Got a Great Review The Thorn at His Side

http://yougottareadreviews.blogspot.com/2010/01/review-thorn-at-his-side-by-diana-flori.html

THE THORN AT HIS SIDE

Wow! Can't believe it. Did I realy write this?

THE THORN AT HIS SIDE


Sexy, rugged James Blackthorn has a wish, but his wish-granting genie happens to be a manipulative Frenchman, Etienne Dubois, who has his own agenda. The hero, James, the elder of two brothers, embraces the independent spirit of the early Florida settlers and has a deep love for his land. His brother Colin, however, is a scalawag and a ladies' man, and a threat to Etienne Dubois' tranquility, who fears his daughter Cecile is in love with Colin.
After a five year exile in Paris, Cecile Dubois, a spunky and beautiful young girl returns to Key West determined to marry James, whom she secretly adores. But Etienne, her father, has other plans in mind. Mistakenly believing that Cecile wants to marry the unsuitable Colin, Dubois makes a pact with James to send Colin away in exchange for more land. What Etienne doesn't know is that by keeping the wolf away he has opened the door to the lion. James can't help his attraction to Cecile, which he fights at every turn. But what will happen when Cecile finds out she has been bartered for a piece of land?
 You can buy the ebook at Hearts on Fire Books. click and go to new releases and click on the picture of the book http://www.heartsonfirebooks.com/downloads.aspx?categoryid=26

Diablo's Glory days

Diablo is sitting on a trailer under the shade of a lychee tree, victim of the economy and old age. The paint is faded, the stays are rusted, the keel needs to be de-barnacled, and the club membership and mooring are luxuries which have become temporarily unaffordable.


Gone are the glory days sailing the blue waters of Biscayne Bay, with white sails unfurled to the wind and the sun. Gone are the jaunts to Elliot Key, to Key Biscayne or late night cruises on the bay. Regattas are things of the past, as are the many trophies, tarnished, dusty and forgotten atop the bedroom bookcase.

No more Coronas on ice, no more nude revelers frolicking at sea, or dolphins swimming alongside Diablo. Now, the only ‘babes’ sunbathing on deck are decapitated and nude Barbies and their military friend, rescued from the stash of discarded pool time toys.

Send Me Your Request!

It was 7:30 in the morning and I was on my way to do my annual mammogram--something that gives me the heebie jeebees every time. To calm down I call my friend Claudia, who I love dearly and is always funny and upbeat. As she is filling me in on her ex-husband's lastest antic--bringing his new child (of lover/witch/new wife/Vivian)  to Claudia's house so his 20 year old son (with Claudia) can see their physical resemblance--she suddenly asks me if there is a murder in my new book. Why? I ask her. Because If I were a writer, she tells me, I'd murder Enrique (ex-husband) in the first scene. Well, I tell her, I could probably arrange one. Do you want me to call the victim Enrique? Oh, yes, she tells me delightedly, and while you're at it can you kill Vivian too!

IT WILL NEVER, EVER SELL

“It will never, ever sell,” Sofia decreed in her Doge of Venice voice, shaking her head as she ate the last shrimp on her $22.95 seafood salad platter. “Trust me. Nobody will read it,” she continued, taking a sip of her Chablis.


I didn’t respond and, instead, took a bite of my $6.99 burger, wondering why I had let a chance meeting, after five years of not seeing each other, lead to a ‘catch-up-on-old times’ luncheon two days later.

“It’s simply never, ever done. It’s all wrong.” she insisted.

Perhaps Sofia was right. Maybe my historical romance set in the Florida Keys in 1880 was all wrong. But I’ve never been a great fan of drafty English castles or misty moorlands. Give me a steamy swamp or a mangrove jungle with alligators any day.

I want egalitarian heroes and heroines, and not Dukes and Earls burdened with cumbersome pedigrees.
But at that moment none of this was on my mind, I suddenly remembered why I had let five years go by without getting in touch with Sofia—I had never, ever liked her.

Damn if I was going to pay for her lunch!Never, ever.

My Old Friend!

My friend Maggie got me into Facebook. I had been reluctant to join, thinking it was an invasion of privacy, but I finally succumbed. How could I not? As a writer one cannot really afford the luxury of privacy. Invasion or not, one’s name has to be out there. My page, I’m ashamed to say, does not have the number of friends and fans that Maggie’s page has. She is much better at social networking than I am and has a huge family. I don’t even know 90% of my ‘so called’ friends, but… I have collected beautiful eggs and hatchlings along the way (what for I don’t know).


One day last week, I decided to look up an old friend--someone I had gone to school with in Spain many years ago. Her name is not common, so I figured I would be lucky and typed it into the search bar. Several choices popped up and I picked one that sounded possible. Before sending her a message I remembered I was sending it under my writer’s pseudonym. I can only imagine her wondering who ‘the hell is Diana Flori’.

Are you so and so? She writes me back.

My delight is immense! Facebook is amazing indeed! After so many years, it seemed unbelievable that I had found my old friend. I immediately called my younger brother, who also went to school with my friend’s sister and brother. On her end, my friend had already told her siblings as well. As we interchanged emails, catching up on old times, I promise to send them old photos.

Yesterday, my brother and I spent Sunday morning looking through old family albums. We laughed as we turned the pages, happily reliving old times and forgotten memories. Guiltily, I remember hating all those photos my camera-happy father would make us pose for. What a fool I was then? Had my late-father known that someday I would regret it? Maybe even thank him? I hope so.

Thanks Dad!