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Today I’m thrilled to have B.J Scott, author of Highland Home Coming, book three of her Highland trilogy, with me in the Blue Rose Writing Room.
Welcome B.J.
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Do you use a pen name/pseudo name? If so, why. If not, why did you decide to write under your own name?
Yes. I chose to use the name B.J Scott for a number of reason, the main one being the sir name Scott, was the maiden name of both my grandmothers. My paternal grandmother, Barbara Scott, was born in Kirkintillock, Scotland, just outside Glasgow. She came to Canada when she was 21, alone and looking to start a new life. Very courageous for a woman in the mid 1920s. She went to Toronto and met my grandfather through a mutual acquaintance. They married, raised four sons. Sadly she passed away at age 42, six weeks before I was born so I never got to know my namesake. But storied of how wonderful she was and how much she adored her family live on in my heart.
My maternal grandmother, Gertrude Scott, was born in St Helens England, near the English Scottish border. She came to Canada as a child, the youngest of four girls. She met and married my grandfather, raised four children and held the family together during the great depression and during the hard times brought on by WWII. Both ladies were heroines in their own ways and I thought taking this pseudo name was a fitting tribute. My real initials are B. J. The J for Joyce, my mother’s first name. So I am essentially paying tribute to all three ladies who had an impact on who I am today.
I took Cameron from my maternal grandparents and I live near a town named St. Helens. Tell, us, how long have you been writing?
I have dabbled in writing since I was a teen, but started writing in earnest in 2001. However life has its way of putting up roadblocks and obstacles so it was not until 2010 that I dusted off my manuscripts and decided to submit them for consideration.
Life has a way of doing that! What’s one thing you absolutely can’t tolerate during your writing? One thing you can’t write without?
Distraction. But living in a house with a husband, four dogs and a cat makes it almost impossible to avoid. I can easily be drawn away from my writing and it is something hard to get the muse back once it is interrupted. Funny, on the same note, I find it hard to write in total silence. I need some white noise, a radio or even the TV on to work. Unless I am in the bathtub and that is where I get my best ideas.
I’m the opposite. I need quiet. What’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said to you about your writing? Or the unkindest? Or the oddest?
When I first started out, I joined a writing group, a list where people wrote stories and posted them for the other members to read. I was very excited about my first offering, got some very nice comments, but one person decided that I was not and never would be a writer and did not mince words telling me so. I was naturally crushed, but decided to prove her wrong. I enrolled in creative writing classes, and online workshops. It took me a few years of hard work, but the day my first book, Highland Legacy, hit the e-book stands, I felt a great satisfaction in knowing she was wrong.
I think every author I’ve talked to has had a similar experience. Can you tell us on place you absolutely want to visit before you die?
Scotland. It has haunted me my entire life and that is one place I hope to visit.
Me too. I’m hoping to go in the next couple of years and spend 3-4 weeks. Why did you choose to write in this genre? Have you ever written any other genre? Do you plan on doing so in the future?
I am and always have loved history so it was a logical choice that I write historical romance. Given my love and fascination for anything Scottish or Celtic, Scottish historicals became my passion. I have written paranormal romance, romantic suspense and a few contemporary books that are all kept in files and have never been seen by an editor. Someday maybe. In addition to Scottish stories, I am also drawn to ones about the American Civil war and Native American Culture and history. One book I am working on now is a paranormal time travel that revolves around the Civil War.
Oh, that does sound intriguing! Is there any genre you won’t read? Write? Can you tell us why?
I am not a huge fan of reading contemporary books, while I have written some and in the past read my fair share. There have been some that once I started, I could not put down. Science fiction, steam punk and fantasy books are ones I would be least likely to pick up and have no desire to write.
What are you most proud of about your writing?
That my books have brightened the life of my readers, or provided them with a means to escape the problems of day-to-day life, even if it is only for a few hours. Getting feedback from people who have bought my book is amazing, and I appreciate each and every reader.
Without our readers and reviewers, where would we be? And that’s a perfect segue into my next question. How do you respond to negative reviews?
Negative reviews are never easy to take. We all want the readers to love our work, but I try to keep them in perspective. I know not everyone will love every kind of book and also know there is always room for improvement. When we start to believe our books are perfect then we had better step back and take a good look. I try to use negative comments to improve my writing.
Great attitude. So, what is something you are determined to do?
Write full time. I hope that someday my books will be good enough that I can follow my dream and write when ever and where ever I please.
The ultimate dream of every writer I think. What are you most afraid of?
Spiders and crawling insects
Spiders…yuck. Shuddering here. Do you have a favorite quote?
I have many. I have been a fan of C.S. Lewis since I was a child and first read The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. He has so many memorable quotes, picking one would be hard.
Tell us something unusual, quirky, or odd about yourself?
I write in the bathtub. When I am stuck and can’t get beyond a problem in a book, I run a hot bath, fill it with lavender bubbles and write. I have been known to stay in there for hours. But when I come out, the chapter is done or problem resolved.
And you’re a bit pruney too, I’ll bet.
Okay, now for the quickie questions: Answer in three words or less. Ready? Go!
Favorite Disney Character? Bambi
Favorite Fruit? Strawberries
Favorite Hero? Sitting Bull
Favorite Eye Color? brown
Best Vacation Destination? Hawaii
Food you can’t stand? Canned green beans
What annoys you? People who don’t listen and jump to conclusions.
Coffee, tea, or something else? Green tea
Nightgown or Jammies? Nightgown
Prefer dogs or cats? Dogs, but have both
Here’s a bit about B.J.
With a passion for historical romance, history in general, and anything Celtic, B.J. always has an exciting work in progress. Each story offers a blend of romance, adventure, suspense, and, where appropriate, a dab of comic relief. Carefully researched historical facts are woven into each manuscript, providing a backdrop from which steamy romance, gripping plots, and vivid characters—dashing alpha heroes and resourceful, beguiling heroines you can’t help but admire—spring to life. A PAN member of RWA, World Romance Writers, Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, and Savvy Authors, B.J. also writes contemporary, paranormal, time travel, and romantic suspense.
C.S. Lewis first captivated B. J.’s imagination in the fourth grade, and her desire to write sprang from there. Following a career in nursing and child and youth work, B.J. married her knight-in-shining-armor, and he whisked her away to his castle by the sea. In reality, they share their century-old home in a small Canadian town on the shore of Lake Erie with three dogs and a cat. When she is not working at her childcare job, on her small business, or writing, you will find her reading, camping, or antique hunting.
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A tantalizing intro to Highland Homecoming
The last thing Alasdair Fraser expects to find on an isolated beach in Northern Scotland is a beautiful, unconscious lass. Unable to turn his back on someone in need, he delays his journey and tends to her injuries–an act that has him questioning his destiny and his plans to rejoin the fight for Scotland’s independence.
Will he drop the shield that guards his heart or will the secrets she fails to reveal, and his own stubbornness keep them apart forever?
An excerpt from Highland Homecoming
Northern Coast of Scotland . Summer 1308
Hooves pounded against rocks, surf, and sand as Alasdair Fraser pushed his mount beyond reasonable limits. Few things rivaled the thrill and exhilarating rush of mastering the powerful destrier between his thighs, controlling the magnificent beast with reins and will. The wind whipped through unbound hair and the tangy scent of the salty sea air filled Alasdair’s nostrils.
He’d ridden hard all afternoon, hoping to reach the stronghold of his longtime friend, Jayden Sinclair. But the sun had slipped below the horizon, the twilight sky ablaze with orange, red, and purple hues. Darkness would soon be upon him and he’d be forced to make camp for the night. He licked his parched lips and his stomach rumbled. Many hours had passed since he’d last eaten, but a hot meal and a tankard of ale would have to wait. Water, oatcakes, and a bit of dried venison would suffice until he reached his destination.
He dug in his heels, and the steed surged forward. The more distance they covered before nightfall, the shorter the journey would be on the morrow. But as they rounded a bend in the shoreline, Odin faltered, reared up on his hind legs, then began to dance nervously from side-to-side. The battle-hardened warhorse didn’t spook easily so Alasdair took heed of the animal’s uneasiness.
With one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other fisting the reins, he carefully surveyed the immediate area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, yet the niggling of trepidation gnawing at his gut led him to believe there was something amiss. He nudged the horse’s flank and the pair advanced with caution.
They’d only traveled a short distance up the beach when the sight of something a few yards ahead at the water’s edge brought them to an abrupt halt. With his heart hammering in his chest, Alasdair cupped his hand over his brow and narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look. The image came into focus and he could make out the unmistakable outline of a person sprawled out on the shore.
“What is it, Odin? Or, should I say, who is it?”
