I love Thursdays. That's when I get to meet new authors or learn more about others. Kristen Brockmeyer is a member of my romance writers' chapter, Mid-Michigan RWA. I knew about the camper, but the rest... Well, maybe I should just let you read her story for yourself.
Welcome, Kristen. Congratulations on your debut novel. Please tell us about yourself.
I live on a little farm in
southwest Michigan with my husband and kids and work full time at an
advertising agency. When I'm not chasing my two boys, I'm chasing chickens,
gardening, or sewing, all with little success. I do know my way around a
kitchen, though, and love cooking from my collection of old cookbooks that
spans the 1920's to the 1950's. At night, when things slow down, I can be found
in our vintage camper in the backyard, working on my latest book.
When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?
I can't remember when I didn't
want to be a writer. I started reading when I was 3 years old (according to my
mom) and I've always made up long, complicated stories. Still do, whenever my
husband asks me a simple question.
How long does it take you to write a book?
The first 100 pages of my first
book, Lucky in Love, took more than
fifteen years. The last 200 pages took only three months, so I'm hoping for some
sort of happy medium on the next book.
What is your work schedule like when you're writing?
Writing gets squeezed in when
everything else is done for the day, I try to write for at least an hour and a
half every night.
What does your family think of your writing?
I have the best family. I know
everyone says that, but I really do! For example, my husband was the one that kicked
me out of the house. (To the camper, so I could write. But I like telling
people he kicked me out of the house.) He also encouraged me to join the RWA
and finally start taking myself and my writing seriously. Plus, my mom is the
best cheerleader you could ask for, constantly telling me how awesome I am and
pimping my book on Facebook to all her friends. And my 9 year-old is convinced
that I'm already bigger than Nora Roberts. I don't know if I'm more tickled by
that idea or the fact that he knows who Nora Roberts is.
If you could give the younger version of yourself advice what would it
be?
Just write. Seriously! Tell the internal critic in your head to can it
and just get your story on paper. You could have, like, 50 novels done by the
time you're 33 years old!
Tell us about your latest book, including its genre. Does it cross over
to other genres? If so, what are they?
Lucky in Love is a fast-paced, contemporary-romantic-suspense-comedy.
That's its own genre, right? The main character, Lucky, is so not lucky and I had to laugh out loud at
some of the things that happened to her. Most of them, I never even saw coming.
And Chance? Her man? I never understood when writers talked about falling in
love with the guys in their books. I mean, they're just characters, right? But
I get it now. Please don't tell my husband or he won't let me go out to the
camper anymore...
Blurb:
Lucky MacFarlane... isn't. And, mostly, she's used to
that. Lucky's bad luck streak is as much a part of who she is as her blue eyes
and her vintage wardrobe. But a lifetime of clumsy accidents and embarrassing
moments can't prepare her for what happens when she runs into sexy
ex-boyfriend, Chance Atkins. Literally. With her 1948 Buick Roadmaster.
Now, Lucky's got a few questions. Like why
Chance moved away without a word 10 years before—right after a memorable scene
in the backseat of her car. Does his return have anything to do with the
disappearance of Julian, her geriatric sometimes-roommate and drinking buddy?
Why did someone just shoot out her kitchen window? And does Chance need a
license for those dimples? Because they're killer hot.
Excerpt:
I dreaded getting ready every
day.
Invariably, one of several things
would happen: I would snag my nylons, poke myself in the eye with a mascara
brush, burn my finger on the curling iron, slip in a puddle of water and bang
my shin on the tub, or drop my toothbrush in the toilet.
If all that failed, there were
always spills. I would spill nail polish on whatever I'd planned on wearing,
spill nail polish remover too near a candle and ignite the tissue box, or spill
scalding coffee on myself and let out a string of swears that would make a frat
boy blush.
Today, nothing happened.
I was relieved, but apprehensive.
My hair looked better than I'd ever seen it. It waved softly around my face and
the nondescript reddish-brown looked downright auburn, shining with glinting
gold highlights. Some eye drops had cured the hung-over look and my perfectly
made up eyes were sultry and mysterious. I looked like a vintage Hollywood
starlet. I shook my perfectly-coiffed head in disbelief, and the stunning woman
reflected in the mirror shook her head back. Yup, it was definitely me.
My dress—that must be it.
I searched every inch that I
could see, twisting backward at an impossible angle, sure that somewhere in the
powder-blue satin there was going to be a gaping hole, a cigarette burn, or a
tear as long as the Mississippi. Nada. The dress wasn't even tucked into the
back of my panties.
Really nervous now, I slipped
into a pair of high heels dyed delicate blue to match the dress. No one thought
the high heels were a good idea, given my coordination skills, but it was
Addy's wedding and we didn't want to stress her out any more than necessary.
She was already a basket case. One messed-up flower arrangement away from
homicidal maniac, actually. A safe and
sensible pair of flats might throw her right over the edge.
Mission accomplished without so
much as a broken shoe or a broken ankle, I grew more and more disturbed. I
gathered my keys and clutch purse, feeling like Chicken Little waiting to get
squashed by an asteroid-sized acorn. But no ten-car pile-up occurred on the way
to the church. Was I destined to pass out during the ceremony? Throw up on the
minister? What was the deal?
With all that edgy speculation,
mowing over the best man in the parking lot really shouldn't have come as any
surprise.
Chance Atkins had been a fixture
in my life ever since he and my twin brother, Jack, were both annoying little
second graders eating worms and looking up the art teacher's skirt, but I
hadn't seen him in almost a decade. Now, he was spread-eagled on the pavement,
looking dead.
He groaned again and cracked open
one eye.
"Jeez, Lucky, is that
you?"
Okay, Kristen, one last question. Where can readers find you?
If I'm not at a Cub Scout
meeting, doing dishes, or in the camper, I'm probably at one of the following
places:
I take it back. That wasn't the last question. Where can readers find Lucky in Love?
Kristen, it's been fun learning more about you. I wish you much success with Lucky in Love.
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