An Excerpt from A LITTLE NIGHT RAINBOW

Readers of sweet romances might enjoy this short bit from a book I wrote in the '90s, updated now as an E-book. A LITTLE NIGHT RAINBOW will soon be available for Kindle, Nook, Apple and other e-readers. In this clip Max, who is traveling in northern Arizona with his 13-year-old daughter, Marcie, has just stopped at the side of the road to help a woman stranded with two young children. This scene ensues:

Max set the emergency brake, then moderated his tone. "I'm going to go see if I can help. You can stay in the car if you prefer, or you can come and talk to the kids. The girl there looks about your age." He slid his tool kit out from under the driver's seat and opened the door.

"Whatever, Dad." Marcie didn't bother to hide her sarcasm, but she got out of the car and followed behind Max as he approached the woman.

“What seems to be the trouble?'' he asked as he neared her.

"We think it may be the carburetor," the woman answered, turning as she spoke. It was a smooth motion, natural, unselfconscious motion, and utterly feminine. Max, who until now had seen only a woman in need of help, was instantly aware of how attractive she was.

"Uh, maybe I can have a look," he said, giving a nod to the boy who hovered protectively at his mother's side. He stepped in beside the woman and was struck by the scent of her—rich, like honeysuckle and orange blossoms on a summer afternoon.

"I sure appreciate you stopping," the woman said. She turned slightly toward him as she spoke, and her long, dark hair brushed his bare arm just below his shirtsleeve. His mouth went dry.

"Uh, no problem," he said, feeling as tongue-tied as a kid at a school dance. He struggled to remember that his daughter was behind him, striking up a conversation with the other girl. If he didn't want to embarrass her, as well as himself, he'd better get his concentration centered on that carburetor—and fast. He leaned in closer, breathing deeply of hot engine smells.

"It seems to be running rich," the woman said. Her voice was as warm and rich as her scent. Max thought he could get lost in it. You’ve been wrapped up in engines too long, he advised himself.

"Um, uh, yeah. I'll check that," he said, opening the carburetor.
For the next few minutes, Max fought to focus his attention on the task before him. He couldn't remember when he'd ever been so instantly, intensely attracted to anyone. Every move she made distracted him; every word she spoke rang through him. It was only through long experience with more engines than he could count that he was able to spot the trouble and make the necessary adjustment.

"There, see if you can start 'er up," he said as he finished, not quite daring to meet the woman's eyes. They were brown eyes, as rich as dark, sweet chocolate, and huge in her perfect oval face. Max, get a grip, he chided himself as the engine turned over. You're losing it, man.

"You did it!" the woman called as she joined him again. "I really can't thank you enough. Can I pay you for your trouble?" She was reaching for her wallet.

“Heavens, no!" Max couldn't imagine taking money for these few minutes of pure delight. Heck, he ought to be paying her for letting him stand next to her, breathe her fragrance, touch her hair. "It's a temporary fix, anyway. You'll have to get it in for service soon."

"I'll do that," she said, then, "Lydia, Danny, we're going now."

"Okay," the boy answered. "Come on, Sis."

"Yeah, yeah," the girl responded, and it was only then that Max noticed how thick the two teens had become in such a short time. Marcie hadn't whined in at least eight minutes.

"Oh, maybe you can return the favor," he said to the woman as he closed the hood. He took his last jotted directions from his shirt pocket. "I'm supposed to turn right on Hummingbird Lane. Can you tell me how far ahead that is?"

"You passed it," the woman answered in that liquid honey voice. She turned and pointed, and again he was struck by the easy way she moved. He also made a point of noticing her left hand—bare of jewelry, not even a wedding ring. "It'll be the second turn on your left as you go back."

"Thanks," he said.

"Oh, no. Thank you," the woman answered, beaming a megawatt smile, and Max thought he might melt right on the spot.

Fabulous Firenze

Last month I went to Italy in search of a man I have learned to love. My husband promises he won't be jealous since "the other man" died the same year Chris Columbus arrived in the New World, but he's right that I am fascinated by my new Italian interest.

When I first began reading about Lorenzo di Medici, I couldn't believe he was quite the powerhouse his biographers painted him to be. The first biography began with the statement: "Here was a man born in the Middle Ages who died in the Renaissance. The difference between them was his lifetime."

