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Lady Wynwood #7 early release Kickstarter

I worked on my first Kickstarter and it got approved! It’s for the Special Edition Hardcover of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 1: Archer and the release of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 7: Spinster. I contacted my graphic designer about the Special Edition Hardcover of vol. 1: Archer—it’s going to be SO beautiful! The Kickstarter focuses on the Special Edition Hardcover, but it’ll also include vol. 7: Spinster so that it’ll sort of be like a launch day for vol. 7, too. A third special thing that’ll be in the Kickstarter is Special Edition Paperbacks of all the books in the series. They won’t be available in stores, just in the Kickstarter (and later, from my website, and also in my Patreon book box tiers if I decide to do them). The Kickstarter is not live yet, but you can follow it to be alerted when it has launched. (You may need to create a free Kickstarter account.) Follow Camy’s Kickstarter

Excerpt - The Perfect Match by Susan May Warren

This week, the


Christian Fiction Blog Alliance


is introducing


The Perfect Match


(Tyndale House January 1, 2009)


by


Susan May Warren



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Susan grew up in Wayzata, a suburb of Minneapolis, and became an avid camper from an early age. Her favorite fir-lined spot is the north shore of Minnesota is where she met her husband, honeymooned and dreamed of living.

The north woods easily became the foundation for her first series, The Deep Haven series, based on a little tourist town along the shores of Lake Superior. Her first full-length book, Happily Ever After, became a Christy Award Finalist published in 2004 with Tyndale/Heartquest.

As an award winning author, Susan returned home in 2004, to her native Minnesota after serving for eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries with SEND International in Far East Russia. She now writes full time from Minnesota's north woods and the beautiful town that she always dreamed of living in.

You can sample a chapter of each and every one of Susan's novels, on her website, HERE.


ABOUT THE BOOK

Ellie Karlson is new to Deep Haven. As the town’s interim fire chief, she is determined to lead the local macho fire crew in spite of their misconceptions about her. But when someone begins setting deadly fires, Ellie faces the biggest challenge of her life. Especially when sparks fly with one of the volunteers on her crew: Pastor Dan Matthews. As Ellie battles to do her job and win the respect of her crew, she finds that there is one fire she can’t fight—the one Dan has set in her heart.
(This book is the repackaged edition published in 2004)

Awards:

2004 American Christian Fiction Writer's Book of the Year

A Romantic Times Magazine TOP PICK – 4½ stars

Review:

Romantic Times Magazine:
Vibrant characters and vivid language zoom this action-packed romance to the top of the charts. This is a one-sitting read –once you pick it up, you won't want to put it down.


Excerpt of chapter one:




The Perfect Match


(Tyndale House January 1, 2009)




Chapter 1


Leo Simmons had made good on his mumbled threats.

Pastor Dan Matthews stared at the pager address and the taste of condemnation swept through him like poison, down his throat, through his blood, into his bones, and pooled in his soul.

Diving into his turnout gear, Dan tossed his fire helmet onto the front seat and gunned his VW bug toward Leo Simmons' old log house.

Leo Simmons might have set the fire, but, just as surely as if Dan had struck the match, he had ignited the explosion that brought Leo to this desperate moment.

Dan should have recognized the gathering heat, the greed, grief and not a little small-town shame that had fueled this inferno.

Leo's pastor had failed him.

Dan wrestled his guilt as well as the steering wheel as he floored it around 10th Street East and screeched to a halt behind firefighter Joe Michael's green pickup. Deathly images ravaged the night as Dan got out, buckling his helmet. He hesitated, transfixed at the flames raging through the bottom floor of the Simmons' two story log home. They licked out of the broken windows like the tongues of death; black smoke curled around the porch beams and spewed toxic fumes into the fall night. Despite its status as a historical site, the house sat bordered by newer homes -- ramblers and bungalows, on the piece of cleared forest that had once been the old Miller homestead.

