I’m thrilled to have Meggan Conners, Author of Jessie’s War, a western steampunk romance.
Tell, us Meggan, how long have you been writing?
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. Grad school and the massive thesis sort of killed the will to write for a little while (I did write a few scholarly journal articles). Then, about four years ago (my soon-to-be-first-grader was two), I thought I’d start writing a romance novel. Just for fun.
Four months later, I had a first draft. It was pretty terrible, but by then I was hooked!
Writing is addicting! Do you use a pen name/pseudo name? If so, why. If not, why did you decide to write under your own name?
I do use a pen name. I work with preschoolers with autism in my day job, so I figured if I was going to write books that have the hibbity-dibbity in them, I should probably use a pseudonym. Also, I figure it’s less embarrassing for the kids as they get older.
As a fellow educator, I completely understand. I keep telling my third graders they cannot read my books! What’s one thing you absolutely can’t tolerate during your writing? One thing you can’t write without?
When I write, I assign a song to the manuscript. If I can’t find a song, I actually have a hard time finishing the manuscript. So, if there’s one thing I can’t write without, it’s music.
I’m just the opposite. I have to have complete quiet. What’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said to you about your writing? Or the unkindest? Or the oddest?
I once got a rejection that said, “This needs extensive reworking, and massive editing. This whole story is boring, and I couldn’t finish it. I have a headache.”
Which was funny, because the next place I submitted to picked it up with glowing praise. Without any extensive reworking or massive editing. Go figure.
I guess the other funny thing that happened was pretty recent. I got a four star review, but the review itself was awful. The reviewer said that the book at least “had balance” because my characters were both “dumb as rocks.” I’ll admit, I laughed at that.
Ah, the subjectiveness of being an author. One size doesn’t fit all, does it? So, what’s one place you absolutely want to visit before you die?
Istanbul. I really want to go to the bazaar and the Hagia Sophia.
Now that sounds interesting! 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 love historicals, and I love paranormal, and I think steampunk—particularly this steampunk—is a natural outgrowth of those two genres. I’ve written both steampunk and paranormal, and right now, I’m re-editing an urban fantasy that I started about three and a half years ago.
I’m considering dabbling in contemporary… I have a western romantic suspense that has been floating in my head for a while now, and I might try my hand at writing it. I read across genres, and it seems natural that if I do, other people do, too.
Is there any genre you won’t read? Write? Can you tell us why?
I read almost anything, except cozy mysteries, and I guess that I read some of these too. As for what I won’t write, well, I probably won’t write cozies, just because they’re not my bag, and probably not inspirational, either. While a strong vein of redemption through love and faith runs through many of my works, there are too many rules in inspirational for me to do it justice.
That, and my characters swear. In some books, they swear more than in others. A lot more, depending on the character. J
I’ve found that to be true of inspirational as well. What historical figure do you wish you could have met?
Christopher Marlow. I have had a thing for him since…well, forever. Is that weird? I just really like Elizabethans, and I always thought that Christopher Marlow was a more interesting character than Shakespeare.
Nope, it’s not weird. I’ve got a thing for Robert Louise Steveson. Meggan, how do you respond to negative reviews?
Chocolate and scotch.
Being honest, I try not to read them. I try not to read any of my reviews, even the good ones, though I will admit that it does happen. When a book gets a bad review, I’ll tell husband about it and then move on. Some people will love my work. Some people will hate it. I just have to remember that I’m writing for the people who love it.
Also, it’s important for me to disassociate. I’ve had a hard time learning to say, “My book got a negative review,” as opposed to, “I got a negative review.” People can reject my work and not like it, but it doesn’t mean that I am not a perfectly lovely person and they wouldn’t like me. It’s taken awhile for me to realize that, simply by changing the way I word things, the better it is for my psyche. I am not this book. The panning or praising the book receives has nothing, really, to do with me personally.
When all of that fails, chocolate and scotch always helps.
Well, part of my motto is you can’t have too much chocolate. It’s a cure all, isn’t it? Can you tell your readers what’s one new thing you’d like to try?
I really want to zip line through the jungle of Costa Rica. It looks like fun!
That sounds fun . . . and scary. What are you most afraid of?
Rats. Cows. Killer clowns. (Try to figure that one out, right?)
Collette here; I loathe clowns!!!
Actually, I do have a phobia of rats. My earliest memory—my mother says I was barely two (I have a long and detailed memory, much to my husband’s vexation)—is of me, standing at the slider, and looking out the window into the backyard. For some reason, someone decided it was a good idea to put dog food in my wagon overnight, and I really wanted to play with my wagon. But the rats had come out of the blackberry briar behind our house, and they were in my red wagon, eating the dog food. I remember looking out that window and seeing them, and they stared back at me. No fear, in broad daylight.