Really? This man brought the Renaissance all by himself? It didn't seem likely. So I started hunting for the real Lorenzo di Medici, and as it turns out, he probably did.

There are watershed moments in the world's history when all the right people come together in the same place at the same time to effect major change. One such happened when Adams, Franklin, Washington, Jefferson, and a host of others each brought genius, personality, and grit to the founding of the world's first new nation.

Another such time happened in Florence, Italy at the beginning of the Renaissance when a group of geniuses--true "Renaissance men" as we've come to know them--gathered to change the world. And change it they did.

My buddy Lorenzo (we're chummy now; I call him Larry) was at the heart of it, using his own experience as a poet, statesman, architect and artist to recognize genius in others and his great resources as the richest man in the world to bring them together in one place. His actions as a statesman and diplomat created the period of peace in the Republic of Florence that allowed that collection of brilliance to shine and he used his influence to export what was happening in Florence to much of the known world.

In one superb illustration of his influence, he took 13-year-old Michelangelo from the studio where he was studying fresco painting, brought in a tutor (the 92-year-old last known student of Donatello) and created a sculpture school, making Michelangelo one of the first students. When M's father objected to his son "becoming a craftsman" and made his life difficult, Lorenzo took him into his own home as a foster son. Without Lorenzo, there'd have been no Michelangelo.

So I became a believer: Lorenzo di Medici was the architect of the Renaissance. That alone was enough reason to want to know him better. Then as I started thinking of what that sharp right turn in the history of the world had meant to human beings ever since, I began to realize what a critical role he had played in making my life (and everyone else's) what it is today. I said "I have to write about this" and I went in search of Lorenzo di Medici.

I found him. I walked in buildings he designed, touched art he commissioned, sat and pondered in his personal office, prayed in his personal chapel, and stood reverently at his grave. I feel I know him now.

"The Medici book," as my family has come to call it, is still on the back burner while I do more reading and study--and, incidentally, finish two other books I'm already working on, but it will happen and it will be the biggest and best fiction project I have ever undertaken.

Stay tuned. My buddy Larry and I have much more to share.

The Decision?

So I've decided to drop the daily blog and just drop in here now and then when I have something to share. Right now I'm excited about:

• The ANWA writers' conference coming up next month. I have an entry in the BOB (beginning of book) contest and I'm interviewing an agent to rep my work to NY.
• A great trip I'm planning in March: almost three weeks researching Lorenzo di Medici and the Renaissance in Florence, Tuscany and Rome. Oh yeah!
• The LDS Storymakers conference in May and another chance to interview a great agent.
• Getting my Rainbow Rock books up in digital format. Cool!

Whoever you are and whatever your writing goals, I can only wish for you as many exciting projects as I have going on right now. Happy new year!

How to Write a Book Proposal

Yes, it's true. I am considering suspending, limiting, or changing this blog, and yes, I've asked for opinion from readers. The response so far has been somewhat, uh, underwhelming.

Nevertheless, I can't help passing on a great tip I just found online. If you are, or think you may ever be, a writer of book-length non-fiction (sometimes even fiction, too), you may want to learn how to write a book proposal.

This post gives you a guide, an outline, and a rationale for every bit of work you'll put into that effort.

Every good wish for you and your writing in the coming year.

To Blog or Not to Blog?

For some time now I have wondered about the efficacy of maintaining this blog. It takes time; it takes patience; it takes knowing something to write about. Mostly it takes away time and energy from the other writing I need to do if I wish to remain an author -- and I do.

I conducted a small experiment by simply not having a new blog post yesterday and waiting to see if anyone noticed. Though some of you may have noticed unofficially, no one said anything. Therefore, officially, the missing blog was not noticed at all.

This leaves me in a quandary. If some of you follow me regularly, appreciate my observations about the writing-publishing business, and wish me to continue, I'm yours. If no one really cares, I'm outta here.

In other words, if you have an opinion, please let me know. You can send me direct email at susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com or you can leave a comment on this page. I'll be watching thoughout this week and waiting to see what you have to say with a yes or no decision coming soon. Either way, thanks for being there for me these past months and have a great 2012.