A clump of onlookers, some in bathrobes, all wearing expressions of horror, pressed against the envelope of danger, aching for a closer look. Dan's breath came in short gulps. Please, Lord, let the family be out!

An explosion shook the ground as another window blew out. Flame and sparks tore the fabric of the night sky. The howl of the fire as it consumed wood and oxygen sent Dan's fine neck hairs on end, reviving the analogy of fire being a living entity, needing oxygen and food to survive. It rattled Dan free and sent him running toward the Deep Haven pumper engine. "Mitch!"

"Get back!" Mitch Davis shouted to the gathering gawkers. Attired in his turnout coat, bunker pants and helmet, the captain wielded his axe like a Billy club. "I said get back!"

His gaze hiccupped on Dan before he turned back to the house and shouted commands at the other volunteers. Although Davis hadn't yet been named Fire Chief to replace the sudden vacancy left by Kermit Halstrom's heart attack, the forest ranger had already moved into the position with some arrogance. Dan ran to old engine two and grabbed his scuba tank and mask. Two hose lines snaked out from the truck, and Craig Boberg bent over the hydrant at the end of the block, wrestling with the coupling.

The heat blasted from the house like a furnace. As Dan ran to help Joe Michaels who battled to unhook the 55-foot house ladder from the truck, his eyes began to water. "Is everyone out?"

Despite the fact that Leo had set a fire two years ago that had nearly succeeded in killing Joe's wife, Mona, Joe wore a gut-wrenching, grim look at the tragedy before him. "The first story was engulfed by the time we got here. We can't get in there."

Dan's brain closed around Leo's family -- Cindy, the baby, the boys -- and he fought the grip of horror. Through the darkness, the haze of smoke and tears, he saw that the fire hadn't yet consumed the second floor, although the toxic fumes rising through the house may have already asphyxiated Leo's sleeping family.

"The second story!" He grabbed the end of the ladder. Joe read his mind. He hustled to far end of the house and propped the ladder against the porch roof. Dan jumped on it nearly before Joe had a chance to secure it.

Dan heard screams as the crowd reacted to his courage.

Or stupidity. He'd left his scuba equipment beside the engine totally abandoning every scrap of training. Fire fighting 101 -- don't go into a burning house without equipment, namely, a mask, breathing apparatus, and an axe. Safety first. But Dan's well thought out actions hadn't netted any outstanding successes over the past fifteen years, and now wasn't the time to ponder the choices.

It would be so much easier if he didn't have to go through life with hindsight flogging his every step. A preacher who spent less time conjuring scenarios might have spotted the psychotic signs in Leo's demeanor, taken seriously Leo's morbid self-depreciation and moans of "Cindy would be better off if.". Instead of following Leo down to the local pub to listen to his problems, gently hoping to befriend the man, a true man of the cloth would have reacted to the moment, hauled Leo out, forced coffee down his gullet, and shaken him clear of his downward spiral. Then again, with the way Dan's words rolled off his congregation of late, he could have beat the man over the head with a hefty King James Bible and still not made an impact.

The thought sent a shudder through him as he dived into the burning house to rescue Leo's family.

Jumping onto the roof, he felt profoundly grateful for the steel-toed, insulated boots that let him walk over what seemed like live coals. He had an uneasy sense that about a minute remained until the place exploded into a torch that would light up half the North Shore. He hoped someone had already dispatched the St. Francis Township fire crew.

But by the time they arrived, the Simmons' place would be a carbonized smudge on the landscape. Dan prayed the scars wouldn't include the two boys and their little sister. His eyes burning, he staggered toward the window. Black pressed against the window.smoke or simply the fragments of night? He couldn't remember who slept in this room, but he prayed he'd find someone alive.

A second before he cracked his elbow into the glass pane, his firefighting science kicked in. If toxic fumes had gathered in the ceiling, raising the temperature in the room to a combustion point, the sudden inflow of oxygen would ignite a back draft that would blow him clear off the roof.

And kill whoever was inside.

He yanked his arm back. "Mitch!"

As if reading his mind, Mitch had climbed half-way up the ladder.

"Your axe!"

Mitch barreled past him and sent the axe in hard, over his head, near the soffits of the house, next to the ceiling. Dan felt the house shudder with the blow. Three more quick blows and the room purged smoke, a stream of black, toxic fumes.

"Now!" Dan yelled and Mitch sent the end of his axe handle into the top half of the window and cleared it in less than five seconds. Dan gulped clean air and dove in.

The smoke invaded his nose, burned his eyes, suffocating with its grip. He hadn't even worn a handkerchief, and air evaporated in his lungs. Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled around the room, feeling a rocking chair, a dresser, then -- oh, no, a crib? Crawling up it like a prisoner begging for escape, he dove over the edge and brailed his way around the bed.

A soft form. He dug his fingers into the clothing and hauled the baby over the edge, not gently, into his arms.

Baby Angelica. He wanted to howl.

"C'mon!" Mitch's voice turned him around, as he fell to his knees, clutched the baby to his chest and scrambled out. His lungs burned, now begging for air. He passed her over into Mitch's arms as black swam through his brain.

And then, hands grabbed his jacket, hauled him over the window frame into the night. Joe called out to him, yanking him to semi-consciousness as someone dangled him over the roof. His hands slapped at air and he managed to find three ladder rungs before landing on the ground, curling over and coughing out the poison in his body.

"She needs oxygen!" A woman's voice broke through the haze -- he couldn't place it. It didn't sound like Anne, their volunteer summer EMT.

Then Joe crouched next to him. "Dan, you okay?""

"The.boys." He coughed hard, feeling as if his lungs might expel from his chest.

Joe clamped him on the shoulder, squeezed.

Dan turned back to the house. Flames shot from the window of baby Angelica's room. "They're.in the back!" Struggling to his feet, he ran around the house, pinpointed the room. Black windows, no flames. "Joe, get the ladder!"

He ran back to the front of the house, desperation filling his ears. Jordan and Jeffrey were only eight and six. The memory of their round eyes on him as he taught the children's sermon, their smiles in the face of personal sorrow had nurtured his own hope. He grabbed the ladder, began to muscle it from the porch.

"No, Dan!" Joe grabbed him, dug his fingers into his turnout coat. "No!"

"Yes, Joe." Dan growled and wrenched free. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he heard common sense shouting as he ran with the ladder and bumped it up next to the back. Still, no flames.

He flew up the rungs. This time he didn't stop vent the soffits. Adrenaline pumped into his veins and he swung his elbow high and hard. Pain splintered through his arm as smoke roared out the opening.

He sensed the flashover two seconds before it ignited. The hiccup of time, a sudden gulp of air, as if the flame took a breath then --

The window exploded out with the force of a land mine. Dan flew off the ladder and landed in a blinding flash of agony. His breath whooshed out as blackness crashed over him. So this is death.

Somewhere on the backside of consciousness, he heard screams.

"Breathe!" A female voice, this time harsh and angry. He tried to obey, but the pain clamping his shoulder fought him. "Breathe!" Forcing himself to inhale, he nearly cried with the agony.

"There you go."

He felt hands on him, feminine and strong, cupping the back of his neck, unbuckling his helmet, easing his head to the ground. "Stay still. I'm going to get a stretcher over here. The voice gentled, as if tempered by relief. A cool touch on his forehead brushed back his hair. "You're lucky you didn't land clear in Canada."

He wanted to smile, but couldn't push past the grief that clamped his chest. He'd killed those boys. He hadn't only failed Leo, he'd failed the man's family.

His throat burned, probably from the smoke he'd inhaled. Somehow, he screwed his eyes open. Through a watery haze, he watched the inferno engulf the house, flames four stories high climbing into the night, frothing black smoke. Shingles exploded off the roof, red-hot cinders and ash fell like snow around him. He tried to raise himself on his elbows and earned a fresh burst of torture. His left arm hung like a noodle at his side and the pain nearly turned him cross-eyed.

Then he saw her, the woman belonging to the voice. She had turned to watch the fire, a frown on her fine-boned face. She wore two short, stubby braids, and had flipped up the collar on her jean jacket, like he had on his fire coat. Almost absent mindedly, she had her hand curled around his lapel, the other pointing to some unknown sight in the flames.

A short and spunky angel. He had to wonder from where she'd materialized. She seemed to be transfixed by the fire, and something about her profile, her clenched jaw, the way she stared at the blaze with a defined sorrow nearly broke his heart. She shouldn't be here to see this. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to cover her eyes and shield her from the horror.

She turned to him then. Eyes as blue and piercing as a northern Minnesota sky speared through him with the power to pin him to the ground. "I gotta get you away from the flames. Brace yourself. This is going to hurt." She stood, grabbed his coat around the collar, and tugged.

Okay, she hid serious muscles somewhere inside that lean body. He nearly roared with pain as she propelled him back, away from the shower of ash, the mist of water and smoke. She didn't even grunt.

"Who are you?" he asked, in a voice that sounded like he gargled with gravel.

She knelt beside him again, pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. "I'll go get you a stretcher," she said, not looking in his eyes.

He reached up and grabbed her wrist. "Wait.are you a dream?"

*****

The intent was meant to scare Leo. To make the parolee take prophetic words seriously. Fat, bossy Leo, with his prison gut and his beady eyes, always watching, condemning without words. Self-righteous, as if he had any claim on absolution.

Images of old time zealots burning at the stake pushed a smile up the bystander's grimy face. Leo deserved the flames.

Or maybe not. Maybe he wasn't good enough to go head-to-head with fire, to watch it curl through the house, close enough to feel the breath of the beast, to experience the power.

A trickle of sweat ran between wide shoulder blades. Standing behind the pumper engines, a crowed gasped or cheered. Raw adrenaline pushed any guilt to oblivion.

Oh, this moment was to be cherished. The one that conjured up invincibility in a chaotic world.

One of the paramedics wheeled past a firefighter -- the pastor? and evoked the slightest spur of guilt.

And, a woman accompanied him. A pretty one. With braids and a concerned expression.

Breath dried in a horrified throat as Dan was loaded into the ambulance. It drove off without a siren. The pretty woman watched as it drove away, then turned back to the fire. Her face glowed against the fire's reflection.

Tears welled. Finally, God had answered. Emilee, baby, welcome home.

*****

Ellie Karlson had seen men fly out of the sky more times than she could count, but never had it wrenched her heart out from between her ribs. The way this fireman had looked at her left her feeling raw and way too tender, as if he'd hit a line-drive straight to the soft tissue of her heart.

She attributed it to the fact she'd nearly lost her first firefighter -- before her watch even began. At least she knew his name -- Dan. She'd have to look up his file and figure out how many years he'd been fighting fire. He'd shown the courage of a veteran, but the panic of a probie -- a first year rookie.

Ellie stopped her pacing, leaned into the hospital wall, and touched her head to the cool paint. The quiet in the ER ward pressed against her, tinder to every cell in her body that wanted to howl in frustration. Fire, she could face. The somber tones of sorrow. she could not. Antiseptic and the smell of new carpet added to the simmer of the post fire adrenaline that never left her veins without a fight. She should go back to her hotel, do about a hundred sit-ups, or even hop on her bike for a very early morning ride.

Or maybe she could find a piano and pound out a few rounds of Chopin's 5th. Something other than this mindless, useless pacing. She noticed a man and a woman sitting against the wall across from the firefighter's room, huddled -- praying? Maybe. Then again, she was a woman of action, and praying only seemed to slow her down. Besides, God knew her thoughts, didn't He?