These weren’t the mice or kangaroo rats that we have out here, which are kind of cute even if I do want to vomit when I see them in real life. These were the knock-your-teeth-in rats of the Deep South. I remember them being as big as my head. My head was little back then, so, uh, maybe?
Anyway, that’s my story of how my phobia was born.
(As an aside, my mother says it wasn’t so much the rats that made her decide I couldn’t go outside. It was the snakes that had followed the rats that did that.)
Okay, now for the quickie questions: Answer in three words or less. Ready? Go!
Favorite Disney Character? Maleficent.
Favorite Fruit? Strawberries
Favorite Hero? My husband (Super saccharine, right?)
Favorite Eye Color? Dark brown or hazel
Best Vacation Destination? Mendocino Coast, CA
Food you can’t stand? The ones I’m allergic to.
What annoys you? My mother’s dog.
Coffee, tea, or something else? Coffee. Hands down.
Nightgown or Jammies? Sweats
Prefer dogs or cats? Dogs, but I love my cat. (Me too!)
Here’s a little something about Meggan:
And the blurb about Jessie’s War:
The American Civil War has raged for more than ten years. The outcast daughter of a famous inventor, Jessica White has struggled to salvage what little remains of her life. Then, one cold winter night, the lover she’d given up for dead returns, claiming the Union Army bought the plans for her father’s last invention. But he’s not the only one who lays claim to the device, for the Confederacy wants the invention as well. Both sides will kill to have it.
…And only he can save her.
As an agent for the Union Army, Luke Bradshaw is a man who will use whomever and whatever is at his disposal in order to complete his mission. An attack by Confederate soldiers ensures that Jessie will turn to him for help, but Luke can’t help but wonder about the secrets she keeps—and if those secrets will ultimately prove fatal.
Excerpt of Jessie’s War:
Someone knocked, and Muha’s tentative barking turned hysterical.
Taking her revolving shotgun back down, she crept to the lever that would pull down the shutters and arm the Gatling gun mounted to the rooftop.
“Go home, sheriff. Not talking to you today.”
“It’s not the sheriff.”
Her hand froze and the shotgun clattered to the floor. Gooseflesh dotted her arms and her pulse quickened, a frantic rat-a-tat-tatlike a hail of bullets, as her body recognized what her logical mind denied.
The room went quiet. Muha sat with her ears pricked up, her tail thumping cautiously against the worn pine floor. The wolf recognized the gravelly voice, too.
The knock became more insistent, sharper. “Please open the door, Jessie.”
It was a dead man’s voice.
She struggled to fill her lungs with air as the pine door shook beneath her visitor’s heavy fists. Those hands would be big and strong and ridged with calluses. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she tried not to think about them. Or their owner.
She’d gotten over his loss just like she’d gotten over all the others.
With trembling hands, Jessie picked up her shotgun and rested it against the wall. Her legs leaden, she walked to the door and put her hand on the knob, but hesitated.
She’d dreamed of this moment for years, of this man walking back into her life.
Now she couldn’t bring herself to let him in.
“Please. It’s freezing out here.”
She turned the knob, and Luke Bradshaw stood in her doorway, the brim of his hat heavy with snow, and small flakes clung to the dark lashes fringing his silver eyes.
He was as tall as she remembered, towering over her as he stood on her sagging front porch, bringing with him the scent of smoke and sulfur and snow. A black slouch hat covered his head and rested low over his eyes, and a black duster swirled around his bright-spurred boots. The silver six-shooter on his left hip glittered in the low light, and a large, black satchel was strapped to his broad back.
Muha pushed her head past the door.
Luke gave her a lopsided smile and took off his hat. “Hi, Jess.” A scar she didn’t remember ran through his right eyebrow, and another creased his chin. He held his hand out to Muha and scratched behind her grizzled ears, the way he always used to greet her. He handed her a piece of jerky, and despite the long years, a friendship was immediately rekindled. “There’s a girl.”
“Luke.” Jessie reached out to touch his cheek. The stubble of his unshaven jaw was rough beneath her palm, and his skin was cold. Her fingers trembled as she traced his lips, his breath warm against them.
He kissed her fingertips.
Dead men didn’t breathe or kiss a girl’s fingers. Dead men didn’t leave as boys and come back as men. Dead men didn’t come home with new scars or shiver with cold.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“Yep.”
His sweet, boyish smile melted her heart, and something inside her, denied for far too long, splintered and howled in despair.
She slapped him.
The crack echoed in the empty, snow-lit darkness behind him. Jessie stepped back to slam the door on this would-be ghost who had the gall to walk back into her life and act as if he’d never left.
Here’s how you can contact Meggan:
Website: www.megganconnors.com
Twitter: @MegganConnors
Thank you again for stopping by my writing room today, Meggan.
