Featured Author for May 4

 

Be sure to click on The Book Shelf Link Above to find more great books to read!

Last Week's Featured Author:

D.D. Scott, best-selling author of BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS, STOMPIN' ON STETSONS,  BUCKLES ME BABY and MUSE THERAPY: UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL

http://www.DDScott.com

Here is a sample of each of her books:

Buy it at Amazon Bootscootin' Blahniks (The Bootscootin' Books)

or Smashwords for only $2.99!

BOOTSCOOTIN’ BLAHNIKS

CHAPTER ONE

The nanosecond the light turned green, Roxy Rae Vaughn pressed the gas pedal toward the floorboard of her Mercedes. She didn’t have time to jack around. Her boutique opened in an hour. It took twenty-two more minutes to get there, thirty-three minutes to make everything perfect before she unlocked the doors for customers, and she counted on five minutes to spare. Apparently, the driver in the beat-up pick-up truck in front of her had all kinds of time for lollygagging. But she didn’t.
Taking her speed up a notch, Dipstick yelped. His pudgy Puggles body slid across the pashmina-covered leather cushion of the passenger seat then propelled off the heated lumbar rest. Not to be outdone by her litter brother, Darling whined from the backseat, followed by an odd, panic-laden pant.
Roxy was a bit worried by her dogs’ unusual behavior. Normally, they were good riders. Perhaps they needed some fresh air, she thought, cracking the windows a smidgeon. She’d read, however, that too much air wasn’t good for them so they were only getting a tease of the Tennessee summer morning breeze. Something else the driver in front of her obviously wasn’t aware of. His mangy mutt, although kind of cute in a disheveled take pity on me way, had free roam of the bed of his truck. Except for what looked to be tomatoes lined-up in well-used baskets, the man’s dog owned his space.
“It’s okay, Babies,” Roxy attempted to soothe Dipstick and Darling. “Mommy is right here. You two love going to work with me. What’s wrong?”
In her rearview mirror, Roxy noticed Darling moving her snout in large circles followed by loud, disturbing smacks of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. And was that a bit of frothy drool forming and bubbling around her canines? What the hell was going on?
Roxy stole another quick peek in the mirror then glanced back to the road in front of her in case Grandpa Jones slowed down again. Another look in the mirror revealed Darling was now anxiously pawing at the cashmere blanket covering the backseat as if trying to find a perfect spot to...
Like lightening punctuating the green screen of a horror flick set, a precursor to a grotesque scene coming to life in front of the cameras, Roxy finally understood the red herring for what it was. “Oh no, Darling. Don’t do that to Mommy. We’re almost to the boutique. Please wait, Honey. Not in the car.”
Roxy pounded her fist against the steering wheel, silently cursing her luck. Her determination to live and succeed in her new, classy chick-gone-country lifestyle seemed to kick her in the ass every choice she made.
Darling made a larger-than-life whimper then let loose a super smoothie-sized barrage of pre and partially-digested dog treats - all over Roxy’s backseat.
Between the agonizing sounds of her poor sick Puggles and the sickening stench, Roxy was thrown for a loop her stomach and nerves were at a loss to rectify. Before she could get her wits about her to deal with the current crisis, Dipstick took his turn at bat and went nuts in the front seat. He paced the floorboard. Jumped back into the seat. Then pounced into Roxy’s lap and out again, his anxiety-heavy yips and yaps turning into awful half wails, half barks before dissolving into fits of desperately pathetic growls.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Roxy reached out to comfort him. Evidently, however, Darling needed her master’s touch too. She hung her hurl-soaked muzzle over Roxy’s arm, whimpered then sneezed sending dog snot and God only knew what else blowing out her nose.
Although abhorred by the residue Darling had now smeared all over her arm, Roxy’s heart filled with pity for her ill puppy and its wigged out partner in mischief. Composing her psyche for the challenge she faced, she searched the street ahead for a decent place to pull over. It appeared she’d have a good spot just up the road a tad further. Good thing she’d taken this alternate route to work. Not much traffic traveled this old road.
“There there, guys. It’s okay. Hang with me just a wee bit longer and we’ll get you cleaned up,” she coached the dogs, having no unearthly clue how exactly she was going to do that. Never one for organization, she could only hope while God was hee-hawing about her predicament, he’d have the decency to pitch down a roll of paper towels or produce a magical box of tissue.
Increasingly shallow pants and gross gurgles once again consumed Darling’s body. Roxy hit the panic button way ahead of her dogs.
“Nooooooooooo...” Before the air even left Roxy’s lungs carrying her message through even higher octaves of a Hollywood-worthy cartoon voice-over, Darling was at it again. This time, the pup relieved her ailment - projectile style - all over the dashboard and center console.
Making a decent effort to keep the foul fluid from landing on her neck, shoulders, and vintage-inspired couture t-shirt, Roxy tried to punch the brakes for an emergency exit from the roadway. Instead of a Nascar-qualifying pit stop, the heel of her Blahnik caught between the floor mat and the accelerator, forcing her car square into the rear-end of Grandpa Jones’ truck. Roxy rode out the impact in bumper car fashion as the two vehicles careened off the side of the road and came to an abrupt stop.
“Damn.” She lowered her head against the wheel, forgetting to make sure none of Darling’s snacks had decided to take up residence prior to her landing. “I’m such an idiot.”
In the hullabaloo of noise emanating from not only her dogs going ape-shit after the crash but Grandpa’s mutt sounding off too, Roxy wished with everything in her she was just an unwitting participant in some way too vivid nightmare. Taking a deep breath, the stench from the car filled her nostrils and brought her oh-so-back to reality.
Oh, God. What if the guy is hurt? Or what if his dog is too? Roxy jerked her head from the wheel so fast a dizzy fog overtook her mind. She may have much more to worry about than coming up with money to fix her car and Grandpa’s truck. She could have injured him – and his dog too.
She rested her head once more on the steering wheel. Images of Judy Garland lying on her bed on her way to Munchkin Land in the midst of the tornado swirled through Roxy’s mind in Technicolor splendor. She could hear the Wicked Witch taunting her and her “little dog too”.
She shouldn’t have tried to save a few bucks by buying Dipstick and Darling the tractor supply store’s off-brand dog treats. Look where that had gotten her. How could such terrific ideas at the time end up going so wrong?
She took a chance and looked away from the wheel at what she was convinced would be another nightmare in front of her. But she couldn’t see through the smoke rising from underneath the crumpled hood of her way-too-pricy sedan. Trying to peer through the haze, she panicked. She still couldn’t see Grandpa or his dog.
A brisk tap against her driver’s side window caused Roxy’s heart to race. She was sure she’d look through the glass only to find the man and his dog dripping with blood. She shivered. She’d seen way too many scary movies with one nanny after another.
Afraid to take another deep breath for fear on the inhale she’d succumb to the hurl hell surrounding her, she looked through the window.
Grandpa Jones had morphed into a hunky, hot cowboy, complete with a sexy-as-all-hell square jaw. A single strand of straw precariously dangled from his sinfully ornery grin. And a lock of unruly, sandy blonde hair fell over his flirtatious, dark mocha eyes.
Roxy’s insides shook, but not from fear or exasperation. Perhaps God was guffawing at her misstep. But Roxy might just have the last laugh. It seemed her luck had changed.

Buy it on AmazonStompin' on Stetsons (The Bootscootin' Books) 

or  on Smashwords for only $2.99!

STOMPIN' ON STETSONS

CHAPTER ONE

The sweet allure of vanilla extract and cinnamon chips tickled Jules Lichtenstien’s nose.

She inhaled with the gusto of a yoga master, coaxing her subterranean, larger-than-life-sustaining breath to steady her discombobulated nerves. Short of abandoning the kitchen in favor of her yoga studio, meditative breathing was her only hope of achieving a state somewhat resembling the elusion of sanity.
“Push. Pull. Fold.” Chanting her pastry chef mantra, she worked her mind in place of over-working the dough.
Using the heel of her hand, she pushed the dough away then back, folding it over as she pulled. With each choreographed motion, she envisioned her masseuse kneading her muscles with the same concentrated pressure.
Handling the powdery ball with schooled finesse, she patted it into a ten-inch circle then reached for a cookie cutter. Pressing the cutter’s metal edges into the dough, she punched out a baker’s dozen, wishing she could separate her thoughts as easily as scones.
As if her head were a gigantic tube of icing about to spurt into action, she closed her eyes, squeezing her warring thoughts into a tiny tip of reason.
Placing the scones on an un-greased baking sheet, Jules relaxed her shoulders and settled into her routine. Craving nothing but culinary love in the form of a hot, gooey tea biscuit, she poured her restless energy into pastry chef mode, focusing on the confectionary magic beneath her fingertips.
She brushed the scone tops with beaten egg whites and added a dusting of sugar. Sliding the sheet into the oven, she poked the arrows on the control panel keypad until the numbers ticked off second-by-second. She didn’t have the eighteen minutes it took scones to bake. But if she didn’t feed her tormented ego, along with her work plan, she’d never psych up for her meeting with Music City socialite Sienna Cruz.
Pressing her thumbs into the tingling flesh at the back of her neck, Jules moved her fingers in rhythmic circles, rubbing out the pings of stress hammering the base of her skull.
The renovation of the building for her new bakery and catering company was on schedule. Sort of. Sort of being not close to acceptable considering she’d landed the meeting with Sienna for the company’s first big catering event. She should feel great. Terrific. The Cruz gig, if successful, would go a long way toward securing the CMA Fan Fest food service contract. And that job would be Jules’ golden, candy apple. The belle of her bakery’s dough balls.
Hypothetically, her double boiler should be bubbling over with good fortune. Apparently, however, hers was simmering with nothing but pessimism. Hissing streams of doubt gurgled in her stomach. Her normally confident exterior was overtaken by Mount Vesuvius proportioned, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking eruptions.
She flipped on the coffee grinder, cranking the dial from medium to finely ground, counting on the robust flavor to drown out her espresso strength hesitation. With the grinder whirring down to its last, desperate chugs, she coached her inner Buddha to dig a deep refuge in the name of culinary enlightenment.
Doing her best to keep her nerves as level as the quarter-cup into which she measured the ash-like grounds, Jules glanced at the clock on the oven. Quarter after nine. Damn. Before she could call an end to the latest in a string of exhausting days, she had to make the berry pudding and get it into the refrigerator.
Where the hell was Cody with her berries?
She loaded the dishwasher, trying to unload her irritation, dangling the enormity of Sienna’s wedding in front of her muses, hoping like hell they’d save her ass.
Foreseeing her company’s demise at the hands of her over-zealous ambitions, she wandered the streets of self-pity-ville. Hearing the doorbell chime, she sidestepped a deep gutter of gloom in favor of the ass chewing she’d dish Cody.
How was she supposed to make Sweet Destiny a success if she couldn’t count on her produce man to deliver on time? Good thing he was a terrific guy, fantastic friend and fabulous looking. Otherwise, he’d be replaced.
She opened the door, her lips set to hurl him a stern warning. But once her eyes took in his sweet as maple sugar smile, her vocal chords froze stiffer than her award-winning meringue.
Cody Weiss, the best fruit and vegetable man in Nashville, Tennessee, stood on her porch with a basket load of gorgeous, fresh-picked raspberries, blackberries and blueberries.
Damn his perfect fruit. And damn his dreamy, Stetson-covered head.

Buy it on Amazon Buckles Me Baby (The Bootscootin' Books)

or on Smashwords for only $2.99!

BUCKLE UP BABY

CHAPTER ONE

Audrey Holtz opened the foil pouch and removed the test stick – the third one for the day, used exactly four hours apart for maximum accuracy.  She reset the kitchen timer, no longer finding its egg shape a quirky fun, eclectic design element.  Removing the cap from the stick, she latched onto the thumb grip.  A tremor ricocheted through her palm to her fingertips.
With the absorbent tip pointed down in her urine stream, Audrey peed the five seconds required...and only five seconds, per the instruction sheet.  Replacing the cap over the wet tip containing the chemical composition of her future, she laid the stick on the bathroom countertop’s flat surface, praying her own egg hadn’t also been tipped.  In two minutes, she’d know if Damian, her dream man who had no intentions of becoming a dream dad, would be tickled with relief or on his beloved tractor headed to Tijuana.
The blue line appeared in the control window indicating the test had worked.  Not that that was any sort of consolation.  All kinds of parts were working she hadn’t planned on.  To ensure her reproductive competency and sanity, she had to see the plus or minus sign one more time.  
Being irregular, in menstrual-speak, above and beyond her propensity for psychobabble eccentricities, was a definite detriment.  How the hell was she supposed to pinpoint a pregnancy when she couldn’t pinpoint her ovulation cycle?  She’d be a fertility specialist’s worst nightmare...not that that kind of expertise appeared necessary according to the results of test one and two.
With the timer revealing a minute until the fate of her fertilization would show in the stick’s result area, she went over what she did know.
Yes.  She had the urinary frequency of a prima donna of the throne.  But that could be attributed to one-too-many red eyes from her favorite coffee shop.  Yes.  She’d been a bit tired lately, but certainly not enough to get her down.  She had too much to do to cater to fatigue.  No.  She hadn’t had one episode of nausea - the most valid argument against impending pregnancy. 
If it weren’t for her discolored areolas, she wouldn’t be peeing on sticks.  They’d not only darkened around her nipples, they’d increased to an alarming diameter.  And her breasts had taken on a new level of tender achiness, pain enough to send her to the pharmacy for a home pregnancy test triple pack.
The test sticks, God love ‘em, were quick.  Just like the directions touted, they were as easy as one-two-pee, although Audrey still held out hope that hers was the three percent not accurate.  The test claimed to be more reliable the closer to P-day she was.  But she had no clue when her P-day should have been.  So she’d waited, per the testing guide, for the longest number of days she’d cycled in the last six months. 
When she’d read false-positives were much less common than false negatives, meaning her two-time positive results indicated she was more than likely pregnant, her hopes for error vanished.
So much for the fact that the two previous plus signs were faint, ultra light shades of blue.  She refused to use the term ‘baby blue’.  The only way the pluses could appear period, pun intended, was if her body contained hCG, the hormone a developing placenta produces during pregnancy.  The darker the plus sign, the higher the hCG and the further along she was.  Although her pluses had been faint, the fact they were there about caused her to faint.  She could be anywhere from six to twelve days pregnant, with an embryo already implanted in her uterus.
Did she have an intuition she was pregnant, that “feeling” that many women say they have within moments of conception?  Did she think she had a bun in her oven before her kitchen timer dinged and the first two blue pluses lit up the result screens?  Not so much.  But that changed when her areolas took on a life full of gusto.
The timer went off for the last time, and Audrey meant the last time.  She threw out the damn thing, convinced it was a fertility goddess instead of a baking aid.  She blinked, took a deep breath, remained seated on her throne then opened her eyes to reality.
Blue plus number three.  Shit! 
Damian was soooo going to wish he’d kept riding his John Deere instead of her.

The #1 Amazon Bestselling Book

Buy it on Amazon  Muse Therapy: Unleashing Your Inner Sybil

or on Smashwords for only $2.99!

MUSE THERAPY:
UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL

 

Could you use a writer's go-to-gal for muse disorders? If so, stop looking 'cause you found her. I'm D. D. Scott, an agented, romantic comedy writer and a muse therapist in the making.

In addition to the MUSE THERAPY Bestselling Book, I'm thrilled to have launched my Muse Therapy Online Classes and Live Workshops.

The sessions are proving to be a huge hit. I'm booking dates like crazy!!!

So here's the scoop:

ONLINE CLASS/LIVE WORKSHOP DESCRIPTION:

Muse Therapy - D. D. Scott style - is all about injecting life into tired and/or stressed out muses. I'll give writers fun and fabulous tools to analyze their muses' funks, reign in their creative divas and up their page counts.

Discover what makes your muses tick. What ticks them off. And what makes them dance like nobody's watching.

We'll name your muses and host a very special meet-and-greet just for them, then dig deep into their psyches by examining "muse disorders" such as:

** Unleashing Your Inner Sybil
** Writing Bi-Polar: I Suck vs. I'm a Genius
** What Do You Mean I'm Neurotic? No, I'm Not. Well, Not Exactly. But Okay...There Are Times When. Like You Need To Know That. Anyway, I Was Thinking, My Jeep Is Red
** Rorschach For Writers: I See Dead Lines
** Stimulants: When Coffee, Chocolate, and Martinis Aren't Enough

Once we recognize, acknowledge and accept your muses' afflictions, we'll find terrific tricks and "trips" to treat our word witches.

So if your muse is in need of a tune-up, grab a comfy couch or chair and put up your feet. You're in the right session.

I provide Muse Therapy Online Classes for either two or four weeks and can do a Live Workshop anywhere from an hour to a full day. Just depends on how long you'd like to be in therapy. LOL!!!

I'll provide fabulous hand-outs for group loop files and super-cool tchotchkes for all participants. Muse Therapy Live also has a fabulous PowerPoint presentation and hilariously productive, interactive exercises!

You’ll have a terrific time conquering your creative divas and taking back the crown of your personal Muse-ville kingdom.
Click here for dates of currently scheduled classes
Click here to sign up for Muse Therapy

SPEAKER/PRESENTER BIO:

D. D. Scott is a romantic comedy author and a Writer’s Go-To-Gal for Muse Therapy,  plus the #1 Amazon Bestselling Author of MUSE THERAPY: UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL and the co-founder of The Writer’s Guide to E-Publishing, your destination site for Everything E-Publishing.  You can get all the scoop on her, her books, her Muse Therapy Online Classes and Live Workshops, plus juicy tidbits from her fabulous grog The Naked Hero at http://www.ddscott.com/.
Full Bio:
D. D. Scott’s romantic comedies are all about sexy, sassy, smart, career-driven women and the men who complete them.  They're a bit chick lit with a gone-country twist.  She’s agented, and her Bootscootin’ Books Series - think Sex and The City meets Urban Cowboy – debuted August 2010, on Amazon’s Kindle and at Smashwords, with BOOTSCOOTIN’ BLAHNIKS, followed by STOMPIN’ ON STETSONS (November 2010) and now BUCKLES ME BABY (February 2011).
She's a member of RWA as well as RWA's Chick Lit Writers of the World, Kiss of Death, ScriptScene, ESPAN, and IRWA Chapters plus served on RWA’s History Committee for the National RWA Board.  She's been a guest blogger on Romance Writers on the Journey, Inside the Writer’s Mind, Daily Dose Fantasy Romance, Romance University, Romance Lives Forever, Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers, Lesa’s Book Critiques, Savvy Authors and Healthy Writers.  She can also be spotted every Wednesday on Mount Olympus fulfilling her duties as The Naked Hero’s Hump-Day Goddess.  She is linked to on Romancing the Blog and also has an active blog of her own on her website at http://www.ddscott.com/.  In addition, her first RWR articles were published by RWA in the July 2010 and October 2010 issues.
Also a Writer’s Go-to-Gal for Muse Therapy and now the Amazon #1 Bestselling Author of MUSE THERAPY: UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL, D. D. debuted her Muse Therapy Online Classes in 2009 and her Live Workshops in 2010.  Thanks to the fabulous endorsement of Stephen Windwalker’s Kindle Nation Daily, there’s a ton more fun and fascinating MUSE THERAPY adventures in development.
    