She shot another glance at the man and remembered seeing him at the fire, helping the less-than-brilliant victim in the next room. Fatigue etched into the lines on his sooty face, layered his burnished blonde hair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the buckle to his helmet. A woman, whom Ellie assumed was his wife, leaned her head against his shoulder, her blond hair flayed out, her eyes closed. He'd shed his turnout coat onto an adjoining vinyl chair but even his flannel shirt looked dirty. He was probably some lumberjack down from the north woods.

A nurse charged down the hall in their direction, blonde pigtail belying her starched appearance, shot a sympathetic look at the couple on the chairs, then, entered the man's room. Ellie caught a glimpse of a white-coated doctor blocking her view before the door closed.

She just might have to tackle the nurse when the woman exited. Ellie blinked back the sight, right behind her eyes, of fireman Dan flying off the roof, his arms flailing against the backdrop of flame and ash. It still caught her breath in her throat. He'd landed practically at her feet with a gut-tightening thwunk and an outcry of pain that echoed through the chambers of her soul.

And then he'd looked at her like she was some sort of heavenly being, or at least an earthy dream come true. He must have jarred a few brain cells loose. She'd never been anyone's dream. Ever. Their worst, nightmare, however, oh, yes. She'd been called that more times than she could count. This fireman definitely wasn't the hottest spark in the fire. Fifteen years of scrabbling for respect and footing in the very masculine world of firefighting told her no one considered her a dream come true when she stepped over the firehouse threshold.

But she didn't care. She wasn't in town to win their affection. Respect, obedience, and loyalty, however, yes. And pacing outside this wounded firefighter's hospital room seemed a good way to seed a reputation that said she cared about her men.

Since when had she started lying to herself? The black, scuffed tread she'd worn on the floor wasn't only about gaining a foothold of respect. Something about this firefighter tugged at the soft, hidden places in her heart. Setting aside his smoky gray eyes, or his bravado in the face of tragedy told her he wasn't an ordinary soul.then again, none of the rank and file firemen who deliberately threw themselves between death and life could be called ordinary. Still, something about this jakey's gutsy determination told her he would be a man to count on in a fire.

She had to meet him, face to face, away from the raging adrenaline and confusion of a conflagration.

And, truth be told, she did like hearing his crazy, pain-filled words. Even if they'd die the second she introduced herself.

The door to his room opened. The pigtailed nurse strode out. Ellie was hot on her tail. "Is he going to be okay?" Her voice sounded exactly like the person she'd become. Hard. Demanding. Blunt. She wanted to cringe, then decided that she just might need to build her reputation in this town on those merits.

The nurse stopped, turned. Her blue eyes considered Ellie with the slightest edging of sympathy. "Who are you?"

"Concerned bystander." Ellie offered a slight smile. It wasn't exactly a lie, but then again, dodging the truth always made her feel grimy.

"The doctor will be out soon. But yes, I think our pastor will be out in time to preach on Sunday."

Pastor? Ellie's mouth opened, and she knew she looked like an idiot standing there, turning the shade of old milk, as the nurse walked away.

This wide-shouldered, face-death-with-a-roar fireman was a pastor?

Of course. She should have guessed it.

In a flare of memory, she saw a man -- no, a boy, his ponytail flying, careening over the rutted dirt of a fire camp on a pair of roller skis while attached to the bumper of a convertible VW Bug by a water-ski line. His laughter still echoed in the canyons of her heart.

Why was it that all the heart-stopping real life heroes in her life belonged to God? That realization doused the tiny flare of hope that had ignited deep inside her heart.

She resumed her pacing, meeting the gaze of the huddled couple as she stalked by. The hall clocked ticked out the next ten minutes in merciless eternal seconds. Ellie nearly flattened the doctor when he emerged, tucking his pen into his jacket. He stopped at the couple and shook the lumberjack's hand, a smile on his face.

"He's a lucky one, Joe," The doc said. "Just a few minor burns and a dislocated shoulder."

