For my birthday a friend gave me a lovely little box all wrapped up with a bow. Wondering what could possibly be inside, I tugged the ribbon off and lifted the lid. It was a pin. A round one – the kind with logos and sayings on them. Mine declared in a careless scrawl, “I write to silence the voices.” And perhaps that’s true, because I really don’t have a consistent answer to that question. When people ask me point blank it depends on the day what pops into my head to tell them.

I loved creative writing in school but I never really did anything with it once I reached adulthood until I got laid off and was out of work for ten months at a time after my husband had passed away and all my kids had flown the coop. Perhaps that was the first time things got quiet enough in my life for me to actually hear the voices. I eventually found a new position and returned to full time work. Five years later I took a hiatus and spent two years in the Peace Corps, then returned to work, but all that while the stories kept coming to me and I kept writing. In spite of the fact that so far I'd not convinced a publisher to take on any of the books I'd written.

Now I’m retired. I’ve built a new life in a new city, made a ton of new friends, and gotten involved with the historical re-enactment community. I live by the beach and spend at least some small part of each day on it, generally walking barefoot in the sand, as my website tagline suggests. I don’t need a royalty check to pay the mortgage or put food on the table. Writing had never become a career. So, WHY do I still write?

Why do I spend most of my time with my fingers on the keyboard and my head lost in the lives of imaginary people? Writing their stories does not shut the voices up, it just encourages them. They whisper in my ear while I’m falling asleep and shout to be heard over the rush of water in the shower. They keep me company while I’m walking the beach, and my dog is off checking out the scents of every other creature that visited the area recently. They argue with me when they don’t like what I have planned for them. My hero wants to get laid, and I tell him to take a cold shower. My heroine wants to find Prince Charming, and I tell her to get real. The kid can’t wait to grow up and I preach patience. I put my fingers on the keys absolutely certain I know what I’m going to write next, but when I pause, I realize that my characters have gone and done something totally different, and they are thumbing their noses at me. But even so, I am compelled. I keep writing.

My laptop travels with me wherever I go. I can’t leave these fascinating characters behind, even if they are contrary and argumentative half the time. They are real and they have lives to live and stories to tell and somehow, I’ve been elected to tell them. I’m considering an even more portable tablet and if they come out with an App for my smartphone, I’ll have it downloaded in a heartbeat. I simply can’t imagine NOT writing. But why?

And this morning the answer came to me in the form of a quote from Steve Jobs that a friend posted on Facebook:

“If you are working on something exciting that you really care about, you don’t have to be pushed. The vision pulls you.”

Check out WHATEVER IT TAKES, a Political intrigue publised by Wings ePress - June 2012  --- and coming in March of 2014 the first of my Contemporary romance series (the Camerons of Tides Way)   FALLING FOR ZOE.

Back when I was a child, my grandmother would sponge leftover breakfast off my face with a spit dampened handkerchief and call it a “lick and a promise.” When applied to me in the entryway to our church, it meant I’d get a bath come bedtime. She also used that phrase in relation to housecleaning when passing a hasty duster over all the flat surfaces in her home on the unexpected arrival of guests or giving the kitchen a cursory cleaning before hurrying out the door for work. Of course my grandmother backed that up with a day of hard labor on Saturdays and ultimately with thorough spring and fall cleanings. I often think of her as I give my house a “lick and a promise” and hurry off to do something more interesting or fun. I haven’t done a spring or fall cleaning in my lifetime and I don’t usually back it up with a Saturday dedicated to cleaning the house, either.

Instead, my housecleaning seems to take on all the aspects of classic military mission creep. Like this past week, the day I needed to toss a few clothes in the washer before I ran out of clean underwear. Since my bed hadn’t been made yet anyway, I figured I might as well wash the sheets while I was at it. The mattress cover was cockeyed so I go to straighten it and notice how much dust has accumulated between upright posts of the bedframe. Didn’t I just clean that when my kids were here? Oh, wait! That was Christmas! Have I really been sleeping next to all this crud for the better part of a year?

I get the cleaning stuff out and begin running a rag between each of the posts. I love my bed, but it’s not the easiest to clean... and I realize I need to push the bed away from the wall to get at the backside. Which leads to the revelation that the dust on the under-bed storage bins is thick enough to write love letters in. Which further leads to the need to go unearth my vacuum from the over-full storage closet and suck up all the dust bunnies that have grown into lions. By now I have pretty much all the usual cleaning supplies gathered around me and I’ve succumbed to the inevitability of cleaning the entire bedroom. Which means taking down the curtains. All the time ignoring the nagging thought that it just might be dust I’m allergic to.

Hauling down the curtains reminds me that the rods are rusty and I’ve been meaning to replace them. They are rusty because I hate to turn on the AC and prefer to open my windows, which, lets in all the salt air along with the sound and scent of the sea.

“Hey, Duff? Wanna go for a ride?” Duffy loves to ride in the car, whatever the excuse! So, off we go to Home Depot where I find wooden rods with totally hidden hardware. Perfect! Back home, I hunt down all the required tools and begin that project. I’m already a long way beyond my original intention to do the laundry, but as the afternoon wears on, I come upon the stash of totes I hadn’t put away when I got home from summer in New England. I carry them to the storage closet. Which requires me to stop and organize that because I’d left everything pulled out of place when I went after the vacuum cleaner. The big duffle bags I’d shoved under the bed go out to the car to be taken back to my storage unit until next summer. A folder of mail buried under the cushions on the window seat gets taken to my desk and checked to make sure there isn’t something in it that should have been attended to weeks ago. All the odds and ends retrieved from the nooks and crannies of my suitcase and dumped on the bureau get dealt with. The stack of books I’d read but never put away are removed from the bedside table and re-shelved in the library. I replace the white duct tape I use to protect the leading edges of the cheap fan blades (But that’s a whole ‘nother story) in the ceiling fan. I even replace the dead bulb over the bathroom mirror and clean the bathroom.

  By now it is well past three in the afternoon. I never did stop for lunch. I missed low tide and our usual walk on the beach. And I didn’t get the bills paid, which was my intention for the day. BUT! When all is reassembled, the room looks bright, clean and tidy. The new curtain rods are perfect. The air still has a hint of salt, but if dust is what I’m allergic to, I’ll sleep better tonight. And I’m almost certain my grandmother is smiling in approval.

After a busy summer visiting family and rusticating on our island in New Hampshire, I am back in the land of running water and hot showers. Everyone around me is pining for cooler fall weather, but I’m soaking up the heat and loving every minute of it. Perhaps they should spend a week or six sleeping in a tent with nighttime temps dipping low enough to necessitate the use of L.L. Bean’s finest winter-weight sleeping bags. Or taking a bath in water that makes one gasp on first contact. Anyway, I am happy to be home in my bungalow by the sea, enjoying the sun, and walking on the beach every day.

The deadline for my first sale to Bell Books was September 1^st, so I was pretty busy finishing that project my first couple weeks at home. I also had my writer’s chapter checkbook to balance and a monthly treasurer’s report to submit, a meeting to attend and two doctor’s appointments. In a rush to get to one of those appointments on time, I grabbed a bottle of shampoo my sister had passed on to me and proceeded to squirt a healthy dollop onto my head.

Those of you who’ve been following this blog awhile might recall the post about my sister who celebrated her arrival at the big five-oh, by opting to color her hair. NOT coloring to cover the ever-increasing gray, but to add a flamboyant and totally unnatural tint to her locks. It’s been orange, purple, green, blue and pink. On the day I wrote of earlier, Sarah arrived on the island in a downpour, by rowboat (of course) with rivers of blue running down her face and into her shirt.

So perhaps you can imagine my horror when I gazed down into the sink to see this:

  Sarah’s not the type to pull pranks, but just what was in that bottle of hand-me-down shampoo? I know I’m old enough to be in the “blue-hair” set, but please! Not this shade of blue. A glance in the mirror wasn’t reassuring. I snatched the bottle off the counter. “Color enhancing” read the label. “Helps to remove dulling residue to reveal luminous silver strands.” Well, that didn’t sound too threatening. I started to breathe again. I rinsed, praying I wasn’t going to have to show up for my annual physical with a blue do. My doctor is a very patient man, but explaining my sister might take more time than he had to spare. The conditioner was far duller than the shampoo, but still very definitely blue. I rinsed thoroughly. And rinsed again. Rinsed a third time. I have white towels – no need for everything to turn blue...

To my everlasting relief, my hair came out pretty much as it always does, a heathery mix of sun-streaked blond, hints of my once rich brunette, and far too much gray...I mean silver. Silver sounds so much nicer than gray, don’t you think? Maybe I should keep the stuff after all.

Years ago, my kids, who at the time were childless, all came to our family island on a lake in New Hampshire for a long weekend. As we packed up to go home, my son-in-law insisted that we had to do this again and next year, for a whole week. We’ve been coming for that week of family fun and togetherness ever since. As children came along, it became a chance for cousins who live in different states to hang out and get to know each other and for siblings to reconnect and create memories to last a lifetime.

We call the week Mutt’s Nuts (long story) and in addition to being time to swim, play games, have campfires and enjoy time together, we have also had some fantastic parties: safaris and pirate parties, wedding and baby showers, and big birthday bashes.

This year, during Mutt’s Nuts we had an infestation of fairies. They built homes all over the island, next to tents, hanging in trees, even on the beach. Then our own little munchkins got to be fairies for the day, dressing up in fairy skirts with wreaths of flowers in their hair. The fairy luncheon had the most marvelous menu, from real cucumber sandwiches to chocolate kiss acorns. There were snail sandwiches and deviled eggs with tomato caps and so much more. The girls loved it.

My daughter, Bobbi, began planning the event months ago and her living room became a fairy house factory. She made the flower wreaths for their hair and conned me into creating the fairy skirts. Jack, being the only boy present got a special crown of feathers that looked very manly, but he opted to copy the girls and wear flowers. My sister even dyed her dog purple for the occasion and both dogs sprouted wings to join the fun.

The girls later snuck off to build more fairy houses of their own, and in the evening we had fairy jars of twinkling lights. Such fun!  Thank you Bobbi, for bringing the fairies to Mutt’s Nuts.

The Beaver                                                                                                    I'm a Boston lady of 1773

When you get invited to a tea party, you generally think of dressing up a bit and sitting at a prettily laid table while sipping tea from fine china cups. But this summer, my granddaughter, Theresa and I went to a very different kind of tea party.

The Boston Tea Party!

Theresa had read a book on her summer reading list about the original tea party so her mother thought it would be fun if Grammy could take her to Boston to the Tea Party Museum. So, off we went. Although the original Boston Tea Party took place at night, this day was sunny and beautiful for a trip into this lovely old city. There are two replicas of the original merchant ships that sat in Boston Harbor loaded with tea while the Sons of Liberty and the British governor argued about the new tax levied on the tea. The Beaver and the Eleanor sit at the pier and the whole tour is a very fun reenactment.

Every visitor is given a role to play, and the name of one of the original tea party goers. Some of them have speaking parts and join in the assembly where Sam Adams does his rabble rousing best to fire up resentment against the tax and a refusal to let the tea be brought ashore. Then, with feathers stuck in our caps or hair, we troop onto one of the two ships and toss tea into the harbor. The kids got a huge kick out of that part and Theresa hauled her bale back aboard to re-toss several times.

Let's have a Tea Party!                                                                       Stearing the ship

The rest of the tour was instructive about how the Boston Tea Party led to the insurrection, with a short presentation on a wide 3-D screen of the first shots fired at Lexington Mass. What a fantastic way to learn about a little bit about  how this great country got its birth. Abigail’s Tea House is a great little place to enjoy a snack when you finish the tour. If you live near Boston, do go. If you don’t, why not plan a trip to this wonderful little city? The Boston Tea Party Museum is only just one of many places to see and things to do in Boston. Lots of history and lots of other great stuff, too.

The Captain's Cabin aboard the Eleanor was well appointed to show his wealth and success.

Last week I showed you my tent in it's original site, at the top of the hill with a fantastic view of the lake. Here's where it is now - nestled in a hollow down at the bottom of the hill. No view, but less wind.

Much as it pains me to admit to even thinking I might be too old for something, I’ve twice had a fleeting vision of renting a nice, cozy, dry place on shore next year instead of spending 6 weeks in a tent on my island. The first time was while I was wrestling an upside down tent in a 40-knot wind, in the dark and cursing steadily throughout.

I’d gone to bed, in my tent as usual, and was reading a book when the wind suddenly picked up. Rain was on the way and my tent doesn’t leak so I settled back and continued to read. As the wind grew harder, one lightweight, very flexible tent pole suddenly bent INWARD, bringing the entire side of the tent with it. I shoved it back into place with my foot and lay there on my back bracing the tent with both feet, now praying fervently that the wind would drop. Unfortunately my prayers were not answered and the next thing I see is the fly slipping off. I jump up and get out of the tent to capture the fly before it sails off to destroy itself on the surrounding trees.

It should have occurred to me that as soon as my weight was not holding down the mattress and thus, the tent, something worse might happen. All the tent stakes had been yanked out of the ground, both those around the base of the tent and the ones further out securing the fly. Securing! Hah! I should have had tent stakes the size they use to hold circus tents up. My entire tent flipped upside down with all my gear inside, including the dog’s crate, but thankfully not the dog who had opted to stay in the camp for the night. He’d have been in a panic so that was something to be thankful for, anyway.

So here I am, trying to find my way back into the tent to retrieve my flashlight to augment the pale light of the moon. The moon was nearly full, but for some reason didn’t seem to shed a whole lot of light on the mess. I eventually found the door, which happened to be on the opposite side from where it should have been and managed to locate not only the flashlight, but also my glasses which, by some exceedingly good chance, had not been crushed by any of the tumbling gear. With the threat of rain on the way, I knew I had to get all the rest of it collected and back to the camp, so I grabbed as much as I could carry and headed over to bring back the wagon. Three trips later and all that was left was the dark, unrecognizable outline of my deflated summer bedroom.

Locating black tent poles in the dark and figuring out where the other end might be is not as easy as one might think when going by feel alone. I now have a whole new appreciation for what blind folks live with every day. But they, at least, don’t have to dismantle a tumbled tent with a 40-knot gale still blowing down the lake with unabated relish. It didn’t rain, Thank God, but I was exhausted by the time all was safely stowed and I fell onto an exceedingly uncomfortable cot for the remainder of the night. It was 2:00 am and that’s the first time it occurred to me that it might be nice to have a cottage with a comfy bed and running water and warm showers to summer in.

Just a few days later, I was returning to the island from a trip to my son’s. All the way up, it threatened rain, but none fell. So, Murphy being such a great friend and all, as I arrived at the beach to launch our little boat, the rain began. I had grabbed big trash bags just in case, so I dropped my suitcase, tote and all the stuff I’d hauled up with me for our family week into bags, got the boat turned over and loaded. The rain got heavier as I drove back up the hill to park and still more persistent as Duff took his sweet time hunting for just the right place to relieve himself as we walked back down the hill. By the time we were in the boat and headed to the island it was downright pouring. We arrived cold, soaked and shivering to an unheated camp. That was the second time I considered the value of having a cozy little cottage on the shore.

I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that I just might be too old for this shit!

Duff at Paws Beach Pet Resort                              Scott's Hill NC (a.k.a. Tides Way)

It’s been awhile since I posted here and in the interim, many things have caught my interest and provoked a desire to share my thoughts. But busyness got in the way. Or I was on the road with my laptop packed away.

My last few days at home in St Augustine were, as always, busy with packing and lists, making sure I turned off the water heater and locked all the windows, stopping the paper and forwarding my mail, packing my bathing suit and laptop (making sure not to forget the recharging cords for all my gadgets,) grabbing time for lunch with one friend and supper with another, and of course, going downtown to see the 4^th of July fireworks and taking one last long walk on my beach.

Then it was off to New England with a detour in North Carolina to do some research for my new series, The Camerons of Tides Way. FALLING FOR ZOE, the first book in the series will be released by Belle Bridge Books in March 2014 with five others to follow. Since they are set in a lovely little place my imagination dreamed up not far from Wilmington NC, it just made sense to visit the area again on my way north to take photos, refresh my memory and germinate new ideas. I met and chatted with some of the nicest folk who willingly dropped their tasks to answer questions and share their knowledge of the area. Thanks especially to a nice gentleman near the waterway who told me about the tides, a long ago plantation and the lilies that were taking over his yard. Two lovely ladies at the airport, Mary Pfannenstein and Alice Razzano, pointed me in several directions with advice on places I really needed to see. While I was out poking about this wonderful little corner of our country, Duff was lounging at Paws Beach Pet Resort, swimming and playing with the other pooches. I think we both enjoyed this side trip very much.

I stopped in Maryland overnight and again in Massachusetts, and got to see one daughter and her hubby, my son and his wife, four of my grandchildren, a niece and my Dad before finally arriving in New Hampshire. Oddly enough, considering I drove over 1000 miles, the temperatures didn’t change. It was 82 when I left St Augustine and 82 when I got out to my little island up here. The heat and humidity didn’t make schlepping all my gear over from the mainland to the island all that much fun, nor setting up my tent and unpacking. But the reward was a lovely long swim with Duff. That and the gorgeous sunset that ended my first day here.

In spite of no television, which can be a blessing, I am in touch with the world via the internet. So I wasn’t spared the not guilty verdict for a man who killed another unarmed citizen and all the media hype. While I am convinced that justice wasn’t best served, I am appalled that our president and others with no business getting involved in the Florida justice system now feel they have to do something. And while all this is flooding the news, nearly to the exclusion of anything else, what about Russia’s big show of force with military exercises on the borders of China and Japan? What about the volatile situation in Egypt? Or the boat that capsized with 150 asylum seekers near Australia? Or the bombing of a Buddhist temple in India? And the ethnic clashes in Guinea that has taken so many lives. Never mind our own military, still struggling to maintain a fragile peace in Afghanistan and Iraq. The list of distressing events is lengthy and under-reported. Almost as if no one in this country really cares unless the media tells us we should. Missing children,  firemen who gave their lives protecting others, our flagging economy and monthly jobs reports, dead diplomats and downed planes get a brief mention, but they too get swamped by the media circus over one trial, and I find that so much more distressing than the acquittal of one man in a controversial case in Florida. Why are we not more concerned with what National secrets Edward Snowdon might reveal to our enemies? Or which citizens our government is currently spying on? Or who the IRS will target next?  Why are we not making a bigger push to either fix or get rid of Obamacare before it becomes the biggest nightmare in our country's history?

So, those are my thoughts on this gorgeous day in New Hampshire while I sit in a beach chair on my pine-needle strewn island with my laptop on my knees listening to the soft slap of water against the shore. I know I am truly blessed and I shall pray for all those who are struggling wherever they may be in this world.

My new summer digs                                                           And my summer transportation (at least until I get to shore.)

Beautiful because the water temps here are perfect for swimming and summer has arrived in all its steamy glory. Sunrises and sunsets, when thunderstorms aren’t hulking overhead, are glorious. I love to read my newspaper and have breakfast on the deck when it’s still cool enough to enjoy. It’s a wonderful time of year. We had a magnificent super moon a week back that made the moonrises even more spectacular than usual, spilling rivers of silvery twinkling light across the sea to my feet as gentle waves lapped at my ankles. What’s not to love about living by the sea? (We won’t discuss hurricanes here, please.)

Busy because in less than a week, I head north to our family camp in New Hampshire. When I tell people I’m spending five weeks on an island, they get impressions of grandeur. I wish! Years ago when my parents bought our little island, my dad built a fourteen foot square cabin that was supposed to be our temporary digs until he built a bigger one on the bluff looking down the lake. Then he got his first tax bill. Since New Hampshire doesn’t tax anything else, they soak you on the real estate. Our temporary cabin became the permanent structure. Today, even if we had the wherewithal to build something with bedrooms and indoor plumbing, we’d run into more modern building restrictions that make it impossible. There is nowhere on our tiny island that’s far enough from shore to get a building permit. So, we’re grandfathered in to the little cabin that my dad eventually tacked a bit of kitchen onto and stretched a porch along the front. We treat it like our clubhouse and everyone sleeps in tents. And, because I’ll basically be living in a tent for five weeks, anything I need to have, I take with me. It’s another reason I drive a CR-V – that and the dog. So, I’ve been busy gathering up the things I’ll need, the stuff I want and the gear I can’t live without. Did I mention there is no telephone or TV. I do have a laptop so I take reruns of my favorite programs on DVD to watch when I feel like watching something mindless instead of reading. And I visit my cell service provider to pay for two months of internet service on a little gadget designed to create a hotspot. Which it sometimes does. Just often enough to stay in touch via email and FB.

Rewarding because on my birthday my mailbox, which usually yields only junk mail and the occasional bill from entities that still live in the dark ages and can’t send requests for remuneration via email, held a bounty of riches. There was a contract, signed and accompanied by an advance check from my new publisher. A number of lovely birthday greetings and two packages from my kids. It was a most satisfying day.

And heartbreaking because 19 brave firefighters lost their lives in Arizona fighting a wildfire suspected to have been started by lightning. These were hotshot firefighters, specially trained. The best. And yet something happened to take their lives. I suspect that investigations will someday give us answers, but in the meantime, this is the single biggest loss of firemen since 9/11, the largest loss fighting a wildfire since 1933. And there are so many to mourn their loss. Parents, wives, children. An entire town. God bless them all.

Friday night I was privileged to be invited to the first showing of the new Colonial Crew Revue. A happy crowd milled about finding their seats at the tables beneath the giant Colonial Oak in the new Colonial Quarter off St. George Street. Lanterns lit the twilight sky and it felt like we might really have been transported back a few hundred years. In a city filled with history celebrated often and with enthusiasm, we were going to get a glimpse into a lighter part of that past. Into the humor, the laughter, the entertainment. Instead of the bloodshed and battles, we were going to enjoy a lighthearted look at a troupe of traveling players from a bygone era.

The Picolata Players didn’t disappoint. They were marvelous, one and all. The music was wonderful and the comedy most amusing. When the first few drops of rain began we were all having such a grand time, we refused to believe it could continue. But continue it did, growing steadily heavier. Many retreated to the shelter of a nearby veranda, many put umbrellas up, some just laughed, stayed put and got soaked. Even the players were wet, but it didn’t dampen their performance or the enthusiasm of the audience.

