he said looking at their respective desks that were pushed head-to-head and wondering just what this job was going to bring. Who designed this crawl-space of an office anyway? It looked like the rejected set of The Daily Planet’s office space in a 1970’s Superman flick. What the hell had he been thinking to take this job at some no-name publication? The last thing he needed was some to sit across from some antagonistic writer who had the reputation of a pit bull.



From Chapter 24 (enter the killer)

Lesson one, never argue with a man.

Rory was about to learn her lesson, too. With Julie he hadn’t been as thorough and she had turned on him in the end. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with this one. “Rory, time to come out and play,” he whispered, letting the anticipation build as he mounted the steps, each tread bringing him closer to his prize.

She’d be ready for him, he knew. She’d probably have some clever little plan to hit him again, render him unable to stop her as she ran again.

In his hand was the switchblade that he’d hidden at the bottom of the picnic basket. Just in case. He thought that this would be a nice change from his other approaches. Eventually, of course, he’d find something that he liked best. Shooting was too impersonal, too noisy. Strangulation was no fun, at least not when you were behind the victim. But a knife. Now a knife required up-close and personal involvement.

“Rory, it’s time to come out and play,” and he laughed once more. How good to be prepared.