Welcome Meggan! It's nice to meet you - I'm looking forward to learning more about you and your work. Let's get started with the questions....
What is your writing routine?
Well, that assumes I have a writing routine!
No, you caught me, I do (mostly). Since I work full time and I have little kids, I tend to write at night. Because of kid activities, we usually get home between 6:30 and 8:00, after which we do showers and bedtime. Then, sometime between 8:00 and 9:00, I sit down to write. I might write only for an hour or so (really, it depends on the day), but I try to carve out a little time to write every day. On a good night, I might write until one in the morning.
This invariably leads to work grumpiness, so I try to save it for when I’m really on a roll!
In any case, I tend to write the most on vacations and on the weekends. I can usually find three or four good hours on each weekend day to write. Some people party on Friday nights. Me, though? It’s a chocolate bar and a hot date with the laptop.
Which is your favorite romance subgenre to read? To write?
This is a shockingly hard question to answer. See, I’m not monogamous when it comes to genres that I read. I love my romance novels, and I will happily read across genres.
I originally cut my teeth on historicals—Highlander novels, to be precise. Then I graduated to Regencies. Then I got all urban fantasy. I joined RWA and I met some lovely authors, and picked up their contemporaries and romantic suspenses. And here’s the thing: I can’t really say I prefer one genre to the others. It really depends on my mood. I’ve been reading a lot of historicals lately, but I can pretty much guarantee that I’ll be reading something entirely different in a couple of months.
As for what I prefer to write, I love Victorian era historicals, though I have written an urban fantasy, and I have ideas for a few contemporaries and one romantic suspense.
What do you expect from an editor?
Oh, this is a fun question!
The best editors are the ones who will make you think, who will make you question why you did what you did. The best editors will make you cut your best lines of text and be grateful for it. Whenever I would bemoan the loss of a favorite line, my editor would very sympathetically tell me, “Oh, I hate it when I have to cut my favorite lines. But if you can cut it, then you should cut it, because it’s slowing down the pacing.”
Other than that? I hope that my editor will catch typos, discrepancies, and plot holes, and any grammatical mistakes I may have made on any one of my 15 edits. They get really, really hard to see after awhile. I think it’s because you know what it should say, so your brain just kind of fills in the blanks.
What are you working on right now?
Right now, I’m working on a book I’m tentatively calling Highland Deception, the second in the Highland Sons series that I’m writing with Dawn Ireland. It’s about a man who, upon the death of his twin brother, assumes his identity and his position as laird…and the wife his brother didn’t want. I’m on a deadline, so hopefully I’ll have it done soon!
Your biggest piece of advice to aspiring novelists?
Write. And read. But mostly write. (Super cheeseball, I know)
Oh, and get a critique partner. Everyone needs one of those.
What was your favorite subject in school and why?
Well, I was a lit nerd who really liked to read, so I went on to become an English Literature/Linguistics and German major. Yes, I had three majors. And two minors (History and Education). I liked school.
My favorite class was either German Lit or Beowulf. I totally dug the Beowulf class. It was awesome, and not just because the professor would randomly break out into Icelandic (or the fact that he either didn’t notice or didn’t care when I crawled out the window and onto the fire escape. Not that I recommend this, but well…)
What is your favorite dessert?
This is a cruel, cruel question. In the time Before Allergies (BA), I would have said crème brulee. Gads, I loved that desert. Then I discovered I am allergic to eggs, which might explain why I felt like I was going to die every time I had that particular dessert.
Then we discovered that, on top of the egg allergy, I’m allergic to wheat. So I can’t even fake it and have a vegan doughnut, or take a Benadryl and take the hit. So… right now, the favorite dessert is wine with a chocolate bar.
I miss dessert
High heels, sneakers or flip flops?
Usually sneakers. You never know when I might have to chase after an escaping small person. But if I want to feel all dominant and powerful (seeing as how I’m five nine in my socks), I go for the high heels. But never flip flops. I hate flip flops.
Where can readers find you?
I love to hear from readers. You can find me on my website www.megganconnors.com, twitter (@megganconnors), or on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/meggan.connors or www.facebook.com/pages/Meggan-Connors/120715354695518?ref=hl
by Megan Connors
The American Civil War has raged for more than ten years. The outcast daughter of a famous inventor, Jessica White has struggled to salvage what little remains of her life. Then, one cold winter night, the lover she'd given up for dead returns, claiming the Union Army bought the plans for her father's last invention. But he's not the only one who lays claim to the device, for the Confederacy wants the invention as well. Both sides will kill to have it.
...And only he can save her.
As an agent for the Union Army, Luke Bradshaw is a man who will use whomever and whatever is at his disposal in order to complete his mission. An attack by Confederate soldiers ensures that Jessie will turn to him for help, but Luke can't help but wonder about the secrets she keeps--and if those secrets will ultimately prove fatal.
Someone knocked, and Muha’s tentative barking turned hysterical.
Taking her revolving shotgun back down, she crept to the lever that would pull down the shutters and arm the Gatling gun mounted to the rooftop.
“Go home, sheriff. Not talking to you today.”
“It’s not the sheriff.”
Her hand froze and the shotgun clattered to the floor. Gooseflesh dotted her arms and her pulse quickened, a frantic rat-a-tat-tat like a hail of bullets, as her body recognized what her logical mind denied.
The room went quiet. Muha sat with her ears pricked up, her tail thumping cautiously against the worn pine floor. The wolf recognized the gravelly voice, too.
The knock became more insistent, sharper. “Please open the door, Jessie.”
It was a dead man’s voice.
She struggled to fill her lungs with air as the pine door shook beneath her visitor’s heavy fists. Those hands would be big and strong and ridged with calluses. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she tried not to think about them. Or their owner.
She’d gotten over his loss just like she’d gotten over all the others.
With trembling hands, Jessie picked up her shotgun and rested it against the wall. Her legs leaden, she walked to the door and put her hand on the knob, but hesitated.
She’d dreamed of this moment for years, of this man walking back into her life.
Now she couldn’t bring herself to let him in.
“Please. It’s freezing out here.”
She turned the knob, and Luke Bradshaw stood in her doorway, the brim of his hat heavy with snow, and small flakes clung to the dark lashes fringing his silver eyes.
He was as tall as she remembered, towering over her as he stood on her sagging front porch, bringing with him the scent of smoke and sulfur and snow. A black slouch hat covered his head and rested low over his eyes, and a black duster swirled around his bright-spurred boots. The silver six-shooter on his left hip glittered in the low light, and a large, black satchel was strapped to his broad back.
Muha pushed her head past the door.
Luke gave her a lopsided smile and took off his hat. “Hi, Jess.” A scar she didn’t remember ran through his right eyebrow, and another creased his chin. He held his hand out to Muha and scratched behind her grizzled ears, the way he always used to greet her. He handed her a piece of jerky, and despite the long years, a friendship was immediately rekindled. “There’s a girl.”
“Luke.” Jessie reached out to touch his cheek. The stubble of his unshaven jaw was rough beneath her palm, and his skin was cold. Her fingers trembled as she traced his lips, his breath warm against them.
He kissed her fingertips.
Dead men didn’t breathe or kiss a girl’s fingers. Dead men didn’t leave as boys and come back as men. Dead men didn’t come home with new scars or shiver with cold.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
His sweet, boyish smile melted her heart, and something inside her, denied for far too long, splintered and howled in despair.
She slapped him.
The crack echoed in the empty, snow-lit darkness behind him. Jessie stepped back to slam the door on this would-be ghost who had the gall to walk back into her life and act as if he’d never left.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Meggan Connors is a wife, mother, teacher and award-winning author who writes primarily historical and steampunk romances. As a history buff with a love of all things historical, she enjoys visiting both major and obscure museums, and reading the histories of the Old West and the British Isles. She makes her home in the Wild West with her lawman husband, two children, and a menagerie of pets. When she's not writing, she can usually be found hiking in the mountains, playing in the snow, or with her nose in a book. Favorite vacation destinations include the sun-kissed hills of California, any place with a castle or a ghost (and both is perfect!), and the windswept Oregon coast.
Meggan will be awarding a silver pocket watch pendant and a cameo choker, and a signed paperback copy of The Marker, her historical romance to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour. (US/CANADA ONLY)
Follow the tour and comment; the more you comment, the better your chances of winning. The tour dates can be found here: