Aphrodisia Authors :: Blog

I’ll admit it, straight up. Tight Wranglers, a big brass belt and a cowboy hat shadowing a man’s eyes give me shivers.

Which was an embarassing reaction while I lived in cowboy country. A man passing me in the parking lot at the grocery store might tip that great big hat as he passed and I’d blush brighter than a ripe tomato.

I lived in Texas Hill Country. It was considered prime real estate before that sector of the economy went bust. Rolling, rocky hills, live oak, prickly pear cactus…that was my front yard. In the back, was a working cattle ranch.

Before we got our own fence up around that back yard, it wasn’t unusual to wake up hearing a cow mooing next to my bedroom window (they were always slipping through fences). But unless the cowboy just had an urge to saddle up, he’d more likely be on four-wheeler chasing that cow back home. That’s sexy too. Okay, so I’m just really easy to please.

I’ve loved having the chance to write about my lonely cowboys for Kensington. They were fast books because those sexy drawling voices, the mannerisms and idioms are all there in my head. I’ve loved the emails y’all have sent telling me how much you enjoyed the stories. Whenever I get a little down, thinking about an uncertain future in publishing, those emails make me smile. I keep them all for a quick-fix therapy moment!  

This last novella, “Hot Blooded”, appears in Tempted by a Cowboy. If the cover alone isn’t enticing enough, be sure to click on the picture and follow the link to my webpage where you can read an excerpt.

Oh! And there are still three days left on my Summertime Contest Countdown, so be sure to visit my blog to enter!

*hugs* DD

Some of y’all might already know why. But I love drawing things out. So, I’m a writer already! Oy! And so not Jewish, but I have this voice inside my head that sounds like The Nanny’s mother. (Yes, voices come to visit.)

Just over a week ago, I got this lovely tattoo.

I know my foot looks grubby, but it’s the dye bleeding, and my foot’s swollen. I was in pain, but the tatt looked great. I haven’t taken a new picture for a very good reason. Right now the skin over the tattoo is shedding like snakeskin. I get large pretty flakes of it every time I rub my finger over the flowers and leaves.

I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at my feet. And like the crack addict who is never satisfied, I knew something was still missing from the picture my foot made. So I’ve ordered a toe ring. That’s what the dental floss is for. Ever try to get a tape measure around your little piggy? It’s hard enough at my age to bend that far and wrap dental floss around it and SEE what my pen is marking.

And that’s my excitement for the day. I have a story to wrap up. And a book about to release that I need to start talking up.

Tempted by a Cowboy is due out on June 30th!

If the cover isn’t enough to tell you what’s inside, let me just tell you that there’s plenty of sexy cowboys in tight Wranglers and hot sweaty sex. But hey, you can read an excerpt on my site if you’re still not convinced this is the book for you!

Read an excerpt!

Enjoy!

April 29: Water’s 70 degrees. Wetsuit was a little too tight after all the partying at RT—felt like meat squeezing into a sausage casing, so braved it in just my swimsuit. Didn’t get my head wet. Didn’t suffer hypothermia. Woohoo!

April 30: Fished a shrew out of the pool and a ton of fuzzy walnut tree “balls”. Water 72 degrees. Could feel the difference. Went deep end diving for crickets.

May 1: Talked mom into joining me. After laughing my ass off at her gasping for breath, checked the temp. 73 degrees. Mom, don’t be a weenie.

May 2: Still 73 degrees—and the wind whipped up. Storm rolling in kept the air cooler than the pool. Nice!  

Okay, so maybe I’m a bit obsessed. But after a winter of taking care of a pool that didn’t provide me a minute of joy, I’m soooo ready to get in that I don’t care that it’s not comfortable. I don’t like to exercise. But I will swim. When the pool’s warmer, it will be an hour in the AM before I start writing and an hour in the PM after I finish my daily pages. I’ll admit I’m a water baby. Maybe it’s because I’m a Cancer.

I prefer the pool to the lake. It’s cleaner. I don’t like green mossy slime under my feet (reminder to self to add the algae-killer to the pool water), I don’t like fishies nibbling at my toes. I don’t like a ton of people around me when I swim. Swim-time is like meditation for me. I do laps, okay short laps since the pool is only 18×36. But after I “feel the burn” in my arms, back and legs, I roll to my back and float. The water seeps into my ears and I only hear the drone of the pump. I can’t feel any pressure around or under my body so I imagine that it doesn’t exist, and all I am is the view above me. I live in the boonies of Arkansas, and that view is filled with green tree branches and birds.

My favorite times to swim are during storms. Not during lightning, I’m not that stupid. But during a really heavy rain, I love to swim because then it’s hard to tell the difference between the water below me and the water falling on me, and I feel primal. And sometimes, when it’s dark I’ll creep outside, turn on the underwater pool light and skinny dip. It feels naughty even when I do it all by myself with no one but the frogs and crickets to see.

Every year for the past seven I’ve sworn off the Tuesday night fixation. Some years I make it past the hype, resist the first two or three tryouts, but then someone leaves the TV on, I hear the sound of someone mangling an old standard, and I pause. All it takes is that first little bite and I’m hooked for the remainder of the season.

This year, I felt virtuous. I made it past every single tryout and even managed a casual, “What cities are they going to next?”—just to make conversation with my daughter because she never misses an episode. And still, I wasn’t the least bit tempted.

Then last week, my daughter invited me over for dinner, and while we waited for the SIL to finish cooking (I taught my daughter well), she turned on the DVR and said, “Mom, you have to see this guy.”

Yeah, I’m talking about American Idol. And if you’ve been watching this season’s finalists, you’ll figure out who I’m talking about PDQ. I sat staring at this gorgeous man trying to figure out where I’d seen him before. Daughter piped in, “He looks just like Elvis.” I corrected her. He looks like Kurt Russell doing Elvis. Know who I’m talking about now? The performance she had me watch was his rendition of Smokey’s Tracks of My Tears. I’ve always loved that song, but had never heard it sung the way he did it. My heart melted, goose bumps prickled on my arms. When he finished, I was blinking because there was no way in hell Daughter was going to catch my crying when I’d been so proud of the fact I hadn’t succumbed to the AI lure this year.

I’m talking of course about Adam Lambert. This week, I secretly recorded the Tuesday night performances, fast-forwarding through the wince-worthy ones, pausing to hear Danny Gokey’s and Allison Iraheta’s—both passable—but it was Adam I really wanted to hear. When they announced he’d be singing Play that Funky Music, I cringed. No, he wasn’t going to go there! Simon would crucify him for sure. But I should have had more faith. The boy, as Paula would say, could “sing the phonebook” and make it interesting.

So, I’ll admit it. I’m hooked again. My DVR is set to record every episode for the next few weeks. I haven’t done the phone thing yet, but I know that’s coming. I won’t be able to resist. Just don’t tell my daughter. She loves it when she can say “I told you so.”

Let me know your impressions of this season’s finalists and your favorite to win the competition for a chance at winning an autographed copy of my latest Aphrodisia release, TEXAS MEN.

***Be sure to check my blog tomorrow for the winner announcement!***

Due to a scheduling glitch, I find myself playing host to two loops today. So, I’m inviting you to learn about the inspiration for the opening scene for my new book, coming out February 24th, and then asking you to join me at the Access Romance blog to read the excerpt. And since I’m asking you to follow me there, I’m offering a bribe! But you’ll have to read to the bottom of this post to find out the juicy details!

Last spring, just before I began writing Texas Men, I struggled with coming up with a concept for the opening. Openings are important for a book because you want to grab a reader’s attention from the very start so they don’t close the book and put it back on the shelf.

A friend of mine who lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas invited Shayla Kersten and myself to attend a charity bachelor auction. I knew it would be fun—I didn’t know the experience would write that opening scene all by itself.

We arrived at the hall, stood in line with a couple hundred women, some dressed to the “nines,” paid our entrance fee and received strings of Mardi Gras beads and paddles with a  plumbing company’s logo pasted on them. We took seats at a pizza-sized round table and waited for the hunks to entertain us.

I said hunks, right? Ahem. A few of them were actually attractive. Not a one of them could dance, but most tried a bump and grind as they strutted across the stage. Some looked to be in excrutiating pain, but maybe that was just how they look naturally when they have to dance in front of a crowd of screaming, laughing women.

The room was so ripe with sexual tension and energy that I pulled out my notepad and began to write. Eight pidgeon-scratched pages later, I had my opening scene, complete with dialogue, thanks in great part to the wonderfully descriptive auctioneer.

Did I mention that both Shayla and I “purchased” two fine gentlemen? She won dinner with a local deejay—a tall, skinny dude with dreadlocks. I won an evening with a conservative judge up for re-election. You can bet I never mentioned once what it was I did for a living.

How about a reward for following my directions! If you post to this blog, you will be in the running to receive an autographed copy of Texas Men before it’s even available in the stores. If you’d like a second chance to win, follow this link: Access Romance

Um, what we writers do for the love of our stories anyway. I was thinking about that today when I finished marking up my latest Amazon.com purchase with yellow highlighter and Post-It flags. Never take a book from me because it would make you nuts looking at my notes in the margins.

My latest phase is leaving my bank account a little light. Half a dozen books, tons of herbs, candles, incense and crystals. Guessed yet? Yeah, I’m researching witchcraft and that means I have to drown in it for a while…try it on for size. Being the anal person I am, I have the moon phases posted on my calendar and know exactly when I have to consecrate my space, cast my spell circle, draw down the moon, and only then can I try out a couple of spells I’ve chosen.

I don’t just try things out, I have to work with them, believe in them, and then see what happens to me. I’m a very “believing” kind of person. Daddy told me to look into the sky because Santa was pulling his sleigh right over our rooftop and I swear I saw him. I walked two miles along railroad tracks to find the “Gurdon Lights” and I know for a fact I saw them swaying in arcs just like a railroad foreman’s lantern might (his ghost carries that lantern). So, if I cast a spell, I know I’m going to discover something new.

Having excuses to do research is the most exciting part of the process of creating stories–for me, at least. I love cold-calling funeral directors and asking them what a body looks like after it’s been carved up for an autopsy and delivered for burial. I ask about the equipment, the smells, their emotions—and you know what? They tell me.

I called a firestation and asked for someone who knew something about cave rescues and found the expert. We spent an hour with him telling me about his experiences. And then I spent hours surfing on the webs for articles about spelunking, websites selling climbing equipment, etc.

And don’t get me started on what websites I’ve visited or the people in the lifestyle I’ve hunted down for some of my sexier research. Some of it I have to try out for myself, but I’m not telling you what in particular. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Delilah Devlin

I feel like Ado Annie from the musical Oklahoma who can never say no.

The realization struck me yesterday that I have the backbone of an invertebrate. There I was, working toward a deadline on my next book, with the month already filled with time-management minefields, and I get a call from the local high school asking if I could substitute teach. The woman on the other end of the line sounds flustered and desperate, and I’m feeling sympathy pains for her dilemma as she describes the number of teachers who’ve called in sick because of colds, the number taking days to Christmas shop, and could I please fill in for Mr. X tomorrow? It would be such a help.

I’m making faces at the phone, wriggling in my chair because I want to scream, “Not just no—hell, no!” Instead, I hear myself meekly agreeing to show up at 8:30 AM to face a classroom of 14-year-olds. Mind you, I’m a certified teacher, but it only took me two years on the job to know I haven’t the temperment to deal with hormonal youths.

I twitch when they smirk. My first instinct when one talks back is to wrestle him or her to the ground in a chokehold until the little shit cries uncle. I survived those two years, but only because I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I knew I was going to be a full-time writer, and then I would have my revenge on anyone who’d ever caused me grief.

So think about me today. I’ll be in a classroom instead of spending time here with you. And if one of your children comes home with stories about a very strange substitute whose face turned beet red and twitched whenever Johnny blew spitballs—well, you’ll know it was just me.

And in case you didn’t know it, I have a new book out. It’s getting rave reviews and was featured in the Doubleday and Rhapsody bookclubs (I’m sure they only bought it for the studly cowboy on the cover!).

If you’d like to take a peek inside, follow the link: Down in Texas

If you post a comment today, I’ll be sure to respond when I get home later. Just don’t expect me to be coherent or sober.

Pssst! Don’t forget! Aphrodisia Authors will be doing a live chat tonight at Writerspace at 9 PM EST!

Yes, it’s finally here, and I couldn’t be more excited! It’s getting some fabulous reviews, which is a relief (I’ll share them below!). Mostly, because it’s the first in a series about men who live in a little town in Texas called Honkytonk. If I get my wish, I’ll be writing about those sexy cowboys for a long, long time.

“…HOT! HOT! HOT!…All I wanted was more, so I read DOWN IN TEXAS again, enjoying it for a second time…DOWN IN TEXAS is now a book in my permanent re-read pile…”
Recommended Read, Emmy, Joyfully Reviewed

“Delilah Devlin’s DOWN IN TEXAS is a fabulous anthology that kept my attention throughout each and every story…The stories are all special in their own right but together they’re truly spectacular…Ms. Devlin has proved herself a capable storyteller before but with DOWN IN TEXAS she’s cemented a place on my ‘most watched authors’ list.”
5 Blue Ribbons, Chrissy Dionne, Romance Junkies

“…one of the most decadent reads of the year for me…Delilah never fails to deliver on any front, and this is just another testament to an extraordinary writer. As always, I look forward to more of her extraordinary novels…”
5 Angels and Recommended Read, Darksnite, Fallen Angels Reviews

“Devlin delivers in this anthology of love in the Lone Star State… This is a good, hot and sexy read.”
4 Stars, Devon Paige, RT BOOKReviews

But you don’t even have to take their word for it. Check out the first chapter on my website before you make up your mind.

Before Hurricane Gustav made landfall a carload of relatives from Cajun country arrived at the Devlin home. Last name, Benoit. Not Be-know-it, but Ben-wah, like the balls, ya know? My father’s family is huge—19 children (from two wives, bless them both), so it isn’t any wonder that I’d never met this batch. They’re a loud, boisterous family with dark hair and skin and lovely Cajun accents.

Still, they arrived night before last and I had a book to wrap up. The draft of Texas Men was complete, but I wasn’t satisfied with the end. And with company tromping through the house and 3 rambunctious boys screaming through the rooms as they fought over game machines and who was going to sleep where, I was praying for someone to just shoot me.

I finished the book this morning and shipped it to my editor. An hour later the power went out and stayed out. Eight people filling up a space where three could comfortably ignore each other and remain sane became a bit crowded. Add the no AC factor, THREE musky boys (ages 8-11), and I didn’t care that it was raining cats and dogs because Gustav had followed them here, they had to go outside.

I donned my swimsuit and led them to the pool in the lashing rain, promising it was going to be great fun and that the pool water would be so much warmer than the temperature outside. I ignored their chattering teeth and pushed them all in.

And you know what? It was fun. We dove for colored rings at the bottom of the pool. Waved at cars driving by with their windshielf wipers flashing as they slowed down to see what kind of nutjobs were swimming in this weather. We cannonballed into the water to build choppy waves and pretended that we had fallen overboard at sea.

Now, I’m sure when they all head home to start the cleanup (they lost siding, fences, trees, but TG that was all!), they will have tales to tell about their crazy aunt who writes porn and swims in the middle of a monsoon, but I have an open invitation to spend time in bayou country. I wonder what kind of craziness they will show me.