Ellie nosed up to the crowd and didn't flinch at the doctor's hard look. "Just checking on him," she said. "Can I see him?"

The doctor opened his mouth, "Well I guess --"

Ellie didn't wait. She barged into Dan's room.

Even with his arm slung, his right cheek blistered and swollen and shadows etched under his eyes, he still had the ability to stop her heart dead in its tracks. Maybe it was that tousled black hair, or perhaps those lazy gray eyes that latched onto her with more than a little interest. Her disobedient heart did a tiny jig when he gave her a lopsided smile.

"So," he said, "are you a dream?"

Oh, she could be in big, big trouble. For the smallest second, she wanted to pull up a chair, dive into his friendship and delay the inevitable. He seemed to have the unsettling ability to wheedle past her defenses and find the lonely places in her heart. She feared Dan the Pastor might just have the power to make a girl chuck her life goals, unpack her suitcase, and paint her name on a mailbox. Solid, wise and just a little "rapscallion." A man who respected her, who though she just might be, indeed, a dream come true.

Except, she couldn't be that girl. Not with a bevy of promises pushing against her, keeping her on the run.

Besides, once she told him the truth, the antagonism would begin. She knew too well -- the shock, the disapproval and finally the cold wall that would come with her announcement.

If she hoped to etch a toehold of respect in this backwoods community, it would have to start at this hero's bedside.

"No. I'm a very real and slightly angry reality, fireman. What were you doing on that roof?" She crossed her arms, neatly shielding her heart as she watched his smile vanish.

"Excuse me?"

"You risked your life, and the lives of your fellow firemen. Thankfully, no one was behind you, but by not waiting to vent that room, you could have killed my entire crew."

"Your what -- wait, just who are you?" He frowned now, and somehow it only added to the wounded hero effect.

She took a deep breath. "Ellie Karlson. Interim Fire Chief."

His mouth opened for the shock phase. She debated smiling, but she'd need all her stoic arsenal for phase two.

"No way. You can't be -- I mean a firefighter has to be -- "

"A shapely version of a man? A knuckle-dragger in high heels?" She arched one eyebrow. "Have hairy fists and dangling nose hair?"

He looked properly chagrined and she knew she'd hit the bulls-eye. Why did men always think that a woman doing a job that required courage, strength and stamina had to be built like a tank? Still, now that she'd doused him with the cleansing reality, she should add some painkiller to the wound. Perhaps it would ward off stage three -- the big chill.

"I'm not what many people expect. But I assure you, I know what I'm doing." She sat beside him on the bed, reached out and touched his slung arm. "And, for the record, I was impressed by your dedication. We're about saving lives, and you risked your life for that family. Next time, take a partner, and your axe."

He stared at her with a potent mix of horror and disbelief. O-kay, so maybe he'd hit the ground harder than she thought. "It could have been much worse," she offered. "Be thankful you lived through it."

"Too bad the little boys didn't."

What--?

He clenched his jaw and for a second, she thought she saw tears glaze his eyes. "But you saved them," she said, confused.

His gaze shot back to her.

"Yes. When you vented the fire, flames ran to the oxygen. The fireball that knocked you off the porch kept the fire from tracking to the other side of the house. They found the boys and their mother in an upstairs bedroom."

"Are they --"

She had the wild desire to run her hand along that whiskered jaw that seemed one shave away from his respectable position of town pastor.

Suddenly, painfully, he reminded her of a man now doing a jig through heaven. She clasped her hands firmly in her lap.

"They're in intensive care.but, well, it doesn't look good." She tried to soften the blow by gentling her voice. She never had adapted well to this aspect of her job.

He nodded, as if he expected the news, and again looked away. "It's all my fault, you know."

She frowned, not clear at his words, noticing how he'd bunched the covers in his right fist. "Yes. But it worked. Not a technique I'd employ, but hindsight is sometimes best vision, especially in firefighting."

He met her words with his own frown, something that made her pulse race. Calm down, El, she thought. She'd been surrounded by burly hero-types her entire life, starting with her father's fire-buddies, to her brother's chums, to her own fire-crew cronies. This guy wasn't any different than every other jakey. So her heart would just have to get used to those mesmerizing eyes and intriguing smile. Besides, he was probably married. Except, where was his wife? Her gaze flickered down to his hand, now strapped to his chest. No ring.

Could mean nothing. Plenty of firemen took off their rings a fire. The metal attracted heat. Still, any wife in her right mind would be prowling the corridors with worry, if not standing at the foot of his bed, directing traffic.

She would.

"So, let me get this straight," he said, in a voice that sounded slightly.angry? "You're Deep Haven's new fire chief?"

Perhaps he hadn't jostled any brain cells in that fall -- how could he with his brain packed in an outer case of granite? Hadn't he heard a word she'd said?

"As I live and breathe. I heard the fire on my scanner and hustled over hoping I could help." She refused to sound apologetic

He gave her a look that sucked her back in time and made her feel like the rebellious teenager who'd hitchhiked to Colorado to keep up with her big brother. Sad. Disgusted. Horrified.

It raised her ire like static electricity. Oh, please -- they didn't live in the dark ages. Women had been fighting fires on crews for over a hundred years starting with Molly Williams in 1818. Cro-Magnon man needed to enter the twenty-first century.

"Help?" he said in a one word, cave-man grunt.

Maybe she should simplify things, speak slowly, use small words."Listen, Bub, I'm here to fight fires and to keep you out of trouble."

Yes, he'd definitely just emerged from the big thaw, for Mr. Tall, Dark and Neanderthal looked at her with a chauvinistic gleam in his eye and, in a low growl, tossed aside one hundred years of women's rights.

"Over my dead body."

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Thank you to everyone who subscribed to my Patreon! I hope you enjoyed the chapters of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 7: Spinster  that I posted the last few weeks. (For those who missed the announcement, I now have a subscription on Patreon where you can read the chapters of my next book ahead of the ebook publication. In order for you to get a taste of my Patreon, I’ve posted the Prologue and Chapter 1 of Lady Wynwood's Spies, volume 7: Spinster  for my newsletter subscribers to read for free.) Roundup of what happened on Patreon: Last week, I posted a bonus extras post about Easter Eggs from Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer  and volume 7: Spinster . Be sure to chime in if you watched Fullmetal Alchemist or any other anime! I also recorded a video —which was super scary, let me tell you, because I had NO clue what I was doing! Check it out, and at the very least, you'll have a good laugh. This week is your last chance to subscribe and receive “Bidding on Tr

Toilet seat cover

Captain’s Log, Supplemental Update August 2008: I wrote up the pattern for this with "improvements"! Here's the link to my No Cold Bums toilet seat cover ! Okay, remember a few days ago I was complaining about the cold toilet seat in my bathroom? Well, I decided to knit a seat cover. Not a lid cover, but a seat cover. I went online and couldn’t find anything for the seat, just one pattern for the lid by Feminitz.com . However, I took her pattern for the inside edge of the lid cover and modified it to make a seat cover. Here it is! It’s really ugly stitch-wise because originally I made it too small and had to extend it a couple inches on each side. I figured I’d be the one staring at it, so who cared if the extension wasn’t perfectly invisible? I used acrylic yarn since, well, that’s what I had, and also because it’s easy to wash. I’ll probably have to wash this cover every week or so, but it’s easy to take off—I made ties which you can see near the back of the seat. And

Frogs

I know I blogged about this on my Writing Diary Blog , but I don’t think I blogged about this here. I read a few writing and productivity books, and I’ve been trying to form better daily habits. The problem is that my self-discipline is very bad. As in, embarrassingly bad. One of my goals has been to form a better writing habit. Since I’m a full-time writer, I already write every day, but I think there are things I can do to tweak my schedule so that I can be able to focus better when I write. I tend to get distracted by the thought of things I need to do that day which I haven’t done yet. I don’t know why my brain is like this, but I haven’t been able to break this tendency. So for example, while I’m writing, I’ll suddenly think about the fact that today’s the day when I need to change the bathroom towels, or mop the kitchen floor, or change the bedsheets. It’ll distract me for a few moments before I tell myself I’ll do it later and I need to focus on writing now. Then a few

Join Camy's brand-new Patreon!

My Patreon is now live! Thank you so much to those of you who have followed and subscribed to my Patreon! I hope you're enjoying Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 7: Spinster so far. For those who missed the announcement, I now have a subscription on Patreon where you can read chapters of my next book ahead of the ebook publication. You can subscribe to the tiers and receive more benefits in each higher tier. I put together a very PINK comparison chart so you can see the benefits available. Patreon is also a bit like a Facebook group in that you can comment on my chapters and my posts. Feel free to post reactions or ask questions, although I reserve the right to decline to answer if it would be a spoiler. :) To celebrate the launch, I’m offering something special. All patrons will receive “Bidding on Treason,” an exclusive, limited-availability short story starring Lena, whom you met in The Gentleman Thief , and who appears in Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 7: Spinster . However,

Earthquake in San Jose

Captain's Log, Supplemental Some of you might have heard about the 5.2 earthquake in San Jose last night. Just to let you know, we’re okay. The house started shaking, and after 17 years in California, I know by now to run for a doorway. The shaking was over in a few seconds. No big deal. Not even a broken plate or glass. A couple CDs fell off my shelf, nothing else. Even before the shaking completely stopped, I’m standing in the doorway to my office like a good Californian, and I see Captain Caffeine walk into the foyer! “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be under a desk!” “Uh ... I was keeping the cabinets from falling.” (Translation: he was holding the cabinets closed so the glasses wouldn’t rain on the kitchen floor, which in hindsight was thoughtful of him, but I’d rather have glass over the floor instead of a ceiling tile falling on his head!) My friend Dineen lives closer to the epicenter, so I called to see how she was. Everything was fine at her house. “In fact,” she s

Lacy Red Bolero knit pattern

I’ve been trying to get rid of yarn in my stash this year. I came across these two red yarns that look similar but are slightly different. I didn’t have enough of one yarn for a scarf, and while I had enough of the second yarn for a scarf, I have TONS of scarves. So I decided to use both yarns to make a lacy bolero that I can wear over tank tops to make them into T-shirts (it’s still a little chilly here in California, not quite tank top weather). I wrote down the pattern here. I based it off of the Anthropologie-Inspired Capelet pattern by Julia Allen . This is a good pattern to use if you have between 250-300 yards of a worsted/Aran weight yarn, or between 150-200 yards of a worsted/Aran weight yarn and about 90-100 yards of another yarn to use for the ribbing and edging. I think this might look really good with a contrasting color for the ribbing. The yarns I used were a wool worsted/Aran weight (I’m not sure since I got it when my mom cleaned out a friend’s house for her, b

Irrational loves

Captain's Log, Stardate 10.09.2007 Today I went to lunch with my friend Dineen, and afterwards, we headed into Borders just to browse. Borders has this section full of cute little notebooks. Small ones, big ones, colored paper ones, you name it. They also have pens and wallets and zippered bags and iPod cases. I must have spent at least thirty minutes just going ga-ga over the stupid little notebooks! What is it with notebooks and me? I can count the number of them that I’ve actually filled on the fingers of one hand. I have them all over the house, most with only a page or two written on, and an entire BOX of new ones in my closet. And I keep coveting more! This thing with notebooks is completely irrational. I cannot understand it, and I cannot stop it. I also cannot seem to fill them with any speed. And considering how much I like to talk, that’s pathetic. I should at least be able to spout nothings enough to fill a few. But when I open it to write inside, a part of my brain sud