Happy Friday readers.
I've got the spunky Andrea Downing with us today.
Just what the author ordered to kick the weekend off right. So sit back, read through the interview and when we're done, just follow the links to pre-order your copy today.
Tell me three words that describe yourself starting with A, B, and C.
Articulate, ballsy and crazy
What are your three favorite things?
My daughter, my family and my friends Are those ‘things?’
What for you is the best part of writing? What is the worst?
The best part of writing for me is creating a world and living in it for a time, getting in the heads of other people, ones you create, going where they go, living their lives. Yeah, it’s escapism of a kind but so is television, but this is so much better. How often do you read a book or watch a program or movie and think you wouldn’t have had that happen? Writing a book, you’re in control! The worst part is the blank white page needing to be filled when for some unknown reason you’re stuck, the characters just aren’t doing what they’re supposed to. Naughty characters!
Was there any particular inspiration for your characters or story?
Dearest Darling was really spawned by The Wild Rose Press’ call for a ‘Love Letters’ series. I was enthralled by the idea; letter writing is such a lost art now with emails we just dash off without any regard for punctuation or grammar, it seems. When I went to school, we spent time in English class actually learning to write different kinds of letters (yes, I really am that old): invitations, thank-you notes and so on. Anyway, I immediately thought, ‘what if the love letter went to the wrong person?’ and so the story evolved from that.
What’s the one thing you would do if you could be your character for a day?
If I could be Emily Darling for a day, I would cast aside her cooking, cleaning and sewing, get off to the barn, saddle up and just ride. This book is set in the most beautiful part of the country—Wyoming in the Tetons, in particular Jackson Hole, which is the valley on the high plains at the base of the Tetons. You are already at nearly 7,000 feet and then these snow-capped peaks just rise up out of the plains, yellows and browns seeping into blues and the sparkling white at the top. And the air clears your head better than caffeine. I’d just ride and feel free.
DEAREST DARLING comes out Oct. 8th but can be pre-ordered on Amazon now!
Here’s the blurb:
Stuck in a life of servitude to her penny-pinching brother, Emily Darling longs for a more exciting existence. When a packet with travel tickets, meant for one Ethel Darton, accidentally lands on her doormat, Emily sees a chance for escape. Having turned down the dreary suitors that have come her way, is it possible a new existence also offers a different kind of man?
Daniel Saunders has carved out a life for himself in Wyoming—a life missing one thing: a wife. Having scrimped and saved to bring his mail-order bride from New York, he is outraged to find in her stead a runaway fraud. Even worse, the impostor is the sister of his old enemy.
But people are not always as they seem, and sometimes the heart knows more than the head.
Emily liked the sound of his voice, low but not husky, a slight twang he had cultivated, but not pretentiously so. When he spoke, she envisaged melting caramel, something delicious, the way it could be so appealing as she stirred, with a shine and slow drip from the spoon, before it gradually solidified. Soothing. A liquid velvet.
But he hadn’t spoken today. Not since first thing when he’d told her to get ready. Not through breakfast, or as he helped clear dishes, or gave her a hand up into the wagon.
“You haven’t seen her. You didn’t see her picture, did you?” The questions came sudden, yet without malice.
Emily straightened, alert. “No. No, I didn’t.” Would I understand better? Is that what he meant?
“I keep it with me.” Daniel began to fish in his pocket. “Would you like to see it?”
“No. No, you keep it, please. It won’t change anything.” Emily panicked. She would be beautiful, the other, that would be the answer. So stunningly beautiful that just her photograph had enthralled him, mesmerized him into loving her. Emily couldn’t bear to look, didn’t want to know the answer. Didn’t wish to torture herself further. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for reading the letters.” A rush of words, they flowed out of her. “I should never have done that. It’s not like me. But you...well, you understand it seems—”
“You’re probably wondering what I see in her. Or what she sees in me. As for that, what she sees in me, I have no idea. Maybe, like you, she wishes to get away.”
Emily studied his profile, the planes and contours of his face, the eyes set straight ahead, the slouch hat low on his brow. He gave nothing away, was a man in control of his emotions, thinking, maybe still wondering how he had won that woman. Or maybe set on keeping the answer to himself.
Overhead, clouds scudded, scoured the sky, leached the blue, threatened.
“Did you ever ask her? Why you?”
“I did. She never answered. I’m thinking what she sees in me is husband material. I guess. She tells me about her day, the people she knows, what she does. As you read.”
“She just seems so...so outgoing, so...so very social to ever want this life. I found it difficult to believe.” She jutted her chin out, then turned to him, waiting.
He gave the reins a sharp shake. “I don’t know. I never asked if she knew what she was getting into. I described it. I assumed if she wanted to stop the correspondence there, she would have. I was pretty damn amazed and happy she’d wanted to come, written back even though I described the cabin to her, the isolation.” His gaze slid toward her.
“And you think she’ll make you a perfect wife, do you? Be happy living here? Cook your meals, mend your clothes, keep your cabin, have your babies?” Exasperated, she tried to make him think, think of what he was letting himself in for, how long a marriage like that could go on, how it could end up being even lonelier than he was now. Emily would seem to him to be trying to win him over rather than making him see the truth, but push him she must, save him, stop him. She knew those sorts of women, the debutantes, the socialites. Not a one would last out here, not for a single day.
His head snapped around to stare at her. “She’s been writing. She hasn’t stopped.”
Buy links (from Oct. 8):
WEBSITE AND BLOG: http://andreadowning.com
Twitter: @andidowning https://twitter.com/AndiDowning
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: http://www.amazon.com/Andrea-Downing/e/B008MQ0NXS/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0