While this could be someone in need, it might also be a trap, an enemy or bandit lying in wait. Without hesitation, Alasdair slid from the saddle, pulled a claymore from the baldric slung on his back, and raced down the beach on foot. Stopping a few feet away, he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Mo chreach!”
He sheathed his weapon and took a step closer. A young woman, wearing nothing more than a thin nightrail, lay motionless in the sand, the waves of the incoming tide lapping at her bare feet.
“Mayhap a Selkie has washed up from the ocean’s depths,” he muttered and nudged her foot with the toe of his boot.
As a lad he’d heard many a tale of the legendary creatures, romantic tragedies about cunning seals that shed their skin then transformed into humans. They supposedly took the shape of beautiful women, waiting for unsuspecting suitors to whisk them away and marry them. Fishermen were rumored to go in search of these magical creatures and when they happened upon one, stole their pelt so they could not change back. They took the lass home to be wives and mothers, but if a selkie found their fur and returned to the sea, they left behind desolate, broken men.
Alasdair gave his head a rough shake. Only a fool believed in such fables and he was neither a religious or superstitious man. He made his own luck and governed his own fate. Whether he believed in myths mattered not.
As he moved closer, his pulse doubled and his groin stirred. A man would have to be blind to remain unaffected by the way the wet garment clung to her slender figure, narrow waist, and firm round buttocks. Waist-length, flaxen hair, the color of summer wheat, hung in a tangle of seaweed and sodden ringlets down the center of her back. With her head turned to the side, he noticed thick dark lashes resting on pale cheeks, and her lips held the blue-grey tint of death.
He squatted beside her. How did she come to be on the beach alone? Did someone attack her and, if so, was the scoundrel still lurking nearby?
Alasdair peered over his shoulder in all directions, but saw no one. Other than his own, no footprints marred the sand, leaving him to conclude that the waves had carried her to this spot.
Did she fall from a passing ship or lose her footing on a rocky crag and topple into the sea? A myriad of questions flooded his mind as he lifted her cold, limp wrist.
No pulse.
He pressed two fingertips to her throat. When he felt a faint heartbeat, he rocked back on his heels and blew out a sigh of relief.
Uncertain as to the extent of her injuries, he carefully rolled her to her back. He gazed down at her delicate features and breathtaking beauty.
Her drenched gown was almost transparent, leaving little to his imagination. Through the sheer fabric, perfectly sculpted breasts, tipped with pert, rosy buds summoned him for a taste. Long, shapely legs went on forever, and a nest of tawny curls guarded her most intimate place.
“Enough!” He gave his head another shake. She required assistance. He was not interested in getting involved with this woman, with any woman. Lifting a lass’ skirt spelled nothing but trouble. Unlike his two younger brothers, he’d not be lured or swayed by a comely face and end up betrothed. He was a warrior dedicated to the Scottish cause and he had no use for a woman in his life.
He cursed beneath his breath. Why had the Almighty seen fit to bring him to this spot? Surely someone else was better suited to tend to her needs. Fate had indeed played a cruel trick and saddled him with an unwanted burden sure to complicate his life. But he could never walk away. No matter how unwelcome the task, he could not turn his back on someone in peril. Suffering from exposure to the elements, she needed his help, not lust-filled thoughts of a randy lad or the ranting of an insensitive oaf.
He brushed the sand from her face and scanned her body for visible signs of injury. While there didn’t appear to be any broken limbs, he could not be certain unless he examined her more closely. But with the quickly rising tide and daylight fading, there was no time to tarry. Her shallow breathing, icy skin, and ashen complexion gave him cause for concern. In the past, he’d seen men topple from a horse or fall from atop a roof and appear unharmed, only to succumb to unseen injury a short time later. If this were the case, he feared there was nothing he could do but make her as comfortable as possible and wait for God to take her.
He swept a wisp of hair from her brow, revealing a dark, purple bruise above her left eye. When he called to her and gently tapped her cheek with the flat of his hand, she didn’t respond.
By some divine miracle she hadn’t drown. However, if he didn’t get her off the beach and out of her wet clothes soon, she’d surely perish. He had no idea how long she’d been in the frigid water, but every minute wasted brought her closer to death.
Connect with B.J.
BUY LINKS:
Highland Legacy http://www.amazon.com/Highland-Legacy-ebook/dp/B0065KX8P8
Highland Quest http://www.amazon.com/Highland-Quest-ebook/dp/B00AQKYPU0
