Please welcome author Patti Sherry-Crews today!!
Take it away, Patti.
“When are you going to stop writing
for boxed sets and write another novel?”
That was a question my daughter
asked me some time ago.
Her implication being that writing
novellas for anthologies is a lesser feat than writing a novel. The question
did give me pause. My daughter is one of my biggest fans, and I often share my
work with her because she’s a careful reader, picking out all the little
breadcrumbs I leave along the trail from page one to writing “the end.”
So, why put my energies into
novellas? I’ve written nine novels (some yet to be published) and numerous
novellas for both my publisher, Prairie Rose Publications, and Indie boxed
sets.
There are many reasons I write
novellas. I like the companionship, the reduced workload involved in a group
effort, and the chance to learn from others. I also like to have a couple of
projects going at once. I flip back and forth, letting one rest while I go back
to another with a fresh eye. I find if I’m not writing it affects my mood.
Sometimes I don’t have a big idea for a novel in mind, and to be able to answer
a call for submission or write a story for an anthology ensures I have
something on my laptop.
But is a novella really a lesser
feat? Not at all. Size doesn’t matter. In fact, I’d argue writing a short piece
is more challenging.
When I submit to my publisher they
have a word count limit. Indie anthologies differ in that way because I can
write a longer piece--in fact it’s encouraged as long as it still comes in as a
novella. But still, the word count in one of my novellas is typically a third
or less than a full novel. There’s less room to have your story arc or flesh
out the characters, which is actually difficult to do. I measure every word to
make sure it has the feeling I wish to convey, given that I have fewer words to
work with to set the mood. Character has to be fine-tuned and defined in a few
pages, opposed to chapters.
Editing is something I actually
enjoy. I think of the process as polishing. Image of a rock tumbler running
in my head. I polish, polish, polish. Every sentence, every word. The
advantage of editing a short piece is that I can run through a novella from
beginning to end in a matter of hours rather than days. I think that helps with
issues such as continuity or to quickly see I’ve used a word or phrase a few
too many times.
The short read is also a place to
showcase what I’m capable of. And because I feel a responsibility to the other
hard-working authors in an anthology, I put my all into these efforts.
So, Missy, I will continue to write
both novels and stories for boxed sets!
Available at AMAZON and Kindle Unlimited
Includes Patti's story -
After losing her fiancé and her New York City business, Harper
Donovan returns to Arizona and meets cowboy Frank Flynn. Will his past and
their differences extinguish the heat between them?
An excerpt from PHOENIX HEAT
She switched off the ignition
and reached for the bag when she heard the sound she dreaded. The sound of
another car approaching. She squeezed her eyelids shut. After taking a second,
she swallowed hard and opened her eyes. A pickup, riding a cloud of dust—pulling
in behind her. Trapped. The driver turned off the engine and sat still
for an agonizing few minutes.
Looking in her rearview mirror,
she could see the grimace on his face. At last, Flynn climbed out of his truck.
She took in a long, deep breath. Still looking in the rearview mirror, she
watched his slow progress toward her. A plain white t-shirt and tight jeans
might be the sexiest look on a man, she decided. His broad shoulders, trim
waist, and muscular arms swinging at his sides couldn’t show more to advantage
in any other clothes—except maybe his birthday suit. She caught herself
mentally undressing him and bit down hard on her lower lip. He continued
forward in an unhurried pace, a scowl etched on his features. An ache in her
lungs alerted her to the fact she’d been holding her breath.
She rolled down her window as
he approached and looked back at him over her shoulder. His feet landed in her
tire tracks leading him closer, boot prints stamping a new pattern in the dust.
Maybe she could hand him the bag and be on her way. He leaned down and put his
hands on the driver’s side of her car with his arms spread wide. Oh my. He
has a tattoo. Around one muscular bicep ran a band of Celtic design. He had
his cheek sucked in like he wasn’t too pleased to see her.
“Hi, I brought you some food
from the hotel,” she said, surprised by the slight squeak in her voice when
she’d been going for relaxed.
“Rosa have you running her
errands?” No squeak in his voice. He spoke in a deep, slow drawl. Very sexy.
“I pass by here on my way to
work. It’s not a bother. I work at—”
“I know where you work,” he
said in that same slow, deliberate way. That man didn’t do anything fast.
“Oh, right, well, here you go
then,” she said, shifting the bag in his direction. “Nice of you to do this. I
brought the food yesterday, so I know normally I’m to put the bag on the back
porch.”
To her discomfort, he stood
there, not reaching for the bag, intense eyes boring into her. She lifted the
bag higher. “Well, here you are. I’ll just be on my—”
“Yesterday? You were here?” The
muscles in his wide-spread arms bulged, making her feel like prey trapped by a
more powerful opponent. His body, radiating heat, blocked her view. His male
scent filled the car.
“Yes, I let your dog in too.
Poor thing was frantic to get in with the storm coming.”
His face got tight and he
narrowed his eyes. “Very kind of you, except I don’t own a dog.”
“Oh, well, I—”
“That dog did some damage.” A
vein in his neck twitched and his compressed lips went white.
The scorch of shame flashed
over her cheeks. “I’m so sorry! It never occurred to me.... Was it bad?”
“Words fail to describe. Let me
show you what I came home to yesterday. Come on,” he said when she continued to
sit in the car.
He stood back to let her open
her door and step out into the hot sun, pulling the bag after her. She stood
face to face with him now. With his hands hooked in his belt loops, elbows out,
she was aware of the size of him. Large and imposing, his body held her captive
without touching her. She didn’t know what to say, and he seemed to be taking
his time raking her over with his eyes. He stood so close to her, she smelled
the musky scent of him. The individual stubble of each whisker on his chin,
clear to her.
Finally, he walked away, moving
to the back of his truck, where he picked up something large and threw it over
one shoulder—a fifty-pound bag of dog food.
“I thought you said you don’t
have a dog?”
“It appears I do now.”
Patti Sherry-Crews lives in Evanston, IL with her husband,
two children, one good cat, and one bad but lovable puggle. She writes
historical western and medieval romances for Prairie Rose Publications. She
also enjoys writing contemporary romances. When she’s not writing, she’s
usually walking the dog or indulging her love of cooking.
