What inspired you to become an author?
Reading, of course! From the first day of first grade, I loved reading. Then, when I was eight years old, I started writing a story at school about apple tree gnomes. The teacher loved what I’d written so far. I was very shy, and her comment freaked me out so much that I wrote a bad ending so she wouldn’t compliment me again—that was safer than doing my best and coming up with something mediocre. But that was when I knew I wanted to write.
Do you have a specific writing style?
You’ll have to ask my readers. I write in deep 3rd person point of view most of the time (with the occasional foray into 1st person), but apart from that I can’t describe my style except in very general terms. There’s lots of dialogue and action and not much description. I don’t know how to write comedy, but if humor just happens to nose its way in, I’m delighted and keep it there.
Do you write in different genres?
Yes, unfortunately, because this makes it difficult for me to establish an author ‘brand’, which they say matters a lot. I write two kinds of Regencies – with and without magic – and also wrote the Bayou Gavotte series, which are paranormal romance/mystery. And then there’s that first person mystery I’m working on. I don’t seem to be able to stick to one thing at a time.
If yes, which is your favorite genre to write?
How can I possibly choose? I love them all.
How did you come up with the title for your latest book?
With a great deal of pain and much help from others. I’m terrible at titles.
Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?
See the above answer. My placeholder titles are usually pretty blah, such as the hero or heroine’s name (which sometimes changes in the course of the book, but the placeholder may stay the same. No point exchanging one dumb title for another).
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
I don’t plan around a message, but so far they all say something like “Love conquers all” or “Love is the greatest magic” or “Be yourself and love will follow.” Sappy stuff, but that’s romance for you.
When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?
Read, cook, eat, sleep… I used to do a lot of knitting and crocheting, but since I started writing seriously, I never seem to have the time. Succeeding at making socks is on my bucket list, but at this rate I’ll never manage it.
What is next for you? Do you have any scheduled upcoming releases or works in progress?
Coming up next is a Regency (without magic) called To Kiss a Rake, which will be out on July 29th. It’s a marriage of extreme inconvenience for both hero and heroine. Here’s the blurb:
WHEN A LADY IS ABDUCTED BY MISTAKE…
Melinda Starling doesn’t let ladylike behavior get in the way of true love. She’s secretly helping with an elopement, when she’s tossed into the waiting coach and driven away by a notorious rake.
REVENGE REALLY DOESN’T PAY.
Miles Warren, Lord Garrison, comes from a family of libertines, and he’s the worst of them all—or so society believes. When Miles helps a friend to run away with an heiress, it’s an entertaining way to revenge himself on one of the gossips who slandered him.
Except that he drives off with the wrong woman…and as if that wasn’t scandalous enough, he can’t resist stealing a kiss.
Lady of the Flames
A Most Peculiar Season
Multi Author Series
Genre: Regency Paranormal
Date of Publication: March 23, 2015
Word Count: 61,800
Cover Artist: Jane Dixon-Smith
Magic is fraught with peril—but so is love.
Lord Fenimore Trent’s uncanny affinity for knives and other sharp blades led to duels and murderous brawls until he found a safe, peaceful outlet by opening a furniture shop—an unacceptable occupation for a man of noble birth. Now Fen’s business partner has been accused of treason. In order to root out the real traitor, he may have to resort to the violent use of his blades once again.
Once upon a time, Andromeda Gibbons believed in magic. That belief faded after her mother’s death and vanished completely when Lord Fenimore, the man she loved, spurned her. Five years later, Andromeda has molded herself into a perfect—and perfectly unhappy—lady.
When she overhears her haughty betrothed plotting treason, she flees into the London night—to Fen, the one man she knows she can trust. But taking refuge with him leads to far more than preventing treason.
Can she learn to believe in love, magic, and the real Andromeda once again?
Setup: After learning of a treasonous plot, Andromeda fled into the London night to get help from Lord Fen, the man she once loved. They’re now having breakfast the next morning.
Years ago, Andromeda had felt no need to talk when with Fen, but now it was uncomfortable, like conversing with a stranger. Then, they’d had more in common; now they lived in different worlds. She took a sip of coffee and ate a sausage roll. She sipped some more coffee. She gazed around the room and finally found something to say.
“Did you carve the figures on your looking-glass frame?” she said. As a boy, he had whittled constantly. “They seem so…familiar somehow.”
