Monday, October 05, 2009

Recipe For Disaster

First, let me announce the winner of my new release today: "Recipe For Disaster". I had a contest on Twitter and anyone who retweeted my contest notice or left a comment on my blog since this started would be entered. Those who did both would have two chances to win.

And my winner is:

@RachelJameson 
 from Twitter


Congrats! Please email me so I can email your prize copy to you. I also DM'd you on Twitter, Rachel.

When I titled this post "Recipe For Disaster" I did so for two reasons.

The first will be obvious as it's the title of my new erotic romance released today at Total-E-Bound, "Recipe For Disaster".



It's also what I just realized I did to myself and why I almost had a nervous break down yesterday (the day I'm actually writing this post).

Why?

I was pre-editing my book "Bad Conduct" (sequel to "The Perfect Gift") which is scheduled to be released by TEB in April 2010 when I discovered a big chunk of the book was missing!

At first I thought I'd put something out of order and hadn't noticed it which is bad. As I read on, I realized I had done something worse. I'd left out a couple very important scenes.

I could remember writing the scenes. I was sure I had. Or was I going crazy?

I've always had excellent blood pressure. Once it dropped into a range of concern but it's never elevated into the danger zone on the high end. This time it skyrocketed and I was about to hyperventilate. I wanted to kick myself for turning this into my editor in such condition.

Again, I was sure those were there when I turned it in! But after double and triple checking it wasn't. Not on this computer. Not on the downstairs computer.

The answer was obvious (besides the one that I am a big idiot). I'd handwritten it and hadn't typed it in. What else was I to think?

So I tore apart my room looking for it. My family will tell you all about my millions of steno pads filled with handwritten stories and lists...and how I misplace my lists.

The part of the story I sought wasn't in my bedroom. So we tore apart my car and found at least six more notebooks. I really wasn't up to rewriting part of the story tonight when all I felt capable of was hiding in my bed with my covers pulled firmly over my head or breathing into a paper sack.

But success! After going through at least fifteen notebooks, I found the right one. So now I'm typing in the missed part. It's still a chore, but it's a lot easier than rethinking when I'm so drained and furious at myself.

This is my recipe for disaster - handing in something less than perfect - way less than perfect. Maybe I can convince my hubby to let me spend a couple hundred dollars on a new laptop battery now so I can get rid of my handwritten notebooks. I have to be able to write at the ball field as I spend so much time there, but it's crazy to have pieces of the story in different places.

Or maybe my hubby will just have me committed - on my release date. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

I'm probably not the only person who's ever gotten herself into a jam. I know I'm not and this isn't exactly life-altering. (Unless of course someone commits me.)

In my book "Recipe For Disaster" Jamie, the heroine, and her eccentric mother have gotten her into a much bigger mess than I'm in and she's about to lose her house and everything she holds dear. She can't merely type in or even rewrite a couple scenes to pull herself out of her mess. It's very serious.

Blurb: Recipe For Disaster by Ashley Ladd

Desperate, Jamie will do almost anything to save her house, her dogs, and her life but will she sell her soul?

Jamie's desperate. If her 401K emergency distribution isn't disbursed in time, she'll be a victim of the Florida foreclosures. If that's not bad enough, she's also in danger of losing her job and her beloved dogs.

Worse yet she hits Max with her car. Luckily, Max is better than fine and ready to jump into her life and her bed. Unluckily, he's afraid to tell her that he buys distressed properties and he was in her yard to check out her house.

Excerpt:

Jamie Covais would sell her soul to the devil to keep her house. She’d even sell her mother.

She did her best to keep her lips from trembling, from turning into a blathering blob of jelly at her attorney’s feet. She blinked back tears and shook her head. “I didn’t get any notices about a lawsuit. Doesn’t there have to be a summons or something? I didn’t sign anything…”

Carl Johnson, her attorney, levelled an asking stare at her. “Are you sure you received no summons? No one came to your door with a paper to sign?”

She thought hard until her mind began to melt, but there was no enlightenment. Her brains rattled when she shook her head. They were a perfect match to her broken heart. “No.”

Then a horrid thought struck her, and she couldn’t breathe. Wishing she didn’t have to admit this wouldn’t change the truth. “Sometimes Mom forgets to tell me things. She visited a couple times this year.” Carl pursed his lips, shook his grey head and hitched up his pant legs as he sank into his chair. He folded his hands in his lap as he leant back in his chair and regarded her with something akin to pity.

“She’s forgetful.” And irresponsible. And flighty. Unfortunately, the list of adjectives stretched beyond the horizon. Carl’s secretary, Nina, rapped on the door, and with an apologetic look, she carried papers to her boss. “Here’s what you asked for.”

After Nina handed them to him, she smiled shyly at Jamie and returned to her desk. Within seconds, rapid typing tickled Jamie’s ears. Carl perused the papers for several moments. The longer he read, the deeper his scowl etched into his forehead. Muttered oaths tumbled off his lips. Then he pushed his glasses down to the tip of his nose and gave her a penetrating look. “Is your mother Penelope Covais?”

Her breath hitched in her throat, and it was several moments before she could speak. What had dear old mom done this time? “Yes.”

