Welcome! Please introduce yourself and tell us about your latest release.
Hi, Molly and all your friends. I’m happy to be here and even happier to tell you about It’s Still Tomorrow. As for me, not much to tell. On the personal side, housewi—no, make that domestic engineer, wife, mother, grandmother, surrogate mother to two dogs, not very interesting. Imagination wise, though, another story. I’m a multi-genre author, writing under two pen names, Larriane Wills and Larion Wills. My latest release is from Larion Wills, a contemporary with murder, mayhem and witch who gave up the practice. On, did I mention one sexy man, a cantankerous but determined familiar, and mystery?
Have you ever had an idea for a story which scared you after you began writing it?
No, which isn’t to say that there aren’t things that scare me or that I don’t write scary things. I just don’t mix the two.
Have you incorporated actual events from your own life into your books?
Bits and pieces, little things that add fodder to the story and characters, but nothing that could be construed as my life story.
How much research do you do? Do you research first and then write, or do you write first, then research as needed?
I write and do the research as needed since I have a tendency to get fascinated with what I’m finding, especially with history. Things like contacting the taser company for facts on their weapon don’t distract me over much, but hunting down historical facts does when I see so many things that would make into a good story. Many a time the research for one of my westerns has lead to a second story, incorporating some facts that way.
Is there any message you want readers to take from reading your work?
HEA. The world is full of hurt and pain that doesn’t end well. I want my readers to laugh as well as cringe, close the book when their finished and feel good about the strength of human beings overcoming the adversities thrown at them and to feel hope.
Are you a plotter or a pantser? And have you ever had a story take on a life of its own?
I’m a pantser, and yes, I’ve had to reel my characters in more than once and put them back on the same track I started on. Every often, however, those off the track things develop into another story.
How long did it take for you to be published?
Once I got serious about it, it took me just about a year. I played at sort of submitting in spurts with years in between. When I decided I was really going to follow through and stick with it, I received my first set of rejections, read and studied what some took the time to tell me, did some editing and rewriting and started again. With the second start, the first publisher I sent the first book to accepted it.
If you could go back and tell yourself anything when you first began your writing career, what would you say?
Start sooner and stop being afraid of those rejections.
Laptop or pen and ink? What are your ‘must-haves’ when writing?
Pen and ink for the first draft. It’s slows me down when I have to type it into the laptop, but a pen in my hand flows smoother and faster for that first round. I wish I had no interruptions, but manage. Family and pets do need some attention. If the family is off somewhere, from the time I get up until the time I go back to bed, I’m writing until that first draft is done.
Who are your favorite authors? Who would you say influenced you the most?
I have so many favorite authors there’s just too many to list. They have all influenced me in some way. Many times while I’m reading, I think ‘I really like the way she/he did that. I’m going to remember that trick.’
What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?
I don’t know—ah, I once took belly dancing lessons?
Favorite Christmas memory?
So many great memories. Christmas is my family’s biggest holiday. It’s the one time we all make the special effort to meet in one place and just be happy to see each other. I could tell you my worst memory far sooner than a favorite.
Have you written any Christmas-themed stories or woven the holiday into any of your books?
I haven’t written anything with Christmas in it. I need to do that.
Best Gift ever received?
There you go again, asking a hard question. I think reaching back into my childhood would supply the best answer, back when my mother was a single parent stretching every penny to make sure we all had something special. It wasn’t that the gift was expensive, but even then I knew how hard it was for her to get me that pretty, blue parakeet.
Thank you for being here today! Please tell us where we can find your books.
You’re very welcome. It’s been a pleasure. You can visit my website to see which of my books you want: http://www.larriane.com or go directly to the publisher’s website for
It’s Still Tomorrow, A Gallows Waited, Twisted Wind, Evil Reflections, Little Sam’s Angel, Thirteen Souls, Mourning Meadow, Looking Glass Portal, The Knowing.
I’ll be starting with a new publisher, Museitup Publishing, in May of 2011 with another western, White Savage, then, Chase, a contemporary, another western, Tarbet, and another contemporary, Traps. That takes me up to spring of 2012 and I’m working on extending that as well.
Here’s the blurb and an excerpt from It's Still Tomorrow:
Sara wasn’t one to whine. She’d learned early in live that it did not good, but when a disreputable newspaper called her a black witch, her cat was shot, she lost her job, and her apartment was firebombed, she had no choice but to flee. The unfinished house she inherited would have been a blessing if the evil hadn’t followed her.
“Yes,” she said to herself as she watched him, “he is nice.”
Nice referred to the way he was built, shoulders broad and lean everywhere else. Six one or six two, she estimated, dark hair, a little long, wavy and combed back from his face, probably blue eyes. He was garbed in what was generally described as “cowboy” apparel, denim, Western-cut shirt and real Levis, not jeans. He didn’t wear a hat though, neither Western nor the ever-popular ball cap, and sturdy, lace-up work boots covered his feet. He moved nicely as well, though his gait was a little uneven as he came down the irregular surface of the hillside through the scrub oak and cat claw. She suspected a limp, not severe, but noticeable. He definitely favored the right leg when he jumped the six-foot bank from hill to the pad cut out by heavy machinery to form a level area for the house and yard. On the more even ground, the slight limp was more noticeable.
With a sigh, Sara pressed her hand to her forehead, the thumb at one temple and the forefinger at the other. “You knew this was coming,” she murmured, dropping her hand down the front of her face, still fluttering the wet shirt with the other one.
“Good morning,” he said when he was close enough not to have to yell.
“Not so far,” she answered.
He stopped a few feet from her, and she was right about the eye color but hadn’t realized that they would be so distinctive. The irises were blue, a pale shade tending toward sapphire, with a black rim making them rather penetrating, especially when he stared, as he was then. His dark brows, drawn down at her comment, nearly masked his long lashes. His expression also turned his rather stern features slightly foreboding.
“Turned the power on and flooded the kitchen,” she explained.
“Guess that explains why you’re wet,” he said. His eyes flickered over the wet shirt, and what was visible beneath, and shot back up to settle on a lock of still-dripping hair. “A pipe must have frozen.”
Appreciating his ability not to stare at her too-visible chest, she commented dryly, “That was my second thought.”
“What was the first?” he asked, moving by her to the breaker box.
“That a spigot or valve had been left open. There wasn’t any.”
“Just a plug,” he told her while he opened the box, flipped several breakers, closed the box, and turned the power back on.
“Not anymore. You would be?”
“Dem Everett, the contractor Charles hired.”
She already knew that but didn’t say so. “Yeah, well, Charles could afford to pay you,” she said bluntly. “I can’t.”
“The work’s already paid for, just not finished.”
“Then consider it a bonus; I can’t afford materials, either.”
His eyes narrowed again. “They’re already bought, in storage at my place.”
“Really?” she asked excitedly. She didn’t wait for an answer. Her hand dropped, she half-turned, took a step away and one back in an excitement dance. “That’s great! I didn’t know how I could do it. What kind of materials? I’d be thrilled with anything about now, but what are we talking about?”
“Finishing the inside and building a detached garage.”
“All the bathrooms, kitchen, doors…”
“All that stuff is already bought? Sink, shower, all of it?”
“All of it,” he repeated and then added stiffly, “but you need to know before I start any work, I’m an insurance liability.”
Sara stopped dancing. “Why is that?”
“I’m crippled,” he stated tartly.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you just had a limp. I didn’t realize that made you a cripple.”
Dem blinked and stared at her, blinked again and half-shook his head. “I didn’t think so either,” he told her, not sure if he was angered or amused by her attitude, “but the insurance companies consider it a liability and might refuse you coverage on me.”
“No problem, I don’t have any. If you get hurt, I’ll help with the medical, but on all that pain and suffering business you’d be on your own. Wouldn’t do you any good to sue me either. That’s all I own.”
Dem looked where she pointed, at a twelve-year-old, medium-sized car in front of the house in what would be a driveway or yard sometime in the future. The back seat was packed higher than the windows, and the rear end squatted to indicate the trunk was packed as well.
“Did you just get here?” he asked, puzzled since he had heard otherwise.
“Couple of days ago.”
“Why haven’t you unpacked?”
“Wasn’t sure I was going to stay,” she said bluntly.