“They should,” he said with a sudden smile. “I carved it from my memories of the fairies and hobgoblins back home.”
“Fairies and hobgoblins?”
“At your father’s estate,” he said. “Surely you remember Cuff the bedchamber hob, and Heck the buttery spirit, and all the rest.”
“My mother told stories about them,” Andromeda said, nostalgia filling her again. “I must say, I like the way you’ve imagined them.”
Fen frowned at her, his smile fading, his eyes perplexed. “I didn’t imagine them,” he said. “I saw them.”
Andromeda rolled her eyes. “That sounds like something my mother would have said.”
“Because she saw them, too.”
Andromeda began to be annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fen. She made up stories based on tales she’d been told as a child.”
Fen shook his head. “You saw them when you were small. You saw Cuff and Heck and the others. We both did.”
“No,” Andromeda said. “We saw movement out of the corners of our eyes and said they were fairies, but we were just playing games.”
Fen’s expression was pained. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“There’s nothing to remember,” she insisted, wolfing down another cream puff. “As a matter of fact, that happened to me this morning. I had the impression that one of the creatures on the looking-glass winked at me, but of course it didn’t really do so.”
“What a pity,” Fen said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’ve forgotten. That wink was Cuff’s way of saying good-day to you. He’s somewhere hereabouts. He’s the only one I didn’t have to carve from memory, because he came with me when I left home.” He glanced toward the tin cup and plate by the wall. “He ate the bread and milk I put out, and I gave him the rest of your brandy, too.”
She couldn’t stand any more of this. “Fen, stop this nonsense! We’re in danger from traitors and spies who murder people, and all you can talk about is hobgoblins.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I wondered why he came with me when I left, but it’s because he enjoys human company.” He grimaced. “Your father and aunt aren’t his sort of humans. I thought you were, and so did your mother, but evidently you’re not.”
That struck her like a blow. “What do you mean, my mother thought I was. Was what?”
“She had a sizeable amount of fairy blood, so she thought you must have some, too—but perhaps she was wrong.” He paused. “I know I have some. It’s not uncommon for children to see fairies, but I didn’t lose that when I grew up. Not only that, it’s their magic that guides my knives and tools, and inspires me when it comes to furniture design.”
She couldn’t bear it. “Stop it! You’re as—as mad as my mother was.”
“She wasn’t mad, Andromeda.” He sighed. “And whether or not you see the fairies, they’re still here.”
She put her hands to her ears and shut her eyes. After all the chaos of yesterday, this was too much. When he said and did nothing, she opened her eyes again. “Why did she discuss me with you?”
“Who else was there to speak to? Your father and aunt, although worthy people, wouldn’t have understood. They already found her far too strange.”
This was true—but it was because Mama’s mind was unbalanced.
“She knew I cared for you,” Fen said.
His eyes were kind but dispassionate; his use of the past tense meant that he didn’t care anymore, except perhaps as an old friend. Why couldn’t she become accustomed? Every single reminder hurt.
“You believed in them at the time your mother died,” he said. “She gave you that heart-shaped locket, didn’t she?” It still hung at her breast, but she resisted the urge to clasp it in her hand.
“I was nine years old. I believed in many foolish things then,” she retorted. Such as magic, but a household run by her aunt was no longer vibrant with promise or belief in anything much at all. And then, when she was seventeen, Fen had destroyed what little belief remained. She didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I learned soon enough what utter nonsense it all was.”
He watched her, head cocked to one side, as if she were some strange, incomprehensible creature. “As a matter of interest, when did you stop believing?”
How dare he ask such a personal question? “What business is that of yours?”
“None, I suppose.” He shrugged and stood. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll see if my valet has found you something to wear.” He took the last of the beignets, set it on a saucer, and left it on the floor by the wall.
As if prying into her business wasn’t enough, now he was mocking her. Did he seriously expect her to believe that a hobgoblin would eat the beignet? Anger stirred and grew within her. “If you must know, it was at the same time I gave up other foolishness, such as believing in love!”
Fen stared at her, his expression incredulous. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
By what right was he upset? Not content with playing stupid games with her, did he really not remember what he’d done to her five years ago?
About the Author:
Award-winning author Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups, and is an avid reader. There are only two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding and succeed at knitting socks. She knows she can manage the first but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second.
This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia.