Today I have the delectable Janice Seagraves joining me. Janice was born, raised and still lives in a small Californian farming community. She lives in a haunted house (yes, I did say haunted!) with her husband, daughter, two cats and a German Shepherd puppy. Janice writes erotic romances in various genres.
What type of romance do you write?
My debut book, Windswept Shores, is an erotic contemporary romance. It is set in the Bahamas on a deserted island.
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meagre survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?
But I’m working on a science fiction romance series that I hope to launch sometime this year.
What was the first thing you had published?
In the eighth grade I had a book writing assignment, when I turn it in to my teacher, Ms. O’Kane, she loved it. It was about a horse. Yes, I’m a former horse nut. She told my parents with my imagination that I should be a writer. Ms. O’Kane was the first person to ever encourage me to be a writer.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
I was about twenty when I started to write, but my artwork kept distracting me. I did sculpture and pen and ink drawings, mostly of fantasy creatures. I won best in show and several blue ribbons for my artwork.
During the 90’s, I sold country wood cut-outs with sayings painted on them which I designed, cut out (with a scroll saw) and painted myself. You might remember the cows, chickens and crows that were so popular during that period of time.
However, once I contracted tendonitis doing any kind of artwork turned out to be a painful experience. It was a huge let down not to be able to do the one thing that had always brought me so much joy in my life.
Then I found I could still type.
Believing that when God closes a door, he opens a window--I at long last turned my full attention to the characters that were clamouring away in my head.How the perfect romantic moment got ruined!
This happen a few years ago:
My daughter was at her Nana's, my tired husband had just arrived home from work, and I was writing on my computer.
Hubby greeted me with a kiss, and then dropped onto his favorite chair to rest while he watched TV.
After a moment my fingers stilled on the keyboard and I glanced back at my handsome husband.
Hey . . . we're . . . . alone!
So I sauntered on over to my husband, and leaned over him to say in what I had hoped was a seductive manner, "I . . . want . . . to . . . take . . . your . . . clothes . . . off . . . with . . . my . . . teeth."
He looked at me blankly, and said, "Huh?"
So I said it again, still trying for that sexy husky voice, "I want to take your clothes off with my teeth."
"Huh? Can you say that again?"
Louder, and with a whole lot less meaning I repeated through gritted teeth, "I-want-to-take-your-clothes-off-with-my-teeth!"
"Oh. I tough you said . . . .”
It was my turn to say, "Huh? Can you repeat that please, because I don't think I heard you right?"
So he repeated it, "I thought you said; ‘I want to pee on you with tea.’"
Well, that spoilt the mood! Either I need to work on my seduction techniques, or my husband needs a hearing aide!
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?
EXCERPT:Breathing hard, she flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She’d thought a vacation to the Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she and Jonathan had faced. She’d been wrong—dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.
She’d felt like a tiny speck of sand last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished her seaweed SOS sign. She’ll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt.
Her stomach lurched.
Oh, God, it’s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be number twelve. As always, she couldn’t help but wonder if the next one would be Jonathan. He hadn’t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew she’d been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt. Suddenly the “dead body” coughed and rolled over. With a scream, Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
Biting her lip, she stared down at the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in all directions.
Megan, get control of yourself. Don’t wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.
She patted the side of his face. “Hey, are you okay?” That’s a dumb question. He isn’t okay.
“Hmm?” Gray eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. “G’day.”
“Hello there.” She hated the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.
Abruptly he rolled away from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at her. “Sorry, mate, I swallowed too much sea.” His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which crackled and popped not far from them. “Mite big for a barbie.”
Sitting back on her heels with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him. “My signal fire.”
“Signal for what?”
His accent intrigued her. Was he English or Australian?
“G’darn,” he looked around, “where the bloody hell am I?”
“Don’t know. There’s no one here to ask.” Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Are you from England?”
“Naw,” he rubbed his eyes, “I hail from Sydney, but my port of call these days is Fort Lauderdale.” He blinked up at her. “You?”
Ah, he’s an Aussie. “I’m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim, California,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the surf and the roar from the fire. “Are you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227, too?”
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