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A Day in the Life of.....
Vicki is a native of the Charleston, South Carolina, Lowcountry and loves to share her enchantment with the area with readers through her writing. Even in childhood, she enjoyed penning stories and poems—no doubt fueled by her grandfather's enthusiasm for telling tales himself. Where else—but in the South—could one find the interesting blend of salt water, eerie swamps, unwritten traditions and unique characters? In her spare time, she loves traveling, spending weekends at her family's lake house, playing golf and cooking (with lots of wine).
A Day in the Life of Vicki Wilkerson
There is absolutely nothing “typical” about a writer’s life. Who gets up at 3 a.m. to start work because she was feeling inspired? Who gets to interview the most interesting people for research for their projects and have them actually tell you their secrets? Who gets to stay home and work in their pajamas?
Well, when you get past the atypical aspects of a writer’s life, there is usually some kind of method to her madness. My day really does begin at the oddest hours—a welcome change from working for years as a public school teacher and having to get up at 4 a.m. to get dressed, get my children off to school, and to fight horrendous traffic in order to be in my classroom by 7 a.m. Though I’m not in that rat race any longer, I feel a desperate urge to schedule my day in order to get the most out of it.
My intention every day is to have my butt in a chair and working by 9 a.m. Whatever housework or other business that is left at 9 can wait. Working always begins with social media. These days, it is a vital part of a writer’s job. The problem with it, though, is that one can allow it to be consuming, so I set a limit of thirty minutes to finish. That cut-off time forces me to prioritize what I do with social media and to get the most out of the least amount of time.
Then comes the fun—writing. I usually work from an outline when writing a first draft and from notes when I am editing, so most often I consult my plan before I begin. Then I write. This is where the mixed bag of fun comes. On some days, the writing flows so fast and smooth that hours pass, and I can hardly break away from it. On other days, however. Every. Word. Is. A. Chore. Those are the days I curse the day I realized I must write. On a bad day, I sometimes take a walk to clear my head and to try to figure out what is going wrong in the manuscript because if the writing is slow, then something is obviously not working.
On the inspired days, I feel blessed beyond measure that I actually get to do what I’d do anyway, even if I never got paid one dime and if no one ever read a word I write.
I try to wrap up my writing around 4:30 so that I can complete the unfinished business from the morning and then begin dinner. Cooking is relaxing for me, so I grab a glass of wine and get creative in the kitchen. The diversion is so different from writing and is one of the few times I am not thinking of my books.
After dinner, I enjoy watching movies with my handsome husband, who has the same tastes in films. Though the activity is passive, I am still working, always examining the “story” of a movie. Now I have my husband calling out, “black moment” and “dark night of the soul” as I often do. Then we talk about how the “story” was handled—how we didn’t see something coming, how it could have been better, or how it was genius. Our favorites are the really well-told humorous stories, and believe it or not, they are the most difficult to write. I know. Try to write something funny when you don’t feel funny.
I go to bed around 11 and never pray to get a good night’s sleep because if inspiration hits in the middle of the night or in a dream, I am more than happy to get up at 2 in the morning to start work!
When rebel biker Bullworth Clayton gets tangled up with pastel-and-pearls-clad April Church, sparks fly. Sure, April would clearly rather work with anyone else, but if teaming up with Bull means a successful charity event for a sick little boy they both care about, then so be it.
April is baffled at how drawn she is to the leather-wearing, tattooed Bull—he just doesn’t fit with her simple, safe, country-club life. And as much as the handsomely rugged man tempts her, she still can’t shake the images of the tragic motorcycle accident from her past, which left her scarred and her father broken.
Bull tempts her to don a pair of leather pants and go for a ride with him, while April desperately tries to resist her attraction to the wild side and keep her exploits hidden from her small town. Will they be able to navigate their differences and find a middle road to love?
EXCERPT: (When April first met Bullworth):
April backed up against the wall to better hide the crooked chrome she held. Of all the stupid things that could happen.
With her free hand, she brushed at the pleats on her skirt to straighten them. Then she switched the mirror into her right hand and smoothed out the other side. Everything was under control.
“What do you have there?” inquired a low, masculine voice from above her head.
She snapped to attention like she was about to undergo a military inspection.
A handsome, muscular man in a black bomber jacket towered above her, larger than life. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Golden streaks highlighted his nut-brown mane. His indigo-colored eyes perused her face. “Is something wrong?”
She twisted the strand of pearls that draped from her neck between her fingers with her free hand. “No. Everything’s fine,” she said. It would be as soon as she could meet up with Mr. Morrow or some of the other members from the civic organizations.
“Then what are you hiding behind your back?”
He had seen. Oh, no. He had seen.
“Just a little mishap. I’m going to take care of it.”
“You ride?” The left corner of his mouth curled up. “In a skirt?”
“No.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound strained. “No, I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” she said calmly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you walking around with a Harley dome billit mirror?”
That was a good question. Why was she? She held out the broken piece of the bike in front of her. “I don’t know how it happened. I was opening my car door, and then—”
He took it from her, examined it, and gave it back. “Let me guess. It just fell.” He tilted his head, exposing a strong, angular jawline. “All by itself.”
“That’s right. It really did happen that way. Exactly.” He probably didn’t believe a word she said. And she couldn’t blame him. She heard unlikely stories like hers from claimants at the insurance company all the time.
“Ahhh, I see. Sure it did,” he said. But the left side of his grin inched upward again…”