“Is she a resident of this property? Or an owner?”

Again she squeaked out a ‘yes’ as the stars fell out her heaven. Nervous and scared to death, she pleated the folds of her skirt. God, she didn’t want to be another victim of the Florida housing crash, but she knew she was on the list.

Carl sighed heavily and leant back in his chair. He linked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Lordy. This is a royal mess.”

She closed her eyes and tried to drag in breath, but it was ragged and painful. All her dreams became dust in the wind. Everything crumbled before her eyes. Then Carl leant forward and hope lit his clear blue eyes, much like those in the picture of his deceased son in the spot of honour on his desk.

“Is your mother suffering from dementia?”

Jamie blinked. God, she hoped not. Penelope had been erratic and eccentric even at twenty, but she hadn’t lost her mind. “Not that I know of, at least. It’s not been diagnosed.”

“Do you have any money? Anybody who can loan it to you? Your mom? You said she’s an owner, too.”

She’d been over it so often her head was going to explode. “Only in my 401K. But doesn’t it take a couple months to get the money out?”

Light flickered in the lawyer’s eyes, and he leant forward. “I don’t think so. Talk to your HR 401K administrator right away. Take these papers with you and show him.” Jamie accepted back her death decree. If she’d had this notification earlier when her mother had first signed, she could have raided her retirement account then filed bankruptcy or something. Now, with two weeks to the fateful day, she was out of time.

Acid ate at her stomach, and she wondered if she’d rather die than be homeless. Where would she live? Where would she go? Wouldn’t she have to file bankruptcy anyway? No way could she come up with the money to pay rent and whatever hefty penalties were assessed for reneging on her loan after the new buyer waltzed away with her house.

Most of all what would happen to Peter and Tinkerbell, her huskies?

Trying to at least look positive even though she was dying inside, she gave her lawyer her best smile and rolled up the letter. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Please do. I sure hope you can get this worked out.”

God, she did, too.

"Recipe For Disaster"
available for purchase at: Total-E-Bound

there is.


Recent posts you might also like to read:


Sayonara Baby

Don't Bomb Your Audience With Turkeys

Are You Writing Me Into Your Book?

Dont Give Up Too Early

Welcome to the Spookiest Month of the Year (+ don't burn your Ouija Board!)

Friday Fill-ins Oct. 2 (& e-Readers)


You'll also want to see what Amarinda Jones, Anika Hamilton, Anny Cook,
Barbara Huffert, Brynn Paulin, Bronwyn Green, Dakota Rebel, Kelly Kirch,
Molly Daniels, Sandra Cox, Regina Carlysle, and Cindy Spencer Pape
are up to, so make sure to visit them also. :)

18 comments:

bob said...

I admire those writer that can put the reader's emotion to action.

More power

Sandra Cox said...

Ouch! Isn't that a horrible feeling? We've all done something similiar.
Congrats on the new release. Love the cover.

Sandra Cox said...

I couldn't find Dion's pic:(

Linda Kage said...

Wow. I think I would've had a heart attack if I'd lost a section of book I'd already turned in. Thank goodness you found it. Whew.

And congrats on your release and another congrats to the contest winner!

Amber Skyze said...

That has to be one of the scariest feelings. I'm so glad you found the missing scenes.
Congrats on the new release.

Ashley Ladd said...

Not only did I finally find the missing scenes, I had a big note to myself on the handwritten pages "TYPED" which I always do when I'm finished. So where in the world had I typed that???

I finished the edit about 10:30 and turned it in, but I was wiped. I knew I wouldn't have much time during the week to work on it with the day job and my daughter's softball which takes up most of the evenings.

Molly Daniels said...

So glad you found it! Treat yourself to an ice cream or something sweetie...


I too draw lines around the handwritten stuff and write 'typed' in the margin. I used to keep several notebooks lying around, but now only use 1 or 2 (okay, 3 at the most!) and keep them all in my briefcase. I don't have to worry about the kids reading it, because no one can read my handwritten scribbles:)

The Bumbles said...

I'm still in awe that you handwrite that much. My hand doesn't even work any more when I try to write out a note at work. I am so used to typing everything it is as if my brain doesn't remember how to form the letters in cursive. I have had utter anxiety like that myself. I recently prepared a post for one of the blogs I write for and within a few hours of it being posted I realized that all the images I thought had been cleared for public re-use were all private. So I frantically had to reach my editor to pull the post and then scramble like hell and change direction on a few sections completely to get it re-done. I am so glad you found the original story and didn't have to re-create it. And yes - you deserve a laptop!!! Good luck with your newest release - love the title.

Ashley Ladd said...

When you have a battery like mine, it's handwrite or not write.

My hands are the part of me most in shape. I type about 96 wpm. I take shorthand. And I write a lot. If I'm out in public and writing erotic romance and I think someone might read a naughty word over my shoulder, the shorthand comes in handy. However, I tend to lapse into shorthand to write faster - but then if I don't transcribe it within a couple days, I often can't read all the words. LOL

I also tend to handwrite in a mixture of English and shorthand - can't help it. Is that how people who know two spoken languages think? Partly in both?

The Redhead Riter said...

How many books do you try to write a year?

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