On my Tarnished Gold blog tour, I met some wonderful people, hopefully gained some new readers, and learned much about the love and support people have for authors. I smiled when I saw the same people at each stop, leaving encouraging comments, and worming their way into my heart by their presence.
One lady commented on a post I did about what took me so long to write seriously. As it goes, I had a dad who was less than kind and he parented with abundant criticism and discouragement.
When I was in seventh grade, I wrote a short story, which my teacher thought was good enough to send to Hal Borland, an author he apparently knew (though, darn it, I never asked!) Some weeks later, I received some wonderful critique and encouragement, the margins littered with sprawling handwritten comments.
I was excited about the thoughtfulness of my teacher, Ronald C. Green, and Mr. Borland and I couldn’t wait to tell my dad. I suppose that was a child’s everlasting need to impress their parents. Honestly, I thought he would be pleased, but instead, he was angry. Suffice to say, I don’t have the story anymore. There wasn’t enough scotch tape to piece it back together after my father finished with it.
I was fortunate though, to have Mr. Green, and English teachers that followed him, all of whom encouraged me to write.
However, as is often the case, the negative voice in my head shouted over all the positive ones, and I listened. For years, though I wrote newspaper articles for our hometown weekly, and did publicity for all the school plays throughout high school, I wrote nary a word of fiction. I thought about it, many times, but as I’d put pen to paper, I’d see the pieces of that short story as they fluttered the floor and relived the hopeless feeling I’d had that day.
Then life had a way of happening—I got married, had my two older children, and followed my military husband for six years, which included a two-year stint in Iceland. Then divorce happened, I met my second husband, we married, had our lovely daughter and settled into a life that has now lasted for nearly 33 years married, 37 together. Life went on, as my writing took a backseat to everything else.
The kids grew up, married, two have children of their own, and I found myself, at last, with blessed time. My husband retired, which gave us time together to travel, and just be alone, something we never had before all the kids flew the nest. I also had more time for reading, something else that I could only do at night, when I wasn’t so exhausted that I’d just fall into bed.
My darling husband gave me Phillipa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl and other Gregory works for my birthday one year. I devoured them, loving her mix of real history and fiction. When I finished with her books, I found others, and though most didn’t have real history involved, I found that I loved historical romance. Mary Balogh and Lisa Kleypas took up my dusting and vacuuming time, but I couldn’t put their books down. Elizabeth Hoyt and Cathy Maxwell followed with their wonderful Regencies, and later, Pamela Clare captured my heart with her MacKinnon’s Rangers.
As I devoured the books, I’d tell my sweetheart about each story, and whether he was interested or not, he asked questions and listened, which made me think he cared.
One day, after I’d finished catching him up on the latest story, he looked at me and smiled. I’m usually wary of that grin, because he is, more often than not, up to something. (Heaven help me when the kids are around, they are just like him.)
“Do you think you could write one of those?” he asked, as he stood in the doorway between our living room and sunroom. “I think you could.”
With my father’s passing in 2005, my internal soundtrack of his voice has, albeit gradually, faded, to where I can hear the good things, but his negativity has faded. In its place are my Clint’s words, spoken daily—I love you, I’m proud of you, you’re my girl.
For most of my adult life, I’ve had the man who created a marvelous internal soundtrack for me, and my children. The last thing they hear from us when we speak to them on the phone or after a nice visit is, “I love you.” That says it all, doesn’t it?
PS: Now I tell him all of my stories. His reply? “I knew you could do it.”
Check out my bookshelf. My newest releases are:
Serenity’s Dream – Lucien and Serenity
Lucien was quite happy in his life running the Sapphire Club and has no need for the frigid wife who deserted him the day after they were married.
Can Lucien teach Serenity that her fear of the marriage bed is unfounded? Will Serenity’s secret be the death knell for their marriage?
You can purchase Serenity’s Dream – Lucien and Serenity at Amazon
In 1917, starstruck Jack Abadie strikes out for the gilded streets of the most sinful town in the country—Hollywood. With him, he takes a secret that his country hometown would never understand.
After years of hard work and a chance invitation to a gay gentlemen’s club, Jack is discovered. Soon, his talent, matinee idol good looks, and affable personality propel him to the height of stardom. But fame breeds distrust.
Meeting Wyatt Maitland turns Jack’s life upside down. He wants to be worthy of his good fortune, but old demons haunt him. Only through Wyatt’s strength can Jack face that which keeps him from being the man he wants to be. Love without trust is empty.
As the 1920s roar, scandals rock the movie industry. Public tolerance of Hollywood’s decadence has reached its limit. Under pressure to clean up its act, Jack’s studio issues an ultimatum. Either forsake the man he loves and remain a box office darling, or follow his heart and let his shining star fade to tarnished gold.
I also have For Men Like Us, which takes place during the Regency in England. You can find it at Dreamspinner Press. Just click the title to be magically transported.
For Men Like Us:
After Preston Meacham’s lover dies trying to lend him aid at Salamanca, hopelessness becomes his only way of life. Despite his best efforts at starting again, he has no pride left, which leads him to sell himself for a pittance at a molly house. The mindless sex affords him his only respite from the horrors he witnessed.
The Napoleonic War left Benedict Wilmot haunted by the acts he was forced to commit and the torture he endured at the hands of a superior, a man who used the threat of a gruesome death to force Ben to do his bidding. Even sleep gives Ben no reprieve, for he can’t escape the destruction he caused.
When their paths cross, Ben feels an overwhelming need to protect Preston from his dangerous profession. As he explains, “The streets are dangerous for men like us.”
Born in Upstate New York, Brita Addams has made her home in the sultry south for many years. Brita’s home is a happy place, where she lives with her real-life hero, her husband, and a fat cat named Stormee.
She writes, for the most part, erotic historical romance, both het and m/m, which is an ideal fit, given her love of British and American history. Setting the tone for each historical is important. Research plays an indispensible part in the writing of any historical work, romance or otherwise. A great deal of reading and study goes into each work, to give the story the authenticity it deserves.
As a reader, Brita prefers historical works, romances and otherwise. She believes herself born in the wrong century, though she says she would find it difficult to live without air conditioning.
Brita and her husband love to travel, particularly cruises and long road trips. They completed a Civil War battlefield tour a couple of years ago, and have visited many places involved in the American Revolutionary War.
In May, 2013, they are going to England for two weeks, to visit the places Brita writes about in her books, including the estate that inspired the setting for her Sapphire Club series. Not the activities, just the floor plan. :)
A bit of trivia – Brita pronounces her name, Bree-ta, like the woman’s name, and oddly, not like the famous water filter.
Please visit me at any of these online locations: