If there's a year that ever needed a Happily Ever After, badly, it's 2020.
As a writer of romance, I needed a HEA. As a sufferer of anxiety, PTSD and depression, I was afraid I wasn't going to be capable of creating one, even with total creative control.
In fact, I spent the first few months of 2020 in a critical balancing act of both needing to create and being terrified of the creative space, where I normally work out all sorts of societal ills in my narrative. Instead, I was creatively paralyzed, unable to use my usual coping skills to manage as I watched the world come apart.
How do you work through your emotions without commenting on what's going on right now, yet not comment on what's going on right now because everyone you write for (including yourself,) needed an escape?
While I reserve the right to one day delve into this new world in which we find ourselves, 2020 was not the year for me to explore how much everything had changed or how difficult it has been. In fact, I had a great deal of sympathy for most folks who, for the first time ever, perhaps, were dealing with the world blowing apart. That I've had lifelong experience was both a comfort and a challenge. For many of us, the road has been littered with painful, emotional debris that has been impossible to dodge as it kicked old traumas back up in our faces. Everything, and I mean everything has changed, assigning a big ol' question mark if it will ever go back to normal.
We had to walk gently. Out of compassion and out of self-preservation.
For me, the Covid-19 crisis was a terrifying return to January 2018, when I first got the cancer diagnosis. Everything changed with the terrifying prospect of a life-threatening illness, an aggressive foe that wanted to kill me quickly and steal me away from those I loved and rob me of the long life I had previously envisioned for myself, where I could watch my kids get married, have kids of their own, and grow old with my husband.
Instead, everything was punctuated with a question mark, including immediate future plans.
Would I make it to the five year mark? Even the one year mark? With a uterine sarcoma, that was no longer an easy assumption to make.
I didn't even want to take down my Christmas tree because I worried I wouldn't be around to put it back up again.
January 4, 2018 threw everything into a blender. Then, ten days later, my husband had a heart attack. Five months after that, I was laid off from my job, right when I needed my insurance the most.
2018 was a year where I saw my world turned upside down. When 2020 came along, and I saw the actual world do the same, it was painfully and frighteningly familiar. And I hadn't even fully healed from the first bout in the ring.
I needed an escape when all the stuff I normally used as an escape were no longer available. All I had was the inside of my brain, but none of the stories brewing around in my noggin were going to provide that for me. I had several WIPs (works in progress,) in various stages of completion, waiting for me to take the time to write them. Though I still maintained my job working from home, which helped provide stability for 40 hours a week, no longer did I fill my free time with all the stuff I used to. There was no going out, there was no regular noise to take up space in my head. There was nothing but me and a big ball of jumbled emotions playing havoc with my anxiety and my depression.
Because I need to be creative, I resorted to paint-by-numbers kits to find a way to do SOMETHING.
But in the back of my mind, the challenge lingered.
I needed to write something, something with a HEA, something to escape the walls of reality closing in. I knew it would have to be a romance, because I needed the excitement of falling in love. I wanted the promise of a happy ending.
Scratch that... I needed the promise of a happy ending.
Rewind to December of last year. I flew to Florida on a business trip, so I had a book on hand to keep me occupied on the long flight across the country. I picked up THE BEAUTIFUL ONES, by Prince, because Prince.
Except it wasn't by Prince at all. It was written by a guy hired by the enigmatic star to write his memoir.
I was enthralled from the first paragraph:
"I last spoke to Prince on Sunday, April 17, 2016, four days before he died. That night I was lying in bed when my phone shuddered and lit up with a 952 area code. He'd never called my cell before, but I knew at once it was him. I scrambled for a pen and paper and plugged my phone into the wall--my battery was almost depleted. But my charging cord was only a foot long, so I couldn't stand up when I used the phone. I spent our final conversation hunched in a corner of my bedroom, taking notes by pressing the paper to the floor."
As a writer, and as a life-long fan of Prince, I couldn't imagine what getting that phone call must have been like.
I went on to read about how this writer got this gig of a lifetime, and how he had to win over the elusive rock star. As someone who has written a fair amount of rock star fantasy, I couldn't help but think about how this story might have gone a little differently if written for a romance audience.
Basically I stopped reading that book on page 25 as the seeds of my own story started to quickly take root.
I talked it over with my bestie, Jeff Mayo, as I tossed around several ideas. Because Prince's writer was a male and Prince himself was a male, my first thought was another M/M romance, so I wanted to get some feedback on if that would be a story that would work.
That was when Jeff threw a huge curveball at me. "What if you made the rock star an ACTUAL prince?"
He had just come off nailing a college course on British history, so things like kings and queens and princes and dukes were all fresh in his mind. I was at once intimidated AF. How could I pull this off with ACTUAL royalty? Imagine the kind of homework that would take and all the rules it would involve.
And it's not that I'm adverse to research. It's a skill I've honed since a producer told me I had to set one of my stories in Romania when I'd never once stepped foot in that country. But I'm a writer. My greatest skill is making things that aren't as though they were.
Still, it promised to be a lot of work and I put it on the backburner.
Then.... March 2020 happened. The entire world shut down and I was in desperate need of an escape from our painful new reality.
This story continued to whisper in the back of my brain as I waited to see which idea would revive the muse and force my hiney into the chair to write.
It happened around May, when the pieces of the puzzle began sliding into place. And it all started with a girl named Peaches.
I had her name before I had a clear vision of who she would be. Like any girl named Peaches, she quickly filled in the rest. She couldn't be like anybody else. Likewise, neither could her romance, nor her Prince Charming.
Jeff and I tossed around the notion of researching existing countries from which to pluck our regal hero, before settling on the daunting task of creating a country of our very own. Both of us have Irish/Scottish roots, so we decided early on our Prince would have a Gaelic ancestry right to his auburn locks. (My first ginger fella... I was super stoked.)
Jeff and I spent so much time building this world for our prince that it quickly became one of the most healing moments of 2020. We couldn't leave our houses, but in our minds we traveled to this amazing new country almost every single time we talked. It was kind of eerie yet really, really cool how all the pieces fell into place. One of us would make a suggestion, then, when we did the research, we found that what we wanted to do with the story fit exactly.
"What if they had some kind of export that was directly tied to the country? Maybe something like a mineral that is exclusive to the country, making it a highly desirable export," he said.
"It could be something they could sell on a small scale for souveniers," I agreed. "Something beautiful on the inside, but ugly AF on the outside."
(Y'all know me, this sort of thing is my jam.)
He sent me an article on geodes right as I was mulling the idea over about volcanoes.
But could volcanoes actually come into play in the vast open ocean west of Ireland?
Turns out, they totally can. Iceland, just north of where we wanted to plop our little island kingdom, is known as the land of Ice and Fire. It has not one, not two, but 30 volcanic systems.
The introduction of Iceland brought the presence of Vikings, which I wondered if this would fit with the Gaelic ancestry we were attempting to build off of. Turns out that the Norse were first recorded in Ireland in the eighth century, where they began raiding and occupying and intermingling with Celts.
We spent much of late spring building a whole new world with history reaching all the way back to 800AD, but in reality I think it was all there just waiting to be discovered. Whatever we had the instinct to do, the history and science was there to support.
It was wild. And a true joy. I watched the kingdom of Aldayne come clearer and clearer into focus with each passing day. We had maps and cities and history and economics, all interlinked and entwined. We even created regional cuisine. I stopped just short of making an entire language, but only because Peaches was whispering in my ear that I needed to get started on the modern stuff in the US.
Once we had all that in place, I knew I could handle the rest. And what came next brought me so much joy it actually healed many of my open, emotional, wounds.
I was a damsel in distress, locked in my lonely tower, waiting for a hero to ride in on his noble steed, the world at his fingertips, to make me whole again.
I was entranced the first time he said hello.
And I mean that literally.
From the first scene, every time he said "Hello," I was a swoony puddle of goo.
Audra lead me through one of the arched doorways to one of the many colorful parlors that branched out from this main foyer. I was assisted to The Red Room, which, as you might imagine, had dark red paint on all the walls. The molding was stark white, to take away some of the darkness, as did the huge picturesque window facing an ornate garden full of impressive topiaries. Plants and flowers gave the room some color, as did the floral rug on the floor. Taking up one wall was a tapestry mural with a huge family portrait of Prince Roan, Princess Sofie and young prince Augustine. He couldn’t have been more than maybe five years old at the time. The same age as Dash, but unlike my little brother he wasn’t free to dance around in a rainbow tutu. He stood stoic and straight, with no smile to be had on his sweet little face.
It painfully mirrored the unhappy faces of his parents, the burden of royalty dragging their shoulders down despite how desperate they were to keep them lifted.
I was so lost in the painting I had already forgotten that Audra was beside me. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go get The Duke.”
I nodded at her; slightly embarrassed how awestruck I was by my surroundings. I needed to every bit as stoic. I needed to be professional. Their story needed to be told and I wanted to be the one to tell it. If not for any reason than that sad little boy staring at me from the portrait.
As the minutes dragged by, I busied myself by walking along the ornate surroundings. They were right about the statues and the busts. There were also old books and silver candlesticks, Fabrege eggs, marble urns and Chinese vases; everything you’d expect from a palace. Historic, valuable pieces that demanded one’s attention and reverence. The only thing out of place was a huge ugly black rock that sat atop a gold stand in the middle of the room. I spent an inordinate amount of time studying the rock, trying to figure out why this ugly piece was being showcased. I wrote it off as one of the Duke of Mayhem’s royal eccentricities and moved along. I was drawn instead to the pictures lining the bookshelf. Unlike all the royal trappings, the pictures gave me a sense of who this family was at the core. One photo that struck me in particular was the picture of Auggie as a child, hidden back behind all the official portraits of the Royal family taken at various events, with various world leaders. Instead, this hidden snapshot in a tiny 4x6 silver frame predated the portrait on the wall. He was probably about three, and laughing up at the face of his beautiful, happy mother as they sat cuddled on a picnic blanket.
I reached for the frame, which dared to show just a bit of dust because the photo itself was hidden back behind the larger photos, overshadowed by the larger, looming official family photos. (Fitting, I thought.) I used my sleeve to buff it to a shine, taking my time to get anything off the glass of that precious picture, which made me smile despite myself.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at that photo, but I guess it was long enough.
“Hello,” I heard this deep voice say behind me.
I turned right into the gaze of Augustine Seamus Whitley Quinn Agassi, the Prince of Alasdair and Duke of Iver, last heir to the throne of Aldayne. He was also a mega rock star, but like Monica had warned, his regal air was undeniable.
If I thought those green eyes were piercing in photos, they were damn near lethal in person. I felt immediately exposed, like I was standing naked in front of him. His long hair curled around his sharp features, and that beard was trimmed high and tight around his sensual full lips.
I was so taken off guard I took a step back, losing my footing and stumbling right into the bookshelf that held so many golden and silver frames. Like dominoes falling in slow motion, they all went down in a clatter, one even toppling right to the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, mortified. I tried to retrieve the fallen soldier, but I was so discombobulated that my hands shook like crazy and I dropped it twice more. Just as he reached around me to take it from my hands, I backed up again, this time into what was likely a Ming vase. I managed to capture it, but barely.
I was flushed and embarrassed as I faced him. I realized I had that tiny silver frame with the candid photo clutched to my chest. With shaking hands, I tried to replace it without destroying anything else. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, unable to look him right in the eye.
“No damage done,” he said in that warm, hypnotic voice that poured over my senses like honey. Then, like out of a dream, I saw him reach out a hand to me. “I’m Auggie,” he said, quite unnecessarily.
I stared at his hand for a long, uncomprehending moment, fixated on the opal-like ring he wore on his finger, with the familiar crest I’d seen throughout the castle. That ring meant the rules were different, right? Shit, should I bow? I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to touch him, but he was reaching out to me. What were the rules in this scenario? Where the fuck was Audra?
Truth be told, I kind of fell in love with Peaches around the same time. He was so dashing, she was so awkward.
It was just the right mix to bring into chaotic 2020.
These two swept me up in a whirlwind that kept me glued to the pages as I churned out Book #37 like someone who was obsessed. Obsessed to escape the confines of 2020 to this brand new world where anything was possible. Obsessed to get to that HEA, which loomed greater than any conflict. Obsessed to tell this story that had been nagging at my brain for months, and with the players in place there was no excuse left to avoid it.
It was Non-Stop.
And now I have a story I can share with all of you.
On August 25, 2020, I am so pleased and proud to bring you PEACHES & THE DUKE, my first ever royal fairy tale. It's done Ginger Voight style, which means it has a lot of twists and turns, a few familiar faces, plus a sexy rock star hero to lead the way.
I hope Auggie brightens your year every bit as much as he has brightened mine.
Pre-order your copy now for the discounted price of $0.99. It will go up to it's normal price of $2.99 when the final prices and final edited copy are locked in by August 21st, so act now.
You won't want to miss this book boyfriend. Add PEACHES & THE DUKE to your TBR list today.
And brace yourself.... for Auggie.