The performance was audience interactive and the impromptu, unrehearsed players were fantastic. Thanks to a wonderful cast, great writing and directing, a new and exciting attraction has come to St Augustine. The Revue will be staged every Friday and Saturday night – gates open at 7:30 and the show starts at 8:00. Ticket price includes drinks and snacks. So, why not plan to have dinner at Taberna del Caballo or the English Pub just down the street, then mosey on up to the New Colonial Crew Revue. It will be a night like no other and you won’t regret it. I promise

The Ancient City Romance Authors Hearts of Excellence Reader's Choice contest deadline is fast approaching. If you had a romance novel published in 2012 be sure to visit the chapter website (www.acrarwa.com ) and find out how to enter. Award winning author, Elizabeth Sinclair, author of the Hawks Mountain series and more than 20 other novels talks about this prestigious award and how it helps both writers and readers.

One of the stated aims of Romance Writers of America is to assist romance writers in their goal of having careers.  One of the ways RWA does this is with contests and awards.  As a former officer in RWA and co-founder of the Ancient City Romance Authors chapter, can you share a little about how contests can help a published author?

Contests (particularly those judged by readers) are an excellent way to get an author's name and books out to readers who haven't discovered them yet.  They read for the contest and realize they like this author and then go out and buy their backlist as well as look for any upcoming releases. ACRA's contest is geared to publicize the winners in any way we can. We announce the winners in the Romance Writers of America monthly publication, the Romance Writers Report, thus giving the author more PR exposure.  In addition to the above, ACRA gives the author a winner's clip to put on their website.  This year we hope to include a list of the winners and runner-ups in our conference program so the attendees can take it home and hopefully purchase some of the books.

Tell us about the history of ACRA's Heart of Excellence Reader's Choice contest?

When the Heart of Excellence was first conceived, we wanted a contest that could reach out to readers and perhaps help our authors and those of entrants from other chapters make sales they would not have made without it and to recognize excellence in romantic fiction.  That's why we decided to make it a READER's Choice.  Our readers come from all walks of life and are everyday people. Readers are the ones who put down their money for our books and what better way to acquaint them with talented authors they've never read before than by placing a free book in their hands through a contest? The contest has run for four years and has successfully garnered new readers for many authors.

Last year your book, Hawk's Mountain took first place in the Short Contemporary category in the Heart of Excellence contest. Has that had any impact on the success of this new series?

After Hawks Mountain won a Heart of Excellence Award, I noticed a definite upsurge in sales of that book as well as its sequel, SUMMER ROSE.

How should a published author go about entering? Is it complicated and does ACRA accept e-book and self-pubbed entries?

This year, to make certain all romance books are included, the contest has been opened up to e-books and self-published books.  Entering is easy and fast.  Just go to www.acrarwa.com and click on the Heart of Excellence tab in the toolbar.

Remember - the deadline for entry is June 15th - don't miss the chance to bring this lovely trophy home to your bookshelf.

ELIZABETH SINCLAIR

Elizabeth Sinclair sold her first romance, JENNY'S CASTLE, in 1993 to Silhouette Intimate Moments. Since then, this multi-published author's 23 books have sold in ten foreign countries and been translated into seven foreign languages.

Her books have won The National Reader's Choice Award, The Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, and Maggie Award of Excellence.  She has also won a Gold Medal Top Pick from the Romantic Times Book Club and a Holt Medallion Award of Merit.

She is a co-founder and member of the Ancient City Romance Authors of St. Augustine, FL, and has been a member of Romance Writers of America since 1989.  Elizabeth served as RWA's Region 3 Director and chaired the 2001 RWA Annual Conference in New Orleans.

She has presented numerous workshops on the craft of writing and authored the THE DREADED SYNOPSIS. Elizabeth has published a total of twenty-three romances with Silhouette, Harlequin, Kensington, Thorndike and Bell Bridge Books. Her upcoming releases from Bell Bridge Books are HELL BENT, a romantic suspense, and WINTER MAGIC, the fourth book in the HAWKS MOUNTAIN series. Previous Books in that series are: HAWKS MOUNTAIN, SUMMER ROSE and FOREVER FALL.