D. D.’s busy now preparing for the May 2011 launch of her new Cozy “Cash” Mysteries – think a very Rachel Zoe-esque Stephanie Plum wanna-be and her Charlie’s Angels Mom Squad Style sidekicks meet the new SEC’s Walker, Texas Ranger.
Declaring 2011 to be “The Year of the E-Book & Cross-Pollination”, D. D. co-founded and launched The Writer’s Guide to E-Publishing, your destination site for Everything E-Publishing.  Whatever you want to know and/or cuss and discuss about E-publishing, it’s right there at The WG2E waiting for you!
When she’s not writing, she’s busy luvin’ on her real-life hero “Sweet Man” and their beloved shelter-rescued dog Buckley.
For updates on her books, her sexy, sassy, smart neurotic writer's life blog, and for a schedule of her appearances and Muse Therapy Sessions, visit her website. 

YOU KNOW YOU NEED MUSE THERAPY WHEN...

1. Your muses aren’t ticking. They’re ticked off.

2. Your muses are in a funk unable to up your page counts. They’re more like: Up Yours

3. Even great sex with (insert your partner of choice here), or a new pair of shoes, or a day at the spa, or (you get the picture) can’t rein in your creative divas

4. You feel the urge to sign-up for the following classes:

** Unleashing Your Inner Sybil

** Writing Bi-Polar: I Suck vs. I'm a Genius

** What Do You Mean I'm Neurotic? No, I'm Not. Well, Not Exactly. But Okay...There Are Times When. Like You Need to Know That. Anyway, I Was Thinking, My Jeep Is Red

** Rorschach For Writers: I See Dead Lines

** Stimulants: When Coffee, Chocolate and Martinis Aren't Enough

5. Your word witches have landed in Oz but that don’t look like no Yellow Brick Road you’re bootscootin’ on...the damn thing never ends!

6. Your ass hurts, your back hurts, your head hurts, your fingers are numb, the kids/DH/dog/cat/other family pets and family members/friends/neighbors/telemarketers/reality TV stars must have your undivided attention now and they mean now...not after your “dumb” writing timer goes off an hour later. Everyone has told you your writing is a waste of time, just a “hobby” that will never “pay-off”...Maybe they’re right.

7. You feel the urge to tell everyone listed in reason number six to (I’m thinking of a phrase that starts with a 4-letter word and ends with a ‘you’, ‘off’ or ‘me’)

Do not...I repeat...do not panic. You are not alone. The writing gods and goddesses have not dumped you out of the muse chariot. Okay...so maybe they did. They can be a bit bitchy. But fear not, there’s help for you!

So if your muse is in need of a tune-up, grab a comfy couch or chair and put-up your feet. You’re soon to be in the right therapy group.

Sign-up for the next available Muse Therapy Online Class Session right here using this form. Classes will be conducted by a private Yahoo loop.
Available Classes:
April 1, 2011 - April 30, 2011
May 16, 2011 - May 30, 2011
June 1, 2011 - June 30, 2011
July 18, 2011 - July 31, 2011
August 1, 2011 - August 31, 2011
September 17, 2011 - September 30, 2011
October 1, 2011 - October 31, 2011
November 1, 2011 - November 15, 2011
Cost:Four-Week Classes $20 and Two-Week Classes $10

See you in therapy...Muse Therapy – D. D. Scott style.

Romantic Comedy Author and a Writer's Go-To-Gal for Muse Therapy
Plus the Amazon #1 Bestselling Author of
MUSE THERAPY: UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL (Oct. 2010 Kindle & Smashwords)BOOTSCOOTIN' BLAHNIKS (Aug. 2010 Kindle & Smashwords)
STOMPIN' ON STETSONS (Nov. 2010 Kindle & Smashwords)
BUCKLES ME BABY (Feb. 2011 Kindle & Smashwords)
http://www.DDScott.com
http://twitter.com/ddscottromcom
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/profile.php?id=100001238957002
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/949843.D_D_Scott
http://thenakedhero.com
http://thewritersguidetoepublishing.com/